SimpForFics

Working on the third of July anywhere is a nightmare. You didn't try and kid yourself that your day was anything compared to what your dad was going through. When he called you that afternoon with the news that the hospital was backed up and he'd be at work much later than expected, you texted Julia right away to cover her closing shift. If you were going to be alone all day, you might as well occupy yourself. You almost instantly regretted going in when you saw the line of thirsty, irritated barbeque-preparers. It was the busiest you'd seen the cafe all summer, but Kaya was an efficient worker and you knew she could guide you easily through the rush.

Your dad got home at ten at night, later than usual, and went straight to bed. He'd be much more tired for the next morning, the shift that would be even worse. You were still up, having trouble sleeping despite the late hour. Scrolling for hours was almost exactly what you needed, until your ringer went off.

bad shift will you b awake at 8

With a text like that, you could be up at five a.m. with no problem.

I'll text when my dad leaves.

You switched your alarm from nine to six-thirty, setting out everything you'd need in the morning. You didn't want to get presumptous, but you couldn't think of many reasons other than what exactly you'd done the other night. You got about five hours of the sleep before your alarm went off and your dad started crashing around the kitchen making his breakfast. You joined him, surprising him with how early you were up and sitting at the counter, somewhat selfishly waiting for him to leave. He didn't seem to notice, just thankful as you made him the coffees he took to his coworkers. You packed up your dad's things and slung them over his shoulder, his paper tray for the coffees, and his phone into the side pocket of his bag.

You did this routine every morning, and he was running rather late, so the rushing wasn't suspicious. Practically shoving him out the door, you pressed your back against the front door and pulled out your phone.

He's gone. Delete. Come over. Oh, absolutely delete. Good morning. You paused.

The hazy morning of the Pittsburgh skyline was interrupted by the familiar slam of the rooftop door.

"All yours, brother. I'm heading out."

"So soon?" Robby's eye shot to the ceiling. Well, the clouds. "I usually get you for a little longer than this."

As if on time, Jack's phone buzzed in his pocket.

good morning :) dad's otw to the hospital

"Is there someone waiting for you," Robby nodded at Jack's phone. "Or are you online gambling?"

"Shut up," Jack pushed past Robby to try to get inside, but Robby, being taller, snatched the phone out of his hand.

He didn't speak. Your message was way too incriminating. Dad. The hospital. The slang. Longer passed. Robby still didn't speak.

"Come on, Robby, say something. It's… well, it is complicated, but it's not."

"One detail."

Jack held his shoulders high; didn't let anything show. "Her dad works here, but that isn't how we met." It wasn't exactly a lie, but most would deny it as the full truth.

"What department? How young is she?"

"One detail, Robby, that's all you get. I have to go. Have a nice shift."

Jack knew the whole department would know by that night, but he was too excited to see you that he didn't even mind. There was a parking spot right outside and he nearly jumped out of the car on the way up the stairs. You were practically waiting at the front door, completely giving up the concept of nonchalance as you pulled him inside.

"What does oh-tee-double-yew mean?" Jack asked as he tugged his scrub top off.

"Ask me about it later. Can I suck you off?"

You didn't care if the night of your birthday was some sick dream or not, you hadn't been able to stop thinking about it, to stop touching yourself.

"God, yes."

He let you finish undressing him, pushing him down onto the couch and letting him remove his prosthetic. Kneeling between his legs, you rubbed your hands up and down his thighs, taking his cock into your hand. Your mind went blank. You definitely didn't want to tell him you'd never seen, taken, or held someone as big as his, but apparently it was written on your face. He took your jaw in his large hand, pulling your chin up to look at him. "You don't have to do this. We can wait. D'you wanna get on top?"

You bit your lip in thought. "Are you sure?"

He nodded, pulling you up onto the couch to sit in his lap. "You tell me to stop, we stop. No matter why or when. Yeah?"

You nodded, running your hands through his messy, sweaty hair. You'd worn intentionally loose and easily removable clothing, just in case, and he absolutely took advantage. Pulling your underwear to the side, he began rubbing light circles on your clit. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, but you tugged his face back up, forcing eye contact. "Look at me, Dr. Abbot," you breathed out, "Look at me while I ride your fingers."

"Y'can't just say anything to me, baby. Men my age have limits."

"Let's test them." You kissed down his jaw and neck, grinding down harder as he pumped his fingers into you without abandon. "Kiss me back, Jack, please." All that kept him from finishing in his damn pants was the cold, sobering thought that this was his buddy's couch. His movements slowed, and you chased them, whining.

"I can't do this."

You smacked his chest with a throw pillow. "Explain." He couldn't gather the words to possibly explain, not with the way your thighs had his legs pinned, and the way your fingers were laced behind his neck. You didn't let him go on. Clearly, you weren't taking this as seriously as he was. "You don't work in the same department as my dad." A kiss to his jaw. "We're adults." Another. "Nobody has to know, not yet."

He went still at that last one. He was too old for a secret fling, especially with someone so much younger. He wasn't ready to call it a fling, he wasn't ready to call it anything. But, God, did he want to. Jack placed a gentle kiss on your lips, about to speak without actually having anything to say, when his phone buzzed.

Turn on your scanner and get here, ASAP.

His stomach dropped. "I have to go. It's SWAT, they need me."

"On the holiday?" You frowned.

He gave you an admonishing look, dressing himself again. "I'll see you soon. Maybe tomorrow morning."

You grinned. "In the morning, then. Happy Fourth of July, Jack. Be safe." You leaned up to kiss him, an awfully domestic gesture that had butterflies swarming in your stomach. You watched as he dressed in his undergear, failing to hide your ogling. He stepped out, and you erased all evidence he'd even come over. There wasn't much to conceal, considering neither of you got the chance to come before he was dragged away from you by the greater good.

A lot of stores don't tend to be open on the Fourth of July, but there was one you knew of. You'd never been, nor had you heard of anyone who had. A legend of olde, by now, was Twenty Four Hour Sex Shop, easily named for those in desperate search. And you might be one of those. Eight at night, on a Friday, on a holiday weekend. Maybe there was a chance it wasn't rush hour. You didn't know anyone in town that could possibly judge you at this point. So, you bit the bullet and got yourself onto a rental bike to journey across the city. Dropping the bike off at the nearest rack, you entered the fated Twenty Four Hour Sex Shop. At home, you had exactly one vibrator, and it wasn't anything special. After your observation that afternoon, you figured you might need to start stretching yourself out a bit.

God, that thought made your neck heat up with embarrassment. What were you doing? It was too late, at that point, so you marched up to the cashier. You couldn't remember the, uh, dimensions she was asking for, but you were sure you could probably pick it out by sight. Or weight. Or length, or… best to leave it there. This seemed to be one of the more common purchases of the store, so she stood back with enough space for privacy but enough to help if needed.

You stared for a while. If you hadn't identified it instantly, there was no way an extra ten minutes would help you out. The prices were definitely not helping, from physical varieties to mechanical operations. You were sick of standing around, and picked what seemed closest. Not quite long enough, but heavy to match your memory. The color didn't matter, and you had no need for bells and whistles yet.

The toy burned a hole in your tote bag as it swung on your shoulder the whole ride home. Your dad had tried to call you while you were on the bike, your phone going unanswered bouncing around in the tote bag with the rest of your new belongings. He left a crappy voicemail, explaining something about poor wifi and no service. He and Jack were safe. Not that you really care, of course, not that your father knew you would care. Two nearly painful orgasms later, you still hadn't heard from anyone, and you almost felt bad. Your friend, or whoever, hadn't bothered to reach out and you'd done all this stretching your pussy and throat for him. You tossed the toy aside, laying your arms across your face. All this work, gone to waste, if he didn't care enough to text you. Logically, you were being dramatic.

You didn't know the news from the hospital, the blackout, the SWAT injury. You assumed you'd informed of anything truly important, especially relating to your father, so you went to sleep. One text lit up your phone, waking you at six.

need u dont care how

You could've panicked at Jack's efficient tone, but something in it was more earnest than urgent. You answered with a small coffee shop you knew nobody frequented and met him there less than ten minutes later, stepping off your bike rental. He was already there, waiting for your orders with that usual fatigue, mixed with something else. He stood to take your drinks from the counter, and that's when you noticed it. Not the usual limp, but a particular weakness in his shoulder. You took the risk, reaching out to the arm and brushing your fingers against the bandage peeking out from his scrubs.

He flinched away. "Don't worry about me. Should've called your dad at 7, he's probably worried sick."

You couldn't help the eye-roll. "Oh, so don't care how could wait? I got on one of these damn city rental bikes just to see you, and what I can only imagine is a SWAT injury is just no big deal?" You grabbed your bag, stood, and hurried out the door. Hopefully you weren't dining and dashing, because Jack followed right behind. "I'm sick of this stupid obsession I have built around you. I know it's not your fault, but what the hell do you want from me?"

"Let me explain it all to you, baby, there was a blackout at the hospital and we were all backed up. Not everything is about you!"

You watched his own sentence hit him. He stepped forward, but that city bike was faster. "I'm not your baby." You felt a little ridiculous on it, but Jack was still frozen in place, hopefully in regret. You knew not everything was about you, of course you did. You'd been especially reminded of that recently.

Your dad was mad as all hell at your return, both at your lack of response to his latest call and the fact that were on a bike in a city you still hadn't fully gotten to know. When you told him there was no way to perfect a skill but to practice it, he just pulled you into a hug and reminded you that he was still mad but could forgive you for the time being, at least until something worse came along.

You huffed out a laugh. Right. Something worse.

A bit later, he reminded you of that conference he was going to in a few weeks, and particularly, Jack's house-sitting.

"I'll be here, though, so the house will be fine." You argued, but your dad stayed silent, pretending to move things around in the kitchen. You scoffed. "Is he supposed to be a babysitter? Make sure I don't have any parties, watch too much TV?"

Your dad waved a hand around, as if to reluctantly agree. "Not exactly, I just figured it'd be safest to have someone else around. He works nights, you won't even see him."

On cue, your phone dinged.

got fri of conf weekend off dont tell

Your dad ignored it when you did, having no reason to suspect that his coworker and dear friend would be texting his daughter in secret.

Jack showed up before your dad headed off on Wednesday. Your dad clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder, grinning. "Thanks for taking care of my girl, I don't want her to get lonely. That goes for you, too, buddy. Hopefully you can keep each other company."

If only he knew.

You slipped out of your room in the smallest set of pajamas he'd ever seen, leaning up to kiss your dad's cheek. "So, Dr. Abbot. You can start whenever you want, I sleep normally so none of those end of shift mornings will be too bad." Start whenever he wants, like it's a job. It was feeling closer to one every minute that crawled closer to the first morning of those satin slips he caught glimpses of in the laundry room.

Wednesday night crawled into Thursday morning, the flourescent lighting and the antiseptic smell soaking into his body in that comfortable way only his nightcrawlers knew. He'd just finished tending to the attempted suicide of a teen who grew more and more anxious with the emergency department's environment — in the opposite way Jack himself did. The longer he stayed, the easier it felt. He knew it was far worse for Robby, who had his own issues with the Emergency Department, but both ended up on that roof.

Pittsburgh woke, you and the coffee shop with it, the purple and red streaks painting the black above the buildings.

"Your girl waiting for you down on the sidewalk?" Robby teased, the loud click of the attic door behind him.

"Really, I'm serious, not here. Can't bring her on the other side of the fence."

He heard Robby let out an almost-sarcastic exhale. "Whatever you say. What about me? Dana? You coming back to us today too?"

Jack stood for a moment longer, looking over the edge. "Tough night. That's all. You know I'm coming back."

And he did. Every morning, without fail, to watch the sun rise over his city no matter the weather. Just to duck back under the fence and head home for a few hours of weak sleep. His schedule was different, now. Shifting. On either of his sleeps, depending on your own shift, he made time to see you. Across the city for dinner-breakfast, in your cafe for breakfast-dinner. This morning, you were waiting just down the street, close enough to pick your… well, not boyfriend… up from work but far enough to stay out of sight.

He appeared down the sidewalk, glancing around the area before spotting you, a grin splitting his face. He lifted and spun you, best he could, placing a kiss on the top of your head. "Dropped your daddy off at work before picking me up?"

"Don't use that word or we're skipping breakfast-dinner and going straight home." You tugged on his hand, pulling him towards the usual cafe. You didn't understand a word of what Jack said for the next hour, nearly drooling as you just watched his mouth take bite after bite, jealous of those paper napkins that got to wipe against his lips and, every now and then, brush his tongue.

A pancake slid off your fork on its distracted way up to your mouth.

"Are you okay, over there, angel? Been quiet for some minutes."

"No, I'm… no, I'm good. Just not very hungry this morning. I'm looking forward to something else later."

He smiled down at his plate without an answer. You could tell he was picking up the pace, calling for the check before even finishing his plate so that they could dash right home. His hand burned heavy, impossible to ignore as it rested on your back the whole way home. Jack's belongings were already there, so there was no reason for stops along the way. You pulled him all the way into the bathroom, but he paused. Jack let out a shaky breath and for the first time since meeting you, he felt deeply insecure.

"Can't fit two in this one, sweetheart. There's a bar and a chair and a whole bunch of things taking up space."

He kept his gaze cast down, trying to dodge your eyes. You finally caught his sight, gently tugging his face close to yours. "I won't try anything, Jack. Promise. Jus' wanna see you. I wanna help you. Whatever that means to you. Now, will you take off your clothes?"

Your breaths mixed between you, complicated feelings jumping ahead of the initial lust sitting outside the bathroom door. Jack was highly aware that you'd only seen him naked once, as he tugged his shirt off, dropping it to the floor. It was unspoken; the way he took his shirt off, so you did, then his pants, then yours. The burning eye contact broke early as you traced your thumb through the stubbly hair gathered at the based of his chin. He didn't have much hair on his chest, but your mind couldn't get past the freckles on his strong arms. The permanent sun damage from years ago— no, those freckles. Those arms. He reached to unclip your bra behind you, only making your heart beat faster at the stretch and shift of his muscles.

You gave him the same amount of time for observation. Your soft skin, the slope of your shoulders, your perfect nipples. He reached forward and brushed a knuckle just under your breast, and that one touch opened the door to the floodgates of intense desire. You helped him into the wall-mounted chair and followed. He tried to force down the embarrassment that threatened to flood up his neck at the need to be goddamn helped into a chair by a girl. Turns out, it's not that hard to think about anything but the way your body moved as he sat and watched you wash your hair.

It was clear you were being serious earlier — you really weren't making moves. You just wanted to be with him. So, when he gathered some water in his hand and started palming himself to the sight of you, that had nothing to do with your intentions. A low groan had you slowly turning around. Jack's head was leaning back against the wall, stroking his heavy cock as soapy water from your hair ran down his chest. You nearly grinned at the sight, teasing. "What's going on back there?"

He nearly slid from the chair in surprise, starting to mutter out apologies. You turned around, pretending to be offended or otherwise give him the cold shoulder, but the way you pressed your thighs together told him a different story. Jack reached out and tugged you to him by the hips. Knocking your legs apart with his knee, he bent you forward. Your hands slipped around to catch purchase on the tile wall. Just as you lifted one to wipe the water out of your eyes, Jack bit down hard on the soft flesh of your thigh, sending your free arm slamming against the wall for stability again.

"What the hell?" You turned over your shoulder to look at Jack, whose gaze was transfixed elsewhere. "Gonna send me to a shower chair next, weirdo." You muttered. You didn't really know what he was doing back there with all the moving around, but it was cleared up when you felt him lick a stripe down your pussy. You weren't even sure how he was in there based on the angle, but you didn't bother picturing anything, not with Jack's mouth on you.

"I'll send you to a chair. The bed. The counter. Wherever you want." His voice was muffled, each word sending deep vibrations straight through your body.

"You're gonna drown down there if I keep the faucet on."

"I'd be glad to. Shut up." His voice was gurgling a little, proving you right that water was running straight down the slope of your back, but you didn't exactly want him to stop. Each flick of his tongue, each suck on your clit was turning your knees to jelly. When you finally came with a cry, he pushed himself to his foot, holding onto the bar. "Good?"

You rolled your eyes, wanting to push him away gently. Here, however, it'd send him straight to the ground and probably to the hospital, so you settled for running a hand down his strong, freckled arm. "Yeah. Good. Maybe an actual shower now?"

You went through all the motions, then washed his hair when his leg grew tired, sitting on his lap and running your hands through his beautiful greying curls. You sat for a while, long enough that he knew his hair was clean, but neither of you wanted to surrender the intimate silence. After two long, slow kisses, you reached up and turned the faucet off for the last time. "Probably ran up my dad's water bill like crazy." You joked, wringing your hair dry.

Jack was already asleep, atop the covers, by the time you emerged from your room to draw your dad's curtains shut for his own pre-shift sleeps. While Jack's day had ended, yours was beginning. You had errands to take care of; all things your dad never did on his own, just using you as a cleaning service this weekend. You let Jack sleep until he rose naturally, around three, emerging from your dad's room and rubbing his eyes. You were already sat in the living room, on the phone with your dad. Jack moved about the kitchen sas quiet as he could, straining to hear you. Every one of your teasing groans and quiet laughs, the yes, the AC is fine and yes, he's a perfect gentleman and roommate, all music to his ears. As soon as you got off the phone, you jumped over the back of the couch to reach him.

On just a crutch, he wobbled a little when you wrapped your arms around him. "Missed you," you murmured into his chest.

"Oh, yeah?"

You nodded.

"'Was just sleeping, next room over. You could always join me, get on the nightcrawler sleep schedule for a couple days."

You scrunched your face, trying to hide your growing smile. "I always get itchy when you say that. You can keep your nightcrawling to yourself, Doctor."

You felt his chest expand a little as he laughed quietly, then pressed a kiss to the top of your head. You had a feeling there was probably no way to avoid it. Especially if you kept up doing what had been his last night, and your this morning. Confusing stuff. No matter the schedule, you wanted as much alone time with Jack as you could get. Leaning up, you kissed him deeply, barely brushing your tongue across his, teasing. It wasn't easy to tease him. Jack Abbot was somewhat of patient man, but he didn't really believe in 'hard-to-get', so he lifted you by the hips, depositing you on the counter.

Just as, in your opinion, it was getting good; he pulled away, his breathing erratic. "How do you feel about some late lunch?"

"Yeah, me first." You muttered, grabbing his head and pulling him back to you. He backed away again, and you almost whined, missing his touch.

"Real lunch, sweetheart. Food."

"Um, no?" Your arms hung in the air from where his shoulders used to be. "Jack, come back. Let me go down on you. Switch, go sit down on the couch!"

He ignored you, setting out some ingredients.

"Are you making goddamn macaroni and cheese?" You appeared behind him, trying to tug his arms away. He pulled you in front of him, his back pressing you against the counter next to the stove. He put on the water, turning the stove up to medium.

"You're going to come three times before this water boils."

You turned your head to look at him, face still caught in bewilderment. "Are you serious, what the hell kind of forepl—"

His finger sliding into you with no warning was enough to shut you up. You hadn't bothered to wear panties under your oversized t-shirt, picturing something like this happening, so there was no barrier. You were already wet from earlier, which could have posed a problem. Tears running down your leg, or whatever that song was.

The one finger was clearly your warning, because he was, as usual, skilled to the sharpest degree. A Jack of all trades, if you wanted to be funny about it. He was right, he made you come just on his fingers before bubbles even appeared at the bottom of the pot. You would've been mad at him and whatever personal best self-set challenge he had going on if you weren't so dazed from your last orgasm and excited at the promise of the next one.

Jack dropped to kneel behind you. On instinct, you turned to keep him stable and help him stand, but he kept you facing forward.

"How 'm I doing?" His stubble scratched against your wet inner thighs.

"So good, Jack, so good."

The position must not have been comfortable for him, but you both could stand to deal with it long enough for the combined scratch of his stubble, brushing of his nose on your clit, and his tonguing to all combine in a gorgeous mix to orgasm number two.

Steam rose from the pot of water nearby, but you couldn't stand to care as you leaned your forearms against the counter, barely holding yourself up. "Jack…" You didn't have much to say, voice cracking on his name as you reached around blindly behind you to pull him up by his curls. "Kiss me, Jack, please." You turned around to face him, kissing him roughly and licking into his mouth. The taste of your own release was enough to kickstart the next one. "Will you fuck me now?"

His hands wandered up, taking off your shirt and tossing it across the room, turning you. "Shoulda just said so, angel."

You heard the waistband of his pants shift, felt his tip brush your clit, then his cock fill you for the first time since the holiday weekend. You were prepped enough by then to take it, each inch stretching you with that perfect pain. You weren't sure if you could take him, unable to see from your angle, and he wasn't going to tell you. You assumed, and felt a little ashamed, that you probably hadn't. Not yet. That could be your own personal best self-set goal. Let Jack Abbot fuck you raw and rough, your pussy filled with his cock, notched to the hilt. Maybe it was ambitious. Maybe he wouldn't even want to do it. He seemed to prefer oral anyway. But it had only been 12 hours and you couldn't count the number of orgasms between you both, and none of them had in a bed. You had it on pretty good authority you'd get there by Monday.

He had been right. Two days later you were already on his sleep schedule, picking him up from work every day and crawling right into bed together until mid-afternoon. You introduced him to your favorite movies, wrinkling your nose at him whenever he said oh, I remember when that was in the theater. He showed you his, pinching your side when you called them oldies. Waiting patiently while he worked, cuddling while you slept, and going on inconspicuous dates made it the best weekend of the summer by far.

Sunday came along too fast. You hadn't been waiting so far down the street lately, only just around the corner of the ambulance bay. Jack turned the corner, shoulders loosening as you, as usual, wrapped your arms loosely around his shoulders and leaned in for a gentle kiss. Neither of you were particularly keen on any hospital staff walking past the night shift attending making out with his much-younger girlfriend. Well, again, if that's what this was. You still weren't sure.

You caught some breakfast-dinner at your usual diner, wolfing down your food with haste. Your dad was set to come back the next morning, so you were going to fill this day with everything you'd yet to accomplish. For you, well, your personal best self-set goal from earlier was moving along nicely. You were still working on the raw part of it. Jack wasn't a big fan of the pull-out method, and had no intention of getting you pregnant, so he'd been a condom warrior all weekend. You were grateful, and a part of you knew it was rational, but most of you was pissed off.

"Can we do it without protection today?" You asked Jack as he signed his name on the receipt. The pen slipped sharply across the thin paper, and Jack dropped it to cover his mouth as he coughed.

"Where did that come from?"

"Well, not to dirty talk in such a sacred place, but I want to feel you. Please? We'll buy a Plan B, we can do whatever other ancient practice you know, I just really want this. Even if it's just once."

He set up the pen and receipt nicely at the end of the table and led you out of the diner. He wordlessly guided you into a CVS and grabbed the correct box. He paid, using a damn rewards number on a purchase like this, refused a bag, and handed it to you as soon as you stepped outside.

"If you're sure." He kissed your cheek. You practically bounded home, his shirt half off before you even locked the front door. You led him to the couch and made quick work of pulling his pants and boxers down, dropping to your knees. "Wait." He placed his large palm on your head. "Need your clothes off first."

You grinned, pulling off your shirt and shorts, exposing your matching blue lace set. The shag rug was rough on your knees, tickling your shins as you shifted to get comfortable. "Good now?" You traced light circles on his thighs, looking up at him.

He groaned at the sight, letting his head fall back. He hummed in response, the sound a little pitched. His shaky gasp when you licked up his shaft was music to your ears. You took him into your mouth, moaning around him before you could stop yourself. God knows you'd had enough practice since the holiday and enough gametime this weekend to take him almost all the way, though the occasional gag always broke through. Before long, tears were streaming down your face.

You hardly noticed you were fingering yourself until you were close to orgasm. Jack wasn't far behind. Every whine, wordless plea, and whispers of your name were just signs that you were pulling him with you.

His cock twitched in your mouth. "Fuck, you're perfect. Oh, God, you're so… I'm close, angel, slow down."

You only hummed, a wordless are you crazy why would i slow down, taking him in even deeper, if that was possible. His release spilled down your throat, quenching an impossible thirst, and you swallowed it all, just a bit dribbling out of the corner of your mouth. He pulled you up onto his lap, kissing away the remnants of his cum. Your fingers had abandoned your pussy in favor of his greying curls, dragging through them as he kissed your neck.

"Couldn't get yourself there, could you?" He shifted you in his lap, reaching down into your panties. "You need my help, is it?"

You nodded weakly. "Always. Can't cum since you, Jack. Nothing else works."

He pumped his fingers into you, thumb rubbing on your clit. His speed was unmatchable, the size of his soft fingers nothing like yours. You positioned yourself above his lap, hips meeting, drawing his hand away. "Want to come on your cock, Daddy. Will you let me?"

He exhaled shakily at the title, letting out a weak laugh. "Let you? Darling, I'd let you do anything."

You sank down onto him. The length, the girth was familiar, but nothing compared to how he felt without a barrier between you. You rolled your hips against his, slowly and attentively, keeping your eyes boring into his. He grabbed your head, keeping it facing him when your eyes started to glaze over and loll as you got closer and closer. "Look at me, angel. You're my girl, hm? All mine."

"All yours, Jack, fuck."

He lifted his hips, fucking into you from below. It overwhelmed you, his kisses and his hands and his cock. You came so hard you saw stars, letting out a broken cry as you let yourself come all over him and the couch.

"Got one more in you?"

"One more?" You asked incredulously, still panting from the last one. "Do you?"

"If you let me go down on you, I do."

"Christ," you muttered, but lifted off his lap and let him get comfortable. He took off his prosthetic and crawled up above you. "You sure? Last chance."

His lip twitched into something of a smile before he disappeared between your thighs. The first kiss to your weak inner thigh surprised you — you really did have another one in you. He licked up your thighs, cleaning up the mix of your releases that was sliding out of you. He ate you out without abandon, almost starving for it. Your head rolled to the side, unable to support itself as you got closer. You didn't care much for what your dad's neighbors thought, so you let out every moan and sigh that came to you, which were many. The only thing you could manage to say. "Fuck, just like that. Oh, Daddy, I'm so close."

At least, you were close. Too close to hear footsteps down the hall. Too close to hear keys jingling outside. Too close to hear the doorknob turn.

Oh, Daddy, I'm so close.

You did, however, hear the sound of a bag being thrown to the ground. You whipped your head around, and your heart dropped to somewhere near Jack's mouth. Which, by the way, hadn't gotten the memo that Real Daddy had just come home. A day early.

You shoved his hand off your chest and took a split second to debate between pushing his head down into the couch until he suffocated so at least only one of you had to face consequences, or pulling him up to split the consequences. You figured best not to kill him. Pushing him as hard as you could, you drew your knees together faster than light, grabbing for a blanket.

Your dad had seen a lot in his time. He was a surgeon, for Christ's sake. He had spent hours in operating rooms with laser sharp focus. His job called for not only laser sharp focus, but also quick reflexes, multi-tasking, and being able to process many things at once. Here he was, faced with just five components: his daughter, an emergency department attending, his couch, a pair of jeans on the floor, and a lacy blue bra. If he was at the hospital, no problem. Well, a problem, but one he could process. He had two options. Start with the least offending and work his way up to the difficult bit, or fix the big problem and work down. He chose the second one, but his body chose the first.

"On my couch?" He said, his voice not sure if it should whisper or scream. It chose a strangled-sounding yet inside voice.

Jack's pants were on before your dad finished his sentence, which solved his second problem. Couch wasn't a hit, because he got no verbal response about it. With those problems gone, his mind cleared just a bit more.

"Put some damn clothes on!" He grabbed the shirt you'd tossed across the room and threw it, harder than necessary, in your direction. You scrambled to get it on, followed by your shorts, which you thankfully managed to do underneath the blanket. You had shoved your panties into the couch earlier, so that visual could be avoided.

Your dad wasn't too happy that all his least offending problems had been fixed and now he had to address it: this fucked-up experience that none of them could ever possibly forget. "Okay," he started. He stopped. Started again, "Okay."

"Okay?" You said meekly.

He snapped out of his trance, finally. "Not okay! Oh, my God! What is this?"

Jack made the mistake of speaking up. "It st—"

"Oh, Dr. Abbot, you'd better not think you can try to explain shit. What the fuck are you doing to my daughter?"

You grabbed your dad's arm, who had crossed the room too quickly. "Dad, it's not like that!"

"Not like what?" He turned to you. "Not like I didn't just see you having sex with a man, my colleague, no less, thirty years older than you?"

You shut your mouth. Okay, it kind of was like that. Your dad started to spiral once he'd banished the room to silence. "It was that goddamn birthday party, wasn't it? I swore I heard a man's voice that night, but I gave my girl the benefit of the doubt. It was you, though. You taking advantage of my daughter, under my roof, while she was drunk!"

Jack held up his hands in defense. "I would never do that. I didn't do that. I walked her in, made sure she got to her room safe, and left the house. Nothing really happened until the Fourth."

"You've been hiding this from me for that long?" He turned on you. "Go to your room, pack your stuff. You're heading straight back to your mother's tomorrow."

You didn't move for a second, nervously glancing between the two men. Jack's shoulders were slumped, his face redenning with shame. Your father, seething with rage, hands shaking. Looking right into each others' eyes. You weren't sure he wouldn't murder Jack as soon as you left the room.

"Now, please!" Your dad didn't look at you. You moved very slowly, not turning your back until you reached your room. As soon as you shut the door, you pressed your ear to it. Your dad was yelling, his voice shaking a little. It always did that when he was unsure about something. You couldn't hear it clearly through his well-insulated walls, but you could guess. Something about cradle snatching, hospital administration, college. Jack's reply was too quiet to make out any words, just the mumbles of his voice. At least he wasn't yelling back. More from your dad: the word widow, an apology, then the door slamming.

Jack was gone. Probably forever. Fuck, you were supposed to be packing. You scrambled away from the door and took out your suitcases. No reason to stay in fucking Pittsburgh anymore anyway. You started throwing things into the suitcases without care for tidiness. The dress from your birthday was still sitting in a pile near your bed. You grabbed it and threw it against the wall. The lack of destruction from it made you even more upset, so you picked up a shoe and threw it even harder at a different wall. The air filled with the scent of your work, causing you to crinkle your nose. The shoe had knocked over a coffee from your desk onto a hoodie, the espresso smell spreading out from it. At least the shoe had put a smudge on the wall.

Your dad knocked. "Okay in there, kid?"

You didn't answer. Of course you didn't answer. It had nothing to do with the shame and awkwardness of being caught in the act by your dad. It was entirely anger.

"Can you let me in, please? I'm not going away, so you might as well."

You pulled open your door. "I don't want to hear anything you have to say. I'm packing, to go to mom's house. To go home, because you were the one who kicked me out in the first place and threw away the only thing keeping me in this stupid city. Leave me alone from now on."

The door shut in his face, and he took a deep breath. "School starts back up in a month. You'll forget him by October. You're acting childish."

You opened the door again. "I'm not fucking fourteen, anymore, Dad! This isn't a teenage tantrum. I'm not saying 'I hate you and I'll never forgive you' because you grounded me. I'm saying 'today is the last day Pittsburgh will ever see me' because you took charge in something you had no idea about, insulted my friend who will never speak to me again, and now you're trying to apologize without apologizing." The door slammed.

"Will you at least stop doing that thing with the door?"

You opened the door. "No!" The force of that particular slam forced your dad back a step.

You tuned out whatever else he had to say, tossing makeup into bags and shoving them into one of the suitcases. Basically shoving everything off your desk and into the case, you looked down when something hit your foot. A perfume. A perfume that, two weeks ago, you had said smelled nice and the next day it was in your hands with Jack in front of you with that little nervous smile he gives when he gifts you something and is worried you won't like it. You set it aside. Maybe Julia would want it.

Hours later, the whole room was packed except for a small pile of items sitting on the mattress. The perfume, a dress, three CDs, four books, a bikini, and that damned necklace that started it all.

You swung open your door and dragged the suitcases out behind you. The commotion brought your dad out of his room. "Where are you going? It's the middle of the night."

"The airport." You hiked your backpack up on your shoulders, tightening the straps. "I'll Uber. See you."

He hurried to get in front of you. "Don't leave. I slept on it, I'm sorry. Don't go to your mother's."

You froze, setting down your bags. "This is your problem, Dad. You don't stand on anything. I've had this whole complex for so long about disappointing you, making you sad, whatever, but none of it is true, because you're impossible to disappoint. You cave every damn time, no matter what. Go back to bed. I'm leaving."

"Okay, okay. Look, I'll take you to the airport in the morning if you still want to go. I don't want you missing a red eye and sleeping at the gate."

You dropped your backpack with purpose, huffing. You'd packed up your entire room, including your sheets. You resigned to sleeping in the living room, but as soon as your eyes caught on the couch, you were nauseous. No way could you manage that. Especially because Jack's cum was stained across the scratchy seat covers. You plopped down into an armchair, head in your heads. What on Earth were you thinking? You never should've started this, never should've asked for his help that day in the bathroom.

You were trying to get comfortable in the chair when you heard a loud crash and a weak groan. For a sickening moment, you thought it was your dad, but he came running into the living room. You looked at each other confused, then peeked out the door. His neighbor, an older woman was laying on the ground, clutching her leg. He sighed, a breath laced with panic.

"You need to take her to the hospital. I had a beer," You were sure the hospital was the last place he wanted you to be that night, but the terrified look in his eyes had you grabbing his keys.

"Ma'am, can you hear me?" He crouched down next to her, his doctor voice slipping through his tired croak from before.

She nodded, breathing heavily but steadily. "I was coming home from the airport and tripped over my suitcase." She pointed; a huge green suitcase was halfway down the hall. Must have been some fall.

Your dad shot you a look when she said airport. Some karma thing, probably.

"I'm going to take you to the hospital, is that okay?" You grabbed your purse and put on your shoes, already searching the house for the crutch you knew Jack had left in the kitchen in his hurry home earlier that day.

The woman agreed, and you worked together to get her on her feet and reliant enough on the crutch. You took the elevator down, and your dad walked you both to the car. At the last second, once you had settled into the driver's seat, he leaned close. "No naughty business in the ED. I'm entirely serious, tell registration your doctor will be John Shen and nobody else."

You nodded dutifully, mostly focused on getting the woman the help she needed rather than your own problems. The drive to the hospital started quiet, until the woman got nosy.

"What naughty business was your dad talking about?" She stared at the side of your face intensely, waiting for an answer. "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm doing the old lady thing, it's your business."

"No, it's fine," You sighed. "I've been… seeing —" You glanced at her to gauge a reaction. None so far. " — one of the emergency room doctors and my dad found out today and he was not happy. So unhappy that he kicked me out. I was actually planning on heading straight to the airport right when we heard you. So, at least now I get to see him one last time." You tried for a half-smile, but it came off as a grimace. She nodded slowly, thinking it over.

"Well, what's your dad got to do with all of it? You're a young lady, but a lady nonetheless. He shouldn't get a say."

You huffed out a dry laugh. "Well, he 'found out' by walking in on us, which wasn't great for anybody. And, uh, he's a little older than me. So my dad doesn't like that either."

She gasped at the first part, letting out a very interested 'oooh', thinly-veiled as sympathy. The second gave her pause. "I know everything is all different these days, but my husband was ten years older than me when we married. Nobody had any problem with it, so I'm sure your father is certainly overreacting."

You pulled your lips into a tight smile. "I appreciate the advice, ma'am." Finally, you pulled into the parking lot outside the emergency department. You helped her out of the car, leading her to the doors. There weren't very many people in the waiting room, so registration went smoothly. Your heart did something strange at the thought of it not being busy back there. Fewer patients, more availability for the higher-ups to tend to the little cases. Like a little old lady with a sprained ankle. You weren't sure if you liked that or not. Either way, it made you very, very nervous.

Apparently, your emergency was high on the priority list, so soon you were walking through the brightly lit twists and turns of 'the Pitt.' Filled with nightcrawlers. Faces you knew from photos were coming to life, stories of habits were made real, and the first thing you asked the nurse was, "do you think, when the time comes, Doctor John Shen could tend to us?"

His eyebrow twitched in confusion, and what he said back was, "What's your relation to each other?"

"Neighbors!" The woman smiled, her few yellowing teeth on display. "Anything you tell me, she can know, too."

You weren't sure how much of her medical history you wanted to hear, but that went out the window when she started answering their questions.

Oh, I tripped on my suitcase. It went FLYING and I just went riiiiight down. I take my blood pressure every day, I'm all good and kicking! Glucose? No, I don't have that. Everyone does? Well, my late husband had something wrong with his gluteus, if that's what you mean. Well, sure, of course you can do all the tests you need to! Can I get some juice?

The nurse was well-versed in Old Lady Speak. He answered everything correctly, knowing when to ask the questions he actually needed to know and when to insert an "Oh, really? Wow!"

"Your doctor will be with you soon. Dr. Shen, I remember. I'll try my best."

Your neighbor turned to you quickly, eyes bright. You'd think her ankle was completely better, the way she had livened up instantly. "Was he the boyfriend?"

"What?" You whipped your head to her, ripping your eyes away from the CATCH A STROKE sign on the wall. "Oh, no. My… well, he's not mine, and he's not really a boyfriend. Anyway, he's a doctor, not a nurse, and hopefully we won't see him at all. I don't really know if he'd be too excited to see me after what my dad said to him."

She seemed to sadden at that. "Your father is a kind man. I'm sorry to hear he was rude. I'll put all my junk mail into his slot from now on."

You smiled at that. The hospital dampened you; the fluorescents beaming down, the too-clean smell that only hospitals have, the beeping and frantic speaking and sometimes shouting. It reminded you too much of your childhood, spending days next to your grandfather. He wasn't in an emergency room, and the floors for long stays were much less scary, but it was all the same to you. Almost nothing could bring a full laugh out of you in a place like this.

Your chest filled with panic when you heard his laugh across the department. You reminded yourself that he didn't even know you were here, he wouldn't come looking. His rumbling voice got closer, and you bit your lip in anticipation. You weren't ready.

CATCH A STROKE

Maybe you could have one of those instead. No, that'd bring him to you for sure. A curtain slid open, and you found yourself closing your eyes.

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

You opened them. The curtain was shut. He was one door over.

You sighed in relief, and you felt your shoulder being shook. Had you passed out? No, it was your neighbor reaching from her bed to your chair and pointing excitedly at the wall to your left. "Him! It's him?" She whisper-yelled. You nodded, urging her to quiet down. While you were distracted, your curtain opened. Both of you jumped.

"Hey! Heard you asked for me. What's going on today, ankle hurts?"

Your sigh of relief was almost comical, leaning back in your chair. Dr. Shen's eyes caught on you for a second, but he ignored the ping of recognition in the back of his mind. Why does he know that face?

He turned back to the injured ankle, prodding at it and asking the same questions the nurse had. "I'll call for some scans, which should be pretty quick. You'll be in and out of here in no time." He shot an easy smile and left the room, but the smile dropped as soon as he left. Why does he know that face?

Dr. Abbot appeared behind him, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Every step you take is a patient waiting, come on, let's move."

Shen stopped in his tracks. "I need to get into your locker."

"Uhh, no, Shen. Get back to work, please."

"I'm serious."

"So am I, go check on your patients. Keep out of my stuff."

Dr. Abbot walked away, his gait particularly heavy and angry, as it had been all night. Shen's face must have given him away because Ellis stopped next to him. "Are you good? You're glaring at your attending. Not a good look."

"I'm not glaring. I'm thinking. Hey, do you know Abbot's locker code?"

"Dude, if I did, I wouldn't give it to you. Why?"

"You know that not-so-secret secret girlfriend he has? That surgeon's daughter? I swear she's here. I can't know for sure, because I don't know her name, and the only way to confirm it is his picture of her in his locker."

"Just go ask her. They're disgusting and in love, I see them making out around the corner of the hospital at like 8 a.m. every day. She'll be more than excited to talk about it." Ellis left him with that, running off to her own patients. Shen groaned, deciding to wait to corner you until that old lady was whisked away for her scans.

It had been almost an hour and you'd answered almost a million questions about your life and heard about two million stories about life in the 1950s. Finally, someone showed up, pulled your neighbor onto a wheeled bed, and took her away. You rubbed your eyes, hoping this meant you were almost through. You felt bad, you never learned her name and still hadn't caught a glance of a chart or a bracelet or anyone even using her first name.

Dr. Shen appeared again, ice rattling in his long-gone iced coffee that he was still carrying around.

"Oh, she just left for the CT." You gestured out the door.

"This is a totally invasive and non-medical question that you do not have to answer, but are you Dr. Abbot's girlfriend?"

You didn't have time to come up with an expression, much less an answer, to his question. He reached to his hip and pressed a button.

"Oh, God, please don't tell him I'm here. I can't see him right now. We're totally done forever, and he was never really my boyfriend." You drew your knees up into the chair, then your mind finally processed it. "Oh, my God, did he tell you guys?"

"Nah, but word travels fast here. Couple of the residents on day shift made it up, it spread around a few people, then yours truly found out and I put it together. And he has a polaroid of you in his locker. Not hard to figure out. But nobody else knows you're here tonight. Well, Dr. Ellis is on her way right now and then she'll know but we'll protect you."

On cue, a woman slid into the room. "What?" She asked breathlessly, looking only at Shen.

"You were totally right! I asked, she told me. Well, you weren't totally right because they broke up but I think this means I should really take initiative more in my social life, because—"

"You paged me with an emergency for that?"

"Come on, I thought we were friends. I figured you wanted to know."

Ellis stared incredulously at him for a while, before turning to you. "You're so right, I did want to know. Now I've finally got something to tell Mateo in exchange for him not to ruin my career with that time I mixed up…" She glanced at you. "That time I made an honorable mistake and fixed it and nobody got hurt and everything was fine."

"Please, really don't tell anyone. It wasn't a pretty end, and it was literally today, and I don't want him thinking I'm trashing him behind his back. Hippo, or something, right?

"HIPAA, and fine." Dr. Shen was already acting like you were best friends, but you supposed he knew more about you than you did him, so maybe you were friends. "Here comes your friend!"

Your neighbor came wheeling around the corner, tests done and ready to be analyzed in probably three hours. "Look who I ran into!" She was saying. "We do swim classes together, but he's been skipping out lately. This is Jack."

You could've passed out. You watch both Ellis and Shen's eyes almost pop out of their heads as they scattered instantly. "She's been telling me all about this cute neighbor she brought with her." Jack finally looked up, meeting your eyes, and stopped in his tracks. "Hey."

You pulled a weak smile, the same one you'd been putting on all night. "Hi."

"Let's leave Gladys here to rest for a moment, can I take you in the hall?" He cringed at the word choice, clearly a script he used on every patient that landed wrong only in this situation.

God, he could take you right in this room. You nodded, following him to the other side of the curtain.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His words were accusatory, but his voice was broken. He, just as you, had resigned himself to never seeing you again. You didn't know you were crying until he wiped your cheek. "Angel, what's happened?"

"I tried to leave. In the night, so Dad didn't get to say goodbye. Jack, I was so fucking mad. He got up, we made a racket, then Gladys fell and I brought her here. My dad told me to ask for Shen, to keep away from you. I can't keep away from you, Jack."

He pulled you into a hug, stroking your hair. "You don't have to. We'll work it out. We'll get it into your dad's head somehow. You don't have to keep away. Maybe for a week, but we'll make it."

"Jack, we only have until September."

The air stilled. The one thing you hadn't talked about that both of you had hardly stopped thinking. It was always going to be temporary. You'd go far away, meet some other college kid and fall in love and he'd stay here, thinking about you. It was pathetic.

"I'm sorry," your face crumbled at his far-off look. "I shouldn't have brought it up at work. Call me, when you can, and we can talk then."

You wiped your eyes, and stepped back into the room. "Alright, Gladys. He said the scans will come back soon."

"He did not!" She grabbed your arm. "It's a curtain, not a door. Back in the car, I didn't think you meant old. This is a perfect story for the girls at swim. They'll love it. Besides, I know you two will figure it out. It's clear you care for each other. Trust me, I was married for 50 wonderful years. We had struggles. He went to war, but he came back. That's nothing like going away to college."

It was a week or so before you really got to hang out with your dad again. He worked a few doubles, went overtime, and picked up extra shifts, so he spent his few days off sleeping. You worked all week, shifts passing slowly. The cafe wasn't exactly a hotspot, so it wasn't always busy. The first exciting thing — well, work-related thing — to happen all summer was one morning in early June. Julia was in the back, taking her break, perfectly timed to miss the first appearance of Jack Abbot in your cafe.

You knew she'd go insane if she missed it. It was your first time working with her since the Bathroom Incident and you hadn't had time to update her.

"Dr. Abbot!" You called out, eyes widening. It was impossible to meet his strong gaze, not after what you'd done the night in the privacy of your bedroom the night of Memorial Day.

Julia appeared behind you instantly. You'd said the name loud enough to hear in the back, so she faked being useful by wiping down some counters and moving mugs around.

"Good morning," He said lowly, smiling down at you. It almost felt like he knew what you'd done, but you tried to convince yourself that was impossible. You glanced at the clock. Nine o'clock. He must've come straight from the hospital. Even — perhaps especially — with his curls stuck up in strange places, eyes drooping with exhaustion, he looked good enough to eat. "Your dad gave me the name of this place during handoffs, said it's the best chai in town. Better than Dunkin', anyway."

"He lied," you blurted. It was the best nothing in town. He was right on the second part, though. "You don't seem like the chai type."

"I'm not, really, but he was insistent. He didn't mention it's got the cutest barista in town."

A crash sounded behind you. Julia had dropped two Torani syrups at his words, clearing her throat to hide the audible gasp she'd let out.

"Black coffee, please. Small." As if he hadn't just said that.

You couldn't come up with any words, hands trembling as you wrote the order on his cup and handed it off to Julia.

Cutest barista. Cute. Cute, how? Like cute in the way that it's his friends daughter? Or the other way, which you dared not even consider?

"When's that birthday of yours, anyway?" He asked, not looking up from the tablet as he typed out a generous tip.

"Oh. Um." Your birthday? You could barely remember your name. "Two weeks. It's me and my dad during the day, he swapped with Walsh, then that night it'll be me and the med students and interns I met at.. at your, um, party. And Julia," You pointed back at her with your thumb. She waved, grinning wider than you'd ever seen.

She held out the coffee to him. "Thank you, sooo much, Doctor." You smacked her arm, hopefully subtly, to get her to calm down.

His gaze lingered, then he finally left the shop with a small smile and a nod goodbye. Luckily, no customers were eating in, so she could say whatever the hell she wanted. "That's your doctor man? Him? Holy fucking shit, girl, get on that! Don't think I haven't been on the edge of my seat all week waiting to hear about that cookout."

"Okay, okay! Try to keep it together." You explained, in detail, every minute of the party. Julia's jaw dropped too early in the story, causing her to run out of emotes by the time you finished the story. Obviously, you left out your late night activities. Retelling it had your stomach in flips just as much as the day of. "So basically, my dad invited him to my birthday party, to which he gave a very noncommital grunt, and until now I thought he'd forgotten about it."

"Well, if he works nights, he shouldn't be able to come anyway, right? Nothing to worry about."

"Dad wants to have a little dinner with everyone before his and Dr. Abbot's shifts start and before we go out. So he'll be invited to that. Before I start drinking, which is worrying."

"I'll be there, which means everything will be totally fine."

You gave her a disbelieving look, knowing her presence might even make it all worse, the enabler she was. Shift change came around slow as ever, and you two were finally released to the hot Pittsburgh summer afternoon.

"Do you want to grab lunch?" Julia fanned her face, already sweating from the beating sun. "I think I need to lay down in the shade in the park for the next five hours."

"Knock yourself out, I'm heading home to air conditioning."

She whined. "No need to brag, some of us live alone in 13-square-foot, near-windowless studio apartments with mold in the walls."

"Julia, I've been to your apartment. It's nothing like that. Just come over to mine instead, if you want the AC."

She waved a hand. "I gotta walk the dog anyway. See you tomorrow?"

You nodded, heading off towards the bus stop. By the time you got home, all you wanted was a cold shower and to crank the air conditioning to the highest setting. Your dad's building had other ideas. When you twisted the dial to HIGH, the unit sputtered, dripped some water onto the floor, and gave up.

The apartment wasn't too hot, but the air conditioning wasn't running while you were out of the house, so the cool air was slowly seeping out, replaced by that awful humidity. You fiddled with the buttons some more, but it seemed the unit was done for. Pulling out your phone, you went to call your dad. He didn't pick up. You sighed, stripping out of your work clothes for some relief and changing into more comfortable summer wear. He called back some minutes later.

"What's wrong?" His voice was panicked, expecting an emergency.

"The AC is broken. Sorry to bother you at work. Should I try to fix it, or just go somewhere else for the rest of the day for cool air?"

He groaned. He was looking forward to coming home after his shift to a nice, cold apartment. "Call Jack, he'll fix it for you. He's awake by now, usually, and he won't have a problem helping out."

That was the last thing you wanted him to say. You and Jack, alone in your apartment? While he fixed something for you? It was a dizzying fantasy. You assured your dad that you'd call, wished him well for the rest of his shift, and went to the kitchen. Your dad had a list of emergency numbers stuck up on the fridge, tucked under a lobster magnet. His own, your mother's, PTMC's direct line, and Jack's. It was with shaky hands that you typed in the number — that you would accidentally come to memorize — and hit the green CALL button. It rang once, twice, three times, as you prayed he wouldn't pick up.

"Dr. Jack Abbot." He muttered from the other line, sounding out of breath.

"Hey! Hi. It's me."

Your name fell off his lips in surprise. "What's wrong?"

It must be a doctor thing, to instantly assume something was wrong upon recieving a call. Or an old man thing.

"Nothing, really. My AC unit is broken, and my dad said you might be willing to help me fix it? I'm sorry if I woke you, it's not a big deal if you can't-"

"Relax. You didn't wake me, I'm on a run. I'm actually nearby, so I will be there soon." He hung up.

"No goodbye, then." You murmured to yourself, tossing your phone onto the couch next to you. He was right when he said 'soon', because he was knocking on the door in minutes. Opening the door ever so slightly, you almost passed out. His grey shirt was wet with sweat, droplets trickling down his neck. He had one earbud in, his hands fiddling with the other. His hair stuck to his forehead from the sweat. He waited patiently to be asked in.

"Good afternoon," He started, waiting for you to stop staring. It worked, pulling you out of your stupor. You let him in, leading him to the AC unit.

"I turned the dial and it made this weird spitting noise, then stopped working. It's only been a few minutes, but the place is heating up pretty fast without it. If you can't fix it, really, don't worry. I'll just take a cold bath or something."

He turned to catch your eye, an amused smirk teasing his lips. "You doubting me? Think I can't fix something as simple as an AC unit?" Your eyebrows shot up, about to apologize, but he waved a hand. "Go take your shower, cool down, and I'll be done when you get back."

His assertive tone left no room for argument, so you did as he said. As you stripped in the bathroom, you tried not to think about Jack Abbot being in your home, while you were naked two rooms over. You forced the unspeakable fantasies that brought up away and stepped into the shower. The cold water helped. There was nothing better than washing sweat out of your hair on a hot day. You wrapped a towel around yourself and stepped out of the bathroom. You hadn't considered the fact that maybe you should've brought your robe or even your clothes with you, having to pass through the living room and furthermore Jack on the way to your bedroom.

You tried to make as little noise as you snuck behind him, all his attention on the unit, but the sight stopped you in your tracks. Jack was on his knees, arms flexing with every movement. He had the user manual pulled up on his phone, holding it far away as he adjusted his readers, checking it every now and then. Unfortunately, you'd been staring so long that it gave him time to notice. He glanced over his shoulder, then jumped at the sight of you.

"How long have you been there?" He breathed out a chuckle. "Scared the shit out of me."

You couldn't summon an answer, your brain still stuck on the reading glasses resting low on his nose. You stared at him a little longer before you remembered your state of dress and practically ran towards your bedroom. Tossing the towel off your body, you froze. What is actually happening right now. Slipping into some silk pajamas that you treated as loungewear, you snuck back out of your room, sitting on the couch to watch Jack work.

"Thought I might have scared you off. Anyway," he turned to face you, pushing up from the floor with a grunt. "The air filter's all messed up. It's an easy fix, I just have to go get you a new one. Wanna come with?"

"I can do it myself, you've already helped more than enough. You have work tonight, you should go take a nap!"

He placed his hands on your shoulders. "I want to help. Besides, I know what filter I'm looking for. It's no trouble. I have to come back and install it anyway." He toyed with the strap of your tank top, spacing out for a second. "Go put some outside clothes on. D'you have anything like that dress?"

You knew what he was talking about. The one that had laid at your ankles that day he'd touched you so gently, spreading aloe on your burns. You nodded, disappearing back into your bedroom. Any other day, it would take you hours to pick out something for this, but you knew you had limited time. You picked out a plain sundress, though even the thin cotton would be suffocating on a day like this. You re-emerged, doing a little spin to show off the dress. He smiled, a real one, and led you out of the apartment. The summer heat hit you hard and fast as soon as you stepped onto the street, but the lightness of your dress helped to combat it more than the jeans and thick t-shirt you wore to work most mornings. Jack's car cooled down fast. It was mostly silent the whole way to the hardware shop, just the occasional "you cool enough? I can change the temperature," or "is it too warm in that coffee shop of yours?"

You hopped out of the car, stretching your arms and taking in the sun. Jack cleared his throat quietly, but you paid it no mind. The AC in the store was almost too cold. Cold enough to feel goosebumps raising on your arms and your nipples hardening, poking through your dress. You didn't miss the way Jack's eyes flicked down to your chest for half a second.

"Air filter, then?" You brought him back from his train of thought. He nodded swiftly, placing a hand on your back and leading you to the correct aisle. He pondered the variety of filters for a minute before finding the correct one, rising onto his toes to reach it, which you found incredibly endearing. He held it up with a grin. You got in line to check out, and he leaned down.

"Told you it'd be easy." He murmured. "You want to get something to eat before we head back?"

Something to eat. Food. Lunch. A date. With him. You opened your mouth to speak, but he cut you off. "If you're about to ask if it's an imposition, know I wouldn't ask you if I didn't want to."

You sealed your lips, because that's exactly what you were about to say, and nodded. "Let's do it."

He paid for the filter, refused a bag, and held the door for you on the way out, then again at the car. Lunch wasn't too bad, especially when he paid (again) without letting you look at the bill. You went back to the apartment, he replaced the filter, waited until the AC was back up and running, then stood from the couch with a long sigh. "I should probably go take a nap. Call me if you need anything, air conditioning-related or otherwise. I'm always around in the day, usually after 1 or 2. I want to help out, okay?"

You smiled up at him, placing a hand on his arm. "Thank you for all your help today. I promise I'll try to keep my emergency calls to a minimum."

"You'll just have to come to me with non-emergencies, then." He grinned, ducking out the door. The loss of contact with his arm was immediately sorely missed. The way his muscles tensed under your touch was a drug, a high you couldn't wait to get back to. You stood, frozen at the door for another two minutes before another thought finally broke through the storm in your mind that was "what is fifty divided by two, fifty minus twenty-one, arms, leather car seats, sweaty grey hair," and many more, dirtier images.

You had just gone on a date with Jack Abbot. Definitely. Once you'd wrapped your mind around that, you got to work on remembering all the touching from the day, ghosting your hands over where his fingers had pressed into your skin.

By the time your dad returned from work, you were asleep on the couch, the credits rolling of your usual comfort movie. He patted your shoulder, pulling you from dreams of a certain doctor. You let your dad lead your tired body to your room without telling him about your day. He didn't need to know the details of the flirting, the touching, the paying.

The next two weeks passed in a flurry of working air conditioning, the smell of coffee lingering on your clothes, and five more morning cafe visits from Dr. Abbot. He seemed to have almost figured out your schedule, but the days he didn't make it in were the worst ones. News of your crush spread through the few employees of the cafe and even some of the regulars. You weren't trying hard enough to hide it, eyes snapping to the door every time the little bell rang to announce an entry. When it wasn't him, which was increasingly often, you tried not to deflate. Todd, one of the old regulars, laughed unabashedly every time, almost to the point of scaring off other customers.

Jack didn't show up at the cafe on your birthday, even though you knew your dad had told him you were working that morning. You tried not to be disappointed, but you weren't fooling anyone. You worked slower than usual and your smile wasn't as bright. Julia made you a birthday cake latte, which was disgusting, but you appreciated it anyway. She took you out for lunch after work, and you prompted her to talk the entire time, even if it was complaints. You didn't feel much like talking. She drove you home, making you promise to call if you needed anything, and assuring you that she'd be back around seven to help you get ready for your party.

Right. The party. You weren't feeling much like partying today. Your birthday always bothered you a bit, especially spending it alone. It was one o'clock when your dad showed up. He burst through the front door in a storm of noise, calling out apologies as he kicked his shoes off and threw his keys onto the table.

"I'm home! I was in the OR for a few more hours than I thought and I couldn't call, but I thought I could get home before you were done with work. Where are you?" He was moving through the apartment with intent, peeking in every door. He dropped his backpack in the hall when he saw you, curled up on your bed. His face fell, but you turned over so he couldn't see you. "I'm so sorry. You know I tried my best, right?"

You nodded, still facing away. "I know, Dad. I know work is important." Your sniffle didn't go unnoticed. "It's not that. It's…" Your face burned with embarrassment. Maybe you didn't have to tell him. "Work was hard today, and Dr. Abbot told me he'd come by to say hi. He didn't." You felt silly, telling your dad that you were crying because his coworker didn't wish you a 'happy birthday'. You left out that your mom hadn't called you yet, knowing that would upset him even more, and that was the last thing you wanted to do.

"Oh, honey, Jack's working the day shift so he can be there for your party. I thought he would've told you. He's going to be a bit late instead of having to leave early, but he's coming for dinner."

You sat up, trying not to smile in relief. "Really?" Your dad nodded, and you pulled him into a hug. "Thank you for switching shifts with Dr. Walsh. I'm glad you're here."

"Okay, okay." He stood up from the edge of your bed, placing his hands on his hips. "Did you still want to see the aquarium? We haven't really done much this summer."

You spent the next few hours at the zoo-aquarium and shopping around town, and soon your foul mood disappeared. The lack of communication from your mom was forgotten, replaced with excitement buzzing under your skin. It was seven o'clock when your mom finally FaceTimed you, at the exact moment Julia knocked on the door. You chose to answer the door first. If you could wait all day for even a text, your mom could wait a minute or two for you to call back. Except, you didn't call back. You got distracted by the bags upon bags of clothes and shoes and accessories Julia had brought for your night out. Your dad had started on dinner already, preparing for Trinity, Dennis, and Jack to show up around 8. Julia left you for a bit to put up decorations, even though you'd asked her to go light with it. You turned your music almost all the way down as you put on your makeup, sighing to hopefully relieve some stress.

You never had a fake ID, so your partying experience was limited to college parties and a couple of eighteen-plus bar concerts. There was a plan for tonight, put together by either Trinity or Julia, that you were not privy to; your only job was to get free drinks for everyone by being the birthday girl and keep enough energy to go from place to place. You were sure Trinity and Julia would combine their plans and probably make it ten times more intense, but again, not your problem yet.

Julia returned, urging you to finish your makeup faster so she could do your hair. You'd picked out a more modest outfit for dinner and a dress to change into for the night so you wouldn't be uncomfortable at the dinner table, neither physically nor under the pinning gaze of Dr. Jack Abbot.

Trinity and Dennis arrived together, greeting Julia just as kindly as they had done to you on Memorial Day weekend. Dennis disappeared to help your dad set up the table after Trinity abandoned him to build the itinerary with Julia. You followed Dennis out to the kitchen, planting a kiss on your dad's cheek and laying out plates. Julia had really built the place up with balloons and sparkles and a gift table for presents you had specifically asked not to be given. Sickening nerves were circling your stomach since the clock struck eight. You had managed to delude yourself into thinking that, because Trinity and Dennis had arrived before Jack, that he was at home, getting ready with intent. That he wanted to look good for you. But that couldn't be it. He probably just got held up at the hospital and left later. Maybe he wasn't even coming.

It was right when that thought crossed your mind that the doorbell rang. You tried not to run to it, the only thing keeping your dignity was that your heels prevented you from moving too fast. You nearly flung the door open, grinning up at Jack. "Hi."

He was dressed effortlessly casual, jeans hugging his thick thighs with a dark button-down practically painted onto his torso. He held his hands behind his back, something he did so often you hardly noticed. One hand came out, lifted your own, and spun you in a circle, your dress fluttering out around your thighs. "Happy birthday, Angel."

When you regained your balance — which took a while — you placed a hand on his shoulder for stability. "Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

He winked, following you into the apartment with a hand ghosting over your lower back.

You settled down for dinner, your father's famous zucchini lasagna. Your dad led you to sit at the head of the table, Julia to your left and himself to your right. Against your expectations, dinner wasn't awkward at all. You had figured that, if you were Trinity or Dennis, it would be strange to come over to a colleague's house for dinner, with your boss no less, for his daughter's birthday. They seemed to take it well enough.

After cake, your dad made to get up and clear the table, but you stopped him. "Will you come out with us tonight, Daddy?"

Jack dropped his fork, clearing his throat with a tiny "sorry."

Your dad sighed. "Trust me, I would, but I don't think I have a night out in me, haven't for a long time. Maybe Jack can chaperone you kids. If he wants to, of course."

"Oh, Dr. Abbot doesn't want to do that, we're going to clubs and all. He doesn't have to." You looked over at him, your eyes showing everything but what you'd just said.

Jack let out a long exhale. "If it's okay with Dr. Santos and Dr. Whittaker. I'd be glad to chaperone such an important night. Might not last all night, though."

"Oh, it doesn't matter how long you last, Doctor. We're just glad to have you." Julia grinned, and you kicked her under the table.

Trinity and Dennis seemed to straighten up at the use of their official title, and agreed. They both liked Dr. Abbot, he was the adult world equivalent of the cool teacher that let them swear and didn't give out homework. After the table was cleared, Julia dragged you into your room, changing you into the dress she'd already picked out days ago. It was short, almost too short, and accentuated your features perfectly. Layering an oversized light jacket over it, she pushed you back out to the living room. "My creation," She spun you around in a circle for everyone. "Is complete."

"Keep an eye on her, Abbot, I think Julia's got some nefarious plans." Your dad joked, but Jack didn't take his eyes off you.

"I will, I promise."

Trinity and Julia had really outdone themselves with their combined itinerary, and by the second bar and the third drink you weren't sure if you'd make it through the rest of the clubs they had planned. You stayed close to Julia, but Jack barely let you six feet away from him.

"I'm sorry you got dragged out here," you leaned up to mutter. "I can't imagine you're a big fan of clubs."

"No, but I'm a big fan of you, and I told you I'd do whatever you need. Especially if that includes fighting men off all night."

You nearly giggled. You didn't ever think you were a girl that giggled. "I promise you won't have to fight anyone, Dr. Abbot. At least, not all night."

He smiled, his large hand landing between your shoulderblades and leading you to follow behind Trinity as she dragged everyone to the next location. You sat at the bar mostly, already having used up your dancing energy. Jack sat with you, and Julia came back to check on you every now and then. "Still having fun?" She shouted over the din of the music. "Let me know if you want to leave!" You gave her two thumbs up and a smile. Your phone buzzed in your jacket pocket, and you pulled it out.

Call from: Mom

You declined it, tucking the device away again and leaning into Jack's side. Trinity was quick to grab you both and pull you away to a pool table, where she forced you into a game against her and Dennis. Jack's warm hand sliding across your waist the whole time was distracting as all hell, but his years of experience canceled out Trinity's sheer determination to win. You were about to make the shot when he let go of you, and you faltered. He reached into your pocket, your phone lit up with a notification.

Missed call from: Mom

"It's fine!" You said loudly, returning to the game. Jack made the winning shot, or more accurately, Dennis made the losing shot, and Trinity finally let you return to the bar. Julia hopped up on the stool next to you when Jack left for the bathroom. She nudged your shoulder, her usual scheming look painted across her face.

"What?" You indulged her antics.

"I've noticed you and Doctor Daddy have been attached at the hip all night. Something I gotta watch out for?"

As if by divine intervention, your phone buzzed again. You grabbed it off the bar, barely glancing at the contact. "I gotta take this!" You yelled in Julia's ear before running out the front door. You accepted the call, impatient to hear what your mom had to say for herself.

"Hi, sweetie," her voice came out of the speaker, slightly tinny from the microphone of her old landline. "How was your day?"

"You should've called me this morning, Mom. You should've called to wish me a happy birthday."

"Well, no need to be rude. I called you earlier, you didn't pick up."

"I was having dinner. With my friends. And Dad. I'm out right now, so I'm busy. You should have called me during the day."

"Have you been drinking?" Your mom's voice turned cold. "Where are you? Does your father know?"

"Yes, I have! It's my twenty-first birthday, of course he knows." Your face was hot with frustration, and your throat started to ache. You willed your voice not to shake with your next words. "I'm fine. Can I call you tomorrow?"

"No, you can not, young lady. You need to go back to your father's house right now. I can't believe your irresponsibility."

"You can't tell me what to do!" You shouted into the phone, then instantly regretted it. "I'm sorry. I have been drinking, and I am not thinking straight. I will call you later." You hung up before she could curse you out. Your dad was definitely getting a call about your behavior. You leaned back against a street light and pushed your palms against your eyes, willing your tears and frustrations away. This was supposed to be fun. You were supposed to be having a night out, trying new places and new things. Instead you were crouched on the sidewalk outside a crowded bar, the air around you filling with cigarette smoke from a group nearby.

A hand appeared near your head. "Probably should avoid sitting on the curb. Come on up." You took Jack's hand as he tugged you to your feet. "Do you need me to take you home?"

Sliding a hand up his shoulder and resting it at the base of his neck, you shook your head. Three drinks ago, you'd never be touching him like this. Three drinks ago, you wouldn't tug his head down to your level and drag your fingers through his carefully styled hair. The quick movement had an arm darting out to catch himself against the lamp pole, effectively caging you in. He gave you time to find your words as you shamelessly stared at him. His arms on either side of you, his strong neck tense despite his calm face, looking down at you patiently.

In hindsight, it wasn't the best idea. You practically jumped him, fingers tightening in his hair and pulling his lips to yours. Your noses bumped, your neck ached from the awkward angle, and your head knocked against the pole behind you. He pulled away instantly. Your hands immediately came up to cover your mouth, apologies flying out faster than light. He still had you backed against the lamp pole, so there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide from his gaze. Those hazel eyes that you'd spent days and nights thinking of, now pinning you with no way out.

You pushed his chest gently, just enough so you had space to step out and breathe. "God, Dr. Abbot, I'm so sorry. I don't know what I was thinking. Please, don't tell my dad." You looked up at him, eyes watering with unshed tears.

He reached out one gentle hand, wiping a tear just as it fell. "Don't cry, please. Come here." He pulled you into him, his strong arms engulfing you in a hug. "It's okay, Angel. You're okay." He rocked you back and forth, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"I ruined everything," you muttered into his chest. "I'm sorry, Dr. Abbot."

"You didn't ruin anything, sweetheart. Look at me," He grabbed your chin gently with his thumb and forefinger. "I have something for you. 'S not wrapped all nice and pretty, but I hope you like it." He reached into his back pocket, coming out with a slim box. Your hands were busy wiping tears, so he opened the box for you, holding it between the two of you. He lifted out a thin chain from the box, a sleek and simple necklace with two small pendants: a gem, and the first initial of your name.

"Tell me if it's silly, I can go back and exchange it." Every second you didn't speak was a second Jack's shoulders slumped lower. You learned in that moment that you liked making him squirm. Hm, noted.

"It's perfect, Jack. I love it." You smiled, for the first time since the phone call, and he sighed in relief.

"Really?"

"Really."

"I was going to give it to you at dinner, but then when Santos and Whitaker were there, well…"

"Jack Abbot, were you nervous? Are you nervous?" You leaned closer, trying to catch the doubt in his eyes.

"Of course not." He scoffed. "Figured it'd be inappropriate, that's all."

"What's so inappropriate about it? Because if you won't kiss me, or touch me, then what are we doing that's wrong?" You bit your lip to hide a smile, lacing your hands together behind your back and cocking your head.

"You really are drunk, aren't you?" If the light was better, you'd notice how his ears went pink at your words. Jack Abbot, blushing. What would he do if Robby saw him now — Hell, if Dana saw him now? Those two could spread gossip faster than Perlah and Princess, and that was saying something. Not that he trusted Santos and Whitaker not to have their faces pressed against the window. "You wanna take this necklace now?"

You simply turned to face the other way, waiting for him to clasp it at the nape of your neck. The dangerous memory of you in his bathroom flashed through his mind as his fingers brushed at your bare skin.

"Jack, will you come get another drink with me? Just us, somewhere quieter than here? I don't like these clubs."

This was a trap. Definitely a trap.

"What about the others?"

"Julia will cover for us. The others have work in the morning, it's very late, Jack."

"If you stop saying my name like that, we can go."

You grabbed his hand and pulled him inside, finding the rest of your group. Julia, the most sober of the group, noticed your tear-stained cheeks first. She frowned, about to ask, but you waved her off. You announced that your night was over, and you and Jack were leaving. You prayed that Trinity and Dennis were too drunk to put all the pieces together, which seemed to be the case, and Julia covered for you, as expected. Jack called an Uber, and took you to his favorite place, a secluded but relatively nice bar, compared to the rest of the trashy clubs and college bars he'd somehow survived all night.

It was dark, almost too dark, the room lit mostly by warm-toned sconces along the walls and the lights behind the bar. The crowd was almost exactly as you'd expect; older men looking for one or two casual drinks, maybe on a date, maybe alone. The bartenders were dressed nicely, tidy and quiet except for when called upon. Jack led you to a booth in the far corner of the room.

"You happy now?" He asked, settling down next to you as he called a bartender over. You tucked your feet up under you, leaning into his side so much you may as well be on his lap. You hummed in response, fiddling with one of the buttons on his shirt. He moved your hand away, but it kept returning. His hair, his shirt, his hands. He was planning on ordering only water for you, to sober you up, but you beat him to it, getting another drink. "What number would that be, Angel? How can I drop you off at home in this state?"

"Don't." You whispered. "Jus' bring me to your place."

Clearly, you'd forgotten the kiss already. The rejection, the tears and apologies.

"You know we can't do that, remember? You're very drunk tonight."

"So are you, Doctor." You played with the collar of his shirt. "You just hide it better. Two drunk people, what will they dooo?"

"They will drink some water, eat some food, and go to their respective homes, I'd guess."

You only didn't answer, clearly unsatisfied with his words but not unsatisfied enough to be put off. You'd try again later. It wasn't an hour later that you'd both gone through another drink and you were completely in his lap. He was running a hand up and down your calf, messing with the strap on your uncomfortable heels.

"Is this place too nice for me to kiss you?" You whispered in his ear. Jack couldn't remember why he'd pushed you away outside that club. Why wouldn't he want to kiss you? Your scent, a mix of your perfume and your natural sweat from hours and hours of dancing and drinking, surrounded him completely, invading his senses. Your lips brushed against his ear as you whispered to him, leaving your neck completely vulnerable to him. He was more than tempted to lick a stripe from your collarbone up to your jaw, to grab you by the neck and pull your lips to his. But he wasn't supposed to kiss you. Why was that, again? "Let's go somewhere else, Jack."

There wasn't a universe in which he'd say no to you, so he lifted you from his lap, indulged in placing a soft kiss on your neck, and paid the bill. Leading you outside with a hand on your lower back, you didn't make it very far. He didn't know exactly who took charge, but neither of you seemed to care. However it happened, he had you pinned against the wall in the alley next to the bar, pressing your hands against the wall to restrain your touch. You tried to move them, itching to feel him, but you were grateful for the support. If not for his grip, you'd probably be a puddle on the ground. He licked into your mouth with the confidence of a man who'd been kissing since before you were born, pressing his hot mouth against yours, moving in tandem with your own. He seemed to know exactly what you wanted, what you needed, before you even got the chance to tell him.

He finally released your wrists in favor of letting his hands wander down to your ass, half-lifting you. He was drunk, sure, but he knew two things: he's too old to be making out in public, and his leg is hurting too much to completely lift you and press you against the wall like he wanted to. You hiked one leg over his hip and tugged him even closer, your dress sliding up with the movement. He pulled the skirt down a few inches to stop it from bunching up at your hips, dragging his hand down to rest on your thigh. "We shouldn't do this here," He muttered out between kisses.

"Why, you'd rather do it in my dad's apartment?" You managed to gasp out as he kissed down your jaw and neck.

"Don't be a brat." He nipped at your pulse, a tiny reprimand.

You raked your nails through his curls, pulling him as close to you as possible, burying his face in you as he took his time leaving marks on your chest. It was only when you pulled him closer by his belt buckle that he stopped you. "Let me call an Uber."

You did, practically hanging off of him as he ordered it in his phone. To his credit, despite the tempest of deep regret in his mind, he didn't shove you away as you kissed all over the back of his neck. He helped you into the car, resting a hand on your upper thigh to satiate your need for his touch. He figured the Uber driver wouldn't be too appreciative if you started making out in the backseat. You didn't really register where you were going, too wrapped up in bliss and Jack and alcohol to care about anything more than the present.

When the car stopped outside the all-too-familiar apartment building, you frowned. "You took me home?"

"You need to get to bed, angel. I'll walk you up."

You let him lead you up to the apartment and into your room, your dad fast asleep down the hall. You tried to pull him down for another kiss, but he gripped your wrists before they could get him. "Not here. Go wash your face, get ready for bed. I'll see you at the coffee shop after my shift tomorrow." He was whispering, praying that your father wouldn't wake to an unfamiliar, male voice in his home, but the apartment stayed silent. Jack placed a kiss on your forehead and snuck out the door as fast as he'd come in. He knew he was drunk enough for the memories of tonight to blur, and he could only hope you were too.

You collapsed into bed seconds after he left your room, shoes and dress and makeup still on. There was no use in trying to get ready for bed; you could barely stand on your own.

You woke the next morning to a few texts from Julia, another missed call from your mom, a text from your dad, and a few too many selfies in your camera roll. Stumbling into the bathroom to shower, you got to stripping off last night's clothes as you read the messages. You stopped short at removing your left shoe when you saw Julia's third message.

Where'd you end up, Doctor Daddy's or your place? Send me a pic ;)

Her second, an attachment above, was even worse. You were in a poorly lit bar, background full of sticky tables, neon BEER signs, and two pool tables. Most importantly, you had a hand resting on Jack's wrist, playing with his watch and looking up at him through your lashes. It was a genre of photo you'd seen countless times, backgrounds varying from frat kitchens to birthday house parties, sent to you the morning after from your friends at college. The foreground was always you and a man you had no business touching, always looking down at you with a smug smirk on their face, knowing they'd get exactly what they wanted that night.

That's where this one differed. Jack was smiling down at you, no sickening hunger in his eyes, just appreciation. Almost pity, which you didn't love, but nothing disrespectful. You pulled up an old photo from your sophomore year and compared the expressions. One, a 23-year-old frat president with a backwards cap and a poorly-executed beard on his chin. The other, Dr. Abbot. You groaned. Oh, you were so fucked.

The selfies in your camera roll were from three different locations. Some of you and Trinity, you and Julia, one picture of Trinity pretending to hit Dennis over the head with her cue stick after he lost miserably. One blurry picture of Trinity making out with some girl that Dennis had asked you to send to him for blackmail. A huge amount of mirror selfies that absolutely were not executed the way you had probably thought they were.

You checked your dad's message.

Good morning, honey! Looked like a crazy night, Jack sent me a picture from one of the bars. Hope you thanked him for taking care of you. Left for work, but there's a bagel waiting for you on the counter <3

Taking care of you. Taking care of you. You hurried to the bathroom mirror, tripping as your shoe finally came off, twisting your right ankle as you moved too fast on the heel. You looked a mess, but that wasn't your main concern. Your main concern was just how well you'd been taken care of. Your chest was littered with red-purple marks, light enough to cover but dark enough to notice. Maybe there was a mistake. Maybe they'd come off in the shower!

You took your time, but they absolutely did not come off in the shower. The night came to you in fragments as you ate your bagel on the kitchen floor, wrapped in your fluffy bathrobe and leaning against the cabinets. Lots of free drinks. Free shots. Birthday wishes from bouncers and bartenders alike. Karaoke, maybe? That could've been singing along to the DJ. Definitely losing at darts. Your mom calling you three times before you finally picked up. Stumbling out of the club. The pieces were smaller, more spread out after that. There was physical evidence of some sort of making out, but the most you could put together for that was the light beard burn on your chin, the wonderful pain of a scruffy jaw against your own, but you couldn't place that in the timeline. Getting into an Uber with some guy. A nice cologne. A clean bathroom, for the first time all night. A brick wall scratching at your back. Then, that beautiful dream. You couldn't look Jack in the eye for a few weeks, probably, after that dream.

Not that you got the chance to. You didn't see him for a couple of weeks, only hearing snippets about him from your dad, about the surgery he'd helped with, the consult he'd ordered. Jack asked about you once, but only once. The coffee shop didn't see him again.

It was almost July when your dad came to you with the news. There was a conference he was being called away to, in the middle of next month, halfway across the country. He'd be gone all weekend. He said he trusted you, of course, but he didn't want you to be alone. So, he asked Jack to come and stay with you for the four days he'd be gone.

You never wanted to hurt your father. When your parents got divorced, you decided you would never ever upset him. If you were nice enough, maybe he’d come back. Your friends liked to call this strange phenomenon ’daddy issues.’ Your therapist called it ‘something we should talk about again next week.’

So, when he invited you to spend the summer in Pittsburgh with him, who were you to say no? Getting away from the quiet, boring suburbs and spending your break in the city was just what you needed after that devilish semester. You knew your dad was hoping these next few months would convince you to move to the city once you graduated, and with no plans for your future, you were willing to give it a chance.

There you stood, two suitcases in hand on the sidewalk as your dad unloaded the other from the trunk of his car. The apartment building was beautiful, a welcome change from the shitty dorms you’d spent the last three years in. It took one elevator ride and a short walk down the hall to reach the apartment. To tell the truth, you really didn’t know your dad could afford this type of home. Sure, an emergency surgeon's salary is a lot, but you figured just a few short years of saving would land him somewhere average. Not… this.

He showed you to your bedroom, already decorated, and handed you a key. “I’ve got to get to work, but I’m off tomorrow. I can show you around the city then. Call if you need anything. I do mean anything! I’ll see you at 8, if I’m out on time. I’ll let you know if I won’t be.”

He paused, then pulled you into a hug. “I’m glad you’re staying with me. We’re going to have a lot of fun, I promise.”

You got to unpacking as soon as he left. The day passed quickly as the sun rose and set before your dad made it home. He came home exhausted, that sharp antiseptic smell following him into the space. He stumbled to the bathroom for a quick shower, heated up leftovers for dinner, and collapsed into bed with no more than a kiss on your forehead and a “Tomorrow, kiddo.”

The first night in your new bedroom was strange. Everything was unpacked, but it didn’t feel quite like home. After tossing and turning all night, you finally fell into a light sleep around sunrise. Unfortunately, your dad was an early riser. You were barely an hour in when he came stomping out of his room, loudly closing doors and throwing dishes around like it’s his job.

Padding out of your room, you found him in the kitchen making breakfast. Pancakes, all messed up in different globs as he tried to make certain shapes in the pan.

”I’ve got a perfectly square-shaped pancake over here waiting, and I’m working on the Pirates logo next.”

You came up behind him, leaning your forehead against his back. “Dad, do you have any idea what time it is?”

”Come on, it’s not that early! You should be getting up before 7 every day, it’s healthy. I would know, I’m a doctor.”

You rolled your eyes, but took the plate with your somewhat square-shaped pancake and sat at the kitchen island. He gave up on the Pirates logo pretty soon after and sat down with his own plate.

”I’ve got a bunch of errands to run, so I’ll take you around on those. Anything you wanna see?”

You shook your head and hummed in response, mouth full of pancakes.

"And don't make any birthday plans, I'm taking you out. I'll introduce you to my colleagues, there's a kid your age that works in the ED; maybe you'll get along."

Right. Your birthday. You'd been looking forward to spending your twenty-first out in the city, but you hadn't imagined it would be you and your dad. You didn't have any friends in Pittsburgh yet anyway, so it was better than nothing.

The day with your dad went well, if not a little awkward at first. He completed his errands as he pointed out the most important parts of the city, including the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, his place of work. You were still out together by 8, getting a late dinner.

"Sorry, baby, one second." His phone was ringing, an intense blaring tone. He stepped outside and you watched through the window as his shoulders sagged and he dropped his head to his chest. He made his way back inside and plopped back into his chair. "There's an emergency at work and they need me to come in. I'll make it up to you if you forgive me and also drop me off?"

Despite your disappointment, of course you agreed. The drive to PTMC was quiet, except for a strange rattling sound every time you accelerated that your dad insisted was normal.

After you pulled into the parking lot, he hopped out of the car, grabbing the spare work bag he kept in the trunk. Thanking you with a kiss on the side of your temple, he hurried inside.

You turned the key to start up the car again, but it only sputtered. "Shit," you muttered, trying again. No luck. Your dad was already inside, and after three more tries, you figured it might be best to just go in and seek his help. You were so focused on giving it one last shot that you didn't notice the man appearing at your window.

"Car troubles?"

His deep, rough voice shook you from your trance, causing you to jump. He was in scrubs, hair a little mussed and eyes tired. Clearly just off his shift.

Your shoulders sank. "Drove my dad here. The car was working all day until right now. Do you think you could give me a jump?"

He crossed his arms. You tried not to track the movement.

"I'll do you one better. I'll drive you home."

Alarm bells went off in your head. You didn't know this man, even if he looked like a doctor. You looked for a nametag. Your dad had told you about a lot of his colleagues, so maybe you could find out if this man was a friend. He'd already taken it off.

"Who's your dad?" You answered his question, and his face lit up. "He's my buddy, I promise no one here will take better care of you — other than your dad — than I will."

Dizzying words. Okay. You texted your dad and got into this stranger's car. "May I ask the name of my rescuer?" You tried not to notice how nice his car was.

"I'm Dr. Abbott, the night shift attending for the emergency department. Your old man and I go way back." He tugged the handicap tag off his rearview mirror and tossed it into one of the cupholders. He glanced over to make sure you were buckled in and carefully pulled out of the parking lot.

"If you're the night shift attending, why are you leaving now?"

He glanced over at you, seemingly confused at your polite curiosity. "Worked a double."

The rest of the drive was silent, awkwardly so. You chalked it up to his having just worked for 24 hours and, instead of going home for a good night's sleep, having to drive some girl home out of his way. You didn't have to give any directions. He wasn't kidding; he and your dad must really be friends if he knew the address.

After thanking him for the ride, you headed straight for the shower. Being out all day had you exhausted and you were ready to sink into your new sheets and sleep until midday. Your fantasy was ruined when you realized you had to go back to the hospital at seven the next morning to get your dad with the car that wouldn't start. Groaning, you set an alarm for six and settled in for the night.

You took the bus to the hospital the next morning, hoping someone would be able to jump the car when your dad's shift ended, but there was no guarantee. You got in anyway, trying the key one more time, just to check. Nothing. Your dad walked out to the parking lot, eyes tired and scrubs askew from a long night, ready to go right to sleep as soon as you got home. You watched as his shoulders dropped at the news that, no, he can't go home yet unless he wants to take the bus.

An ED resident, Dr. Henderson, very kindly jumped the car. You were starting to understand why anybody worked at this hospital — the doctors were extremely handsome, and very competent in auto assistance.

Your dad offered some anecdotes from work on the drive back, but mostly rode along in tired silence. He crashed instantly when you got home, leaving you with nothing to do for the next however-many hours. You took a walk around the block, stopping in a coffee shop or two to get acquainted. You had to make some friends, or get a job at least, if you wanted to enjoy your summer.

It almost felt pathetic, the familiar motion of opening the app store, typing in 'Hinge', and hitting re-download. If not a friend, well, something. You plopped down on a bench in the park, updating your profile and embarking on the humbling journey of the Hinge 'for you' tab. You sifted through dozens of names, faces, and weak one-liners. Each one was more depressing than the last. You were close to giving up when a shadow fell over you. You lifted your eyes slowly, though you knew who it was from the beginning. The one running sneaker and one prosthetic running blade gave it away instantly, but you still let your eyes trail up his body. The shorts hugging his thighs, the t-shirt drenched in sweat and clinging to his chest — your heart could've stopped at the sight of one drop of sweat trickling down his strong neck and disappearing into the collar of his shirt.

He patiently waited for you to pull yourself together, placing his hands on his hips. "Who's Luke?"

You frowned in confusion, shielding the sun with your eyes, and asked dumbly, "Huh?" Dr. Abbot simply nodded at your phone, the dating app still open on the profile of one Luke from Dormont and the impressive bass he was holding up. "Oh!" You scrambled to close the app and put your phone away. "Good morning, Doctor. I was just…" What were you supposed to say? "How's your run going?"

The corner of his mouth lifted into a smile. Not unkind, but definitely some degree of smug. "Okay. Better, now."

You tried to ignore what that could mean. "You working tonight?"

"Mhm. Tell your old man I say hi. And to stop dodging my calls."

You couldn't imagine a world in which anyone would want to avoid Dr. Abbot's calls. You only nodded, still mostly speechless. He ran off shortly after, and you contemplated opening Hinge again, then thought better of it. The interruption of your peaceful bench rest ruined the rest of your afternoon plans, so you caught the bus home in time for your dad to be starting his day again.

"How was your morning, honey?" He called from the kitchen. You kicked off your shoes by the door and went to join him, hopping up onto the counter.

"Fine. I got to scout out some cute places, sat in a park." You paused, nervous to tell him about your encounter. "Actually, I ran into Dr. Abbot, from the hospital."

Your dad perked up at that. "Yeah? What'd he want?"

"For you to answer his calls."

He laughed, shaking his head. "He's trying to get me to come to this Memorial Day barbecue he's having. He has it every year, and I haven't gone in forever. I usually work all that weekend and cover for those with family vacations." He trailed off, glancing at you to see if his statement had landed wrong. If it did, you didn't let it show. "We could go this year, though. You can meet some other young people, and he has a pool, last I knew."

You were hoping your dad wouldn't come up with that idea, but the thought of him staying at work all weekend for the past ten years while, across the country, you were on the beach with your friends pulled tightly in your chest. "That'd be fun," was all you could manage. You sat in silence for a moment, each trying desperately to come up with something else to say.

"Well, I was going to go to the gym, so I'll be back in a couple hours and I'll bring dinner, how does that sound?"

You smiled tightly. "Sounds good. Have fun."

It’s the one in front of his house, the one that stretches down the street.

He’s coming home from the gym. Black hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head, head on a swivel, always.

This is where he sees you for the first time, struggling with two grocery bags, so pregnant he's afraid you might tip over. 

You’re an angel dropped in his path like fate, a perfect, pretty flower growing between cracks in concrete, but what are you doing out in the cold? 

Your jacket is flimsy, thin, and when the wind whips, you shiver and he frowns as one of your bags rips clean down the side, its contents spilling to your feet as you groan, soft cloud of your breath leaking out into the winter air.

“I’ve got it.” He grunts, and you jerk at his shadow, surprised, angling your body away from him. Your shoulders curl forward. Defense. The realization settles in his stomach like lead. 

“Thanks.” The clouds clear, your defense ebbs away and you smile at him. Really smile despite your initial reaction. It’s like sun light, and he wonders if he could pull it from your face, put it in his pocket. He wonders what it would be like to see it all the time.

“You need some help?” He’s got the bag of onions in one hand, the oats in another.

“No.” You shake your head emphatically. “No, I’m fine. Thank you. You can just…” You eye your arms, how they’re overflowing already, and swallow. “Just put them on top here.”

“It’s no problem if-” A door slams. Instinctively, he turns to the sound, the front door of the house you’re standing in front of, a man walking down the steps towards you.

“What’s goin’ on?”

“Nothing.” You blurt before Simon can even get his mouth open. “Nothing, I just dropped some stuff.” Unease ices his spine. The man is hard edges, like himself, big like Simon too, with dead eyes. The kind he recognizes, has seen time and time again.

“Get inside.” He orders nodding towards the door, reaching for the stuff in Simon’s hands, and you nod hurriedly, giving him a neutral, bland smile before scurrying away.

“Thanks mate.” He pulls the items from Simon’s grip.

“You new to the neighborhood?” He’s never seen you before, or him. He would have noticed you surely, how could he not? He’s been away for work, but not that much. The man shakes his head.

“Moved in a few months ago but we don’t get out much.” Why were you at the store if this guy was at home? Simon looks him over, head to toe. His jaw is a bit crooked like it’s suffered a break, and there’s a scar on his neck, a nick that dips below the collar of his shirt. When he flicks back up to his eyes, he finds them hardened. His chin tipped up. A challenge.

“Right.” There’s anger simmering beneath the surface of his skin now. Anger, suspicion, unease. It’s all brewing together into a powder keg. He knows already, this guy is a bastard. Negligent at best. Something else, something darker at worst.

He says something, something Simon doesn’t register, doesn’t care about, because he’s already turning away, pulling his hood back up over his head. He’s only a few houses down and the walk is short, but now it feels like a mile, like it’s too much distance between him and you.

And he’s surprised to find he doesn’t like that at all.

He walks past your house every day now. To and from the gym, he strolls down the sidewalk slowly, watching, waiting for any sign of you, only to be disappointed. It’s been five days, and he can’t get you out of his head.

On the sixth day, he expects the same, and he nearly gets it, except for the shouting.

It’s so loud he can hear it from the street, could probably hear it across the street. The boom of the man’s voice rattles through the windows, dipped in acid, too harsh, too sharp. His fists involuntarily clench, stomach pitches at the thought of you being on the receiving end of it, your angel face tearstained and tormented, frightened.

Some could chalk up a thin temper to the stress and anxiety of impending parenthood, but he knows better. Knows what evil looks like, what it sounds like, knows this kind of poison all too well.

The sun is setting, and he lingers in a pocket of shadowing, waiting, listening for signs of a struggle, shattering glass, thumping. There’s relief in his chest when it doesn’t sound like it’s escalating. 

It takes nearly a half an hour, but he doesn’t leave until the shouting stops.

Simon is not stalking you. That’s not what this is. He’s just following, keeping an eye, making sure you’re safe. Looking for signs. Looking out. Being a good neighbor and all. 

Never mind he can see your front lawn from the bay window of his living room, never mind that he’s watching, constantly, waiting for you to make an appearance. Never mind that he follows you the first time he sees you in a week, never mind that he manages to “randomly” run into you on the sidewalk outside of a nondescript building that has a million offices in it, including a doctor's. He's not stalking you, he swears to himself, he's just looking out.

When you nearly run right into him, knock yourself off balance, he can’t resist the temptation. He jumps at the chance to touch you, a palm shooting out to cup your elbow, holding you steady against the weighted tip of your body.

“Easy.” He murmurs, word stuck in his throat, coming out deeper than he intended.

“Oh.” Oh. So little, so much with your quick inhale, the frantic lick of your lips. “Hi.” He’s not good at smiling, more prone to scowling, but for you, he tries. “Sorry.” Your eyes dart around him, behind him, expression turning nervous. He gives you space, you relax, and it does nothing to ease his suspicion.

“It’s alright. Happens.” You give him a small, real, smile, a fire in the dark, in the cold, something to curl up in front of. You were bracing he realizes, waiting for a shoe to drop.

“You’re my neighbor.” He nods.

“Simon.” You give yours back and he repeats it, tries it, rolls it around. It’s perfect. It fits. 

It would sound good with Riley tacked onto the end.

He’s about to press you, ask you something, anything, desperate for whatever you’ll give him, but the moment is stolen, shut down by a vibrating phone in your pocket. You grimace, thumb at the screen and give him a glance.

“I’ve gotta get this.”

“Course.” He turns away because he needs to. He knows who it is on the other end of the line, can hear the sour tang from where he’s standing. You keep the conversation short, a couple yeahs and then a I’m just about to leave, before you hang up.

“Sorry.” The apologies are endless, but they don't surprise him considering.  

“It’s alright.” He holds the silence for a moment, wondering if you’ll say something, and when you don’t he forges forward. “Your husband?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t miss the ring. There’s no diamond, just a simple band, and it leers at him. Mocking him. You’re married, and he’s way out of line.

Like he cares. 

“I should get going.”

“It was nice to meet you, officially.” Something dark falls over your gaze.

Meanwhile, the rest of his team is still as geared up as their Captain—all waiting for orders or further instructions, scattered around the room and listening with bated breath while Price grows more agitated with each shaky exhale he can hear coming from you.

You're currently sitting on one of the tables, boot-clad feet dangling off the edge as you stare at the ceiling, right into the fluorescent lights above, ignoring the way your eyes begin to sting from their brightness.

You've been putting on a brave face since getting stabbed with the needle a few hours ago and you've kept the façade up since hopping off the helo back on base, but it's getting harder to mask the panic rising inside you as your body starts to feel funny.

You swipe the back of your gloved hand over your sweaty forehead, catching the cold perspiration on your feverish skin with the rough fabric, and out of your peripherals, you notice the way your teammates' heads snap in your direction—different-coloured pairs of eyes assessing you with worry, concern, and a hint of curiosity.

Soap and Gaz are standing to your left and right respectively, sneaking glances at you whenever you shift on your spot, while the Lieutenant is still as a marble statue a little offside, arms crossed over his bulky tac vest.

Laswell begins to explain calmly, clutching a thick folder to her chest.

"We're still waiting on anything concrete, John, but the research papers your team managed to extract have offered a great insight on that—whatever that bioweapon is."

Bioweapon.

Your eyes widen as you sit up straight, the word making your heart race and your skin crawl with fear. Both Soap and Gaz take a step closer—two strong pairs of arms outstretched and ready to catch you if you faint.

"Nothing concrete yet?" Price snaps incredulously. "Goddammit, Kate!"

"Easy there, John—" Laswell says firmly, unbothered by his tone as she takes a step towards the captain and gestures at the two scientists watching the scene unfold with wide eyes from behind their laptops.

"They said she won't die. The amount of injection was too low… apparently."

Apparently?!

You inhale sharply and open your mouth to announce your imminent panic, but you're interrupted when one of the scientists speaks up first.

"That is correct, sir. She won't die."

Professor Doctor Boswel, as the name badge on his white lab coat states, chimes in. Price stops pacing at once, though his sharp eyes scream you better start explaining now, or one of you will be made responsible for this.

"Bringing the syringe back to base was the decisive factor. Our team at the lab is still working to decipher and translate the medical reports and research papers your team recovered, but we can confirm that this bioweapon is most likely a toxin."

A low murmur of various curses goes through the briefing room as you try to ignore the odd tingles in your limbs—like they're going numb from sitting in a bad position for too long—and process the doctor's words instead.

"You're saying I've been poisoned, doc?" You butt in crudely, letting out a humourless laugh as you begin fidgeting with your hands, clenching and unclenching them to get rid of those tingles while a cold drop of sweat trickles down your left temple and is swiftly wiped away by Soap's gloved thumb.

"Fuckin’ hell, lass. Ye dinnae look too good," Soap mutters under his breath, exchanging a concerned glance with Gaz, who then looks to the captain for guidance with a serious frown.

When Gaz turns around abruptly, you get a whiff of his scent, and you're ashamed to admit to yourself that you inhale it deeply—musk and sweat and gunpowder smoke, a hint of his fancy body wash lingering underneath all the grime. A perfect concoction of what is entirely Gaz.

It's intoxicating. Mouth-watering.

And absolutely inappropriate, because he's one of your best friends and a comrade.

What the hell is happening?

Of all the injuries and wounds you've already acquired during missions and deployments, this must be the fucking worst. You'd rather get shot or stabbed than sit here, feel strange as hell and be ogled like a failed science experiment.

Price's eyes flicker to Ghost, who hasn't said a word since sitting you down on the table with a gruff order to stay seated, and then to his three sergeants, lingering on you heavily before he turns back.

"What kind of bloody toxin?"

"It seems to be some sort of aphrodisiac, but… uh, well—about fifty times worse than that."

The other scientist, Professor Doctor Adebayo, answers tentatively, as if explaining it out loud makes him uncomfortable.

"The reports say it turns men—"

Dr. Adebayo hesitates, clearing his throat and looking between Laswell and Captain Price, until the latter lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Turns them what, doc?"

It's Laswell who says it eventually, "Turns them aggressive, John. Feral with lust, as ridiculous as that might sound."

The CIA agent finally looks in your direction before approaching you slowly while Dr. Adebayo seems to heave a sigh of relief as soon as she takes over.

"A high dose of it can be used to lower one's inhibition levels to a point where even the most honourable man would resort to sexual assault to ease his urges."

Her factual yet grim explanation makes the tension inside the briefing room spike tenfold. Every man present tenses up, visibly uncomfortable—Ghost especially, who's practically vibrating with strain.

Using a toxin like that—a bioweapon—on soldiers in the field could lead to even more and worse war crimes, and everyone here is aware of that.

"Wait—what? What the fuck?" Gaz utters, bristling next to you while you grip the edge of the table, gritting your teeth as the tingles intensify and wreck through your body in waves that leave you shuddering with each one.

"'Scuse me, what now?" You scoff. "Does that mean I'm gonna turn into a fuckin' nympho any second?"

Multiple pairs of eyes snap towards you at your choice of words. Some look intense and laced with worry. Price scolds you with one glance. Others look mildly amused—the latter being Soap, who lets out a snort but tries to cover it up with a fake cough into his fist.

Laswell surveys you intently, though her voice softens when she addresses you directly.

"How are you feeling, Sergeant? Are you in pain? Nauseous?"

A beat of silence follows. Your eyes flutter briefly as you meet Kate's blue gaze, and you exhale a long breath through your nostrils before you answer curtly.

"I feel weird."

You feel like you're about to get your period, but you keep that information to yourself for now and try not to wrap your arms around yourself self-soothingly.

Your lower abdomen is starting to tighten and cramp. Your gut twists like you just chugged a steaming bowl of soup and your limbs keep tingling—from your toes to your fingertips, and up to the tip of your nose. Tiny vibrations along with hot and cold flushes that make you quake and squirm in your seat on the table.

Kate squints at you, though she doesn't press further.

"What kind of effect will this stuff have on her?" Price enquires gruffly, more level-headed this time, his gaze shifting from the two scientists over to you and then back.

Meanwhile, as you crank your sore neck from left to right to get a good crack in, your eyes catch sight of Soap's muscular forearms and—to your horror—they linger.

The sleeves of his combat fatigues are rolled up to his elbows, exposing dark coarse hair and thick veins and that damn SAS insignia tattoo.

You want to trace the black lines with your tongue and imagine the salt of his skin on your parched taste buds.

And your eyes widen when a sudden rush of mind-numbing, pulsating heat makes you squeeze your thighs together as you clench your jaw to keep the lewd sound bubbling up in your throat from escaping.

Soap shoots you a quizzical look, one eyebrow raising as you avert your eyes from him swiftly, heat crawling up your neck and prickling beneath your skin.

"Fuck," you breathe, doubling over with a groan as the muscles in your thighs and lower abdomen begin to cramp up painfully while you can practically feel your pussy start convulsing around nothing, leaking with arousal and soaking into your underwear.

In a matter of seconds, your team—Ghost included, like a solid wall of quiet reassurance—are by your side, keeping you upright, asking questions, though their deep, accented voices are muffled as your quickening heartbeat begins to thud in your ears.

Their every touch seems to burn through the thick layers of your kit.

"Kate—Kate," Price is by her side in a few long strides, ducking his head to get on eye-level with her as he points at the two scientists accusingly, though Kate is already on her smartphone, contacting the lab again.

Price huffs like an angry bull trying to protect his herd as he turns his attention back to Dr. Boswel and Dr. Adebayo, who seem to be in a frenzied discussion, watching the way you're cramping and writhing.

"What the fuck is happening to her?" He barks at them, demanding an answer yesterday.

"It's—it's the toxin," Dr. Boswel stammers obviously, blinking up at Captain Price from behind his glasses. "She didn't get the full dose, but it's still—" He pauses, eyes flickering nervously under the captain's glare. "—bad."

Another gut-wrenching moan from you echoes through the briefing room as you squirm in Gaz's embrace, and Price must restrain himself from directing his wrath towards the two men in front of him—it's not their fault, after all.

It's his.

"Oxytocin might help… neutralize the toxin in her body," Dr. Adebayo remarks, clicking his pen nervously as he stares at his laptop screen before meeting Dr. Boswel's eyes, who is waiting for an elucidation.

"The hormone," Dr. Adebayo clears his throat again, clearly uncomfortable, "—not the drug." He clarifies, clicking his pen a few more times.

Laswell lowers her phone and shares a look with Price, holding an entire conversation with one long, meaningful glance, the one learned and perfected over more than a decade of working together, when Gaz's voice breaks through the chaos, calling for attention.

"Cap'n! What do we do?!"

You're not brought back to the barracks but Captain Price's private quarters.

Your squad makes sure to keep you out of sight in your condition; away from prying eyes while Ghost sneaks through the shadows with your quivering form cradled against his chest, carrying you bridal style like you're something fragile, something vulnerable he must protect.

Once safely inside the captain's flat, the curtains are drawn before your heavy gear is stripped from you, all while you don't even bother paying attention to who is grabbing or holding you at this point.

All that matters is someone touching you.

Your brain is mush, reduced to your most simple and carnal desires. No shame nor worry about the needy noises you're making whenever one of their big, strong hands strips another layer of clothing.

"Shit, I think she has a fever," Gaz mutters, cupping your face with both hands as he investigates your hazy, unfocused eyes while you let out another pathetic whimper. "She's completely out of it."

"Get her into the guest bedroom. Down the hall, first door on the left," Price orders gruffly, trying to keep his eyes from wandering up and down the length of your trembling, half-naked body.

"I'll call the senior consultant."

Ghost grumbles a low curse under his breath when your hand brushes over the front of his crotch—by accident or voluntarily this time, he doesn't dare imagine—and leaves the guest bedroom while Gaz and Soap manoeuvre you onto the king-sized bed.

Meanwhile, you don't care about the effect your uncharacteristic behaviour has on your teammates and superiors.

Whenever they try to make you drink or take an easy bite of food—whether it's a chewy protein bar or an overripe banana, because Price has no proper groceries at his place—you twist in whoever's embrace you're in, turning your scrunched-up face away like a petulant toddler.

"I don't wanna," you whine and hiccup, protesting each time Gaz tries to lift the rim of the water bottle to your lips, your speech now slightly slurred, glossy eyes averting their gaze as you breathe shallowly, squirming while Soap keeps you propped up with your back resting against his chest on the bed.

Gaz, who has been trying again to make you drink a sip of water for the past twenty minutes, looks back at his Lieutenant and Captain helplessly.

"Doc said we need to keep her hydrated," Price announces, rubbing his bare hand over his tired face. "Keep flushing that bloody poison outta her system and—"

Suddenly, Ghost's deep, gravelly voice interrupts the captain's speech with a harsh bite to it. "Johnny."

Soap, who has been trying his best to ignore the way you keep grinding your arse against his crotch in this position, ducks his head at the sharp and sudden warning.

"What? 'M not doin' anythin'," he grunts before sucking in a sharp breath as his cock keeps stirring and twitching in his combat trousers, "Fuck, lass, please—"

Soap tries to keep you from moving; his ungloved hands get a firm hold of your hips, but you're practically panting and mewling in his lap, making it harder for him not to crumble under the pressure building up in his dick.

Then Gaz is swift to pluck you out of the Scot's embrace with a disdainful frown, like you're some toy that was stolen from him.

"Don't be a fuckin' perv, Soap," Gaz snaps, cradling you into his arms, where you immediately begin pawing at his black compression shirt, determined to get your palms under it and on his bare skin.

"She can't consent!"

It's Price who approaches the bed then, while Ghost stays leaning against the doorframe, keeping a keen eye on the situation.

"Enough! Both of you," Price barks, eyes flashing before his shoulders drop with a rough sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Doc said it might help if—"

John stops mid-sentence, clenching his strong jaw. He can't believe what he is about to say, and he crosses his arms over his chest again, feigning control while he internally braces himself for his next words.

"Those doctors said it might help if she… climaxes."

His words hang in the air like a thick fog that no one can quite see through nor think in, and everyone seems to be holding their breath while you finally manage to tug Gaz's shirt out of his waistband, making him cuss under his breath when you go on to lick a long, wet stripe over his exposed abs like some feral lioness, utterly hungry for a taste.

"Shit—Babygirl, no, d-don't—" Gaz stammers helplessly while a rush of heat goes straight to his neck and cock simultaneously, overwhelmingly so.

He pushes you away by your shoulders—and hates himself for how reluctant he is at it—and he winces when your blunt nails claw into his bulging biceps, digging into his skin even through his shirt with another whimper.

"Please, Kyle… Let me—" you mewl, batting your eyelashes up at him. "It—It fuckin’ hurts."

Soap pushes his fists into his eye sockets, heaving a deep breath that turns into a frustrated groan. "Steamin' Jesus, lass, ye’re fuckin’ killin' us here."

"Take a bloody walk, MacTavish," Price orders, pointing his thumb at the door over his shoulder, and while Soap climbs off the mattress, grumbling to himself with an obvious erection pressing against the seam of his zipper, Price addresses Gaz.

"And you, Garrick, take—" He hesitates again, balling his hands into fists at his sides, trying to keep his own body in check at the sight and sounds of you, before he nudges his chin towards the door of the bathroom.

"Take her to the shower to get the fever down and… help her."

The captain's last words are nothing more than a strained grumble.

Gaz gapes at his superior. Soap freezes in his steps at the end of the bed, openly gawking and blinking like he didn't just hear right. Ghost visibly stiffens and shifts his stance, still leaning against the doorframe of the guest bedroom. No one can see the way he grits his teeth so hard he might chip a tooth behind his balaclava.

"But sir—"

Price shakes his head; brows set in a stern frown as he holds Gaz's widened gaze.

"She'd want you to take care of her if she could actually consent to it. And that's an order, Sergeant."

Ghost wants to disagree, but keeps his mouth shut and exhales a sharp huff of contempt instead.

The rest of the men try to distract themselves around Captain Price's flat while Gaz takes you to the en-suite bathroom like he was ordered to.

Not asked, ordered to.

He keeps repeating that in his head as he walks you towards the bathroom door with his arm around your waist, your body listing into his side like you've forgotten how to hold yourself upright. His jaw is set so tight his molars ache.

He's been ordered to do a lot of things in his career. Clear rooms. Hold positions under fire. Drag wounded men through mud while rounds cracked overhead. He's followed every order without hesitation, because that's what good soldiers do—they trust the chain of command and they execute.

This doesn't feel like any of those things.

He keeps the bathroom door unlocked—just in case you faint and he needs help—and lets out a huff when you fling yourself into his body suddenly and the air is knocked from his lungs.

"Easy," he pleads with you while his head dips down, and he inhales your familiar scent before he can stop himself. Sweat and the remnants of whatever lotion you put on this morning underneath your gear before the mission, something warm and sweet that he's caught whiffs of a hundred times before in passing and never let himself think about for longer than a second.

"Easy there, love," he tries again, his trembling hands wrapping around your midriff tentatively.

Gaz hates these circumstances. Hates how the mission ended in such a bloody mess. Hates how excited he is to undress you to your underwear, and he despises that this is how he'll get to have you for the first time.

This is not how he'd imagined it.

He never imagined it. Not in any concrete, detailed way. Not like he'd planned it in his head, step by step—the restaurant he'd take you to first, somewhere nice but not so nice you'd take the piss out of him for it. The way he'd tell you after the second drink, maybe the third, that he'd been thinking about you. Casually. Like it hadn't been eating him alive for months.

He hadn't planned any of that.

Fucking liar.

You make a sound against his chest, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your fingers twist into the wet fabric of his compression shirt, tugging weakly.

"Kyle… Kyle, I need—"

"I know," he murmurs, and his voice comes out rougher than he intends. "I know, love. C'mon."

He manoeuvres you towards the shower, reaching past you to turn the dial to lukewarm. The water sputters, then hisses to life against the tile, and steam begins to curl at the edges of the glass.

You're still in your underwear—plain, standard issue, nothing designed to be sexy—and it doesn't matter, because the sight of you trembling and desperate in front of him with water beginning to mist across your skin is doing things to his head that no amount of mental discipline can counter.

He starts to dismantle his assault rifle in his head.

Upper receiver. Charging handle. Bolt carrier group.

You stumble into the shower cabin and he follows, still fully clothed. The water hits his chest and soaks through his compression shirt in seconds, plastering the fabric to his skin, and the cold shock of it helps. Briefly.

Bolt. Firing pin. Cam pin.

"C'mon, Babygirl," he coos at you as he turns your quivering body in his embrace until your back is flush against his chest. One arm wraps tightly below your breasts, forearm pushing up against the swell of them through the soaked fabric of your bra, and he tries, and fails miserably, not to take a long look over your shoulder.

Buffer tube. Buffer spring. Buffer.

You melt against his body and his cock throbs in his combat trousers, straining against his briefs uncomfortably. The water is doing nothing for the heat radiating off your skin. If anything, you're burning hotter, pressing back into him with small, involuntary rolls of your hips that make his breath stutter.

Lower receiver. Trigger assembly. Trigger—

"Please," you whimper, and his entire train of thought derails.

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, exposing the column of your throat, and he can see the way your pulse hammers beneath the surface, rapid and frantic. Your hips buck against his hand when he finally—finally—lets it trail down over your lower belly, his calloused fingers dragging across the wet skin, feeling the muscles jump and twitch beneath his touch.

"Yes—yes—yes—" you chant breathlessly, and your hips cant forward, chasing his hand with a desperation that makes something crack open in his chest.

Fuck—fuck—fuck—fuck.

He cups your pussy through your knickers and the heat of you against his palm nearly makes his knees buckle. He can feel you through the thin, soaked fabric and he's not sure if the wetness is from the shower stream or if it's all you.

His chest is heaving when he finally gathers enough courage to dip his long fingers beneath the waistband of your underwear. His jaw clenches and his mind grasps desperately for the drills again—clear left, clear right, move to the next room, check your corners—anything to stay anchored while you let out a moan that echoes off the tile walls and punches straight through him.

You're so wet, so swollen, it's obscene. His fingers slide through your folds with zero resistance and the groan that rips from deep within his chest is involuntary, guttural, ashamed. He can feel your arousal ooze from your entrance, slick and hot, and he can already tell how tight you'd feel clenching around his fingers, how you'd—

No. He's not going there.

"Fuck," he curses under his breath, more to himself than to you. "I'm only doin' this for you, Babygirl. This is only about you."

He says it like a prayer. Like if he repeats it enough, it'll be true.

His fingers press on your clit, pulsing and twitching already, and he starts rubbing small, firm circles over it, adjusting the pressure when your breath hitches or your thighs clamp around his wrist. He reads your body like he reads a room. Methodically, attentive, and cataloguing every reaction.

You writhe and squirm in his tight grip, your nails digging into the arm he has banded around your ribs, and every sound you make, every whimper, and stuttered gasp of his name, chips away at the wall he's trying to keep standing between following an order and wanting this.

"M-more, Kyle, please!"

Gaz curses himself, but he gives you more.

Two fingers pressing into you, slow and careful despite every instinct screaming at him to give you what you're begging for. You clench around him immediately, hot and tight and silky, and his cock kicks in his trousers so hard he must bite the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning.

He curls his fingers, searching for the spot that makes your thighs shake, and when he finds it, you keen so loudly the sound bounces off every hard surface in the small bathroom.

"That's it," he murmurs against your temple, his lips brushing your skin without quite kissing. "That's it, love. Let go for me."

He's not sure when he started talking to you like this. Somewhere between the first touch and the second, the clinical detachment he'd been clinging to crumbled and something else took its place—something tender and fierce and terrifyingly honest.

Your first orgasm hits you hard enough to make your entire body seize in his arms, your back arching away from his chest as a strangled cry tears from your throat. He holds you through it, fingers still working, still pressing and giving, because even as the tremors wrack through you and your legs give out, he can feel your body already winding up again, the toxin refusing to let you rest.

"Shh, shh, I've got you," he breathes, adjusting his grip to take your full weight when your knees buckle entirely. "I've got you."

You cum again two minutes later, and then again after that, and again, and Gaz loses count somewhere around the fifth or sixth time, when his fingers are cramping and his arm is trembling from holding you upright and the water has long since turned cold.

Each time, he thinks it'll be enough, and each time, your body coils tight again within minutes, the toxin driving you right back to the edge with a cruelty that makes him want to put his fist through the tile.

He doesn’t want to imagine what a full dose would have done to you. To anyone.

When you tell him that you're hurting—repeatedly, begging him to make you cum in that desperate, broken tone of yours—the young Sergeant is sure something dies inside him on the spot.

"Kyle—Kyle, I need more, I need you to—please—Fuck, please!"

He knows what you're asking for. You're grinding back against his cock, which has been rock-hard and aching for what feels like hours, and every roll of your hips sends a jolt of white-hot arousal through him that he must physically brace against.

"I can't," he grits out, and it takes everything in him. "Christ. I can't do that to you. Not like this."

"Please—"

"No, Babygirl." His voice cracks on the word, and he presses his forehead against the back of your head, squeezing his eyes shut. "Not like this."

He drops to his knees instead.

The tile is hard and unforgiving under his kneecaps and the now cold water from the shower hits the back of his neck, but he barely registers any of it as he turns you to face him and hooks one of your legs over his shoulder.

He looks up at you once—your hazy, unfocused eyes, the way your chest heaves, the water running in rivulets down your body—and then he leans forward and drags his tongue through your folds in one long, broad stroke.

The sound you make is devastating.

Your hands fly to his head, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his wet hair, and your hips jerk forward so violently he must grip your thigh to keep you steady. He groans against you, he can't help it, and the vibration makes you cry out again, blunt nails raking over his scalp.

Gaz eats you like he's starving for it, because the truth he can't say out loud is that he is.

He's thought about this. Dreamed about it. Wanked to the idea of it in the dark of his bunk with his fist shoved against his mouth to keep quiet. And now he's here, on his knees in his Captain's shower with cold water running down his back and your taste flooding his mouth, and it's everything and nothing like what he imagined because you're not choosing this—you're not choosing him—and that knowledge sits in his chest like a brick.

But he doesn't stop.

Gaz licks and sucks and fucks you with his tongue until his jaw aches and your thighs are shaking so badly you can barely stand, even with his hands gripping your hips. He makes you cum on his mouth twice, then thrice, pressing his face into you each time your body locks up, working you through it with relentless, single-minded focus because if he stops to think about what this means, about what happens after, he'll fall apart.

When he finally pulls back, his lips are swollen, his chin is slick and his cock is so hard it genuinely hurts. You're still whimpering, still reaching for him, still not done, and the toxin is still pumping through your veins with no sign of stopping.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and exhales a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against your hip.

"I need—" His voice is wrecked. He swallows hard, then tries again. "I need a minute."

Not because he's tired, or his fingers are cramped and his jaw is sore and his knees are bruised from the tile. No.

But if he stays on his knees in front of you for one more second, he's going to give you what you're begging for, and he will never forgive himself for it.

He stands on unsteady legs, turns the shower off, and reaches for the towel hanging on the rack outside the cabin. His hands are shaking as he wraps it around, and you cling to it loosely, swaying on your feet.

"C'mon," he says, guiding you towards the door with one hand on the small of your back. His voice has steadied, but his eyes haven't. "Let's get you dried off."

You're protesting. He's cursing under his breath. There's shuffling, a stumble, and then he grabs the door handle and swings it open—

And Soap nearly falls backwards into the bathroom.

"Soap!"

The Scotsman catches himself on the doorway, one hand gripping the frame as he glances over his shoulder with a look that's not even remotely sheepish enough for a man who was clearly pressing his ear to the door thirty seconds ago.

Gaz is still wearing his clothes, though they're completely drenched—his compression shirt is a second skin, his combat trousers heavy with water, boots squelching on the tile. He's holding you by the forearm as you stand next to him, loose towel wrapped around your body, still trembling, still making those small, desperate sounds in the back of your throat.

"The fuck, mate? Did you eavesdrop on us?"

Soap shrugs as he straightens up, adjusting his stance in a way that's clearly meant to disguise the state of his trousers. "Was jus' checkin' on ye."

"Checking on—" Gaz's jaw works, nostrils flaring. He wants to snap, wants to shove Soap back into the hallway and slam the door, but he's running on fumes and you're leaning into him again, your face pressed against his soaked chest, mumbling incoherently.

"She needs—" Gaz starts, then stops. Looks down at you, back up at Soap. Something heavy passes between the two men, unspoken but understood.

"She needs more than I can give her right now," he finishes quietly, and the admission costs him more than any of them will ever know.

Soap's expression shifts. The boyish smirk drops, replaced by something sobered, and he gives Gaz a short nod—the kind they exchange in the field when one of them is spent and the other takes point.

"A'right," Soap answers, surprisingly steady, rolling his broad shoulders. "Ah’ve got 'er."

Gaz transfers you into Soap's waiting arms with a gentleness that borders on reverent—one hand on the back of your head, the other guiding your shoulders—and he doesn't let go until he's sure Soap has you secure.

Then he walks past them both, water dripping from every inch of him, and doesn't look back.

He makes it to the kitchen before his hands start shaking badly enough that he has to brace them flat on the counter. He stands there, head bowed, water pooling on the linoleum beneath him, and breathes.

Ghost is leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, and he doesn't say a word.

There is no need to.

Soap carries you back to the bed like you weigh nothing to him; one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the towel slipping loose and neither of you caring, and he lays you down with a surprising gentleness that contradicts every tightly coiled muscle in his body.

He's been hard since the briefing room, balls throbbing uncomfortably. Over two hours of it. The kind of persistent, throbbing ache that sits low in his gut and pulses in time with his heartbeat, and he's been dealing with it the way he deals with most discomfort.

By ignoring it aggressively and hoping it fucks off on its own.

It has not fucked off unfortunately. Truth be told, he’d be worried about himself if it did.

"Right then," he mutters, kneeling on the mattress beside you as he cracks his neck and rolls his shoulders again like he's about to breach a door. "Let's sort ye out, hen."

And that's the thing about Johnny MacTavish—he doesn't agonise. Not the way Gaz does, all quiet guilt and moral calculus. Soap's moral framework is simpler, blunter, built from different materials. You're his teammate, you're hurting, and he can help. Everything else is noise.

That doesn't mean he's unaffected; doesn't mean his hands aren't shaking when he settles between your legs and pushes the towel fully away from your body, or that his breath doesn't hitch hard enough to hear when he gets his first proper look at you fully naked, spread out on the white sheets with your chest heaving and your thighs trembling and your eyes half-lidded, glassy, barely tracking him.

Christ, you're beautiful.

He's thought about this. Fuck. Of course he has. He's not a bloody monk, and you're you.

He's thought about it in the gym when you spot him on the bench press and your face hovers above his, upside down and grinning. He's thought about it on long transports when you fall asleep against his shoulder and he stays perfectly still for hours so you won't wake up. Or when you laugh at his shite jokes that no one else finds funny, when you steal chips off his plate in the mess, when you call him Johnny instead of Soap and don't even notice you've done it.

He's thought about it a lot.

But not like this.

"You with me?" he asks, tapping your cheek lightly with two fingers. Your eyes roll towards him, struggling to focus, and you make a sound that's part whimper, part plea.

Close enough.

"A'right, sweetheart. I've got ye."

He doesn't ease into it the way Gaz did. Where Gaz was methodical, with careful touches, measured pressure, and constant checking, Soap is instinct. He reads you through vibration and sound, adjusts on the fly, follows the frequency of your moans like he's tuning into a signal.

He dips his head between your thighs and licks into you without preamble, broad and hot and greedy, and the noise that tears out of you rattles something loose in his chest.

"Fuck—tha's it," he groans against you, the vibration making your hips jolt, and his big hands grip the backs of your thighs to keep you spread open and steady. "Tha's my bonnie girl."

He's not quiet about it, either. Soap eats pussy the way he does most things. With enthusiasm, commitment, and absolutely zero self-consciousness. Wet, filthy sounds fill the bedroom, punctuated by his own groans and your increasingly incoherent cries, and he doesn't give a single shit that the door is open, and his team can hear every obscene noise he's wringing out of you.

Let them hear.

His tongue works over your clit in fast, tight circles, then broad, flat strokes, alternating rhythm and pressure every time he feels your thighs start to shake. When you try to close your legs, he pins them open with his forearms. When you try to squirm away—overstimulated, oversensitive, too much and not enough at the same time—he follows relentlessly, dragging you back by the hips with a growl that rumbles against your soaked flesh.

"Nuh-uh. Stay still f'me."

He makes you cum with his mouth in under five minutes and then doesn't stop.

Your fingers twist into the sheets, into his mohawk, clawing at his scalp as your back arches off the mattress and a wrecked sob punches out of your lungs. Soap groans in response, the sound reverential, like your pleasure is a hymn and he's on his knees in church.

He keeps going. Lapping at you through the aftershocks, sucking your clit between his lips until you're keening, pressing his tongue inside you just to feel you clench around it, and when you cum again with his name breaking apart on your lips—Johnny, Johnny, fuck yes, Johnny—he nearly blacks out from how hard his cock throbs in response.

His hips have started moving on their own. Small, involuntary rolls against the mattress, his aching cock grinding against the sheets through his combat trousers, and he knows he should fucking stop, should pull his hips back, should focus on you and not the desperate friction building between his body and the bed.

But he doesn't stop.

He is physically incapable.

You taste like honey and salt and something almost medicinal underneath—the toxin, probably, working its way out of your system through your sweat and your slick—and he's drunk on it. Drunk on the way you say his name, how your thighs tremble against the sides of his head, drunk on the wet sounds of his tongue on your cunt and the way you keep pulling his face closer, harder, more.

"God—fuck—lass, ye taste so fuckin' good—"

He's rutting against the mattress in earnest now, his hips snapping in sharp, desperate little thrusts, and the friction is nowhere near enough and exactly too much at the same time.

The sheets are going to be ruined. He doesn't care. Can't. He’s a weak man, and his entire world has narrowed to the taste of you on his tongue and the ache in his junk and the way your body keeps arching into him like he's the only thing keeping you alive.

"Please—please, Johnny, I need—I can't—"

"I know, hen, I know—" he pants against your inner thigh, pressing a biting kiss there that makes you yelp, "—jus' one more, c'mon, give me one more, aye?"

He flickers his tongue, seals his mouth over your clit and sucks, hard, and you shatter. Your thighs clamp around his head, your hands fist in his hair so tightly it stings, and the scream that rips from your throat is ragged and raw and so fucking beautiful that he comes.

Inside his combat pants.

His hips stutter against the mattress and a guttural, muffled groan vibrates against your pussy as his cock pulses and spills, hot and wet, soaking through his briefs and into his trousers. His arms shake, his vision whites out for a second, and he has to press his forehead against your inner thigh and just breathe through it, chest heaving, while you whimper above him, still trembling from your own orgasm.

He pulls back slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and the reality of what just happened settles over him like a cloth soaked in ice water. He stares down at himself, at the damp patch darkening the front of his trousers, and lets out a long, defeated exhale.

"MacTavish."

Ghost's voice comes from the doorway; flat and sharp, dripping with contempt.

Soap closes his eyes, disappointed in himself, exhaling through his nose. "Aye. I know."

"You know?" Price's voice joins Ghost's, closer, much heavier. The captain is standing just inside the bedroom now, arms folded, jaw set. He looks at Soap the way a father looks at a teenage son caught doing something monumentally stupid.

"Get yourself sorted. Now."

Soap doesn't argue. He climbs off the bed on unsteady legs, not meeting anyone's eyes, and adjusts his trousers with a grimace as he shuffles past Ghost in the doorway.

Ghost doesn't move to let him pass. Makes him squeeze by, shoulder to shoulder, just to make it uncomfortable.

"Disgusting," Ghost mutters, low enough that only Soap hears it.

"Fuck off, LT," Soap mutters back, and there's no heat in it. Just shame.

You don't notice the shift at first.

One moment there are hands and mouths on you, voices and pressure and friction. The next, everything is quieter. Stiller. The mattress dips on one side and stays dipped, a solid weight settling beside you but not on you, not against you, not close enough to touch.

You whine at the loss of contact, of heat, of anything, and reach blindly for whoever is there.

A large hand catches your wrist. Gentle and firm, holding it in place.

"Don't."

One word. Low and gravelly, scraped raw like it was dragged over broken glass and wire mesh on its way out of his throat.

Ghost.

He's sitting on the edge of the bed with his back straight and his boots still on, because taking his boots off would mean he's staying, and staying would mean—he doesn't finish the thought.

Price asked him to sit with you while Gaz and Soap pulled themselves together. Asked this time, not ordered, because Price knows that ordering Ghost to do something he doesn't want to do is about as effective as ordering the tide to turn. Ghost agreed with a single nod, and now here he is, and every muscle in his body is locked so tight he might snap a tendon.

You're lying on your side, curled in on yourself, wearing nothing but your sodden underwear again and the ghost of everyone else's touch on your skin. The towel is long gone. Your body is still trembling, still feverish, still caught in the grip of the toxin, and the soft, pained sounds you keep making are doing things to him that he absolutely cannot allow.

He's hard. Has been since you doubled over and moaned and he had to watch your body betray you in front of everyone. His cock is straining against his trousers, thick and heavy and insistent.

Ghost pretends it isn’t. He's very good at pretending things don't exist.

"Simon…"

His jaw clenches beneath the balaclava. You rarely use his first name—none of them do—and hearing it now, in that voice, breathy and desperate and small, is a kind of cruelty he wasn't prepared for.

"You need to drink something," he murmurs, and reaches for the water bottle on the nightstand without looking at you.

"Don't want—"

"Wasn't bloody askin’."

He unscrews the cap and turns to you, and the mistake—the critical, tactical, unforgivable mistake—is that he looks at your face next.

Your eyes are glassy and wet, your lips parted around shallow little breaths, and you're looking up at him like he's the only solid thing in a world that's been spinning for hours.

Not with lust—not the way you looked at Gaz and Soap—but with something quieter. Something that reaches past the toxin and grabs hold of something deeper.

Trust.

You trust him. Even now, reduced to your basest instincts, your intoxicated, unhinged brain still recognises him as safe.

Something fractures behind his ribs, and he shuts it down immediately, brutally, the way he shuts down everything that threatens to breach the walls.

"Sit up," he orders, and his voice is soft yet steady even if the rest of him isn't. He slides one hand behind your head—just his palm, just enough to support your neck—and lifts the bottle to your lips.

You drink. Slowly, reluctantly, with small sips that dribble down your chin, but you drink. He holds the bottle still and watches the column of your throat move with each swallow, and when a drop of water runs from the corner of your mouth and trails down your neck, dark eyes track it all the way to your collarbone before catching himself and looking away.

"More," he says curtly, bringing the bottle back.

You manage a few more sips before turning your head away with a pitiful sound, and he lets you, setting the bottle aside. His hand lingers on the back of your head a moment too long—his thumb brushing once against the nape of your neck—before he pulls it back like he's been burned.

You reach for him again. Fingers closing around the fabric of his sleeve, tugging weakly.

"Stay. Please. Don't—Don't go."

"'M not goin’ anywhere." The words come out before he can vet them, gruff and low, and he immediately resents himself for saying them so quickly, so easily, like a confession slipped out under duress.

He lets you hold onto his sleeve. That much he can allow. That much won't cross a line he cannot uncross.

You shift closer, seeking warmth, and your body curls towards him until your forehead is pressed against his thigh. He goes completely rigid, every muscle locking and nerve firing, and his hands hover in the air on either side of you, not touching, not pulling away, suspended in the unbearable middle ground of a man who wants desperately but won't take.

Another small whimper from you. Not desire this time but pain. The cramps rolling through your body in waves, the toxin still doing its vicious work even after everything Gaz and Soap wrung from you. You're shaking, and not just from arousal. You're exhausted. Dehydrated. Your body is at war with itself.

Ghost is not a gentle man. He knows this about himself the way he knows his blood type and his boot size. It's a fact, unalterable, built into the architecture. He doesn't comfort. He doesn't soothe. He handles.

But.

His hand comes down on the back of your head, and it stays.

Heavy and warm through the leather of his glove. Not stroking just resting, a solid weight against your skull, and you let out a breath that sounds like it's been trapped in your lungs for hours.

You stop shaking. Not entirely. The tremors are still there, running through you in small aftershocks, but the worst of it eases under the steady pressure of his palm, like he's an anchor and you've been drifting.

"Ghost?" Your voice is small, barely a whisper.

"Yeah."

"It hurts."

He closes his eyes behind the mask. His hand presses down just slightly—a fraction more weight, a fraction more warmth—and his throat works around words that don't come.

He knows it hurts. He knows Gaz and Soap's efforts weren't enough. He knows what the doctors said—what Price said—and he knows what would fix it, and he can't.

Not because he doesn't want to. Because he wants it too fucking much.

Simon Riley is not a man who trusts himself with things he wants.

Wanting, in his experience, is the first step towards destroying, and he has destroyed enough for one lifetime. Touching you now the way his body is screaming at him to would not be careful or measured or controlled or gentle.

It would be all consuming, and he would take too much, and he would never be able to look you in the eyes again.

So he sits on the edge of the bed with his boots on and his cock aching and his hand on the back of your head, and he holds himself perfectly, agonisingly still. Just a solid shadow in a bedroom.

You press your face harder against his thigh and he lets you. Your fingers tighten on his sleeve and he lets you. Your breath evens out incrementally but still too fast, still too shallow, though calmer now, and he lets that happen too, guarding it like a perimeter, daring anything to disturb it.

He doesn't know how long you stay like that. Long enough for the light under the curtains to shift and for his leg to go numb beneath the pressure of your head. Long enough for Gaz to appear in the doorway, freshly changed into borrowed civvies, and stop dead at the sight of them.

Ghost meets his eyes over the top of your head. His expression is unreadable behind the mask, but his hand doesn't move from your hair, and that says more than his face ever could.

Gaz nods once and backs out without a word.

In the kitchen, Price is pouring two fingers of whisky into a tumbler and staring at the far wall like it owes him money. Soap is sitting at the table in a pair of Price's joggers, his soiled trousers balled up in a plastic bag at his feet, looking like a scolded dog.

"She's calmer," Gaz says quietly as he enters, and both men look up. "Ghost's with her."

Price takes a long drink. Sets the glass down. Rubs a hand over his beard.

"It's not enough, is it."

It's not a question and Gaz doesn't answer it.

"She's still in pain. She keeps—" He stops and swallows thickly. "She keeps asking. Saying she’s in pain."

The captain stares at the whisky in his glass. The silence stretches, tense and heavy, pressing in on the walls of the small kitchen.

"She needs more than fingers and a mouth," Soap says bluntly, because someone fucking has to, and delicacy has never been his strong suit. Gaz shoots him a look, but Soap holds it, unapologetic.

"He's right," Price agrees suddenly, and the words taste like bile. He pushes away from the counter and stands to his full height, shoulders squared, and for a moment he looks every inch the officer. Burdened, resolute, carrying a decision he'll second-guess for the rest of his life.

"Gentlemen's agreement," he says. His voice is low, steady, absolute. "What happens tonight stays in this flat. No one treats her differently when this is over. No one brings it up unless she does. No one holds it over anyone, including himself."

He looks at each of them in turn—Gaz, then Soap—and holds until he gets a nod from both.

"And we tell Ghost."

Ghost doesn't agree.

He listens to the terms of the gentlemen's agreement from the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, stance wide, radiating the kind of stillness that makes lesser men instinctively check their exits. When Price finishes, Ghost holds the silence for a long, loaded beat.

And then: "No."

Price doesn't flinch. "No to which part?"

"All of it. My part." Ghost's voice is flat and final, stripped of everything except the decision itself. "I'll stay with her. I won't fuck her."

Soap opens his mouth—probably to say something spectacularly unhelpful—and Gaz kicks him under the table without looking.

Price studies his Lieutenant for a moment. Then he nods once, heavy with an understanding that doesn't need to be spoken.

"Fair enough." He rolls his sleeves up to his forearms. The mechanical motion of a man preparing for something he cannot delegate. "I'll go first."

No one dares to argue.

Unlike Soap, Price closes the guest bedroom door behind him and stands there for a moment with his hand still on the knob, just breathing. It smells of sex and pheromones, but wrong.

The room is dim. Someone turned off the overhead and left only the bedside lamp, casting everything in low amber light that softens the edges of the furniture and the shape of you on the bed. You're curled on your side, knees drawn up, one hand clutching the pillow beneath your head. The sheets are wrecked; damp and twisted, pulled loose from two corners, and your skin glistens with a thin sheen of sweat.

You look small.

That's the thing that hits him first and hits him hardest.

You're one of his soldiers. He's seen you clear buildings, haul wounded men twice your size to extraction, take a round to the vest and get back up swearing. You are not small. You have never been small or fragile.

But you look it now, trembling and fever-damp and reduced to a version of yourself that he never should have had to witness, and the weight of that sits on his shoulders like a ruck full of stones.

He crosses the room in a few strides and sits on the edge of the mattress. The frame groans under his weight.

"Sergeant."

You stir, your head lifting, and your eyes find his face. They're glassy and unfocused, but there's a flicker of recognition—Captain—before it's swallowed by the next wave rolling through your body. You let out a sound that's half sob, half moan, your thighs pressing together, and your hand reaches out blindly until your fingers catch the fabric of his shirt.

"It hurts," you whisper. "Still hurts. Why does it still—"

"I know." He catches your wrist, holds it. His thumb presses against your pulse point to check, and it’s rapid, thready, way too fast for simply lying on a bed. "I'm going to help you."

He says it the way he says we're moving on that compound at 0300 or I need eyes on that ridgeline. Leaving no room for ambiguity, because if he allows ambiguity into this room, he'll start thinking about what he's doing, and if he starts thinking, he'll stop, and if he stops.

You'll keep hurting. Under his command.

He stands long enough to strip his shirt over his head and remove his belt, and then he's back on the bed, propped against the headboard with you between his legs, your back against his bare chest; coarse salt and pepper hair rasping against your tacky skin. One arm wraps around your midsection, heavy and secure, anchoring you.

"Easy," he murmurs against the top of your head. "I've got you, love."

His free hand trails down your stomach, and your muscles jump and twitch beneath his rough palm. He catalogues every reaction. The hitch in your breathing, the way your hips tilt up to meet him, the small, desperate noise you make when his fingers dip below your navel. The same way he catalogues threat patterns and exit routes.

This is a mission. He is completing the objective. He is taking care of his wounded soldier.

He keeps telling himself that as he peels your underwear down your thighs and off, tossing them aside. As he runs his hand up the inside of your thigh and feels you shake. As he finally cups you and discovers just how wet and swollen you are, dripping on his fingers, he has to close his eyes and clench his jaw against the visceral punch of arousal that knocks through him.

This is the job. You gave the order. See it through.

He works you with his fingers first, because he needs to know what you can take. Two thick fingers pressing into you slowly, carefully, and the sounds you make guts him.

"That's it." His voice is lower now, rougher. "There you go, sweetheart."

He doesn't call his soldiers sweetheart. He has never, in twenty-odd years of service, called anyone under his command sweetheart. The word falls out of him like a loose round, and he can't take it back.

Your sopping hole clenches around his fingers and his cock, already hard and straining against the front of his trousers, jerks so violently he must bite back a groan. He curls his fingers inside you, finds the swollen spot that makes your spine arch and your breath stutter, and works it with a patient, devastating precision.

You cum and gush on his fingers with a broken cry, your body locking up in his arms, and the aftershocks roll through you in long, shuddering waves that he holds you through without a word.

It's still not enough. He knows it won't be for a while longer.

Price reaches for the condom on the nightstand—Gaz found them in Price's bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box, almost expired, shoved behind the toiletries like an afterthought—and tears the foil with his teeth while you keen and squirm against him, already spiralling back up.

He undoes his trousers and pushes them down just enough to free himself, because keeping them on feels like maintaining some essential boundary, some last scrap of separation between Captain Price doing what needs to be done and John wanting what he shouldn't want.

Rolling the condom on is a particular exercise in self-control. His cock is thick, flushed dark when his foreskin slides back, weeping pre at the tip, and every brush of his own fingers against the oversensitive skin makes his abs clench.

He lifts you with ease, one hand on your hip, the other gripping himself, and positions you above his lap.

"Sergeant," he grunts through gritted teeth, "look at me."

Your head lolls back against his shoulder, eyes half-open, and you meet his gaze as best you can. He searches for something in your expression—recognition, maybe awareness, you—and finds enough of it to quiet the loudest of the voices screaming in his head.

"If it's too much, y’tell me. That's a bloody order."

You nod hazily. He doesn't know if you actually processed the words, but he needed to say them. Needed that on the record, if only between himself and God.

He lowers you onto him slowly.

The sound that comes out of him is not one he's ever made before.

You're scorching hot and soaked. Your body takes him inch by inch, clenching and fluttering around him as gravity and his guiding hand ease you down, and by the time you're fully seated in his lap, he's seeing stars and his fingers have left dents in the flesh of your hip.

"Fuck," he breathes, and the word is ragged at the edges, torn from somewhere deeper than his chest.

You moan shamelessly, and the relief in the sound nearly undoes him. Like something that's been wound unbearably tight has finally been given slack. Your body relaxes against his, tension draining from your muscles for the first time in hours, and the change is so visible, so immediate, that it almost justifies this.

Almost.

He starts to move. Rolling his hips up into you, slow and deep, both hands gripping your waist to control the pace. He keeps it measured; long and deliberate strokes that drag against your inner walls and make you whimper with each one, because if he lets himself go, if he fucks you the way his body is begging him to, he'll lose himself entirely.

And he hates—Christ, he hates—how fucking good you feel.

He hates the way you fit around him like you were made for it, and the way your head falls back against his shoulder, how your lips part and you breathe his name—not his rank, not Captain, but John—and the sound of it rushes through him hot and electric and wrong. Hates the wet, obscene sound of your body taking him repeatedly; that his hips are moving faster now, snapping up into you with a force that makes the headboard knock against the wall.

Hates that he doesn't want to stop.

Your eyes squeeze shut, your head tips back as you cry out. "John—John—oh god—"

His arm tightens around your ribs, crushing you back against his chest, and his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder—not kissing, just pressing there, teeth grazing skin, breathing you in. His other hand slides down between your thighs and rubs tight circles on your clit in counterpoint to each thrust, and you come apart so violently in his arms that he has to hold you through it with every ounce of strength he has.

You clench around him like a vice and he follows you over the edge with a bitten-off groan, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as the orgasm tears through him with a ferocity that whites out his vision.

For a few suspended seconds, there's nothing left. No rank, no mission, no guilt. Just the pounding of his heart and the aftershocks rippling through both your bodies and the impossible, terrible warmth of you around him.

Then reality seeps back in, cold and unforgiving, and Captain John Price opens his eyes and begins the long process of hating himself for every second of the last twenty minutes.

He pulls out carefully, disposes of the condom, and fixes his trousers. When he leans you back against the pillows, your eyes are already glazing over again, your body winding up for more, and the sight of it makes something weary and furious crack behind his chest cavity

He cups your jaw, tilting your face up. "Stay with me, Sergeant. Stay with me."

You whimper, and your hips shift restlessly against the sheets.

Price stands and walks to the door on legs that feel like they belong to someone else.

"Garrick. You're up."

Gaz and Soap take you in turns after that, and it's different this time.

Where the first round was clinical in its own way—Gaz with his careful guilt, Soap with his missionary zeal, Price bearing the weight of command—this his round is rawer.

The boundaries have been breached, and the gentlemen's agreement hangs over the room like a ceasefire that everyone knows is temporary.

Gaz is gentler than Price was. He lays you on your back and settles between your thighs with a tenderness that borders on devotion, pressing his forehead against yours as he pushes inside you.

He goes slow and gentle, and whispers things against your temple that no one else can hear, private things meant only for the space between your mouth and his.

"I've got you," he murmurs repeatedly. "I've got you, Babygirl, I'm right here. I will be here."

He comes inside the condom with a shudder and your name bitten into the skin of your shoulder, and when he pulls out and rolls onto his back beside you, he stares at the ceiling for a long time without blinking, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes.

Soap goes after. He's not gentle—can't be, doesn't know how to be, not with the way you claw at his back and wrap your legs around his waist and beg him harder, please, harder—but he's present.

He hooks your knee over his broad shoulders and fucks you deep, watching your face with a focused intensity that's almost clinical in its own right, cataloguing every reaction, every gasp, adjusting angle and depth and rhythm like he's zeroing a scope.

"Tha's it, sweetheart, take it—fuck, yer so—fuck—"

The condoms run out after Soap's first round.

Gaz discovers this when he reaches for the box on the nightstand and finds it empty, and the look on his face—the quiet oh, shit—would be funny in any other context.

"Cap'n," he calls, voice strained. "We've got a problem."

Price, who has been standing in the hallway staring at nothing, appears in the doorway. Gaz holds up the empty box. Price closes his eyes.

"Then pull out," the captain says flatly. "That's an order."

It should be simple, and it’s anything but.

Gaz tries. He genuinely, sincerely tries, but you're clenching around him so tightly and making those sounds, those desperate and wrecked, grateful sounds, and when your orgasm hits and your walls contract around his cock in rhythmic, milking pulses, his hips stutter and he buries himself to the hilt and spills inside you with a choked groan before his brain even registers what his body has done.

"Shit—shit, I'm sorry, I—fuck—"

He pulls out too late, watches his cum leak from you onto the sheets, and drops his head against your sternum with a devastated exhale.

Soap doesn't even pretend he's going to manage it.

"'M not gonna be able to pull out," he announces with a frankness that makes Gaz want to strangle him. "Jus' bein' honest, Cap."

"You'll pull out or I'll pull you out myself, MacTavish."

And yet Soap does not, in fact, pull out in time.

Price has to physically haul him back by the shoulder, and even then, Soap's cock jerks and pulses as it slips free, painting your inner thighs and lower belly with hot, thick ropes of cum while the Scotsman lets out a string of Gaelic curses that would make his mother disown him.

The room smells like multiple people fucking and sweating and something medicinal—the toxin, working its way out of your pores at last—and you're finally, finally, starting to slow down.

The desperate edge has dulled. Your whimpers are quieter now, tired rather than urgent, and your body has stopped arching off the bed every few minutes.

You're still reaching, though. Still searching for contact, for warmth, for a body against yours.

Ghost enters the room without being asked.

He's stripped down to his black t-shirt and trousers. The balaclava is still on, but his gloves are off, and the sight of his bare, scarred hands is somehow more intimate than anything else that's happened in this room tonight.

He doesn't look at the other men or acknowledge the state of the sheets or the smell or the heavy, post-coital guilt saturating the air.

He simply moves to the bed, sits down, and gathers you against his chest with a practised efficiency that suggests he's been rehearsing this moment in his head for the last two hours.

You go willingly. Boneless, exhausted, trembling with the last dregs of the toxin and the cumulative aftermath of more orgasms than your body was designed to handle in one night. Your face presses into the crook of his neck, your fingers curl loosely in the front of his shirt, and you let out a breath that sounds like surrender.

Ghost pulls the duvet up over both of you. One arm settles around your back securely. His other hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, fingers curling into your hair, and he holds you against him like he's shielding you from blast radius.

"Go to sleep," he says quietly. An order and a request and a plea all compressed into three words.

You make a small, incoherent sound against his throat.

"I know." His hand moves over your hair, slowly and gentle. "Sleep."

Price watches from the doorway for a moment. Then he pulls the door halfway closed and leaves the Lieutenant to his vigil.

In the kitchen, the captain pours himself another whisky—three fingers this time—and drinks it standing up, staring at the drawn curtains. Gaz is in the shower. Soap is sprawled on the sofa in the living room, one arm over his eyes, dead to the world.

Price's phone buzzes. Laswell.

How is she?

He stares at the screen for a long time. Types and deletes three different responses before finally settling on one.

Handled. Debrief in the morning.

He sets the phone face-down on the counter and finishes his drink.

Hours later, you wake up slowly, like surfacing from deep water.

The first thing you register is warmth. A wall of it, solid and breathing, pressed against your back. An arm draped over your waist, heavy with sleep. Fingers loosely tangled in yours against your sternum.

The second thing you register is that you are naked, sore in places you don't want to think about, and your mouth tastes like the inside of a boot.

The third thing is the balaclava.

You can feel it, the knitted fabric against the back of your neck, and the slow, even exhale of breath warming your skin through the cloth. The chest behind you rises and falls in the deep, steady rhythm of genuine sleep, which means the Lieutenant trusts this room enough to have let himself go under.

Which means something, though you're too foggy to figure out what.

You shift slightly, testing your body. Everything aches. Your thighs, your hips, your abs, your jaw for some reason, and there's a deep, bone-level exhaustion settled into your muscles that reminds you of the tail end of a bad flu.

The cramps are gone, though. The tingling, the feverish heat, the desperate, clawing need—all of it has receded, leaving behind a hollow, wrung-out emptiness.

And memory. Fragments of it. Arriving in pieces like delayed radio transmissions.

Kyle's hands shaking as he touched you. I'm only doin' this for you, babygirl. Johnny's mouth on you, hot and relentless. The sound he made against your thighs.

The shower. The water. Voices.

John.

Your eyes open wide and your body goes rigid, and the arm around your waist tightens reflexively. Ghost pulling you closer in his sleep, an unconscious response to a perceived threat, even though the threat is just you waking up and remembering.

You lie very still.

The flat is quiet. Early morning light edges around the curtains, pale and grey, and somewhere in the distance, you can hear the muffled sounds of the base waking up—vehicles, a distant shout, the rhythmic thud of boots on tarmac.

You don't move, don't speak. You stare at the wall and breathe and try to organise the wreckage in your head into something you can process.

Behind you, Ghost's breathing changes. Shifts from deep and even to something shallower, more aware. His arm tenses around you, a brief contraction of muscle, there and gone, and you know the exact moment he wakes up, because his entire body goes perfectly, absolutely still.

Neither of you says a word.

His hand is still tangled with yours against your bare chest. His thumb rests against your knuckle. But he doesn't pull away.

The silence stretches. Not uncomfortable, exactly. Heavy. Full of things that need to be said and won't be. Not now, certainly not yet, and maybe not ever. And there is a fragile, terrified understanding that what happened in this room changed the molecular structure of something that can never be unchanged.

Finally, after what feels like an hour but is probably two minutes, Ghost speaks.

"How do you feel?"

You consider the question. Really consider it, not the reflexive I'm fine that sits on your tongue out of habit.

"Like shit," you answer honestly. Your voice is wrecked, raspy, and it hurts to talk.

Then, so quietly you almost miss it, he answers, "Yeah."

His thumb moves once. A single, slow stroke across your knuckle.

Then he lets go of your hand, carefully disentangles himself from around you, and gets up without another word. You hear his boots being pulled back on. The soft click of the door.

You lie in the bed that smells like all four of them and none of yourself, and you stare at the wall, and you breathe.

The sharp wind and misty rain pelted Azriel’s face as his long flight back from the Continent came to a close. He spent the last week surveilling Koschei’s lake for any useful intel and had unsurprisingly come home with nothing. After 8 straight hours of flying, all he wanted to do was collapse in his fluffy bed and sleep for a whole day. 

He neared the House of Wind, feeling the drowsiness and pull to his bed grow even stronger as he struggled to keep his eyes open. Finally landing, his tense and taut muscles were able to gradually start relaxing. As he slowly wandered down the hallway towards his room, his ears perked up at the sounds floating towards him from a few doors down. Muffled moans and something that suspiciously sounded like a headboard striking the wall. Cassian and Nesta must be at it again.

He slowly opened his door and was dismayed to find an obstacle in between him and his comfy bed - you, laying on your back, starfished right in the middle of his bed. You were dead asleep despite gripping an open book in your hand. Knowing he was set to come back tonight, you had done your best to wait up for him but evidently couldn’t resist the coziness of his bed. 

A soft smile ghosted his lips as his shadows softly shut the door behind him. He pried the book from your hands, setting it on the nightstand before softly kissing your forehead and heading to the restroom. He quickly shed his sweat-soaked leathers before running a quick bath. His sore muscles sang in relief at the warm water. As he lay in the bath, the light and sweet smell of your arousal drifted through the open door. 

His shadows slinked back into the restroom, whispering to him the name of your book. It was one he and Nesta had been reading a few weeks earlier in their secret smutty book club. Knowing exactly what his sweet little mate had been reading had his blood swiftly rushing to his cock. He had intended to just quickly wash off and curl around you as best he could and go to sleep, but he suddenly found himself changing those plans. 

Azriel hurried to dry himself off and slip on his sleep clothes before wandering back into his bedroom. The forceful waves of your arousal nearly knocked him over. You were still in a deep sleep with a blissful smile on your face. The skimpy camisole you were wearing didn’t leave much to the imagination, showing off your perky nipples. Azriel’s gaze raked over your chest and down to your high-waisted shorts that barely covered your ass. He inched closer and closer to you, feeling his now hard cock straining against his sweatpants.

He crawled between your legs, soaking up the smell of your need as you continued dreaming. Azriel slowly gripped your shorts and pulled them down your legs. He was almost on the verge of drooling at the sight of your slick, pink pussy bared in front of him. He trailed up your legs, leaving warm open-mouthed kisses in his wake. Azriel placed a soft peck on the tip of your clit before licking a slow strip up from your entrance. His rough hands reached up to pull your thighs further apart, spreading your cunt for him.

Azriel softly suckled on your clit, sending a new wave of slick sliding down towards your entrance. He shifted down and dove into your pussy, licking up your syrupy arousal. A gentle moan slipped from your mouth as your hips shifted up and chased his mouth. He moved back up and his lips wrapped around your clit while he slipped two fingers inside you. He felt your body shifting above him as he pumped his fingers inside you, stretching you out for him. A small hand landed on his head and laced through his damp hair. 

“Well, this is certainly a way to wake me up.”, your rough, sleep-ridden voice drifted down towards him. Azriel glanced back up at you from between your legs, finding you propped up on your elbows. His free hand grasped your wrist and moved your hand to rest on your stomach. Azriel sent some shadows to weave through your hair and rest around your neck and shoulders. “Go back to sleep, my love. Just let me make you feel good.” He gripped your thigh and dove back into your inviting cunt. Releasing a needy moan, you laid back on the bed and swiftly drifted back to sleep.

Your slick continued to drip between your legs, soaking Azriel’s face and the sheets below you. Even while asleep, his skilled mouth quickly brought you to your first orgasm of the night. Your back arched and your breaths quickened into soft pants as you came in his mouth. The intoxicating taste of your release had his hips bucking up, grinding his swollen cock into the edge of the bed, desperate for a sliver of relief. 

Azriel groaned into your heat as he felt his precum drip down his cock. His fingers inched further inside of you, pressing against the spot that always made you see stars and beg for more. He glanced up at you and grazed his teeth against your sensitive clit when he heard your breath hitch. He promptly brought you to your second and third orgasm until your legs were shaking around his head. Your hand drifted back down to his hair and softly pulled him up from your cunt. Drifting in and out of consciousness, you managed to string together a mumbled plea. “Too much, Az.”, your soft voice lowly murmured.

He rose up and trailed his hands over your body, taking off your camisole in the process. Azriel hovered over you and rested his head on your bare chest. “Sorry, love. Didn’t mean to get carried away,” You sleepily hummed and cradled his head in your hand. His head drifted up and he nosed into the crook of your neck. “But I think you can cum one more time for me, yeah?” You roughly bit your lip and rapidly nodded against him. You whined at the anticipation of feeling him again. The Mother had certainly given you the horniest male in existence for a mate. His scarred hands gripped your hips in the way he knew you loved as he gently flipped you onto your stomach. Azriel crawled off the bed and stood at the foot of the bed. He outright moaned as he loosened the laces of his pants before pulling them off to release his leaky cock from its confines. He couldn’t hide his smile at the sight of your head resting on top of your arms, already asleep again.

Azriel loved many things about his sleepy girl, particularly how cuddly and pliant you get. But this, this was something you had always talked about doing that Azriel hadn’t been lucky enough to experience. You both loved the idea of him taking you as you slept, letting him use you solely for his pleasure. His cock bobbed in the air as he stared at your supple ass, debating about how he wanted to take you. He crawled on top of you and sat on your thighs a few inches behind your ass. He gripped your cheeks before using one hand to guide the tip of his member through your soaked folds. Azriel angled your hips up towards him before sliding into you and sheathing his cock fully inside of your warm, welcoming heat.

You both groaned at the stretch, Azriel much louder than you. He didn’t even need to give you time to adjust as your body was relaxed enough by your previous slumber. He grasped your waist and pulled his hips back to thrust into you. He had been so pent up over the past week that it didn’t take him much to get close. Getting lost in his own pleasure, he roughly took your tight cunt. Your light moans could barely be heard over his hips slapping into your ass.

Azriel felt his abs straining as he started to approach his release. He shifted his legs further up the bed and caged your torso under his chest. His thrusts started to get harder and erratic as he felt you tighten around them.

Azriel bit down a moan as his hips stilled and he spilled into you, your walls spasming around him as you came for the fourth time. After taking a few minutes to catch his breath, he slowly clambered off the bed and slipped his pants back on before laying down next to you. He gingerly turned you onto your side and pulled you into his chest. Not even five minutes later, he found his chin resting on your shoulder and felt himself pulled into sleep by your comforting warmth.

Kinktober Taglist:

now that you were his, undoubtedly, with his ring and his last name—steve couldn't help himself. he'd parked under a shady tree, took you by the back of the neck, and pressed his mouth hungrily to yours. kissed you like tomorrow wasn't promised, kissed you like his only source of oxygen lived behind your tongue, kissed you like he'd die without the taste of you.

and when he pulled away, lips swollen and glistening, it was only long enough to say, "climb into the backseat for me, baby."

you'd done as asked without question, and by the time steve followed you'd already had your panties halfway down your legs.

he'd had you leaning against the door, legs spread wide with his tongue on your clit in a matter of moments. and good fucking god was it perfect. the way you tasted, the way you felt, the sounds you made.

steve slid his tongue through your seam not for your pleasure but for his. he took from you every inch you were willing to give, slipping two fingers into your entrance and scissoring you open until you were a writhing, mess of a girl beneath him.

he knew you were close the moment you fisted your hands in his hair, tugging hard. you didn't even need to tell him. didn't need to say through gasping moans, "i'm gonna come, i'm gonna—oh, god. steve."

he presses his face harder against your cunt and and lets your wiggle your hips, chasing release on his tongue. he groans low when he feels that pretty clit pulse between his lips.

and when you're finished, steve moves up your body and kisses you deep. swirls his tongue around yours and says, "see how fucking good you taste? that's all mine now, baby."

he watches your eyes flare as he eases his fingers out of you.

"my pussy," he mutters. steve slides his tongue against yours. "my mouth." and then, far gentler, he kisses your forehead. "my wife."

you giggle and he watches that pretty flush crawl up your cheeks in response to his brazen possessiveness.

when you make it to the cabin, steve hauls your bags inside. it's small but cozy. one room, a tiny kitchen, a shelf full of dusty books and a television with a stack of VHS tapes beside it.

it's sat right on the lakeside. you can see the water from the back door. outside, there's a patio area with a grill that steve fully intends on using every night if you'll let him. there's a fancy clawfoot tub in the bathroom and the king-sized bed is dressed in satin sheets.

he takes you in the kitchen first.

bends you over the countertop and shoves your dress up over your hips. his cock aches by the time he presses it into you. slow and easy, nice and steady. steve knows he's big. knows it hurts.

but you take him so fucking well.

he drags the collar of your sundress down over your breasts, palming them and gently squeezing the supple flesh between his fingers. he circles your clit with his free hand and kisses the back of your neck in worship, whispering sweet words all the while.

"you're so beautiful, sweetheart. you know that? got any idea how pretty you are? the most gorgeous girl i've ever seen. our kids are gonna look just like you. i—shit. i just know it."

steve finds release the moment you do, velvety walls hugging his cock like it was made to fit him. he twitches inside you and presses the head of his cock right up against your cervix to make sure it takes.

you christen every goddamn flat surface of that cabin.

the couch, the shower, the floor in the hallway. the only time steve's not inside you in some capacity is when you're cooking or eating, and even then you can't seem to keep your hands to yourself. he once accidentally drips chocolate sauce onto his bare abdomen while the two of you are watching a movie and you're quick to rise to your feet, saying, "oops. don't worry, i got it."

and then you lick him clean, sundae long forgotten. the wetness of your tongue against his skin is so heavenly that his cock grows stiff behind his sweatpants in only a second.

but you take good care of that, too. pulling at his waistband until his cock springs free, licking from base to tip with a desperate tongue. you wrap your lips around the head of him and inch him further down your throat until you choke, and the sigh is so beautiful that steve wishes he could take a photo to keep it forever.

you take as much of him into your mouth as you can. and you wrap your delicate hand around what's left, stroking him and sucking hard until him comes at the back of your throat.

it takes three days before the two of you relax enough to breathe.

steve takes you out to dinner. you both dress up real nice and steal bites off each other's plates. he orders champagne that tastes terrible and two cocktails to make up for it.

there's a handful of shops in the downtown area that you decide to peruse after dinner, bellies full and brain a little fuzzy from the alcohol.

one of the shops is a clothing store. they have little bits of everything. basics for men and women, colorful overalls for kids and handwoven scarves.

but you both drift towards the infant section.

and he knows it's too soon, but steve can't help himself. never can. not when it comes to you, anyway.

you pick up a crocheted baby blanket, soft and made from a warm brown color with an image of a cuddly looking bear stitched into it's center.

when you show it to him, your eyes are all soft and pleading and steve swears his heart stops.

because even now, he still can't believe it. can't believe that you're looking at him like he put the stars in the sky, all but begging for a blanket to keep your baby warm. the baby you want to have with him.

steve doesn't deserve you. doesn't deserve all your softness or your grace. but he knows he's a lucky man for it, and makes another silent vow right in the back of that textile shop.

though he doesn't deserve you, steve promises to never stop trying to.

the blanket is overpriced, truthfully.

he buys it anyway.

and when you return to the cabin, he's so goddamn desperate to be inside of you that he accidentally pulls the silver button of your jeans clean off.

it clatters to the hardwood floor and makes an obnoxious, metallic sound that sends you both into fits of uncontained laughter. it makes steve feel full of youth in a way he hasn't felt in some time.

it makes him feel his age and not like he's lived enough for two lifetimes.

you insist on swimming in the lake halfway through the honeymoon. steve had been so preoccupied with you that he hadn't even thought about swimming, despite the lake being the main attraction of your vacation suite.

he ties the back of bikini you'd bought specifically for the occasion—white and glittering, similar to your dress.

and only moments after you both dive in to the blue waters and let your body adjust to the coldness, steve unties it with his teeth.

he kisses your collarbones and sucks soft bruises into the skin of your neck, soothing each ache with the flat of his tongue.

you lean back against him and press the curve of your ass to the steadily growing bulge behind his swim trunks, hips wiggling until he's hard as stone beneath your touch.

when you turn to face him, steve kisses the tip of your nose. he tells you he loves you but wishes he had the words to explain that it's more than that. more than love. more than devotion. more than worship.

you are...everything.

his brows pinch together, trying to navigate his jumbled thoughts that are both overwhelming and undeniable.

you see him, though. like you always do.

"steve," you say, wrapping your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist, your water-slick body sliding against his, successfully putting a stop to those self-deprecating thoughts that threaten at the edges of his mind. "i know."

of course you do. of course.

this time, when he slides your bikini bottoms to the side and sinks in deep, it's not about making a baby.

it's just about loving you.

his fingers press firm against the swell of your hips, holding on tight, holding you close and wishing he could get impossibly closer.

he thrusts his hips up into you, hitting that spot deep inside that makes you cry out for more, that makes you cry out for god. your moans echo in the open air, and steve cements the sight of you to memory.

backlit by the orange hues of the sun, pretty lips parted and kissed swollen, eyes all bleary but focused only on him.

steve has to put in a considerable amount of effort to fight off release because the sounds you make are nothing short of pornographic.

he only lets himself go when you do. when your syrupy walls squeeze tight around his throbbing cock, when you press your mouth to his and say, "i'm yours."

on the final night of your honeymoon, you take advantage of the clawfoot tub. steve fills it with water and too many soap bubbles, and it's one of his very favorite moments of your honeymoon.

he lets you make a soapy mohawk in his hair and you let him wash the sweat from your skin, massaging in gentle circles. you confess that while you've had the best time out here alone with him, that you miss your friends.

you miss nancy and robin and most of all, you miss the kids.

steve understands, because he does, too.

they were not born of you and him yet you love them as if they were.

yours in the way that they confide in you their secrets. yours when they come to your doorstep late at night with tears in their eyes, making claims of nightmares that you know are just memories.

yours when they laugh and joke and say "gross!" whenever steve kisses you out in the open. yours to protect, yours to love, yours to cherish.

which is why when you're laying in satin sheets that night, head on steve's chest, his answer comes fast when you timidly look up at him and ask, "do you think i'll be a good mom?"

"i know you will be," he says.

your smile reaches your eyes, reflecting his own. steve presses a kiss into your hair and strokes his fingers lazily up and down your spine.

"do you think it worked? do you think i'm actually pregnant?"

steve shrugs. "who knows? hard to say yet, right? i mean, does it ever work on the first try?"

"joyce said it did for her. so, maybe?"

steve moves the hand that was propped up behind his head and places it on your belly. "hm," he says, sliding down lower on the mattress. "can't tell."

you giggle when he tugs the blanket down and pushes his borrowed sweater up your torso.

he presses a kiss just below your navel. "i think we should try again," he says. "you know, just in case."

But he’d seen you fold your arms around Will and Lucas at the same time and promise them pizza next weekend and all Steve could see was the future mother of his children. 

And so much had been taken from the two of you already; innocence, peace, time. He didn’t want to waste another second.

So he’d picked up the ring from the sienna colored carpet and got down on one knee and spilled his guts in front of everyone. 

And when you’d said yes, it had felt like a breath of fresh air. Felt like reclaiming what had been stolen.

Dustin had screeched in excitement like a wild animal and Max and El started jumping on the couch and started planning the party before the tears had even dried from the corners of your eyes.

There’s a lot of things that went wrong from then until now. The caterer had bailed at the last minute and Mrs. Wheeler had borrowed every roaster on the block to make enough roasted chicken to feed everyone.

Steve couldn’t do his hair like he wanted that morning, could never do it quite the way you could, so he’d sat with his eyes closed tightly while you used that Farrah Fawcett hairspray and styled his hair in your wedding dress.

He hadn’t peeked, though he wanted to. But Steve had felt the brush of both silk and lace and knew the smell of your perfume from memory. 

The strap of your heel broke, so Joyce had glued it to the side of your ankle with liquid bandage and after the church ceremony, you’d spent the rest of your time in those beat up sneakers you always wore. 

And on top of everything else, there was still the looming question about Vecna’s unconfirmed death that hung like a dark cloud in your mind.

But still. Even with all that had gone wrong, the Harrington wedding had turned out perfectly. 

There isn’t a single thing about it that Steve would change. 

Not when everything leads him here. Standing off to the side of the dance floor, finding a moment of quiet to himself for the first time all day.

There’s a glass bottle of beer in his hand and he clinks his ring finger against the side of it, hearing the ting it makes and reveling in it.

He watches you and sees the rest of his life.

You’re in the middle of the dance floor. The glittering pins in your hair sit a little askew now, and the bottom seam of your white dress has grown dusty. But Steve thinks you’ve never looked more beautiful than you do at this precise moment. 

You’re dancing with Max and El. Swaying your hips and twirling them in circles. They’re smiling hard with exertion-reddened cheeks and giggling so loud that Steve can hear them over the steady thrum of music. 

A widespread grin stretches across your pretty mouth. Finding just as much joy in the moment as the two girls who idolize you. 

There’s this light behind your eyes when you look at them. A soft adoration, a maternal instinct deeply ingrained.

It only serves to reassure Steve impossibly more that you’re perfect for him.

He feels giddy with excitement, thinking of what’s to come. Thinking about how ten years from now he’ll be coming home from a long day at work to see you dancing just like this, except you won’t be on a dance floor. 

Instead, you’ll be in the middle of the kitchen in the home you share with him. There will be soft music on the radio and food on the stove and you’ll be spinning two little toddlers that hopefully have your eyes and your nose and your smile.

He wants to fill the house with your children, truthfully. Wants to lay awake at night hearing giggles from boys who are up well past their bedtime and trip over princess dresses in the hallway and spend Saturday afternoons at the ice cream parlor. He wants to argue about bath time and eating peas with dinner and why the pink cup is no better than the green one. 

Steve wants it all. And he wants it with you—his beautiful, sweet girl.

His wife.

Something shifts inside him. Something equal parts desire and devotion.

He sets the bottle in his hands on the nearest table, and makes his way to you. His suit jacket is long gone, and he’s got the sleeves of his dress shirt pushed up to his elbows. 

You have your back turned to him as you and Max try to demonstrate a terrible example of salsa dancing to El. But as he nears, you smile at him over your shoulder. As if you’d known he was coming, as if you could feel him like a secondary part of yourself. 

Steve holds his hand out to you, palm up and open. “You guys mind if I steal my bride back for a little bit?”

Both Max and El make sounds of irritation. “But we just got her!”

He laughs, unable to control his mirth. “I know, I know. She’s a wanted woman, what can I say? I’ll bring her back, alright? I promise.”

Max places your hand into Steve’s with a glare on her face. “Don’t hog her, Harrington. You got that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it,” he says, pulling you away from the dance floor. Steve conveniently waits until Max is out of earshot before he grumbles, “Monopolizing my own wife. God. Ridiculous. And did you hear that? Her tone?”

Your giggles are music to his ears. “She was just having fun, that’s all.”

Steve pauses. Slides one hand around your waist and uses the other to gently cradle your cheek. He smiles softly when you lean into his touch, the bustling crowd around you fading into nothing but background noise. “She loves you,” Steve says. “Believe me, I get it. I know exactly how she feels. And you wanna know what else I know?”

“Hm?”

“I know that you’re the most beautiful woman on Earth.”

You scoff and roll your eyes playfully, but Steve just pulls you closer. 

“What? It’s true. And I mean, like—every version of it. In every alternate dimension that exists, you're just as perfect as you are right here and now.” Steve’s voice lowers. Just a fraction, almost undetectable. “My perfect, beautiful girl.”

The flush that crawls up your cheeks is nothing short of breathtaking. He loves seeing you like this. All soft and bashful because of him. “God—Steve. There are people around, you know.”

Your words make him laugh. “Sweetheart, they just watched us get married. Like, literally—all of them. I don’t think anyone will be very surprised if they overhear me calling my wife beautiful, Mrs. Harrington.”

“Yeah, I know. But you’re talking like…you know…”

“Like what? Am I–I’m talking weird?”

“No, not weird. Just…” Your face flames as you lean in close, voice lowered. “Kinda like you do when we’re alone. Like we’re about to…”

You don’t have to finish for Steve to hear your unsaid words. “Oh, I see,” he said, feigning innocence. “You mean the bedroom voice?”

With a turn of your head, you sweep your eyes across the space around you. But no one’s listening, all too caught up in their own joy. “Yeah. That.”

Steve just laughs and wraps his arms around you fully now, pulling you close and kissing the top of your head. There’s a teasing tone to his voice as he says, “Aw, babe. I’m sorry. C’mere.”

He’s certain you can feel the stiffness between his legs, even through all those layers of tulle and silk. Your eyes widen just a fraction as you look up at him with your lips parted, likely to chastise him in that spirited way he loves. 

But Steve doesn’t give you the chance. He just leans down, presses his mouth to your ear, and whispers an admission. “Seeing you with the girls just…” Steve sighs all dreamily and shakes his head. “I dunno—it’s just got me thinking about the future, you know? About our kids. About how great a mom you’ll be. How pretty you’ll look with my baby in your belly.” 

You hide your face in the crook of his neck, but Steve can feel the wide grin that stretches across your face. 

“And I was also thinking about how I…I don’t wanna wait anymore,” he confesses. 

When you tilt your head back to look at him, you’re still smiling but there’s something else in your eyes now, too. Hesitation, almost. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’s the point? Tomorrow isn’t promised, we both know that. And I know we’re not really prepared but we could be by the time it’s…you know—time. And who’s ever really ready to become parents, anyway?”

“Steve,” you say, voice quiet.

“I just can’t stop seeing it in my head, you know? I even dream about it. They’re the only good dreams I have anymore. And I just…I don’t know. I want that. I want it with you. And I don’t want to wait for a day to come that isn’t promised.”

Your stare is heavy, really listening to his words even though he’s stumbling over them. It makes him feel seen in a way that only you have ever given him. Makes him feel understood. 

“What I’m trying to say is that I’m ready. I mean…if–if you are, too.”

He pauses. The words are out now and there’s no taking them back. And Steve tries to tell himself that he’ll be happy with any answer you give him. Whether you want to start now or a year from now or five—as long as it’s with you, he’ll be happy. 

But he can’t deny the relief that floods through his veins when you giggle and nod your head and say, “Okay. I’m ready, too.”

Steve smiles so hard the apples of his cheeks tinge pink. “Yeah?” He holds your face delicately in his hands and presses his forehead to yours. 

“Mmhm. We’ve got a lot of work ahead of us, don’t we? Might as well start now, right?”

Desire swirls low in his abdomen at the idea alone. Steve thinks you're right—you should start now. “C’mon,” he says, lacing his fingers through yours and tugging you through the crowd of people. 

He heads for the room at the back of the venue where you’d been tucked away to get ready for the ceremony. You pass the boys all laughing together at some solo cup-stacking competition they’re having, making a big mess and being rowdy as usual. 

Steve claps Dustin on the shoulder as he walks by and says, “You better clean that up when you’re done, Henderson,” he says. And then he points his index finger at him and says, “You hear me?”

Dustin just nods through his laughter, too wound up for a proper response as Will’s tower clatters to the floor.

The moment he pulls you down the back hallway, everything becomes much quieter. The sounds of the reception can still be heard but it’s muffled, especially once he ushers you into the small room and closes the door behind you.

There’s makeup products and hair brushes and your casual clothes from this morning strewn across every viable surface. Opened duffel bags and unzipped backpacks sit propped up against the vanity in the corner, and the sofa in the center of the room is made from crushed velvet.

Steve’s shoulders drop and he smiles wide the moment he looks at you.

“They’re going to notice we’re gone, you know,” you say, the sound of your voice much clearer now that you’re alone. “What’re we doing all the way back here?”

He smiles wide and crowds you against the door, using one hand to lift your chin. His mouth is less than an inch from yours, his eyes all starry when he looks at you. When he speaks, you can taste the heat of his breath. “I want you,” he explains. And then even clearer, voice low, “Want you to make me a daddy.”

Your lips part, and Steve reaches behind you and clicks the lock on the door into place. “Now?”

“Why not? You said it yourself. Got a lot of work ahead of us.”

“I hadn’t meant it literally,” you say lightheartedly. “People will come looking for us.”

“Let them,” he says, and means it. He only cares about you and him and this exact moment.

Steve waits for you to respond. Tries to find hesitance in your eyes or apprehension in your body language. But he comes up empty, and when you sink your teeth gently into your bottom lip, he knows you want him just as badly. 

And then you lean forward, pressing your mouth to his hungrily. You taste like mint and ambrosia and home. Steve slides his tongue into your mouth and drinks you in, his cock already painfully hard in his dress pants. 

He slides one hand to the nape of your neck and the other to the small of your back, hauling you impossibly closer.

Your hands are faster than his, tugging his dress shirt out of his slacks and working at the buttons. You whimper into his mouth and Steve sighs at the beautiful sound.

He pulls away only long enough for you to push his shirt off his shoulders, and you use the opportunity to say, “You’re going to be such a good daddy, Steve.”

And Christ, he’s fucking done for. Just like that. His cock throbs painfully, his pupils dilate, and suddenly the urge to be inside of you is absolutely unbearable. His voice trembles, but he’s smiling wide as he asks, “Oh, yeah?”

Steve drops to his knees before you and slips his greedy hands beneath your fluffy white dress, wrapping desperate fingers around each of your ankles. 

“Mhm.” You grant him some reprieve by gathering the fabric in your hands and pulling it up. 

He climbs beneath your dress and lets out a slow, shaky breath when he sees the pretty lace you’ve chosen to wear all for him. White, matching your dress and the garter around your thigh. Steve leans forward and presses a kiss to your pubic bone, an affectionate caress that’s more appreciation than lust.

“I know you will be,” you continue. “Can see it in the way you treat the kids in our lives now. Can even see it in the way you treat me. Always taking such good care of everyone around you. Always一”

You inhale sharply as he parts your thighs and runs his flattened tongue against your seam, over the lace that still covers you. Steve licks you again, relishing in the faintest hint of your taste, breathing in deep. “Keep going, baby,” he mutters.

“Always…God, Steve.” Your hips tilt, giving him more access, asking for more without asking. But it’s okay, because you’re right. Steve knows just what you need, and he’ll always take care of you. 

He hooks his fingers at the edge of your panties and carefully pulls them down your legs and over your sneakers, slipping the soft fabric right into the pocket of his dress pants.

“You’re such a hard worker,” you say. “And I know you’ll always make sure our little family will never want for anything. I think about一”

Steve spreads your knees wide and places a wet, open mouthed kiss on your clit, groaning low in his chest at the taste of you. You’re so warm and wet already. “What do you think about, pretty girl?”

You hike your dress further up so you can grasp his shoulder for support, eyes fluttering closed. “About you taking care of scraped knees and signing homework assignments and—”

He sucks your clit into his mouth and flicks his tongue. It pulls a moan from deep in your chest and has your head thudding back against the door. 

Steve reaches between your thighs and gently strokes his fingers over your entrance. Once, twice—teasing in the way he always is, before finally pushing them inside. 

“Steve—”

He hums against your cunt, the vibration rocking inside you, reverberating all the way down to your curled toes. He releases your clit from his mouth only long enough to say, “Don’t stop, baby. M’takin’ mental notes. Keep talking.”

It takes a minute before you speak up again. Because once he hooks his fingers inside of you and kisses your clit all wet and sloppy, all sense of rational thought empties from your brain.

Still, you try. You try because it’s Steve and you want to make him happy. Want to make him proud. Want to be as good for him as he is for you. 

“Piggyback rides in—in the kitchen, and ice cream on the weekends and—fuck—that feels so good. You’re so good, I—”

He can feel you getting close. Can feel your velvety walls clamping down tight around his fingers, squeezing him desperately, all but begging for more. 

Steve resists. Lets you get close enough to taste the edge, and then he pulls back. Slides his slick-soaked fingers out of you and licks them clean. His breath is shallow and filled with need, but he goes back for just one more taste of you. Flattening his tongue and sliding it through your syrupy folds, savoring it. 

When he climbs out from under your dress and stands up to face you, there’s a flush on your cheeks and a big smile on your face. Steve’s not sure he’s ever seen you look this happy. 

And he doesn’t need to ask why, because he feels it, too. 

In all the chaos, in all the uncertainty, you have become home to him. His lone place of solace. 

And now you’re his, undoubtedly, with his ring on your finger and his last name and a big smile, and Steve’s heart pinches tight.

It feels like something out of his wildest fantasies. Something he’s only conjured in a dream until today.

There’s only a single dream that would ever compare to this one. One he knows you want just as badly.

And Steve’s about to give it to you.

He cradles your face in his hands and kisses you softly, every movement filled with devotion. He takes your hand in his. “C’mere,” he says, leading you to the couch. 

Steve takes a seat right in the center and pulls you down onto his lap. The tulle of your dress makes the position a little awkward, fluffing up between you. You and Steve both laugh, but it’s manageable with only a little maneuvering. 

You press your hips against his and Steve groans low, feeling the heat of you even through his dress pants. He kisses you hard, drinking in the taste of you, his hand holding firm at your jaw. 

“All mine now,” he murmurs against your lips. “My sweet girl.” He reaches beneath your dress and finds the buckle of his leather belt. It clinks as he undoes it and shoves his slacks down just enough to pull his cock out, already so hard for you it throbs in his hand. “Tell me you want it,” he says.

Your answer comes quick and desperate. “I do. Please, Steve. I want it. Want you.”

He lines himself up at your entrance, but doesn’t push inside. When he speaks, it’s with that voice again. Low, intentional, dark. “Yeah? S’that right?”

“Yes一!”

“Then take it, baby.” 

You lower yourself onto his cock, rolling your hips in a way that has his breath stuttering on an exhale. A pained sound comes from someplace at the back of your throat, but Steve knows you’ll be okay. Knows it's big but knows, too, that you’ll work through it. “Oh, god.”

“I know. S’okay. Breathe, sweetheart.” Steve leans in close, brushing his nose against yours affectionately. “Yeah, there you go. Good job, baby. Doing so good for me.”

He kisses you softly this time, lips moving gently against yours. Encouraging you to take all of him. And when you do, Steve lets himself sink deep into the feel of you around him. Soft and warm and so fucking wet your arousal drips down onto the dark hair at the base of his cock. “Feels…”

“Does it feel good, baby? All full?”

You nod and a whimper leaves your mouth when he shifts beneath you, angling his hips so he’s just a little bit deeper. Touching parts of you that only he ever has, that only he ever will.

Steve reaches beneath your dress and splays his palms wide on the sides of your thighs. “Gonna look so fuckin’ pretty with a baby in your belly,” he mutters.

His words spur you on enough to roll your hips against his. Careful at first, testing the feeling. But it doesn’t take long for you to find a good rhythm. 

You feel like heaven around him. Perfect friction that has his toes curling inside his shoes. He fits so perfectly inside you he thinks he could fucking live here, just like this, with your pussy wrapped tight around his cock like it’s where it belongs. “Fuck, baby. Yeah. Just like that.”

You ride him with your hands braced against his broad shoulders, fingernails leaving crescent moon shaped indentations in his freckled skin. Your whimpers quickly turn to moans and the thought crosses Steve’s mind that someone could hear, but he doesn’t care. Not when you say, “You’re so big. Want you to fill me up ‘til一hmm一’til it sticks.”

Steve slides his hand further up your thigh, his thumb finding your swollen clit, still slick, coated in his saliva. “Kiss me, baby. Wanna taste you.”

You press your mouth to his and it’s like heaven to him. Steve can’t think or see or feel beyond his perfect, pretty wife and the way you beg so fucking prettily for him to give you his baby. To fill you up with his cum until it’s spilling out of you and sliding down your thighs.

He licks into your mouth and sucks on your tongue, unraveled by you completely. “So fucking beautiful,” he muses.

Your walls pulse around him, and Steve circles your clit with his thumb a little faster, ratcheting your pleasure higher and higher.

“Did some research a little while ago,” he says between kisses, lips red and spit-soaked. “Better chances if you cum first.” He’s breathing fast, his own release coiling tight at the base of his spine the longer he’s inside you. Steve knows he won’t last.

Not like this. Not with you in this fucking dress and with his last name. Christ.

“So you gotta cum for me, baby,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to yours. “Cum for me so I can make you a mama. Hm?”

Your hands on his shoulders tighten, and a wide grin spreads across his face as he feels you twitch around his cock, clit pulsing beneath his thumb. 

“Yeah, that’s it. There you go. S’fucking…so good for me, baby. Jesus fucking一squeezing me so tight. M'gonna be the best daddy, okay? I promise.”

He thinks he can hold off long enough for you. Thinks he can fight release until you’re all twitching and sensitive in his arms. Thinks he can do what the textbooks say to give you the best chances, thinks he can do this right.

But then you look him right in the eye and say, “Cum with me, cum with me. Please, Steve, please.”

And Christ, he’s weak for you. Putty in your hands. And you sound so pretty, begging for him like that. What on Earth is he supposed to do except exactly what you ask?

His release hits him hard, darkness clouding his vision, his skin tingling in every place he can feel your warmth. “Love you so much, baby.”

You slide your hands up the back of his neck and thread your fingers through his hair, kissing him in that way you do. The way that makes him feel like the most cherished man on the planet, leaving him aching to be impossibly closer.

His orgasm fizzles out, but Steve stays buried deep inside you until his cock softens. And even then, he lifts his hips a couple more times, thrusting up into you, making sure his seed reaches your cervix.

You take a second to catch your breath before slowly easing off of him, wincing in the process.

Steve sort of feels bad…but there’s another part of him, too, that likes seeing it. Likes when you walk a little funny because of him, likes knowing you can feel him even when he’s gone. 

He helps you right your dress and tucks a stray piece of your hair behind your ear. Steve buckles his belt and the two of you laugh as you try to help him with the buttons on his dress shirt.

The party still thrums loudly on the other side of the door. “Max is definitely going to kill you,” you say, reaching for the door.

Steve chuckles and lets you take his hand and lead him back towards the rowdy crowd in the front of the reception hall. “Oh, for sure,” he agrees. 

Just before you make it out of the shaded hallway, Steve pulls you back. Spinning you into his arms, delighting in the sweet sound of surprise you make. “Wait,” he says. “One more for the road.”

You smile and press your lips to his. Softer now, but no less heated. “I love you,” you tell him, and Steve wonders if that nervous, giddy feeling he gets hearing those words from you will ever go away.

“I love you, too, baby. Gonna love it even more when there’s two of you.”

Dustin calls his name from the other end of the room, louder even than the music, and there’s a massive pile of paper towels on the floor between him and Mike as they scramble to clean up some mystery green liquid. 

He turns his head to find Max behind the DJ booth now, playing some Madonna song and giving the actual DJ a hard time.

Steve shakes his head. “We were gone for ten minutes. Ten minutes!”

You laugh, and the sound brings him so much happiness of his own that he can’t help but smile even with his frustration. “I’ll see you on the way to the honeymoon, husband,” you say. 

The word sends a tingle down his spine. “Double the attempts mean double the luck,” Steve teases. “I’ll be seeing you later, wife.”

You both begin to back away in opposite directions. Steve towards Dustin while you move towards the soundbooth. But your fingers stay intertwined until the very last second. And only when your hands drop fully do either of you turn away.

Steve knows then, no matter what happens, that he’ll be okay.

As long as you linger with him for the rest of his life.

[find a honeymoon extra here!]