wherefore art thou

He comes in late July, when Alabama is at its hottest and most humid— The sort of days you spend sitting on your family’s home back porch with a fan that mostly blasts hot air and an endless pitcher of lemonade; it’s Sunday, a holy day, but the man is there just after mass, with his tool belt and pick up truck— The roof of the barn caved in after a particularly bad storm and although that sort of thing is usually fixed by your father, he’s still recovering from the last time he fell down the old ladder and your mother will not have him climbing that ricketing thing again.

So she offers Joel Miller to the gravity deities instead, on a holy day so hot and humid your dress sticks to your back and your thighs no matter how much water you splash on your face. Your younger siblings manage to refresh themselves a little more by hosing each other down; you’re half tempted to join in but, at twenty-two, your mother makes sure that you know your place. You’re a young woman now, no longer a child that can run and giggle underneath a spray of water on the hottest day of the summer— You must learn how to cook and how to clean, how to serve others rather than tempt them with your wet clothes. 

That demand to serve is how you end up inside the barn when the sun is still high in the sky, balancing a tray with a sandwich and a pitcher of water. Mr. Miller has been slowly but surely making progress on the roof for hours without food and your father scolds you for the lack of christianity at not thinking about thy neighbor’s needs.

“Mr. Miller?” You call out, setting the tray on a bench. He’s sitting in one of the beams, at least twelve feet from the ground, and all you can see is the dark wash denim of his pant legs and the mud-covered work boots. “I got you a sandwich.” 

“I’ll be right there, sweetheart.” He says, his voice strained as if he had something between his teeth. 

You should go back to the house. His food is served, and he knows it’s there— You have no reason to linger but you do, hands smoothing an inexistent crease on your pale pink dress. You’re just… Curious. You saw Mr. Miller from afar, his broad frame towering over your father’s lithe one, and you want to get a peek up close to the mysterious man that has just moved into town. Nothing else, really. So you wait, hands wringing and smoothing your clothes and then tugging at the golden cross on your neck as he slowly climbs down the ladder, grunting when his boots hit the dirt.

He’s just as handsome as you thought he would be. Older, rugged, his face marred with the passage of time and salt and pepper in his beard— Nothing like the boys from your church, all bare faced and chubby cheeked. Mr. Miller is a man in the best sense of the word, broad and thick and tall. His hands are dirty with sawdust, clothes stained with dust and mud, sweat glistening on his face and the hollow of his throat. You can see just a peak of chest hair poking from the opening of his flannel and it’s an incredibly difficult task to look away.

Most importantly, and perhaps the thing that distinguishes him from everyone else the most, is the fact that he doesn’t look away from you. Not when he fills a water glass to the brim, drinking it down in just a couple of swallows. Not when he sits down on a stack of hay and motions for you to do the same, his brown eyes watching you with intent. You’re used to being ignored, glanced over. You’re not sure what to do when someone refuses to look away. You sit down, tugging the hem of your dress down even if it doesn’t slide up, playing with the simple gold ring you wear on your middle finger — the only inheritance you got from your late grandmother — and keep your eyes averted from his face. 

“Is the sandwich any good?” You ask when he doesn’t offer any subject of conversation. You know it’s good, you know your cooking skills are better than your mother’s and you can make something special out of even a simple sandwich, but pride is a sin, so you try to remain humble. “I make the mustard myself.” 

Joel chews slowly, his eyes raking up from your roper boots all the way up to the cross hanging from your neck. 

“Delicious.” 

Heat creeps up your neck and you bite down on your bottom lip, his praise getting to you more than anyone else’s ever did. 

“I uh—” You all but jump up from your seat, unable to keep still. You want to sit back down, to talk to this enigma of a man, to learn anything else about him other than the fire in his eyes and the gravel in his voice but you simply can’t phantom the idea of standing under his gaze anymore. “I have some clothes to wash. I’ll be back later for the plates. If uh— If you need anything else, Mr. Miller, just let me know.” 

Joel smirks as if he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. 

“Don’t worry, pretty girl, I will. Thank you for the sandwich.”

As much as you tell yourself that you don’t care, you spend the rest of the afternoon waiting with baited breath— You want him to need you, want to see his strong shoulders come through the kitchen backdoor with a request on his lips. You do your chores dutifully, with the same care as always, but Joel’s presence is like a beacon; even if you can’t see or hear him, you know he’s out there, in the barn, and it burns in the back of your brain all day. 

You can’t stop thinking about how he called you pretty girl. You’ve never been the pretty one. You’re sweet, and kind, and good, but never pretty. It stays on the back of your mind, trying to burn into the forefront of it. Vanity is sin. Your body is a temple and you must care for it, yes, but anything further than that is a slippery slope into temptation, and temptation leads to damnation— You’re not supposed to care about such frivolous things, because they will take away the Lord’s place in your heart. 

Still, between loads of laundry and the biscuits you knead by hand, you stop to fix your hair more than once.

It’s almost dusk by the time you see Joel again. Your mother is upstairs bathing the baby, your younger siblings are trying to catch fireflies in the front lawn, your father is somewhere out in the field and you sit in the kitchen, scriptures in hand, not reading a single line— You stare out the window instead, the sun turning bright orange and pink in the horizon. You notice him before he gets to the porch and there’s a good ten seconds during which you don’t know what to do with yourself, fixing your hair and your dress and smoothing the pages of the Bible that you hold more as a prop than a holy book. 

“Hey sweetheart.” Joel calls out as he makes his way through the door, holding the empty tray. You jump from your seat, plucking it carefully from his hands and setting it to soak in the sink; there’s nothing in it that requires soaking, but you can’t help but make yourself available to him, not wanting any other tasks to get in your way. “Think I could use your phone for a minute?”

You can only pray that your face doesn’t reflect the disappointment you feel. 

“Hm… You’d have to ask my father for that. The landline is in his office, and we’re not— He doesn’t like when anyone else goes in there.” You bite down on your bottom lip. “I think he’s out by the orchards.” 

Joel tsks, switching from one foot to the other. “Can’t you just let me in real quick? I don’t want to upset your old man, but it’s a little urgent. I should’a been home by now, my daughter will start to worry.”

“Oh.” 

You feel foolish, your eyes immediately falling to his hands; you hadn’t considered the possibility of Mr. Miller being a married man, but it makes sense— He’s charming, handsome, hard-working. Of course he would have a wife and a daughter at home. He doesn’t wear a wedding ring, there’s no tan line as if he removes it for work, but you figure that doesn’t mean much anymore; couples are getting more modern, marriages a little less sacred, and well… He’s a man that works with his hands. Maybe a wedding band would simply get in his way. 

“It’s just the two of us, you see.” He tells you, head tilting to the side so he can catch your wandering eyes. “Her mama passed when she was real young, and I’m all she’s got. We wouldn’t want her worryin’, would we?”

“No, of course not.” You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling, knowing you’ll be praying for hours to repent for feeling so elated at the death of a woman you don’t even know. “Just… Just don’t tell my father, okay?”

“It’ll be our lil’ secret.” Joel winks. 

You can count on one hand the amount of times you’ve been inside your father’s office; all of them when you were young, too young to know better— When the physical punishments were more constant, when you kept messing up the rules you weren’t familiar with just yet. 

You haven’t been inside the office since you were twelve. Your siblings come here more often: Joseph specifically, at just ten years old, who is brought to the office for some sort of punishment at least once a month. The black sheep, your mother says. The child that needs a firmer hand and more prayers if they want to remain a family once Jesus returns in all of His glory. 

The room, much like the rest of your childhood home, seems to be frozen in time. There’s a decaying bookshelf on one side, filled with evangelical books that your mother keeps bringing home even though the only book she ever reads is the Bible, the wallpaper yellowed and stained— There’s a square where the wallpaper is lighter and, while you can’t remember what the picture used to look like, you know once upon a time there was a picture frame with a photo of your grandparents in it; the only memory your mother had of her family, which your father took down because it was too close to veneration of idols in his opinion. 

It was one of the few times you’ve ever seen your mother cry outside of the church’s walls. 

The landline sits on top of your father’s carved wooden desk, brown and beige with a thick layer of dust between the buttons— The phone is older than your siblings and younger than you, but not by much. You know your father uses it, you’ve heard him talking through the walls, but it looks so old and worn that you’re surprised it even works. 

“Please be quick.” You tell Joel; you don’t want to bring up the phone bill, it’s rude to talk about money like that, but the last thing you need is your father noticing the strange call when the bill finally comes. 

“Don’t worry, I will.” Joel gives your shoulder a squeeze as he walks past you towards the phone. “Why don’t you stand outside, as my lookout? Just tap the door if you hear anyone else.” 

You shouldn’t listen in. It’s rude, unnecessary, and reminds you of the old ladies at church that always know everyone’s business— And you hate them for it, the way they look down on everyone else and use other people’s wrongs to feel good about their rights. You shouldn’t, you should love them just like Jesus does, but it’s hard when you can feel their eyes and hear their whispers whenever you walk past them. 

You can’t hear anything, no matter how hard you press your ear to the door. Joel isn’t the sort of man that speaks loudly from what you’ve seen, but the silence that comes from the room is odd. Your father is quite soft spoken but the walls are thin enough that even he can be heard, even if it’s impossible to make out what words are being said. The first thing that crosses your mind is that, maybe, his daughter isn’t picking up. Maybe she’s not home, or maybe she’s busy with something else and Joel is in there, receiver to his ear, listening as it rings and rings. But then he steps out of the room not even five minutes later, thanking you for helping him. He tells you that his daughter is fine, that she’s going out with some friends and he can stay for a little longer, just until it gets too dark to work. Joel squeezes your arm as he walks back out, the pads of his fingers rough against the soft skin of your bicep, leaving you puzzled and warm all over.

Later that night, when the house has quieted down and you’re alone in your bed, you can’t erase Mr. Miller from your mind. The way he smiled at you, his smell of sawdust and his deep brown eyes— His voice alone had been able to shake you to your core, butterflies flipping around your stomach and sending you into sinful thoughts with a single praise. 

Your grandmother warned you about men like him. Beautiful men, sent by Lucifer himself, to deviate well-behaved women— She’d told you, on her few and far between moments of lucidity, how the Devil would come knocking at your door one day, with soulful eyes and easy smiles, and how he’d charm you into Hell if you were not careful enough. 

Your snakes between your thighs before you can second guess yourself, staring intently at the sliver of darkness that you can see from your half-open door — no closed beddoors are allowed in your house, but you’ve set it shut just enough to pretend it was the wind if your parents complained about it. At first you’re just trying to make sure the hall is empty but, as your fingers run slow circles over your clit, you can’t help but picture Joel on the threshold, hair mussed from a hard day of work, his flannel stretched thin over his shoulders. You think back to his gravely voice, how he’d called you pretty girl and sweetheart, and you wonder if he’d say it again with your naked body underneath his. You think of his full lips on yours, soft and warm where they lay scorching hot kisses, his cock pushing into you. 

You come with one hand on your pussy and the other over your mouth, swallowing down the name that threatens to spill from your lips.

You think Joel Miller might be the Devil himself. 

And Hell doesn’t seem like such a bad idea if you get to feel his big hands between your thighs.

You hear about the movie from the teenagers at the youth group that weekend. You’re too old to partake in the group but you’re always lending a helping hand, setting up meetings and baking goods for them, giving advice to the younger girls and helping the pastor with whatever he needs that weekend. You’re busy refilling their cups of soda while they chat after the sermon and it’s the word hunk that catches your attention— You stall, just a little, taking more time than necessary with stacking the napkins. The ‘hunk’, it seems, is a cute actor from a horror movie that is screening at the local movie theater. One of the girls says she wants to watch it because she just loves Drew Berrymore, while the other says she wants to see it because of the dreamy main actor. One of the boys nods, says he’s seen it already and that it’s the best horror movie he’s ever seen. 

You have a soft spot for the horror genre. Always had, since you were a little girl and you found a forgotten VHS tape of Carrie. It’s strictly forbidden in your household, of course, because those sorts of media are the devil’s work and only serve to weave immorality into society and you know that, you know that, but… 

Well, you still think about Carrie’s blood soaked prom dress and the murderous look in her crazed eyes and just how much you rooted for her in those moments. How much you’d seen yourself in her shoes in the years to come, during those harsh teenage years and how you thought that being forgotten and neglected by your peers was certainly better than having tampons thrown at you. 

And, even though you try with all your might, you can’t help but see a little bit of your own parents in Margaret White. 

On Monday evening you walk past the movie theater on your way home from one of the babysitting jobs you take here and there. Your parents aren’t expecting you home just yet — You’d been babysitting for the Mortons that night and your mother knows their date nights tend to run late — and you find yourself standing in front of the movie poster, unwilling to walk away. 

Scream. 

Your stomach is tied into a hundred tiny little knots as you move to the counter, purchasing your ticket and then a small bag of popcorn. It’s wrong and exciting at the same time, your knees trembling as you find your seat at the back of the movie, shoulders hunched; you pray that you don’t run into anyone you know, pray that the rumor mill doesn’t run off and it feels like you’re committing the absolute worst of crimes but, at the same time, it feels like an invisible noose has been removed from your neck.

You leave just as the credits roll, head down and shoulders up, trying to sneak out before the lights turn on. There’s a light mist pouring down, enough to frizz up your hair but not enough to get you wet, the streets empty this time of night. Your watch says it’s 8:39, which means you have about ten minutes to get home before your mother starts to complain that is getting too late and might decide to tell the Mortons to pay you more the next time— You’re almost jogging on the sidewalk, clutching your bag to your chest, cold finally starting to seep in when Joel pulls up next to you, his old truck lulling on the sidewalk. 

“Get in.” He says, pushing the passenger door open. “I’ll drive you.” 

You should say no. You should smile, and thank him politely, and then go on your way; proper young women don’t climb into strange men’s cars— You’ve heard the stories, know it ends in pregnancy or death or something worse, and you know that your father would most likely take you into his office if he found out his oldest daughter had been driving around alone in a car with a man that isn’t him or the pastor but after a night of reckless behavior, accepting a ride from a man you technically know doesn’t seem like the worst transgression. 

And it’ll get you home in time. 

“Thank you.” You smile, rubbing your hands together. “I didn’t plan for the rain.”

Joel turns the heat on and you can hear your mother in the back of your mind, berating you that you’ll get sick; it feels like just another tiny rebellion when you put your palms up to the hot blowing air, relaxing as it warms your clammy skin. 

“How was the movie?” 

“I wasn’t at the movies.” Your tongue feels twice as big when you chuckle. “That’s— Unbecoming. I babysit every so often, and the Mortons were running late from their date night. I’m uh— I’m usually home earlier.”

“You need to learn to lie better, pretty girl.” Joel’s eyes dart from the road to you. “I caught you just as you walked out.” 

You bite down on your bottom lip, heart thundering so fast inside your chest you think it might crawl out of your throat. “It— It was a scary movie. I didn’t know. I— I wouldn’t have gone if I knew it would be so… Sinful.”

Joel hums and you can tell he doesn’t believe you. You wouldn’t believe it either, really, and you’re ashamed of getting caught in such a terrible lie. 

“Please don’t tell my parents.” You say, turning to face him. “They’re… They can get real strict about this sort of thing.” 

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-two.” You’re just a little put off by the switch in conversation but also incredibly glad to steer away from focusing on your wrongdoings. 

“Then there’s nothin’ to tell ‘em. You’re a grown woman.”

Your face burns with embarrassment and you finally look away from him, letting your eyes fall down to his arms, dusted with dark hair and prominent veins. 

“You seem to be the only one that thinks so. I don’t think my father will see me as a grown woman until I’m married off.” You hate how bitter, how petulant you sound, but you can’t stop yourself, the words slipping out of your mouth like a confession. “He only sees me as an adult when it’s convenient for him.” 

“I reckon that’s a dad thing.” Joel says, his fingers thrumming on the steering wheel. “I still see my Sarah as my baby. You just gotta show ‘im you’re not a kid anymore, he’ll get used to it eventually.”

“How old is Sarah?”

Joel is silent for so long you wonder if maybe he’s one of those absent fathers that don’t even know how old their own child is, even if he hasn’t shown himself to be the type. 

“She’ll always be thirteen to me.” 

It’s such a specific answer that it makes you even more curious, your head cocking to the side; you open your mouth to press for more but Joel reaches for the radio, turning the volume up and drowning the cabin with the classic rock and pitter-patter of the soft rain. 

The silence makes you realize you never answered his question in the first place. 

“The movie was incredible.” You say, trying to shake off the mortifying feeling of being rude to this man that has been nothing but kind to you. “It’s called Scream.”

“Horror flick, right?” Joel smiles and, if you didn’t know any better, you’d say he’s proud. “Didn’t think you’d be the type to be into slasher movies.” 

You wring your fingers on your lap, unsure of how to answer him— He says it like it’s a compliment, even if you’d never take those words for something good. 

“Have you ever seen Black Sabbath?” Joel asks when you don’t answer. He doesn’t seem mad at your silence, but you still feel bad. “It’s an older one, but it’s good, a buncha different horror stories together. The first one is very similar to Scream, I think you’d like it.”

You’ve never heard of that movie before and, for a moment, you consider lying and pretending you have just to save face— But Joel doesn’t seem to judge you, he doesn’t ask with the same tone most people do, as if not knowing something popular was a moral failing on your part; you’re used to it, really. It had been even worse in school, where the girls would act as if you were an alien for not knowing the name of a cool actress or a new band. 

“I— No, I haven’t.” It’s what you settle for, in the end. Not a lie, but not the whole truth either. “It sounds fun.”

“We can watch it together sometime.” Joel licks his lips and your eyes can’t look away from the way his bottom lip shines. “I gotta put my Blockbuster card to use.” 

“Oh.” His offer makes your chest warm up and your heart explode into a wild gallop inside your chest. You’ve never been to a boy’s house before, even if classifying a man like Joel as a boy is laughable. “Won’t your daughter mind?”

Joel’s fingers tighten around the steering wheel, his eyes glued to the road in front of him. 

“No, she won’t.”

Two weeks later, on a Friday afternoon, you lie to your mother. You go with the least inconspicuous lie, which is that you’re babysitting for Joel. You doubt his daughter is at babysitting-age but your mother doesn’t seem to care much, just waving you goodbye as one of your siblings tugs at the hem of her dress, demanding attention. Joel is still at the farm, still slowly repairing the roof, and he gives you a ride; you have the perfect excuse on the tip of your tongue, the argument of him needing to shower and fix himself before whatever it is that he has to do and needs you to babysit, which you don’t know what it is because Mr. Miller’s personal life is none of your business and all you know is that he’ll be home late but, again, your mother doesn’t seem to bat an eye. Your father in fact clasps Joel’s shoulder, thanking him for his kindness— Joel makes a little joke about ‘headin’ in that direction anyway’, to which your father laughs harder than you find necessary. 

It’s only then that it dawns on you just how much they trust him— How much your parents like him, for some reason. It’s confusing, and off-putting, but you decide not to look a gifted horse in the mouth: If it means less questions, you’ll gladly accept it. 

Joel’s home is a small, one story house in one of the shadier neighborhoods; it looks stuck in the past, the outside looking more like a cheap 60s house than the newer McMansions you’d see in the nicer neighborhoods— Not that there were many around town, anyways. Most of your town felt like Joel’s home, everything with some degree of decaying, stuck in the past as if the new millenia wasn’t just a few years away. 

The house is dark and empty when you walk in, and you remove your shoes by the door even if it doesn’t seem like something Joel and Sarah practice— There’s no shoe rack, just a rickety table where Joel throws the key of his truck without a second thought. 

The house barely looks hospitable. You think it’s probably because of how recently they’ve moved in, empty in a way that lacks furniture, no personal touches anywhere yet. In the carpeted living room there’s a green plaid couch, a stained coffee table and a small yet bulky television, the VHS player balancing on top of it. The walls are bare apart from a loopy wallpaper that is probably older than you, not a single potted pant or throw pillow or indications anyone lives there. 

The only personal touch is a picture on the coffee table. It’s not framed, thrown loose on top of the dark wood next to a used coffee cup; you sit on the couch, knees drawn together, and look at the photograph carefully while Joel busies himself in the kitchen with soda and snacks— The photo is at least a few years old, a younger Joel smiling with his arm thrown over the shoulders of a teenage girl, her curly hair poking out at the sides of a pale pink french bonnet. They don’t really look alike, the girl’s skin darker and her smile fuller, but you recognize her as Sarah immediately— For all of their differences, her sweet eyes are a carbon copy of Joel’s. She can’t be older than thirteen in the picture and, when you turn the photo around, it reads ‘Dad and I — winter 1989’ in loopy, purple ink. 

There’s a heart in the ‘i’ of winter, and you think it’s the cutest thing you’ve ever seen. You look up when Joel’s frame shadows the entrance to the living room, holding two Dr. Pepper glasses; he looks stricken, his face a little pale as he stares down at you even if you can’t understand why. 

“Sarah’s really pretty.” You say, placing the picture back where you found it. “She’s not home tonight?”

Joel clears his throat, frozen for a second longer before he finally comes close. “Sleepover at a friend’s house.” 

“I can’t wait to meet her. She seems like a sweet girl.”

“You will.” Joel nods, his voice a lot more somber than you think the conversation requires. “Soon enough.” 

The movie is beautiful. It’s an Italian film from what has to be the sixties, but it pulls you in from the very first scene: A beautiful woman, alone in her house, her undressing ritual of the night cut short by a menacing voice on the telephone saying she’ll be dead before morning comes. 

The movie is tense, claustrophobic even, but you have a hard time focusing on anything other than the woman— She’s gorgeous, even in despair, and there’s something so utterly sensual about her that it has you squirming in your seat. 

“She’s really pretty.” You say eventually, sipping your Dr. Pepper. Joel sits next to you, close enough that you have trouble breathing; his legs are sprawled in front of him, arm draped over the back of the couch. You’re not touching, but barely. The last time you sat this close to a man you’re attracted to was while you still attended youth group, sitting next to the twenty-something year old pastor that only had eyes for the prettier girls— Still, you’d been sweaty and nervous then, just as you feel now. 

“She is.” Joel agrees, and there’s something in his voice that makes you unstick your eyes from the screen and turn to him. 

He’s staring directly at you. The intensity of his gaze makes your stomach flutter and you can’t hold his gaze for more than a moment before you look away, busying yourself with the straw of your Dr. Pepper; it tastes a little funky but you down it anyway, not wanting to offend Joel— He doesn’t seem like the type to be drinking diet sodas, but you figure that maybe the soft drink belongs to Sarah and he doesn’t want to drink alcohol in front of you. 

Joel seems like a beer drinker, you think. There’s a very strict no alcohol policy in your home, but you can see Joel coming home after a long day of manual labor, kicking his work boots by the door and throwing himself on the ratty couch; in this fantasy you’re right there, in a pretty dress, bringing him a can of ice cold beer before settling next to him. 

You try to settle next to him the same way you’re imagining, staring at the screen without properly watching it, far too aware of the man sitting next to you, radiating warmth and Old Spice towards you. You miss a chunk of the movie and then suddenly there’s another lady there, just as beautiful, though not nearly as innocent. By the time the first story ends, you’re a little drowsy, your eyelids taking longer and longer to open with each blink. 

Still, even in your sleepy state, you don’t miss how the final kill has no blood on screen. It seems like such an oversight it has to be on purpose and you frown, unable to name the discomfort you feel. 

“He didn’t bleed.” You say, the sentence cut off by a small yawn. “I really wanted to see ‘im bleed.” 

The words don’t strike you as odd until after you’ve already said them and you tense, waiting for the joke or the odd look but Joel doesn’t give you any. He just hums, nodding. You yawn again before he can respond, and Joel cracks a smile at that. 

“Tired, sweetheart?” 

“A little.” And then, because you don’t want Joel to feel like he might’ve chosen the wrong programming, you say: “I’m liking the movie, though.”

“That’s good.” He says, his voice just a little flat— Almost as if he isn’t listening to you at all. You frown, turning to look at him; out of all the people in your life, Joel has been the only one that shows a proper interest when you speak. 

Joel is staring at the half-drunk soda in your hands. His face is clouded by something that you’re fairly certain to be annoyance, brow furrowed and lips downturned underneath his mustache. And then he catches you looking and it’s gone, his face melting into a pleasant smile when he taps his thigh.

“C’mon, finish your drink and lay down.” 

“Uh— What?” You’re not sure you get his order, heat and embarrassment exploding through your belly; he taps his thick denim-clad thigh again, mirth shining in his eyes. 

“ ‘S fine, sweetheart. Sarah falls asleep on my lap all the time, we ain’t got nice pillows for the couch yet. Drink up ‘n’ lay down.” 

You’re fully aware that you shouldn’t— This is a stranger, an older man that is asking you to lay your head on his lap and you know you should know better but… Nobody has ever looked at you the way he does, the soft lighting from the television reflecting on his face. And, well— The mention of his daughter shifts the situation a little bit. 

You’d never fallen asleep on your own father like that, but he wasn’t exactly known for being a warm person, let alone a comforting one. Maybe this is what your relationship with your father is supposed to be, you tell yourself, downing the last of the funky Dr. Pepper before scooting down on the couch, gingerly placing your head on his thigh. It’s comfortable despite the rough denim, Joel’s leg warm and strong underneath your cheek. 

“Good girl.” Joel whispers, the words settling somewhere deep into your chest. He brushes the hair away from your face, already staring back at the tv when you look up, his body entirely at ease, as if having a young girl’s head on his lap was the most normal thing in the world. 

And you tell yourself again: Maybe this is what it’s supposed to be.

You wake up on Joel’s bed the next morning, and you feel like death. Your head pounds, and your body feels like you’re trapped in Jell-O as you drag yourself to the bathroom; you don’t vomit but it’s a close call, washing your face with cold water before Joel pops in on the bathroom door. 

“Mornin’. I made breakfast.” He says, leaning against the threshold. He’s changed clothes, his salt and pepper hair still wet and slicked back, a dark blue flannel stretching over his chest. “You okay? Yer not lookin’ so good.” 

Your stomach rumbles, half hungry, half nauseated. He frowns, coming close and pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. Your body recoils, hip bumping painfully against the corner of the sink— You don’t even notice until after you’ve done it, your body pulling away on instinct. 

“I feel sick.” You tell him, using that as an excuse as to why you’re suddenly pulling away. 

Truth is, you’re scared. Your head is foggy, feeling too heavy on your neck— You’ve only been drunk once, when you were twelve and had stolen a bottle of Jim Beam with your best friend; the beating you’d gotten had left you feeling worse than the hangover, your body black and blue for days afterwards. 

You feel as hungover as you did back then, except this time you didn’t drink. You think back to the odd taste of your soda, the way Joel had been pushy to get you to drink, how he barely drank his. You don’t want to accuse him of anything, you really don’t, but you’ve heard enough stories of silly girls who get too drunk and put themselves in danger to not consider it. He cocks his head to the side, just a little. 

“You’ll feel better after you eat.” He says, giving you a small smile. Joel steps back, not crowding you inside the small bathroom anymore. “You fell asleep halfway through the movie, I brought you to my bed and then slept on the couch. Maybe you were already feeling a little sick yesterday?” 

“Yeah.” You run a hand over your forehead. “Maybe.” 

“C’mon sweetheart, let’s eat and get you home.”

You arrive home a little after nine am, and the farm is already bustling. Joel drops you off with a well-prepared lie, apologizing profusely to your mother for not letting her know you’d be gone for so long, telling her about how he didn’t have a phone line yet, with being so new to town, and then singing a thousand prayers about how you’d been so kind to Sarah and how much she loved you— He spews a story of you falling asleep on the couch after a movie marathon to which your mother twists her nose — all movies belong to the devil, for all she cares — but she accepts gracefully the exorbitant amount of money he gives her “for her troubles”. He talks for so long and smiles so sweetly that your mother swoons, even giving him a slice of pie for the road while you run inside your house two steps at a time, ready to wash off last night from your skin. 

All hell breaks loose after Joel leaves. Your mother berates you, talking in hushed, sharp whispers about what the church would think if they saw you leave a man’s house in last night’s clothes, how she had to lie to your father and how she might as well go to hell because of you— She calls you a whore, her face purple from lack of proper breathing and anger as she spits the word at you even after you swear to her that nothing happened; you almost tell her the truth then, you almost say you’re scared and that you can’t remember a single thing that happened after Joel had you laying on his lap and how you woke up in his bed but you don’t. You know she’d spin it, know she’d blame it on you and then she’d tell your father and most likely your pastor and the consequences of your confession might be worse than living with such a terrible secret.

After so many years, you hate that you’re still surprised by your mother’s antics. She doesn’t tell your father about what happened, and she still treats Joel with kindness whenever he comes over to work on the roof, but her attitude towards you change— She doubles your chores and triples her affection with your siblings, the gap of the coldness she has towards you only becoming even more blatant. She barely speaks to you unless it is to bark orders, and she keeps a close eye on whether you’ve been doing your devotional and your prayers as if you’re ten years old again. 

By the time she brings up the doctor’s appointment, you’re so relieved that she’s back to addressing you as a human being that you don’t even question it. You’re not sick, but if it means your mother is talking to you again, you’ll go to as many doctors as she’d like. 

You should’ve known better than that. 

The two of you take the bus — your mother doesn’t drive, because women shouldn’t have to drive — two towns over, and you’re extremely anxious by the time you stop at the clinic: The only reason your mother would take you to a doctor so far away is to make sure nobody in your town hears about it, which can only means it’s going to be bad. 

It’s a women’s clinic, which you quickly learns it means a gynecologist; your mother had never allowed you to visit one before, saying those clinics incentivise sins like pre-marital sex and abortions, but she drags you inside with her head held high and hawk-like fingers clutching both your arm and her cardigan, almost as if the dirtiness of sin might rub off on the both of you just by sitting in the waiting room. 

“The doctor” she says, putting enough judgement in the title that it makes you want to curl in on yourself. “is going to make sure you haven’t done anything you’re not supposed to. And so help me God, girl, if I find out you’ve laid with that man—”

“I didn’t.” You say, hissing through your teeth. She’s clearly taken aback by your tone, but your heart is beating so fast you barely have time to control your anger. “I told you already.” 

“I don’t believe you.” Your mother’s nails dig into the skin of your forearm, her tone sharp and hushed. “You’ve always been a liar.” 

The exam is every bit as invasive and painful as you expect it to be, your eyes full of unshed tears as you lay on the table, a man between your bare thighs for the first time in your life. You’re thoroughly humiliated by the time you finally leave, after your mother has made the doctor reassure her three times that your hymen was still in place, as if he was as much of a liar as you.

You’d never admit to her or anyone else but, in the end, you’re relieved to know that Joel had been telling the truth all along.

Alyssa Brown’s murder is the first one your town had in over fifteen years. She’s a nineteen year old supermarket clerk that went to school with you, engaged to her high school sweetheart and a faithful member of your church; the entire town is devastated, setting up a memorial that spreads through fifteen feet in front of her home, flowers and pictures and letters from almost every citizen adorning the white picket fence. They find her the morning after you’ve slept over at Joel’s house, drowned in her bathtub, a gash on her forehead that was done by a lampshade the police finds broken in her bedroom, arms tied behind her back and the only part of her body that is underwater is her head and shoulders— No forced entry, no fingerprints or DNA left behind to identify who had so violently killed her and you sit through dinner while you hear your father rant about how the police force was woefully unprepared to handle such a terrible tragedy; your mother prays and cooks for her family, and then gives you a snark remark on how Alyssa, ‘unlike some girls’, had certainly gone to Heaven.

Alyssa’s funeral is the second you ever attend, following your grandmother’s funeral when you were a child, and it is every bit as uncomfortable as you expect it to be. You sit with your family, dressed in black pressed clothing, and offer her family condolences you don’t really mean: Alyssa had been a stranger, just a name you heard in passing, and you truly don’t feel the grief the rest of the town seems to feel. 

Her funeral is also the first time you’re alone with Joel ever since your little movie night— You’ve seen him around the farm, but your mother doesn’t allow you to be in the same room as him, always sending you into the fields or the cowshed whenever he’s on the property. But she’s busy that day, holding Alyssa’s mother in her arms and singing comforting hymns, and doesn’t notice when Joel saddles up next to you after the ceremony. 

“What a tragedy.” He tusks, taking a swig from a metal canteen whenever nobody is looking. You can smell the whiskey on his breath when he leans in, way too close to your face. “Such a beautiful girl, taken from her family like that.” 

Jealousy blooms deep in your stomach, bitter and overwhelming. You twist your nose, turning your face away from him to hide how much his words affect you; Joel isn’t looking at you anyway, his eyes glued to the coffin at the center of the room. 

“She looks just like you, don’t you think?” He takes another drink from his canteen before shoving it back in his pocket. “Same eyes, same hair color. Could’a been your sister.”

You hate how right he is. You’d never noticed it before but, standing in the back and staring at the poster of a dead girl’s face, all you can see is your own. It’s not just the eyes or the hair— Her smile is just like yours, the same thickness of your lips and the same slope of your nose. Her skin is a little darker but not enough to wash away the similarities, her hair texture the exact same as yours. 

You feel like you might be sick. Joel waits a beat, and then another, before he adds:

“Could’a been you.”

next part. (coming soon)

And you were crazier. Not about him – well. Also about him. But crazier as a baseline condition, a factory setting. You’d woken him at three in the morning by sliding one of his eyelids open with your thumb because you’d dreamt that he was texting another woman and needed to check his phone while the wound was still fresh. He’d handed his phone over, half-blind, and you’d scrolled through it sitting on his stomach. When you found nothing, you’d flopped down onto his chest and gone straight back to sleep. 

It was, frankly, a lot of crazy to be on the receiving end of, and Jack – who’d spent much too long being the most even-keeled, unbothered man in most situations – had taken one look at your little feral devotion pointed square at him and thought that yes, he wants in on all of that.

He would gladly take that your whole storm wrapped up in a package, had done just that, and was not planning on letting go. 

Being loved by you was full-contact, hands-on, and all consuming. You bit and you climbed him on the kitchen while he was holding hot pans; you pulled his face around by the jaw when you decided his attention wandered. He let you, always, going soft-eyed and pliant the second your hands landed on him, and had long ago stopped pretending otherwise. 

That wasn’t to say that he hadn’t had his moments, especially when it came to his girlfriend. He was, in all senses of the word, protective over you.

He’d known enough men – had been a different man through each decade – to know that you in the wrong hands would have ruined someone, like you had him.

He’d considered himself lucky to have your devotion – a thing so pure, presented with such ferocity – pointed at him. The thought of it being pointed at someone else made him sick simply because he knew how difficult it was to not fall in love with your claws. He knew how it felt to have you scruff him by the collar and inspect him for another woman’s perfume that even you knew did not exist, how it felt to be counted and guarded and kept, and he knew there was no single man alive who could feel that and walk away sane.

He’d take a bullet before he let anything happen to you and consider it a fair trade.

Jack was nothing less than smugly, bone-deep, sure of you. And a man that sure, holding a jealousy that pretty, developed habits. He’d learned (through research he’d conducted, very selfishly, for his own benefit) exactly which levers produced the show.

A waitress lingering around him for a second too long; a squeeze of your hand going tight in his, and him spending the next thirty minutes in the parking lot outside the restaurant making up for another woman’s slow legs.

Mentioning, idly, that a pharmacutical rep had been ‘friendly today’; good for a whole evening of you cross-examining everything about him, her, her tone, his response. 

He knew the difference between small provocations and the premium ones, and he deployed them the same way he planned date nights. He would’ve gone as far as to say they were date nights, impromptu, functionally; every match he struck brought him an evening of you staking your claim with both hands, and then the long, sweet business of being claimed. 

He’d never once found the bottom of it. He’d never once thought to even look for one, where the jealousy cut off and turned inward. It had never once pointed that direction. Your claws faced outward, out at the world, never once you, carrying them.

He didn’t know there was a depth where that happened. It was why he poked the proverbial bear. 

When he’d gotten off his shift at seven in the morning, tugging his bag over his shoulder, he’d leaned his hip against the driver’s door and opened your texts. Some people had a cigarette after a shift. Jack had you, delivered in installments, and he stood there in the cold biting down his smile as he scrolled through the night’s yield.

( a photo of a cat that lived outside the bar; a voice memo at 1:30 he already knew was you narrating something you’d decided was urgent; a link to a lamp with no explanation, which meant ‘buy me this lamp’ (he did, immediately, Apple Pay and its joys of quick payment); a text at 2:47 that just said that your feet were cold; and finally, a goodnight! i love you! sent at 3:15 am )

He’d thought, not for the first time, that he was genuinely a lucky bastard.

After years of pagers and reports and envelopes, somewhere his correspondence had started to include a nightly paper trail proving that somewhere in Pittsburgh, you moved through your night with him present in it. They were simply dispatches you sent because things weren’t fully real to you until he’d been notified.

A man could be told he was loved a hundred ways, but there was no proof on earth like being your first call about nothing. 

If he were a better man, he would have told you about the name that had popped up on his message thread under yours the second he’d unlocked the phone – right there, sandwiched between your goodnight and a spam text about his car’s warranty, a name he hadn’t seen light up his screen in the better part of a decade. 

Diane: Hey stranger. In town next week for a conference - would be good to catch up if you’re around. Coffee? It’s been too long. Hope life’s treating you well. 

It was a strange sort of vertigo of a past life reaching out to tap him on the arm. Diane – Jesus. He hadn’t thought about her in years; it’d been long enough that the name landed without a hook. It was a faint mothball smell of a version of himself he’d long since folded up and put away. No, he had felt near to nothing for her name for the only one that popped up in his head was yours. 

Jack had spent months getting fat and happy on your jealousy; he’d learned there was no sweeter sound than you getting worked up over nothing.

Jack had, right there in the parking lot, a plan because Diane was – he’d assumed, for you – not nothing. No, Diane had history, and it was a real, verifiable history. If a stranger’s coffee order could get you draped over him like a bodyguard, then this – Jack immediately thought – was going to be a show.

Before he’d got in the shower to start his ritual of getting in bed with you – the shower, the hygiene of it all – he found you sprawled across the entire acreage of the bed with the blanket cycloned around your legs. He crossed over and crouched at the edge of you, heart beating gratefully at the sight, because this part couldn’t wait for hygiene. 

He settled for tucking the hair off your face – two featherlight fingers, hooking it back behind your ear – and your nose scrunched in your sleep before it turned into his hand.

“Hey,” he whispered, not to wake you (secretly hoping you would, anyway), and leaned in to press his mouth to your temple that made you make a tiny sound at the back of your throat.

Your fist unclenched from under the pillow and groped out blindly to his forearm, fingers curling around it without opening your eyes. 

Jack stayed crouched there a moment longer than his knee approved of, grinning down at you. 

“I know,” he murmured, working your fingers off his forearm one at a time and folding them back against your palm, pressing them there with a squeeze. “Ten minutes.”

When he tucked himself into bed beside you, arms instinctively falling over your waist to pull you flush against him, you were half-turning to him before you’d even surfaced. You made a tiny sound, unintelligible words – something about the temperature of his hands – and burrowed closer, one leg sliding under his waist and over the mattress, your cold feet immediately seeking out the warmest available part of him. 

“You’re cold,” you mumbled, not opening your eyes, wounded.

“I know, right,” he murmured, pulling you in closer to his chest. “You, though, are warm.”

You wrapped yourself tighter around him, hand finding its way under his shirt to flatten against his ribs. “You can borrow me.”

His hand moved up your spine, thumb catching each notch, and he pressed his cold nose to your temple just to feel you flinch and swat at him, which you did, gorgeously, with a wounded utterance of his name that made his entire body feel like it’d gone under the sun. “Missed you.” 

You smiled, tipping your face up, eyes still shut as your mouth searched. He met you there, pressing a slow, morning-soft kiss that just stayed. When you finally pulled back and sighed, boneless, he cradled you to him. 

“Hey, so,” he murmured, thumb still stroking your back, “old friend of mine’s in town next week. Reached out this morning.” 

“All your friends are old.” You hummed into his chest, still processing the words, and he felt your body still in his arms. “What old friend?” 

“Just an old friend, baby.” 

You lifted your head off his chest at that, one eye cracking open then the other, the sleep burning off you so quickly. He exhaled a sigh as he watched that beautiful, familiar spark catching behind your face. You propped your chin on his sternum and narrowed your eyes at him.

“This old friend doesn’t have a name?” 

“Mhm. Does.” He kept his face maddeningly neutral, thumb still sweeping your spine, savoring the little furrow in your brows and the way your hand had started gripping the side of his waist, staking a claim. He loved you. “Diane.” 

Your lips pursed as you processed the name, as if checking everything you know about Jack in real time. Then you shook your head a little, lips curving up into what he could only consider your angry-smile. “Who the hell’s Diane?”

“We go back a ways.” He shrugged easily, that confidence of having done this a hundred times and always getting sweet, sweet you packing up in him. “Dated, for a bit. Long time ago.” 

You took in a sharp inhale, snorting softly as your hands left him completely. He tried to bite down his frown from showing.

“Dated,” you said, through a small breath with wide eyes. “You dated and she texted you?” 

“She did.” Jack laced his hands behind his head and settled back into the pillow. “Wants to grab a coffee. Catch up.”

“Well, are you going?” You were up on your elbow now, the blanket pooling at your chest, as your brows went up to your hairline in thorough dissatisfaction. 

No, he wasn’t. The possibility hadn’t even crossed his mind. He’d read the text, and moved on to the far more interesting business of what it could do for this morning. The coffee itself was nothing; he had no interest in sitting across a woman who hadn’t crossed his mind at all to trade summaries of decades.

You existed. There was, now, no hour anyone could offer that beat an hour of you doing anything at all. 

He had sat through watching you decide whether or not you’d return a sweater for forty minutes; trying it on over and over again, the same sweater, then tucking it into parts of your existing clothes to test it (into jeans, out of jeans, under the jacket, sleeves shoved up, sleeves shoved down, “should i just cut the sleeves off?” with the scissors already located, and he’d told you “do the crime and you can’t return it,” and watched you reconsider, setting the scissors down). You’d kept it and worn it while sitting on the couch for the rest of the day, then never again. 

“Thinkin’ about it,” Jack said, hooking a lazy finger into the strap sliding off your shoulder and tugging it back up, a tending gesture entirely at odds with the trouble he was stirring. “Just coffee, angel. She’s only in town a few days.”

“Well, your girlfriend is in town all days,” you said, swatting his hand away. “You can’t just get little catch-up coffees with women you fucking dated, Jack. That’s not – it’s not a thing people in relationships do.”

“No? But it was so long ago.” 

You’d pulled yourself upright now, cross-legged in the sheets, the blanket in your lap and the one strap already sliding down again. “Doesn’t matter, Jack.” You jabbed a finger at his neck. “You’ve got a girlfriend. A very good one –”

“Best one I’ve ever had,” Jack agreed, catching your finger and kissing the tip of it, entirely pleased. “I like her. Love her, even.”

“Then why think about it at all?” you asked as he tucked a piece of hair behind your ear, thumb grazing your cheek. 

“Just surprised, baby,” he said, shrugging. “We go way back. Before your time. It was – a real thing, for a while.” 

Your eyes quickly flickered down to his chest, mouth opening, then closing again. “How long were you together?”

He clicked his tongue, brows furrowing as he genuinely tried to reel back the memory. It was funny the way time did that.

“Couple years,” he murmured. “Give or take, three. Yeah. Around three.”

Your eyes had gone slightly wide as you looked at a spot on the blanket with your bottom lip tugged between your teeth.

“Three years,” you murmured, more to yourself than him, huffing slightly through your nose. 

Your eyes flicked up to him, and Jack’s hand went still against your spine. They eyes were wide, glassed, and lost, blinking up at him with some unguarded confusion. You looked at him the way you did when a word went missing on you mid-sentence (your fingers snapping restlessly at the air like you could catch it, ‘you know the one, Jack, the word – the – the thing,’ while he supplied guesses just to watch you swat them away), except there was no word being hunted now. 

“That’s – a long time, right?” you asked him then, tilting your head to the side, looking at Jack like he had some sort of conversion chart on what three years were ought to weigh. 

Jack’s eyes landed on your fingers tugging closer to him on the blanket, not landing on him. They stopped an inch short of his ribs, curling back into themselves. 

His eyes went from your fingers, to your face, which was still waiting for his answer. He sucked in a small exhale, buying a second, though he couldn’t have said for what. 

There was some low-grade, humming static on his skin, and he forced himself to override it, because you’d asked him so gently, and he always answered your questions. You asked him things at all hours, in all states, with your mouth full, from the other room, half-asleep on his shoulder blade.

( What’s the worst thing you ever ate? You’d help me hide it, right? What’s your favorite planet? If we were both dogs, who’d be walking who? Am I the funniest person you know? Would you still love me if I couldn’t talk, only hum? Who taught you how to drive? ) 

He’d answer every single one thoroughly, treating them all like he would’ve a question for boards, because early on he’d discovered your asking was an act of love; you collected his answers, kept them somewhere in that beautiful head, stored him. Nobody had ever wanted his mind so thoroughly before. 

So when you asked, he answered.

It was who Jack was to you. It was maybe his favorite thing to be, just Jack. Jack and all the little things he thought about all the little things he’d given little to no thought to. 

“Felt both long and short, if that makes sense,” Jack mused, wandering back into it, because you’d asked and the memory was a harmless thing to ignite. It was cold hearth, ash-dead, nothing in it did a single thing to a single fold of his brain.

“We took some trips – did two weeks through Italy one summer.” He shook his head slightly, blowing out a short breath at that fact of his life. “And her sister’s wedding in Maine.” 

“Italy,” you said, lips curving around the little word. Your eyes flicked down to his chest, then his torso. “You went to Italy?” You breathed in softly, and your head tilted again. Jack wondered if this was where the claws came out – Italy. “I didn’t know that.” 

“Lots you don’t know about my misspent youth,” he said, lips curling in a casual smile. His fingers reached out then to catch yours and folded them in his palm, bringing them up to his mouth to press a kiss to the knuckles. 

“What was it like?” you asked, brows rising slightly. “I’ve never – I don’t really know what it’s like there.”

“Rented this Fiat, did the coast. Amalfi, Positano – she had the Italian, so she handled the talking. I just drove and pointed.” A huff moved through his chest where he’d trapped your forearm. “She’d order. I’d eat whatever showed up.” 

He waited for the strike. She ordered for you? Then your fingers would go to his throat. Nobody orders for you. What did she order? Was it good? 

Your lips had made this small shape of an ‘o’ as your eyes had snagged on him as he spoke, criss-cross and those small inches away from him on the bed. 

“What’d she – where’d you even find the time?” you said through a short laugh, shoulders coming up slightly.

“We’d come out of residency and the schedules just –” He’d left your fingers for a second to lace his own loosely over his chest in the air, two combs of a zipper missing. “Lined up.” He retrieved your hand automatically, repocketing it to him. “Traded calendars at the start of the month, find the overlap. Italy was a big overlap we got lucky with. Had a little cash for once, and somebody said to go now or never go.”

The word ‘residency’ had barely left his mouth when he heard you take in a small inhale, your lips jutting out slightly.

Now? Jack wondered dumbly. Now you’d get mad, say something territorial, something pretty and unhinged about schedules. I’ll make your schedule. He readied his face for it, schooling the grin down in advance so you wouldn’t catch him enjoying it. He also would have let you make his schedule, had you asked, even though he wasn’t sure how that would’ve worked. He’d have found some compromise between his job and you. He’d have nodded along solemnly, and asked you when it was effective.

“I didn’t know you’ve been to Italy,” you murmured, almost musing, as your eyes went to the desk beside the bed, past his shoulder. He followed your gaze to the little basket where you kept your folder of documents he’d made you organize last spring. 

“Long time ago,” Jack said, because it was. It was a very long time ago, and he felt the need to clarify that. He didn’t know why he was elaborating like he’d been accused. He hadn’t. You hadn’t accused him. “Very long time ago.”

His palm tightened over your fingers – a small, reflexive press – and got no answering flex back.

Your fingers lay there in his hand, warm, accounted for – like Jack always needed them to be – but absent. Jack found himself pressing again, interrogatively this time, you in there?

“That’s –” you started.

Jack’s eyes snapped back you again, like a dog hearing it’s name. Your mouth twisted, working like you were deciding on a seed and what to do with it.

You gave a small shrug – one shoulder, half-mast – and reached over with your other hand to roll a little lint of fluff off the blanket around your finger.

“That’s really far to go with someone,” you said, softer. “Italy. That’s like – a whole thing to do.”

“It was,” he said, absentmindedly, though, as he watched you.

There was something about the set of you he didn’t quite like, though he couldn’t have said what. The way your shoulders had come in a little? The way you seemed all gentle and docile now, when a minute ago you’d been jabbing him in the throat?

Jack prided himself on knowing you; he’d taken it up as a personal study. Your spine, usually all insolence, all sprawl, had gone considerate. Even your knees, criss-crossed under the sheets, had tucked in closer. 

“You okay, baby?” he asked, feeling that need to poke at it directly.

“Mhm.” You nodded quickly and looked up at him with a smile.

His fingers immediately reached up to settle under the hinge of your jaw, as if to hold your smile there, thumb laid along your cheek.

“Yeah, I just didn’t know it was – so serious. That’s all. I thought it’d be, like, some girl you dated a few months.” You let out a little breath of a laugh. “Not an – Italy person.” 

Jack’s brows furrowed. He didn’t really know what an ‘Italy person’ entailed, but he didn’t like how it sounded in your voice. 

You sometimes said things that made him want to burrow into your mind. They were little nothings, coinages, a whole private mint going on up there.

( It feels like a July day, when it was very clearly December and you were snowed in; he’s looks like a Tuesday guy, about a stranger at the DMV on a Friday; my feet are homesick, which turned out to mean you wanted to go to the beach, and also somewhere deserted sometimes, and a hike. ) 

He never asked you to translate. Half the time, it was impossible for you to do so, anyway; the words just arrived to you whole, and he’d learned to hold them up in the light until they made sense.

They always made sense, for there was always a ‘you’ inside of them. And he’d found that whatever came from you, it was worth keeping to dig into. 

( Sometimes, it made sense days later. Like when you’d said, one night in the car, engine off, “I like you when you park.” 

He’d laughed and asked, “As opposed to what?”

You’d had no answer, but he understood, days later, that you liked Jack in-between things. You liked him with the engine off, day done, night not started, with nowhere to be just yet.

He supposed it meant you liked the little pockets of nothing that every life has and nobody claims; idling, as opposed to mid-shift, the one where there was no overarching function making him do something. He’d found he liked those little pockets of nothing, too. )

He supposed that ‘Italy person’ would turn out to mean something exact, too. 

He waited, again, for the claws. What am I, then? with a finger at his chest, and he’d catch the finger and kiss it again and tell you what you were – everything – and you’d pretend it wasn’t enough, and demand he phrase it better, and he would.

Jack would phrase it better then better than that, mouth at your knuckles, your wrist, working up the arm between clauses. 

Mine, obviously, don’t be stupid. You’d hum, and he’d say it slower – mine, ob-vi-ous-ly – and you’d call him useless, and somewhere you’d end up bickering about whether Italy even had good food. He’d take your side on, traitor to decades in under a minute, and your sulk would die of neglect without either of you watching it. 

“I don’t know what that means, sweetheart,” he said, trying to force a casual smile through a small, chuckle. He shook his head confusedly. 

Your lips pressed together as you shrugged. “I don’t, either. Not really,” you said.

Before Jack could respond, you reached over and patted his chest twice and said, “Long night?” 

It took Jack a second. He heard actual sound, cogs audibly changing gears, because you’d been in Italy, and now you were in his shift, and the border between those two had been crossed with no warning. He’d been asked this normal question a thousand times; it was a fine question, a normal one. He’d answered it a thousand normal ways.

“Uh, yeah – middling,” he said, hand now coming to find your waist where you sat and tugging slightly, getting you back down into him. “Don’t wanna talk about the shift, though.” You landed against his chest and his chin fell to your head, some unscripted instinct in him kicking in. “Wanna talk about you.”

“Me?” You laughed slightly. “Nothing to report here.” 

“Disagree.” His hand started running over your spine, pressing his mouth to your hair for a second, breathing you in. “Missed you today,” he said, almost in a whisper. “Listened to your voice memo twice on the way back.” 

“Really?” 

His arm tightened around you, bring you up closer to his face, where he could reach your temple without any work. He pressed one, then another, and another kiss against them slowly, mouth lingering against your skin on the last one as he waited. For what? He had no idea. 

Your hand traveled up from his ribs to his jaw, cupping it, then running your thumb against the stubble once against the grain, the way you liked. It usually came with commentary (you’d make such a good beach, Jack; this is my favorite texture on earth; Jack, keep it like this always) and tonight he got none of it.

Jack turned his mouth to it on reflex and pressed a kiss to the middle of your palm, and felt your fingers curl slightly on the contact, gathering the kiss like you were keeping it. 

“Love you,” you murmured. “Go to sleep, Jack.” 

“Love you, too,” he said.

He couldn’t ignore how you’d practically shut off right in front of his eyes. So, he asked, “You tired?” he asked, feeling some base need to clarify.

“Yeah,” you whispered between your faces, and you did sound tired. Tired, Jack knew how to work with. 

“Good,” he murmured, softer, relieved to hear it was that. “We’ll be tired together, then we won’t be tired.” 

Your breath billowed softly over his mouth, something like a laugh, and his hand slid down to your arm to find your hand, tucking the whole laced knot of it down between your chests where it lived. Your head ducked slightly to go under his, burrowing in his neck, and he smiled as his chin came to rest at the top of your head. 

“Sleep,” he said gently, with all of the command he could muster whilst three-quarters gone himself. “We’re gonna sleep the whole day away.” 

You did. Sleep – that is. Or stayed in his arms until his breath went long and even and unmistakably out. When you were sure – when that deep untroubled weight of him told you he was really under – you extracted yourself out of the bed.

You didn’t want to, but sleep wasn’t coming easy with Jack tonight. It sucked; sleep always came easy to you with Jack. Getting out from under him, too, wasn’t easy. He slept like he meant it now, all of his weight poured over you, one heavy arm slung across you like a seatbelt. 

You lifted his arm by the wrist, an inch at a time, and slipped out from underneath it. He stirred and made a rough sound of protest and reached for the warm gap you’d left, patted once, then again, searching, and you winced at the sight of it.

You hurriedly fed your pillow to his arms and watched him gather it against his chest, watched him settle, thinking it was you. 

You should have gone outside now, like you’d planned, and instead you leaned in over the mattress, drawn back down by some law you had never once repealed.

Because – even now – you couldn’t leave Jack Abbot undecorated, you weren’t functioned that way.

Every time you left his vicinity, you’d paid a toll at the door; a kiss to the knuckles, the shoulder, the one time you pressed his closed eyelid so gently he’d told you about it during breakfast, thinking he’d dreamed of it, that it’d felt nice.

You picked the stubbled jaw and pressed the smallest kiss there for half-a-second, and he hummed just as you leaned away. His arms pulled the pillow tighter.

You felt heat build up behind your eyes at it. Jack was, somehow, reassuring you unconsciously, four fathoms down. You blinked at the ceiling, because this was just Jack sleeping with a pillow. Normal girls do not cry about things like this. 

When you successfully made it to the kitchen to make some coffee, which you didn’t end up making, you scrolled through your phone absentmindedly for a few minutes.

Your teeth were digging into your lower lip, and you were sure they could’ve left a permanent dent on them because of how long you’d been sitting on the countertop next to the coffee 

You were being mature. You were being so very mature about this.

Any second now, the maturity would kick all the way in and you’d feel it; the maturity, the security, the calm, grown-up ease that’d let you hear about your boyfriend’s beautiful doctor ex-girlfriend and their beautiful accomplished Italian holiday and simply nod. Maybe you’d be glad he’d had love before you, had something great enough it’d taken a tour across oceans.

You wouldn’t be this.

She was three years to your year.

You’d been counting since the bed, some sick little voice in the back of your head clicking away – that’s longer than you, so much longer, it’s double! and then one more!

She got a whole coast and you? Every time you tried to set the voice down, it just picked itself back up and started again.

You had – after a year – found the one proof that you’d always been, cruel-to-yourself, looking for. Jack Abbot had lived a life before you, several lives, and he’d had love.

So much time she’d had with Jack.

When you reached for your enormousness, for the claws, for the whole arsenal, you found your armor completely empty.

She predated you; you had no way to be big at her. You couldn’t bodyguard Jack from his own past, though you wished he’d have been a bodyguard to it from you. It was an insane thing to wish. All he did was answer your questions, because you’d come knocking.

An unfair, childish, foolish part of you wished he’d lied and decided the truth was too heavy for you and carried it himself. 

She had Jack, and she let him go. You could hardly let Jack go for the length of a shower. You’d have died.

What did she know that you didn’t? What was it like, being a woman who could afford to lose him? She’d walked away from Jack and was whole; if you’d lost Jack, there’d be nothing left.

You knew it was dramatic, that it didn’t work that way. It wasn’t true, but it sure felt like it. Jack had filled your life completely, and you didn’t ever want that space ever again.

Nothing about that is romantic. You’re just a girl who bet everything she had on the first big thing she saw. 

Jack had lived a whole entire grown-up love – the real kind, the serious kind – with her.

Your cruel brain wondered if there were others. You’d never heard about Diane before, what was one more name he’d never mentioned? He had decades you knew nothing about.

It all happened before you’d ever set your eyes on him and thought he was the only man that existed. It had happened before you’d seen him and thought he could be the one, then wished that he would be the one. He’d had that before.

You’d always known that, abstractly. But the idea of years and years of Jack being loved by great women who understood his work, women his own age, women who’d been there for parts of him you never got to meet. That a door swung open all the way tonight. 

You were the latest in a line you didn’t even know the length of.

You’d never even thought about Italy – it was so far away, and you didn’t even think you’d said the country’s name out loud until tonight.

Italy was – you always thought – a thing that happened to other people. It happened, you understood, to Jack. Not your Jack, another woman’s Jack, back when he was somebody’s whole future instead of their past.

He had been loved over there. He'd been to Maine with a family who’d probably thought he was the one.

You were holding the frayed end of a rope whose length you’d never wanted to measure, because you’d assumed stupidly, sweetly, that the rope started when you’d grabbed it, that Jack began the night he met you.

Stop. You’re being crazy – like always. A part of you always had known Jack liked getting a rise out of you, and you liked giving him one. Get a rise out of him, the petty, young part of your brain supplied. 

You laughed softly to yourself, clutching your arms around your waist as you folded over, forehead dropping to your knees.

With whom? If you looked for ammunition, you found no Diane.

The guy before the last guy whose last name you couldn’t even remember anymore; a handful of small-time relationships that had lasted one season and ended not because they were wrong but because they were nothing.

You had no great, grown love in your belt that you cold hold up to the light and make Jack ache over. 

You had Jack. Jack was your Diane and Jack was your Italy – your three years, your coastline, and your entire globe, probably even more – the biggest love you’d ever had by a distance so vast it was hardly a competition.

Jack knew about your entire life and every supplementary information about you that held no weight on you, or only very little.

Jack knew about your first pet’s name, and its cause of death, and the movie you still couldn’t watch because of it. He knew your worst subject’s grade and, worse, the teacher’s name, and had once gotten angry at that man on your behalf.

He knew the reason you hardly talked to your family; he knew it all by now, because you’d kept handing out pieces over this year, and somewhere around the eighth month you’d realized he knew the story completely now. 

He’d learned it all, greedily, like each fact was worth having. You’d hand him a dusty nothing – a camp story, a recurring dream since seven, your opinion on cilantro – and watch it get written down somewhere behind his eyes. Weeks later, he’d produce it at the right moment. No cilantro, she hates it.

It had felt like Jack had opened your junk drawer and thought of it as treasure.

Your life was small and short enough to fit into his hands entire. It was a carry on. He held all of it and had room left over for more. You just didn’t have any more to give him.

Jack had finished reading you.

You’d been collecting him, too, greedy in your own right, thinking you were getting, at the very least, to the hallway. Now, you were wondering if you’d only just walked up the porch to the door.

You could produce Italy in your brain now; Jack against some sun-warm railing over water; Jack driving a little car on the wrong side of the road with confidence; Jack looking longingly at a woman who was speaking a language he couldn’t understand, holding him up.

Some parallel-Jack, out in the corner of your mind, who’d married the doctor.

Jack who was, right now, in some other version of this morning, drinking coffee, happy, whole, entirely fine. Jack, who was talking about some case from a journal – in his fluent doctor-language with someone who never needed the glossary – never pausing to translate English into – well, English. He was never smiling patiently and having to shrink his work down to a bedtime-story size like he did you. That Jack’s wife could meet Jack in the dark after his bad shifts instead of standing at the edge with a flashlight, calling in.

You couldn’t even imagine parallel-Jack lonely with something missing at his table. Your imagination – which loved him, which had only ever been able to love him – refused to even draw him sad. It kept handing you Jack complete; a whole finished Jack, out there in the corner of your mind.

This Jack’s completeness had to require your absence. It needed you to put yourself out of this world and into the crevice of your mind that hated you.

You had to widen your eyes on the floor. Your heels knocked the cabinet.

No. No. Your Jack – the real Jack – was thirty feet away and had never once been anything but certain of you.

Jack had never once not been certain of you. You were sitting on the countertop in his sweatpants right now. Your fingers were curled into the cotton of the pants, holding it like it was his hand, because Jack himself suddenly felt like too much to deserve.

You were getting homesick of him, getting jealous of women in your own head, grieving trips that had already happened, creating an entirely one-girl production in your mind that was only cruel to you, and the man who’d done nothing to put it there.

Go to him, you tried to tell yourself. Go to Jack. Wake him up. Talk to him.

He never turned you away. You had come to him with nothing, a whole lot of nothings, and he had never once turned you away. 

( You’d had a terrible dream that your childhood house was empty. It was the whole dream. You’d walked through it, room-by-room, and everyone was gone and the furniture was gone and your voice didn’t work. It was classic dream-physics. You’d woken up with shaky breaths, body tensing up over, well, nothing. Over the fact that the wallpaper was gone. You’d lain there for four minutes being reasonable about it, then you’d poked Jack. 

Poked him once, then again. Then again – his hand caught your finger, eyes still shut, reflexes working. He folded your finger in his fist and kept it there, on his chest as one eye dragged open, looked at the little digital clock, looked insulted, then looked at you. 

“What?” At your silence and the sight of your small pout as your body went still, both his eyes opened, everything in his face shifting around not making this worse. “What happened?”

“Bad dream,” you said, and because he’d wait all night without asking, you added, “My old house. Everything was just gone. It’s stupid, it’s not even –”

“Not stupid.” His arm had come up to haul you down onto his chest in a drowsy motion, your ear landing conveniently over the slow bass of his heart as his hand rubbed over your skin. “Empty house,” he murmured, clicking his tongue. “Yeah. That’s not a great one.”

He always agreed with you. Then, he added, “This place has got everyone we both need in it. Go back to sleep.” )

Your mind had, finally, gone quiet. Finally. Even it knew overkill when it saw it. 

Fuck, maybe you were fucking crazy. Jack should have gone running. If he had any sense, he’d have looked at you and walked calmly in the other direction. He hadn’t. He had stayed.

This morning your enemies included a hypothetical, a memory, and Europe al-fucking-together. 

He hadn’t let you go, you had to remind yourself. He’d kept you. Had, a few times, put a foot on the door to keep you there.

You slid off the kitchen counter to make your coffee, almost distantly. You made it this time, too. By the time the machine started its slow gurgle, you’d forced yourself to wrestle the whole thing back where it belonged, blinking your eyes clear and dry. It was the deal you’d made with yourself, you supposed, when Jack had said Italy and that she was a doctor, just like him. 

You weren’t going to be the crazy, young girlfriend who spiraled over an old flame. You were going to be so graciously secure about all of it that Jack would never, ever know the morning had touched you at all.

You’d nearly convinced yourself of it, too, as you settled on the couch with the mug on the little glass table beside you as you scrolled through your phone. Then, you’d heard the bedroom door, and the soft knock of crutches against the floorboards as Jack shifted his weight. 

You felt your heart drop at the sound of it, and had to force yourself to look up at the ceiling for a few seconds before he materialized, because you had never – not once – felt that feeling in your body in the three-sixty-five and a few more days you’d loved him.

No, you had to tell your body. We don’t feel this way for Jack. There’s no need to start now.

He came around the corner a second later, crutches under his arms and squinting against the light, hair flattened up on one side of his head from all of forty minutes on the pillow. His eyes swept across the room quickly and landed on you, face easing slightly.

“There you are,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He stayed there for a second looking at you, head-to-toe, checking. “Woke up to a pillow,” he said, one brow going up, dipping his chin at you in soft accusation. 

“Jack –” You pushed yourself up off, padding over to him on instinct, because you were you, it was now nine in the morning and he’d hauled himself out of bed after only one tiny blink of sleep after his shift. Every single step he was taking on those crutches was a step he shouldn’t have been taking. “What are you doing up? Go back to bed –”

“Could ask you the same, baby. You’re never up this early.” When you got close enough, his eyes immediately came down to yours and stayed, moving over slowly. Then, he flicked his gaze to the entirety of the living room behind you.

“You get lonely out here? Something wrong? Should’ve come got me.” he fired off at once, so quickly that your mind had to catch up to process it.

“Not lonely. Nothing’s wrong. You needed sleep – ” 

False. False. True. You were a liar more than half the time today, and you knew you were making this bed all by yourself.

“I need lots of things.” His hand came up off the crutch grip – balancing himself there on one – and reached out to you, knuckles first, dragging down your cheek slowly as his head tilted to look at you. The touch was so, so tender it almost undid the whole act you had running. “Sleep’s like – fourth.” 

You leaned into his hand before you could stop it, and his face flickered for a second – relief, there and covered – and his thumb pressed in to hold it, keeping it. 

“I just couldn’t sleep,” you said into his palm, because half-truths were easier to say to his palm. “You can, though,” you said quickly. “You worked all night. I’d already slept before you came home.” 

He appeared to weigh this, and when your eyes finally moved back to his face, it was tilted slightly to the side, lost. Like a dog, hearing a new sound. It was a new sound, you realized the second it left you. It sounded like exactly what you had decided you were going to be – reasonable and considerate – and you had never once been reasonable about Jack going to bed. Sending him off to rest, so generously, without you, sounded – to you and him both – like another person’s girlfriend talking. 

He took in a small breath, a chuckle dying in his throat, and his head dropped closer, the stubble catching in the light.

“Counter-offer?” he murmured. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, settling there. “Couch. Both of us. Nobody sleeps. Nobody does a single thing.” 

“Like gremlins,” you murmured. 

The crease in his brow lost a little bit of its altitude. “Exactly like gremlins, angel,” he said gravely, instantly. 

Your lips moved hesitantly, and your hands came up to his bare chest, pressing slightly. “You’ve been up all night, Jack,” you said through a short laugh, fingers skating around the breath of his chest to sit at his ribs, trying to turn him. 

“Stop it – please, no.” He stayed put, eyes flicking down to where your hands had come up and lips twisting in, what you could only describe as a snarl. “I’m not tired.”

It was such a bald, indefensible lie that you visibly shook your head at him. The evidence was all over his pretty face, the pretty, lying face. The curls were silvering mess flattened on one side and standing at attention on the other, and you had to physically stop your hands from going to them.

The morning stubble had come in along his jaw in that salt-and-cinnamon scatter you’d once spent a full minute petting against the grain while he sat there letting you, patient as a trained dog. Still, tired lived well on him. Everything lived well on him. You’d told him once, and he’d thanked you, because he’d found himself tired a lot and hadn’t quite found a way to ease it. He’d tried.

“Jack,” you tried, voice warming a touch.

“What?” he drawled, shaking his head at you now, like he was deciding to show how scandalized he was now by all of this. “I’m not allowed to sit with my girl?”

He started moving to the direction of the couch – crutches finding their rhythm – without giving you any time for defense. “Man works a night shift and isn’t allowed to sit with the prettiest thing he’s ever seen?” 

You huffed. “Thanks.” 

“Don’t thank me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Come sit.”

You trailed after him, because what else could you do? Dig your heels in, tell him no? That would’ve been a tell the size of five fucking houses. The second you were in range, his arm left the cushion and hooked over your waist mid-step and hauled you onto his lap. Your yelp was swallowed by the drop, and you landed sideways across his thighs with his arm already snaked across your back. 

“Your leg, Jack – ”

“My leg’s thrilled.” His other hand collected your knees and folded them up toward his stomach, tucking you in closer, arranging you into the compact bundle he preferred, until you were sitting in the wide, warm bowl of him with nowhere to look that wasn’t him. His hand then came up to your back and pressed, instructively, until your cheek gave up and landed against his shoulder. He let out a long, slow breath at the contact, chin coming to rest on your hair. “There we go.”

You breathed in a lungful of air as you settled against him, his presence like fire and water over you right now. You were so scared of someday losing this, this exact thing. His chest hair scratching at your cheek; the weight of his head – carrying so much – on your head; the way he smelled like your soap because you’d asked him to once and he’d never gone back, and now this man walked around his emergency department smelling like pink fruit all day and let everyone at work deal with it.

It was so, so unbelievably simple to be with Jack, to be in this flowery presence of this gruff man, being his. Jack had come along and he’d made you put everything down – the checking, the second-guessing – and you had, you’d put everything down, and dumped both arms around his neck instead. 

“How do you wanna use our nights off today, hm?” he asked softly, moving his head to press a quick kiss to the top of your head. 

This was your event. You knew that was why he was asking, dangling it, because the planning was half the having for you and he’d learned to just hand you the whole day and watch you go. You always had opinions.

Before you’d tucked yourself into bed last night, you’d thought maybe you and Jack would go to the diner whenever you woke up, breaking fast in the afternoon like degenerates. 

Maybe the flea market afterwards, because Jack, at a flea market, haggled in such a nice, slow voice that made grown sellers fold like the lawn chairs they were selling. He’d followed you around from table to table for two hours, never once questioning why you were suddenly looking at doorknobs. You could’ve looked at gravel, and he’d have carried it. Then you’d come home, couch, a game on, his head in your lap – heavy, trusting, king of some small kingdom – while you messed with his curls.

It all seemed so unbelievably wrong now. It seemed nice at the same time, the same as before. But the diner. She probably never made him eat at diners. The flea market; she went to Positano. You had no idea what Positano even looked like, exactly. It was probably the most beautiful place on all of earth and Jack had stood in it, years before you existed to him, being well-loved, and you’d spent this morning secretly hoping it was ugly. 

You pressed your cheek harder into his chest and he hummed, appreciatively, and adjusted his arm to noodle you.

She got this, too.

You had to stop yourself from groaning at your own voice, from yelling at it altogether. The thoughts were just pushing you closer and closer to him, your cheek nuzzled against his chest, shifting slightly like the bare contact of his skin could just scrub it all out; your cure and disease were Jack. Every awful, awful thought sent you burrowing closer into his exact chest that had caused it, and he kept receiving you, warm and obliging, having no idea he, right now, was both your wound and bandage. 

You just wanted your day back. You couldn’t tell anyone how insane this was, least of all Jack. You’d have crawled inside his ribcage if it zipped.

You knew that Jack had been trying to get under your skin – you knew that he liked it – but you’d figured this game was one that was built for you to win. Every round was just Jack setting up an excuse to spend the afternoon demonstrating with his mouth, his eyes, his face, that there was no contest to even worry about.

Because you couldn’t very well go to Positano today, and because you suddenly felt like a kid handing over a macaroni necklace to someone who owned diamonds, you said, “I don’t know,” into his chest. “You decide.”

His thumb paused on your skin for a second, then it resumed.

“Me?” he murmured, chin tilting for a second to press his lips to the top of your skull again. “I wouldn’t have the first clue, angel.” 

“Try,” you said. 

He huffed slightly. “Alright, then. Bear with me – first day on the job. We stay here till noon, then the diner with your jams. Then that stretch by the river you like, lemonade from the good cart guy.” He squeezed your arm and pressed another peck to your head. “Home by dark and it’ll be the best outing in the world.” 

It sounded so perfect. You pressed your whole face down into his chest, even as you thought about how his outings were once grander, with people who’d done grander. With a doctor, no less. “Sounds perfect.”

For a moment, the two of you just breathed there. It may have been the fact that when it got quiet when you were with Jack – instead of quiet with just yourself – things seemed a little easier, but you found yourself saying, against him, “Jack?”  

“Yes?” he said instantly, chin lifting off your head and you felt his attention come down on you, whole and immediate, like he was summoned.

“Are you gonna get the coffee?” you asked. 

“Huh?”

“With her,” you said. “You know –”

Your words cut off as you shrugged, suddenly feeling stupid all over again. Saying it made it real again, and now you’d brought the topic to the couch. It happened on the bed, and you’d carried it to the kitchen, and now it was on this lovely couch. You were going to taint it all with it.

“You should probably go. To catch up.” You lifted your head up to meet his eyes, forcing your voice even. “I don’t mind.” It felt like it’d come out with steel; you almost winced at your own words. 

Jack blinked at you, then his head tilted, and the softest, most confused grunt left him. 

“Baby,” he started gently, amused, almost, reaching for the joke in it at first. His knuckles came up to brush against your cheek for one second. “I’m not going anywhere near that coffee – you’d have me chipped like a dog by Tuesday.” 

It was a gift, you could see his words wrapped and extended – him invoking your domestic insanity, holding it up like the reason the sky was blue – and all you had to do was accept it. The morning would become the, in all senses of the word, usual.

You would’ve preened at the portrait of you, and now you heard it from the morning’s new ears – he’s got an ex who speaks Italian and you think it’s fun to threaten him with 24 hour surveillance. 

“I wouldn’t, though,” you said quickly.

When his knuckles paused on your cheek, questioningly, you continued, “You should go. I won’t be mad at you.” Your lips pressed together for one second. “I promise.” 

Jack’s hands went to your hips and his jaw shifted from side to side, as he looked away from your face for a second. “Yeah. Okay. I’m not grabbing coffee with another woman.” 

“She came all the way. You guys are old –”

“Stop,” he interrupted with a laugh – disbelieving and no humor in it – as his head reeled back.

“Stop it – I don’t want this.” His hands flexed on your hips, then came up to wave in the general direction, then fell back down. He looked at you really, really upset, or baffled, or both. “Who cares how far she came? People fly places. I don’t want to have coffee with anyone.”

You shrugged, letting your head drop into his chest again. “If that’s what you want. You don’t have to do it because of me.” 

“I am absolutely doing it because of you.” His arm came around you, bringing you back close to him. “I’m not going ‘cause my girlfriend exists. That’s a whole reason. It’s a great one. So don’t talk me out of it.” He pressed his lips to the top of your skull. “Not your reason to give away. And you can get me chipped, if you like.”

You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you even say to that? You felt him nod over you at the silence, felt some hesitance creep into his body, as he pulled you in. 

“Actually,” he said after a moment. “Let’s put a pin in the plan.” One hand lifted off you and made some small motion, you couldn’t see it but you felt the absence where it had been, before it came back. “We’ll do it tomorrow. Next week. River’s not goin’ anywhere.” His arm resettled around you, snugger than before. “Today we’ll stay in.” 

“Jack –”

“Blanket, couch, girl.” He counted your day off your spine, three soft taps of his fingers. When you made a sound of protest, his said into your hair, quieter, “I’ve got all I need. I’m not feeling the outside today. That okay?”

“No, it’s not – let’s go. I’m just tired right now. I’ll be up later.” 

You felt him breathe, then, the gust of air pooling into your hair.

“Then come to bed,” he tried weakly, and he sounded so broken you wanted to cry. You could hear him knocking at the door of you. “Sleep. Let’s sleep together, if you’re tired.”

“Not sleepy-tired,” you said, and heard how little it made sense even as it came out of you.

Then, you pushed yourself up off him, palms to his chest, trying to keep the motion casual. “I think I just need to wake up properly. Move around a little.” You stood, angling your face away, blinking fast as you looked at the dark TV screen. “I’m gonna get in the shower, if that’s okay?”

When you tried to look over your shoulder, he’d straightened up, palms falling down to his sides on the couch as he looked up at you. 

“Course it’s okay,” he said, hands following up then to settle for your hand, thumb passing over your knuckles. He gave your fingers the gentlest tug and pulled his head back, catching your eyes for a second before you could look away again, and the look on his face was so, so soft. “Do you want breakfast?” 

You nodded quickly. “Yeah – thanks.” 

He made a small sound, then pressed his lips to your knuckles, then let your fingers go one at a time. You made it four steps down the hallway with his gaze heavy on your back, and you couldn’t stand it.

There was a great, large, incessant bug in you that couldn’t stand Jack back there with his worried face and scared smile. So you half-turned over your shoulder, your eyes down at the baseboard, and called out, “Love you, Jack.” 

You’d told Jack you loved him at full speed, into his mouth mid-argument, into the phone before you’d even said hello, at grocery stores, at funerals, at red lights, six times a day minimum. It was the surest sentence you owned. This time, it went out like a paper boat, pushed onto the water with two fingers, and watched all the way across. 

“Love you, too,” he called back warmly, after what felt like a hundred years.

Jack had once spent a very, very long time to get you to believe that even if you held onto something good loosely, it won’t run away. He’d had to get you to believe that even if your grip on him loosened, even just for a second, even for a month, he would still be right there. Why was he feeling the need to hold you so tightly now? 

He set your plate at your spot, and his at his. He poured the coffee, saw the first coffee you’d abandoned on the counter, full and stone cold, and stood there looking for a second longer than the mug deserved.

He’d put on his prosthesis after plating the food, a part of him too large and hopeful – instead of its usual, content, un-worried hum – expecting you to come out of your shower wanting to do something, the diner, the river, after all, trying to change his mind.

He’d hoped you’d come out wanting to be carried somewhere on his back. He wanted to be ready, he always was now. He kept himself pre-approved for whatever you thought of next.

The inside of your head was a busy little harbor, boats coming in at all hours, and he’d been granted a standing spot on the dock. You’d let him become the first to hear about octopus, cats, furniture, which part of your body felt cold, warm, or lukewarm. A year of receiving your pretty cargo and he’d never once been bored. 

He, decades your senior, had seen the world be made interesting again by you just narrating it at him. He had the sneaking suspicion he’d follow your voice wherever it went, into traffic, a dock, into old age, and the shower.

The water kept running. He wasn’t the kind of man that’d track your showers, but years of working in emergency and emergency-adjacent situations had honed up his internal clock eerily well, smoothened out his pattern recognition.

He had to tamp down the urge to deploy it, to use this innate, terrible, awful instinct in his brain on you – you, who he felt more than monitored, who he’d only ever read with love, no grains of salt, no instruments. 

You were the girl who rearranged things in his cabinets by feeling and left in it a system he still couldn’t crack and refused to fix. Opening a drawer looking for a spatula and finding your hair ribbons had become one of the small startling joys of his one life.

He’d been a clinician for so long, and you’d built with him a corner of the world where he was just a man, holding a girl, and being completely in love with her.

Jack, bring me the towel even though it’s right there. Jack, come look at this bruise. Did I not wash out the conditioner out properly? Jack – Jack, Jack, come and just sit with me while I shower.

His knee bounced under the table, and he stopped it. 

Your eggs had gone cold, glossy, and began settling into themselves. The toast had lost its heat, and the jam sat unopened with its little lid on – the grape, the good one – and the jam was a small purple fact that he could not find himself liking to sit across from. You’d have opened it by now and started walking the length of the place, spoon in your mouth, talking. 

A year of you had taught him what mornings looked like when they were going right. He knew this one had gone wrong so quietly and terribly, that he’d been able to hold you the entire time it was happening. 

It was the bitter feeling of the surge he’d had in his chest this morning at the thought of your instincts.

He’d read a woman’s name off his screen and come home with it like it was a match to your pretty fire. He’d carried it into bed with you, and all Jack knew was that at this morning, his girl had been in his arms so sweetly, and minutes later, her fingers were hesitant to press into his skin. The only thing that happened in between was his own mouth, having fun. 

Jack wasn’t sure when he’d stood up, but he was walking to the bedroom now, to the ensuite bathroom. A year ago, this hallway had been a hallway. Now, it was a museum of you mid-motion, and he moved through it with his heart going at a pace he hadn’t earned sitting down, past the bed still holding the shape of the forgery you’d left him in, a pillow. He had to look away from it like the sun. 

He told himself that the bathroom door being closed was normal. Steam, privacy, nothing; all of it were real things. 

“Hey,” he said to the door lightly, knuckles going in two soft taps. It was the same knock he used with the you in the bath going pruny as he was happily serving you wine. “You fall asleep in there? S’been a minute.”

He tried to force his lips into something close to a smile even though there was a door between you right now.

Perhaps it was because Jack – even now, even morbidly confused – knew you, and knew that the door would be locked before he confirmed it with his shaky fingers. 

( You, who talked to him through the glass of the shower, sat cross-legged on the counter while he shaved – you missed a spot, no, the other spot, how do you have a medical license, genius – and stole his coffee between critiques and made him laugh hard enough he’d nicked his jaw and you’d gasped like the injured party, then kissed it before pronouncing him stable.

You, who had once flung the shower door open mid-rinse to tell him that you’d figured out what you both were in a past life. He never got to hear the answer. You’d seen him standing at the sink in his towel and lost the thread altogether, and the past lives were never mentioned again, and Jack had walked around for the next twenty-four hours unreasonably pleased about being distracting at his age to you. 

A door had, simply, never existed in your relationship. )

The key was right there. He’d put it there himself, two summers before he’d ever met you, the day the door had swung shut at its own draft and locked an empty bathroom. He’d forgotten it existed, but his hand went up and found it first try, blind, and came down holding this tiny cold thing. 

His fingers were unsteady fitting it in, which was new. He’d threaded needles into people in moving vehicles. Now, in his home, his fingers trembled over a privacy lock like a first year, because on the other side of the door was the whole of his one life, in falling water, hiding from him – him – and every second the key took was a second you sat in there believing you had to do so. 

“I’m coming in,” he said to the door, softer than an announcement this large should’ve been, like some part of him was afraid of the wrong reaction at your response to it. “Just me. I’m coming in, okay?” 

His chest caved – folded in on itself, turned over – because there you were, on the floor of the shower, curled up under the pour of the water, your knees to your chest and your arms wrapped around them, your face hidden down against them. His girl – the loud one, the strongest person he’d ever let himself love – made small and quiet and hidden on the floor of the shower. He had seen you in this place a thousand times and never once, not ever, like this.

“Oh – baby. No, hey –”

Your head snapped up at his voice, and just that sharp little movement of you made him tilt back slightly. Your face – wet and swollen, eyes red at the rims, gone raw and young and caught in a way he’d never seen it – did something terrible when it saw him in the doorway. It crumpled then hardened, both at once, a door slamming behind glass, and you scrubbed the heel of your hand over your eyes like you could take back the last thirty seconds if you were quick enough about it.

“No,” you said quickly, the word cracking out of you with a sharp edge under the thickness. Your hand came up between you, a flat little barricade under the steam. “No – get out, Jack – I told you I’ll be – please, get out –” 

You didn’t push him. This wasn’t a thing that happened. You pulled – you reeled him in by the shirt, you climbed into his lap, you fought tooth and nail for every inch of distance he’d tried to keep, whose entire love was a set of hands hauling him closer, closer, closer.

He had spent all this time being pulled by you, gladly, helplessly, and he did not have – had never needed – a single instinct for being pushed. 

“Hey – hey, no – don’t –” His hand came out to the glass, pushing slightly. “It’s just me. It’s me. Look –”

“I don’t want it to be you right now,” you said, and the words were so awful and completely jagged.

You turned to face away, like you were trying to push yourself out of his sight entirely. “Please. Please, just go and get out. I don’t want you here – please, Jack.” 

“No, don’t ask me that,” Jack said immediately, voice breaking clean in half as his eyes went glassy and desperate. “It’s me – you don’t hide from me – we’re not that –”

“Please,” you said, voice barely audible over the running of the water, and his nose burnt as he caught sight of you shaking. “Please, just give me a minute – a minute. I’m – I’m asking you to leave.” 

Jack’s hand hung empty in the air as he looked down at you, heart in actual pieces on the tile, and he understood – quietly – that the only thing you were begging him for was the single thing he’d have rather died than do, to turn around and leave you crying. 

So – because you’d asked, because pushing past a plea like that would only carve you open worse, because loving you had never once meant taking what he wanted when it wasn’t what you needed – he made himself.

“Okay,” he said, voice coming out in ruins. “Okay, baby. Okay. I’m going – I’ll go.” He reached up and took your towel off your rail and set it closer to the shower. “I’m right outside. I’m not far – I’ll be right there and you come get me the second you want me, you hear? The second.”

You stayed silent, so Jack, clumsy with grief in a way his body never was, made himself turn his back on you. At the door, he paused, eyes pinching shut to make himself not look over his shoulder. Instead, he said, “I love you.”

He pulled the door behind him, left it breathing half ajar with the steam sighing out through the gap, and pulled himself to sit at the edge of the bed, facing the bathroom. Like you were going to run from him, like some part of him needed both feet under him and the door in his eyeline needed to be ready. For what? He couldn’t have said. To catch you, he supposed. To get you the second you’d let him. To not be caught sitting down when you finally opened the door and needed him standing. 

He sat there with his elbows braced on his knees and his hands pressed together against his mouth and waited, and it was the longest ten minutes of his recent life.

Every second of it was stretched unbearably, because he was learning there is this particular hell in loving someone past all sense and being made to sit on the other side while they hurt. He didn’t know what to do with this feeling, had never had to think it was a possibility between the two of you.

When the door opened, Jack was on his feet before he’d decided to be. There you were, towel-wrapped, hair dripping onto your shoulders, face swollen and turned just slightly away, eyes on the floorboards. You crossed your arms over your chest, gripping the towel closed.

“Hey,” he said, breathing through it, his voice half-ruined, shaking. He caught it and hauled it down a register by force, into the very low, sure place his voice lived when everything depended on it.

He made himself stay planted – made himself open his arms instead of using them, wide, a whole doorway of him – while every muscle strained against its leash, because his body had exactly one theory about you crying and the theory was to go, and he stood on that theory with all his weight. 

“Come here,” he said instead, begging with a steady voice, a whole vacuum sealed into two words. 

Your eyes climbed as high as his chest and gave up there, arms tightening. You shook your head dimly, water flicking. He nodded to himself, made himself stay standing, without letting an ounce on his face where you’d have to carry it. 

“One step. That’s all I’m asking.” His arms turned palm-up at the ends of his open arms, still, though nothing behind his ribs was. “You don’t have to talk. Or explain anything. Not tonight, or ever. I’ll die curious – but I’m standing here figuring out I don’t work right until I know how you feel in my arms and I haven’t known for hours and I am asking you –” His voice strained, and the words came out bare, “ – Please, I am asking you to come let me hold you.” 

You let out a small sound, eyes pinching shut, and he watched a whole war happen on your face. Jack thought, uselessly, hopelessly, that he’d have stood there through a winter or as the building came down, holding a door ajar in himself for as long as doors took.

You crossed, though. Your body came to him hard, all at once, like you were dropped from a height, and Jack caught you with one arm crushed around your towel-wrapped back. The other flew to your wet hair, his palm rounding the whole back of your skull, pressing you into his heart, gathering you in and in and in, past where space existed, trying to find one more setting past where proximity itself existed. He let out a sound that was – dangerously – close to sob into your hair, finding himself completely undone for the first time in a very, very long time. 

“There you are,” he murmured, rocking you slightly as his mouth pressed to the top of your dripping hair. “I’ve got you. Got you now.”

You shook against him, and Jack winced at the feeling of it, gently reeling both of you down onto the edge of the mattress, then back, then over, until he had you sideways across his lap, your knees folded over his thigh, your face tucked into the crook of his neck, his arms locked around you like a cage. The towel gave up at under your shoulder, so he pulled the corner of the blanket up over the bare curve of it – wrapping you precious – and then his arm closed the last of the circuit and locked. 

For a while, he simply let his hand move up and down your spine while you cried into his throat, and every shudder that went through you went straight through him, too. He pressed his lips to your temple and left them there and rode it out with you, breathing slow on purpose, loud enough for you to borrow the rhythm off of his nose, an old medic’s trick he was running on the only patient he’d loved past all sense. 

Somewhere in the middle of it, with your tears running down his throat and pooling at his collarbone,

Jack thought, helplessly, that even this was somehow yours and somehow beautiful; you cried like you did everything, with your whole body, holding nothing residual, generous, so generous, even in grief. You’d never given him a partial anything, and Jack tightened his arms around the full, shaking entirety of you and thanked the universe, genuinely, that when you’d finally fallen apart, you’d walked the few steps and done it on him. 

When your crying wore itself down, Jack made himself stay silent. The questions, fully formed, seventy versions of them and redrafted since the kitchen, he swallowed, because he had a feeling he had pushed enough for one simple morning. He’d pushed this morning smiling. He held you and let the question live in him like a swallowed stone and, apparently, he was less subtle about it than he thought.

Your voice came up out of his neck, waterlogged and small, as you said, “I know you want to ask.” Your fingers moved faintly against his chest, a fidget with no strength in it. “It’s okay. You can.” 

Jack had to close his eyes at your first full sentence being a door held open for him; you’d crawled out of your own wreckage to check on the driver. 

“I do,” he said into your hair, honestly. “But I’m not gonna spend your turn. So here’s mine first.” 

He felt you go still against him – attention gathering, a tiny tilt of your head at his collarbone – and he breathed in heavy, big enough to lift you where you lay, to pay up. 

“I got really scared today,” he said, voice going into a whisper as he leaned down to talk to you. “I woke up to you not in my arms and my whole chest felt – wrong. I do this for a living, I’ve got all the words. It wasn’t – wasn’t sick. It felt wrong, you not being somewhere you’re supposed to be. First time in – forever, if I’m being honest.” He tapped you skin twice, to hold himself. 

“And when I found you, I couldn’t reach you. And now – seeing you –” He felt you stiffen up at that, and he nodded in understanding, skipping over. “I’m thinking of getting rid of all our doors.” His hand kept moving down your spine, and he faced your head then. “Bathroom’s the priority. Bedroom might be load-bearing, but. Front door stays. Everything else is beaded curtains by Friday.” 

You made a small sound against his neck, and Jack had to stop himself from crushing you into the tightest hug at the bridge of a laugh. He pressed his mouth to your temple for a few seconds instead. “Another thing while I’ve got the floor. Telling me to go get coffee with an ex – don’t do that again. I’m not gambling with you. I’ve only got one of you. So, I’m never going to coffee with anyone else again.” 

“You’re allowed to cry,” he said, setting the joke aside. “I’m sorry I made you feel you couldn’t do it with me knowing about it. That’s mine, and I’m gonna find it and fix it if it takes me the rest of my life.” 

“You didn’t do anything,” you protested, sounding wounded. 

“It’s okay,” he murmured. “That’s mine. That’s what I felt today. You don’t have to give me yours.” 

His arms adjusted, and some helpless, incurable corner of him – the one that had flirted with you through every disaster you’d ever handed each other – added, “But, if you wanted to trade, I can make it worth your while.” 

You laughed at that again, and the two of you stayed silent again for sometime. Your fingers crawled up his chest, up over his collarbone, curling loosely around his neck, your palm settling in like you needed contact to speak. 

“You went to Italy,” you said. 

Jack’s brain did one, full lap around the words, and came back with nothing. He did the only thing he could when you handed him a coin he couldn’t read, which was holding it up to the light and keeping his voice soft and not dropping it. 

“I did,” he said, carefully. “Long, long time ago, baby.”

“Was it nice?” you asked, the words coming out so small. In the same breath, like a small dam breaking, you added, “Do you miss it?”

Jack never had to look for a trap in your words, not like this.

There was none now, either. You’d asked about Italy like you asked him about bad days, ready to receive whatever came back, your thumb doing a nervous sweep against his neck like you were comforting him in advance. You’d found the one grief in the world with his fingerprints on it and your first instinct was to ask if he wanted it back. 

For an ugly second, he thought he could have lied. No, it was overrated, beds were weird, bad food. You’d have heard it, and Jack thought that it would’ve taught you that you couldn’t survive the truth. 

“It was nice,” he said quietly, hands moving up and down your spine. “I was young. Younger, anyway. Whole trip was –” He exhaled, shaking his head as he tried to hunt for the honest size of it. “It was a trip, baby. It was nice.” 

He pressed his lips to your hairline. “I don’t miss it. There’s nothing in there to miss. Like –” He clicked his teeth, searching for the words. “Driving past a house I used to live in. Half the time, can’t even remember which window was yours. You just keep going, ‘cause everything you own’s at the new place now.” His fingers tightened on you. “Think if I’d known what this was, back then, I’d have kept missing this, there.” 

Your breath shifted against his throat, and you nuzzled your face into his neck.

“What’s got you worried?” he murmured. He closed his eyes, letting his head lean to rest against yours, palms moving from your waist to your nape, then down. “I can get us to Europe by Thursday, just say the word. I’ve got PTO and miles I’ve been sitting on for years. I think they were for this.” 

“I don’t wanna go to Italy,” you said, smiling against his neck. “I think this is something I have to get through myself. It’s not anything you’ve done to me.”

Jack felt that familiar twist in his chest. It’d come to him for the first time today, and it kept coming up and up and up, and he couldn’t help but want to claw at his own mouth for his selfish, cruel little game, for every grinning careless word he’d dropped on you like they weighed nothing. And now you felt that you had to deal with it yourself, like it was yours to carry alone, off in a corner, someplace he couldn’t get to. Because he had done this. 

You were, simply, acting like the two of you weren’t the two of you; you had spent a whole year proving to him that ‘by yourself’ was a thing that, now, never existed. 

He drew you back, fingers threading through the back of your hair, trying to physically take you back from wherever – whatever – this by yourself was. He put your face in the light, wet-lashed, trying so hard to keep it together, and his thumb swept the damp while his own face did whatever it was doing, open and scared and thoroughly past the point of keeping it in check. 

“You don’t have a ‘yourself’ anymore, sweetheart. I don’t have that anymore. You woke me up at three in the morning to tell me how you fell off the monkey bars in third grade – remember? You didn’t think twice about it.” His forehead came down, brushing your nose with his. “And now you’re gonna sit here and tell me this – the saddest thing that’s crossed that pretty head all year – this one you’re keeping alone?” 

“Jack–”

“What is going on in that head of yours?” he interrupted, words soft but pointed, suddenly having given up all pretense of coaxing and gone straight to needling.

He watched you open your mouth as you took in a breath, and maybe it was the closeness or the way his thumb kept moving along your jaw, but you said, “I don’t know if I’m the real one.”

Jack’s brows furrowed, feeling heat build up behind his eyes as he looked at you with a pained, confused expression.

“I don’t know if I’m the one you do it for real with, Jack, or if I’m just – the young one. The one you get before – or after – I don’t even know how it works.”

Your hands came up between you, aggravated at yourself, at him, at the lack of vocabulary. 

“You’ve done so much. You’ve got countries. Experiences. So many of them. And I’ve got –” Your shrug came out tiny. “– you. You’re my biggest everything. You’re my Italy and I feel like I’ve been with you for three years and my – you’re all of it, Jack. I’m terrified I’m just the person that came after your big thing.” 

You blinked, and Jack’s fingers reached up to catch the little tear falling over your lashes, his own eyes blinking furiously. Jack wanted, so badly, to reach to you and press your kiss to your mouth to stop this, to to kiss this whole wilted garden you’d created in your head out of you.

He shook his head. “I hope I’m not your – her,” he said, a wince in the words, finding it difficult to even get them out. “Or your Italy.”

“You are –” you said, with so much conviction, chin coming up, ready to fight him for the honor of it, “you are – that’s what I’m telling you –” 

“I’m your Jack.” His hands tightened on your face, voice coming out slightly cracked. “I’d forgotten about this woman until this came up. I don’t want you to forget me. I’m your Jack and I’m the luckiest man for it everyday. So you pick a better word soon, and don’t take that title away from me.” He shook his head. “I like it. I like it a lot.”

You bristled slightly, your eyes shining into his as they went wide, the whole of you locking up at the words. He tapped his palm gently against your cheek once, then again, frowning as he thought he really ought to tell you this more, for a girl who kept a running tally of everything else.

You’d created a museum out of things he’d said, and somehow this one, the biggest one – the luckiest man of it – he’d been rationing. He’d been handing it over in the glances and over eggs, assuming it was arriving, that a girl who read him so fluently was taking what he’d said to you over and over again, so simply because it was just a fact. 

Never again. He’d tell you daily now, remind you of it while making you look him in the eyes. 

“I tried to make you jealous,” you said, the words coming out through a sad, shameful laugh. Something in his chest broke hearing you confess it like it was a crime. “I’ve got nothing, Jack. You won’t care about Sam, or Dave, or – I don’t even remember one’s name. That’s all. You had a doctor you went to Italy with.” 

His eyes fluttered for a second, the muscle in his jaw clenching as his fingers ran over your cheek. The nature of it all was too backwards. Jack had made a very sad sort of peace with himself – he’d known what he was – and somehow, at the end of all that, at the bottom of the ninth of his whole entire life, you’d walked into it glowing like something confiscated from heaven. You’d looked at the full of him, and decided you wanted him. You, dished out to him probably because of some fate-giver who’d been asleep at the desk, who had let the single best thing walk out to him.

If a single one of those guys had stayed awake one more hour, asked one more question, been at the right angle to see who was sitting across them, you’d be – Jack grimly, awfully thought – somewhere else right now. And Jack never would have known; he wouldn’t have known to miss you. You’d have been long gone and loved properly, early, by someone with the sense to do it. 

Jack would have worked his nights and run the bay, choosing every day to enter a new crisis, and never known the whole time that the best thing that would ever happen to him had happened to somebody else instead, on time, the way it properly should have. It was their loss, and he was going to make his entire life out of it. 

His arms moved before the thought even finished, hauling you in impossibly closer, resettling the whole, true warm weight of you against him. “Stay right here,” he murmured.

You did. Your lashes stuck wet in little points and your fingers resettled on his neck. You were wearing his shirt, drowning in it. Jack had been the steadiest set of hands in many rooms, he knew it without vanity. But nothing in his skill set covered you; steady hands didn’t win a girl who lit up rooms; being good in a crisis didn’t earn a woman who made every ordinary Tuesday feel like a celebration. He’d spent so long getting excellent at the exact things nobody falls in love with – triage, containment, blood – and you’d walked into his life and fallen for him anyway, for reasons he couldn’t successfully point to, and he’d stopped asking why out of superstition. You, he was not in the mood to reasonably place; Jack knew when a person was handed one, that they should keep showing up for a miracle, quietly hoping it stayed. 

Jack, falling apart at every seam of him, eyes hot and jaw aching, huffed. It was one, soft breath of a laugh, and your eyes snapped up to his, betrayed, and he shook his head fast, thumb pressing to your cheek to stay with him. 

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, shaking his head softly, thumbs framing your face to tilt it up. “I promise. I’m laughing ‘cause you’ve got no idea what I’d give to have your problem.” 

You blinked at him, mouth curved into a frown. That one, he was sure, was aimed at him. His hands were shaking slightly against your jaw.

“I mean that I am very, very glad that you’ve got no Italy to wave at me. You think I want you to have another big grown love in your pocket? Some guy you crossed the country with?” His hands tightened on your face, eyes shining. “It would ruin me. I’d never sleep again. And I’m sorry for waving mine at you this morning, because I didn’t think it’d make you not sleep.” 

He held your eyes through it, taking his medicine looking at you. “I said it ‘cause I love you jealous. It makes me feel nice to know you care about me.” His lips curved into a sad smile. “I didn’t think what it’d do when I brought this up. I will be very, very sorry about that for a long time.”

When you smiled softly, eyes hooded as you looked down at his mouth, he nodded to himself.

“And I had a nice trip with a woman a hundred years ago, and it ended, and I have zero photos of it. That’s a thing that happened to me. You are not a thing that happened to me. You are what it was all for. All the years, the whole time, all the wrong turns. That was just me taking the long way to find you. You are my biggest thing – biggest one that’s ever happened to me – and I want you to know some pretty life-changing things have happened to me.” 

You stared at him, mouth open, tears going uncaught now, because Jack had gone completely still, needing you to see all his years on his face at once. 

He huffed, mind flicking through this haze of memories. He could reach back and find the years, the apartment, and it all came as nothing. He’d loved women, had meant it completely, with everything he’d had on hand, and he may not have been wrong. And now he can carry the tender knowledge that a person can feel absolutely certain there is everything to be felt and be off by a whole magnitude; he’d stood inside his biggest feeling and called it the biggest and had simply, innocently, not met you. 

“And since you told me yours,” he said, quieter, eyes going down because he found he couldn’t quite hold your gaze for this.

“I know what it feels like to think you’ve found what good love is, and then to find out how it is to love someone bigger. That the thing you could’ve sworn was everything was just – nothing, in the grand scheme.” 

He turned his face to the side as he held your face, suddenly finding the enormity of this simplicity pressing at the back of his eyes. Everything – he was sure of it – had just been the longest drive over to you.

“But you got this first. You’ve got nothing to check it against.” His thumb swept your cheekbone, and his eyes came back to you. 

“I know how big this is because I’ve got my whole life to look at it against. And you just have to take my word for it.”

He tugged his lip between his teeth, searching your eyes with question, checking whether the words were pushing through, whether they had the gap to push through. Your face was tilting toward him, listening with every feature at once; he could see the whole war playing out on your face you had never once been able to conceal from him. You had no poker face, at least to him, you didn’t.

“This is the one,” he said, nodding just barely. “There was never a morning I woke up and had to think about anything before you. You are the reason I know what you think is the big thing is small.” 

Your breath stuttered, and your chin trembled once before you caught it from gritting your teeth inside your mouth. 

“And sometimes –” He nodded, more to himself, as he forced himself to continue. “– I have felt a similar thing. I see you, and I wonder if you’ll think about some guy your own age, out there somewhere. Standard legs. Normal hours.” He shrugged. “No years of the stuff I’ve carried. And I think, someday, you’ll look over at me and think you settled for the –”

“That’s crazy,” you interrupted, the words shooting out of you instantly. Your fingers flew up to grip both his wrists. “That’s crazy, Jack – I don’t want – I would never. There’s no guy, I don’t want standard legs. I want your legs – leg – fuck, Jack.” Your voice broke off as you let out a small, pained groan. “I would pick you over any person who has ever lived.” 

“Yeah, see,” he murmured, a small smile coming up as he let the weight of your words land on him. “Can you see how it sounds crazy when it’s coming at you?”

He brushed his nose against yours at your stunned silence. “I feel the exact same way about what you said. It’s crazy.”

He had to blink over and over as he settled on the weight of your words, said so simply and furiously with no build up. The biggest sentences of his life just slipped out of you, unwrapped, and you had not the first clue what they weighed. Any person who had ever lived. God, you’d waved off the whole crowded history of the species in one breath to pick a tired man in Pittsburgh.  

“Let’s go,” he murmured, wrapping you up and pulling both of you back against the cushions, resettling you on his chest. Your ear was at his heart. The blanket was up to your shoulder. “We’re gonna lie here a while now. I think we both need it.” 

“It was a weird morning.” 

“Mhm.” His hand went to your spine. “Top five weirdest.”

And he should have let it be, but there was still something sitting in him. 

Jack pressed his lips together as he once again said, “I am sorry for this morning. I was –” He breathed in through his nose, fingers coming up to your head, tapping it twice to get you to look up at him. You did, chin pressing into his chest and your eyes tired yet focused. “Immature.” 

Your lips twisted slightly, then you tugged them with your teeth once and looked away, like you were trying not to agree. 

“I was,” he said, easily, agreeing for you. His thumb traced your hairline. “Good thing for me, I happen to be with a girl who likes getting her revenge. Even when I don’t think I did anything.” 

“You do –”

“I do. I do. You’re not wrong,” he said, the opposite of a complaint in it. “You know how to settle a score. And this morning I racked up a real big one. And you’ve just been sitting on it, being gracious.” His nose wrinkled, his fingers going to cradle the side of your face. “You keep that up, you’ll start minding your business and I’ll be living with a stranger.”

At your small, hesitant smile, Jack continued, “I know you don’t like the paintjob of my truck.” You nodded at that, honest as ever. “What I’m thinking is, you key it.”

Your eyes widened.

“Go nuts on the thing. Do some drawings. Write nice words. I drive it around after, everyone sees it. And when we’re good and done with that show and tell,” he continued, fingers threading into your hair, “we take it in. You pick a new color. Any color. Change the seats if you want, too.”

“People will think –”

“People will think a woman loves me enough to key my truck. Do we have a deal?”

Sometimes, you were convinced your professors didn’t even want you to pass. Sometimes it felt like they were trying their hardest to make you quit, and sometimes it felt like it was working.

You were in your second year of a seven year PhD program. Studying with amazing, accomplished professors, spending hours in the library taking in every detail you could, and beginning to put fieldwork proposals together for research of your own, you were in a position you’d dreamed of almost your whole life. You’d studied and cried and sweated to be where you were, but it hit you every once and a while just how much more studying, crying, and sweating you had ahead of you.

“I can’t do it,” you said, the night before fall classes were due to start. “I can’t do it.”

You sat staring at your schedule, a monstrous piece of paper you’d just finished putting together. You knew you’d have lots of lectures, knew you’d be TAing, knew preparing proposals would take hours and hours, but you hadn’t seen it all together until just then. You were staring down a block of color coded scribbles with no breaks, a continuous wall of commitments. You groaned.

“You can do it,” said Iris. “You say that every year, and you always make it.”

Iris was one roommate of three. The four of you, you, Iris, Celia, and Jenna, all lived off of stipends from your university grad programs, and squished into a cheap, rundown two bedroom place not too far from campus. The “broke grad student” stereotype wasn’t really a stereotype, it was the reality for the majority of your classmates.

Ramen packets and dry PB&Js made up your food pyramid. You scrambled for loose change when you spotted it on the floor of the train station or behind the massive dryers at your local laundromat. You didn’t get girls nights out unless one of you fluttered your eyelashes enough to earn free drinks from drunk frat guys.

It was exhausting, but you were sure it would feel much worse to be one of those rich assholes whose parents paid for everything. You may not have bought new underwear in a soft two years, but at least you had your self respect.

“Office hours Monday all morning, then prep for Parson’s,” you said. “Then Theory Foundations that night, then more reading for Global Health Delivery on Tuesday before bed because god knows I won’t have time before class with teaching and my BCSM meeting.”

“Self inflicted,” Jenna muttered.

“Then Wednesday I’m working on grant proposals before Methods of Socio-Cultural Anthro,” you pressed on, ignoring her. “Then Thursday and Friday, more TA stuff, meetings, grading, reading, bullshit. Oh, and don’t forget the first colloquium of the semester, so I can waste two hours of studying trapped in a stuffy auditorium eating stale crackers and chatting up old geezers who only want to talk about their glory days! And I can’t even get drunk on the cheap wine because on Saturday I’ll have one million billion essays to write and volunteer commitments.”

You took a breath, sitting back in your lawn-turned-kitchen chair, arms crossed.

“I like the colloquia,” said Celia.

“That’s because you’re a giant nerd, sweetie,” said Jenna.

“Jen, we’re all nerds,” you said impatiently. “We are putting ourselves through this so we can keep learning. That’s nerdy.”

“Speak for yourself,” she said. “At least I have a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, ’cause Dylan’s such a prize,” snorted Iris.

“He’s the captain of the crew team!” snapped Jenna.

“He’s the coxswain!”

“Guys, it doesn’t matter,” you said, rubbing your temple. “Just knock it off.”

“Fine,” said Jenna, swinging one leg over the other in a haughty manner. “As I was going to say, Dylan told me something that might just cheer your grumpy ass up.”

“Yeah, like what,” you grumbled, pulling your planner closer and beginning to scribble. You were doubtful anything Dylan the Dull had to say would pertain to you, let alone make you happy.

“His friend Jack has a class with you,” said Jenna. “You remember Jack, right?”

You surely did. He was an auburn haired Adonis from crew, with freckled skin and a wonky little smile. He hung around with Tyler’s group from the team so you’d met him a couple times. And a couple was just enough to make an impression, a good one.

Had you been in the market for a distraction, a family oriented, buff, sweethearted med student like him would probably be the one. But you weren’t looking for yet another time consuming extracurricular. Besides, you had barely talked to the guy, for all you knew he was a raging psychopath.

But there was another, more likely reason you kept your distance. Guys like him weren’t usually interested in girls like you. More than that, they usually had some nasty opinions. With your skin a patchwork of tattoos, and your face littered with piercings, a lot of people tended to find your appearance alarming. A polite, straight-laced, boy-next-door, future doctor jock type like him didn’t exactly mesh.

Evidently, you’d spent a lot of time thinking about Jack. More time than you should have spent thinking about a friend of a boyfriend of a friend. An embarrassing amount of time, in your opinion. So you just shrugged, and said, “Mhm, I think so.”

“Well, he’s in Pendanski’s class with you,” she said, smirking. “You better get a seat in the front.”

“Why’s that?” you asked.

“I just think it’d be hard to focus if he was in the corner of your eye,” said Jenna teasingly.

You began tracing over your words with your pen, just to have something to do. “I don’t think so,” you said. “I tend to find lecture material much more interesting than boys.”

“Oh, don’t play coy,” Jenna giggled. “I know you know he’s gorgeous. Don’t lie!”

“Yeah, he’s — cute,” you said, shrugging again. “In an obvious, muscley kind of way. I guess.”

Jenna clucked disapprovingly.

“You need to broaden your horizons a little bit,” she said. “This is your last year being normal. After this, it’s all comps, and research, and dissertations. You won’t have a break like this again until you’re thirty.”

“A break?” you said incredulously, motioning to your planner. “Did you not listen to a word I just said?”

“You’re so dramatic,” she said.

“Dramatic, sure,” you scoffed. “Because I care more about my future career than getting a date.”

“I just don’t want you to wake up all dry and wrinkly one day and realize you wasted away your youth,” said Jenna. “You’re hot, and fun. It won’t last forever. So get a B minus and have one, singular hot, fun night!”

You opened your mouth.

“And drinking warm beers once every two months with us does not count,” Jenna added, pointing an accusatory finger at you. “Especially when you bring AIDS and Its Metaphors to the fucking dive bar.”

You closed it.

Maybe you preferred a good book over a game of pool, and maybe you hadn’t had a boyfriend since high school, but by the time Global Health rolled around that Tuesday, you decided Jenna didn’t know what she was talking about. But you had forgotten how cute Jack was.

Because class was small, and you spent most of the time having open group discussions, there was no big, crowded lecture hall. Desks were organized in a semi circle around the blackboard, kind of like back in elementary school, which you usually liked but now caused a spark of dread. You couldn’t get a front seat and forget Jack was there. Especially when he bounded straight over to you the second he walked through the door.

It was hard not to smile back when Jack smiled at you, and he was always smiling.

“Hey,” he said happily, at a much louder volume than the buzzing that filled the room. He attracted some odd looks as he sat down.

“Hi,” you said, quieter.

You looked around. You were used to sticking out. Higher education tended to be populated more with buttoned up cardigan wearers with loafers and ballet flats than ink and metal, and you were no stranger to the mutters and glances, and even look-down-your-nose attitudes you received. But as you sat you realized, Jack wasn’t exactly fitting in, either.

For one thing, there were only two other men in the class. For another, they were both wearing turtle neck sweaters and eying his faded wrestling team t-shirt and worn jeans with disdain. Jack paid them no mind, however. He simply pulled out a pencil and pad, stuffed his backpack under his seat, and turned to you. Two sore thumbs on opposite ends of the spectrum.

The rest of the class resumed their buzzing, and you felt obligated to mirror Jack’s attentive posture. You pulled one foot up onto your chair and rested your armpit over the back of it so you were facing him.

“Hi,” he said again, and you were shocked his cheek muscles weren’t sore yet. “I don’t know if you remember me. I’m Jack. Abbot.”

He held out a large hand, and you stared for a few seconds before taking it. He had done the same thing the first time you met.

“I remember you, Jack Abbot,” you said, and he smiled ever wider. “Besides, Jenna reminded me a few days ago. She’s Dylan’s girlfriend.”

“I remember Jenna, she’s great,” he said. “I remember you, too.” “Really?” you said faintly, valiantly ignoring the flutter in your stomach.

“How could I forget?” he said earnestly. “You inspired me to take this class in the first place.”

“Oh,” you said, shocked. “Well, um… good. I think it’s important for doctors to learn about the social and cultural side of medicine.”

“Me too,” he said eagerly. “We hardly talked at all about the — the social determinants of health. You know, treating the person as a whole and not just their symptoms.”

“Right,” you said, amused. “Well, welcome to the anthropology department. I hope you like reading.”

“Love it.”

“And public speaking.”

“A favorite of mine.”

“And essays that make you wanna tear your hair out.”

He held out his hands.

“Try me.”

You raised a brow.

“If math is your usual forte, you might not like this class much,” you said. “Just a fair warning.”

“Well, I think it’s valuable enough to my career and patient care to suffer through,” he said. “Besides, I’m always looking to broaden my horizons.”

Jenna’s words rang in the back of your skull, but you were distracted by the entrance of Professor Pendanski.

Jack did prove to be a distraction, although not because you thought he was hot. At least, not entirely. Your mind kept straying from health policies to him, wondering about how he was doing, what notes he was taking, if he was keeping up. He kept mostly quiet during discussion, and more than once you caught him looking at you. If he hoped you’d give him a hint, he was wrong. There was no cheating in a theory class. No one right answer to whisper to your friend, or number of fingers to hold up. You had to learn to process information fast, and think critically about the situation presented to you. But this time, without lab values, test results, or any physical measurements. 

By the end of the three hours, he was looking rather overwhelmed, and the class had already been assigned a three hundred page book to read and a two page response due by the next class date.

As everyone began packing up, you extended your leg and tapped his knee with the tip of your boot.

“You still with me?”

“Yes,” he said after a while. “Just trying to mentally plan for when I’ll have time to read an entire book in a week. And then write about it. And then start over. How has your brain not exploded?”

You chuckled.

“Practice,” you said. “But truthfully? Sometimes I’m not sure it won’t.”

He shook his head, watching you throw your stuff back in your bag.

“And you have seven years of this stuff?”

“Well, not exactly,” you said. “First few, then I take comps, then I have to convince people to give me money, then I spend two years using the money to do a research project out in the real world, then another couple writing about it, and then all I have to do is present it to a board and if they don’t think I’m shit, boom, I’ve got my PhD!”

“That’s insane,” he said, eyes wide and locked on you. You stood, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

“Yeah, well,” you shrugged. “It’s what I love. Even if I have to remind myself out loud sometimes.”

He laughed, eyes locked on you. 

“No, seriously,” he said. “Med students love to shit on a PhD, but that’s… way harder. I don’t think I could do it.”

You shuffled your feet around, pulling a threat on the strap of your tote, unsure how to respond.

“Thanks,” you said softly. “Um, I’m headed to South…”

With a jolt, Jack jumped to his feet, sweeping all his stuff into his back haphazardly and straightening up.

“I’ll walk you!” he said, throwing it on and waiting at your side like a dog on a walk. “I’m headed that way anyways. So, what kind of project do you want to do?”

“Uh, women’s health,” you said, moving towards the door.

He stared at you expectantly.

“What about it?” he asked. “Mother baby? Pregnancy? Puberty? Aging? Certain populations? Certain conditions?”

“It’s complicated,” was all you said.

“I’ve got time,” he said simply, jogging ahead to hold open the door for you.

“Alright,” you said, stepping through it. “What do you wanna know?”

“Everything,” he said.

You rolled your eyes.

“Not everything..”

He met your gaze piercingly.

“Everything.”

So you started talking. You expected him to trail off somewhere after ten minutes, but he didn’t. He asked more questions and blinked less times than anyone you’d told before. His gaze was intense, focused, and unbreakable. A little unnerving, even. You weren’t used to someone giving you their undivided attention the way he did. Not that you resented that; your friends were all as exhausted as you, your professors heard the same outlines from dozens of different students everyday, your classmates couldn’t care unless they had something to gain from it.

And that was the weirdest part. Jack didn’t have anything to gain listening to you go on and on, he wasn’t a mentor to you, he wasn’t in the field, he wasn’t even really your friend. In other words, why the fuck did he give two shits about your academic plan?

You pondered that as you walked through the halls down to the basement room where you would hold your meeting in fifteen minutes time. You could not come up with an answer.

“This is me,” you said, opening the door to the bleak, carpeted, windowless room.

He stuck his head in.

“What’s in here?”

“A meeting,” you said. “For a student org I help run. A local mutual aid thing.”

“Cool,” he said, like he meant it. “Need help setting up?”

“No, you’re fine,” you said. “My friend should be here soon. Doesn’t take much.”

“Right,” he said.

You expected him to wave and depart, only to be seen next Tuesday in class, but for the second time, you were wrong. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth from ball to heel, looking around. You watched him, unsure what to do or say.

“So, um,” you said, confused. “I guess I’ll… see you in class?”

He nodded.

“Yes, yeah, class,” he said, slowly stepping backwards.

“Thanks for… walking. And listening,” you said. “You’re a nice guy. Much better than Dylan.”

He laughed breathily, cheeks pinkening.

“So, we can be friends, then?” he asked.

“Sure,” you said, and his shy smile turned into a true one.

“Sweet,” he said, nodding. “Sweet. Cool.”

“Cool,” you said, holding in a laugh. 

He turned, got halfway past the door frame, then paused, hand resting on the slightly warped wood.

“Real quick question, no pressure,” he said quickly, “but, um, after class today, I don’t know, I was feeling a little… like, just a bit overwhelmed, and a little confused…”

“And like you’re drowning in a sea of knowledge, and there’s so much sitting on your head you don’t know where to start?” you finished, and he let out a breath and a smile. “I know the feeling well.”

“Yeah,” he chuckled, hands moving to hold his backpack straps. “So, I was wondering, no worries if not, I know you’re busy, but would you maybe be able to meet up some time? I could really use an expert’s advice.”

“Ooh, yeah, I won’t be an expert for another six years yet,” you said jokingly. “But I’d be happy to help where I can.”

“Awesome!” he said, looking relieved. “Amazing! Great! So, how about tomorrow? Assuming you don’t have a club meeting, or a class, or – or anything.”

“Um, tomorrow should be fine,” you said. “My last class ends at five, and then I was just gonna get some reading done, so.”

“Perfect!” He made a motion, like he was raising his arms in the air to do something, forgot what it was, then settled on an awkward thumbs up. “Thanks. Um, do you like coffee?”

“Can’t live without it,” you said.

“How about Common Grounds, on main?”

“I can be there at six,” you said.

“Okay!” he said. “I’ll see you then, yeah?”

And only then was he gone, then, when he knew the next time he’d be seeing you was soon. When you heard the echoing slam of the main door shutting behind him, you had to let out a snort to the empty room.

What an odd little person, you thought to yourself. 

The following night, you arrived ten minutes early to find Jack reading at a cozy corner table, and a steaming mug of your favorite just waiting in front of your empty chair.

“You seemed like that kinda girl,” was all Jack said when you asked how he got your order right.

As the sky grew darker and the wind rattled the windows, you talked Jack through what to expect from the course. Vocabulary he would be hearing, frequently risen topics, and advice not to let Charlene bait you into a rage. But by the time you were on your second refill, he had gotten you talking. About why you chose the topic you chose, why it was personal to you, which turned into talking about your experience before college, and before you knew it, he had you naming your childhood pets.

“Bitsy, Maude, and Xena,” you said. “Xena’s the only one left now, but I don’t think she’ll ever die.”

You blinked at the man before you, staring at you with his chin in his palm, nodding like he’d never heard anything so interesting. You cleared your throat.

“So, what kind of medicine do you want to practice?” you asked.

“Emergency,” he said. You nodded. “That’s it.”

“Okay, why emergency?”

“Just because,” was all he said.

You narrowed your eyes.

“No, no, no,” you said. “You can’t let me go yammering on for god knows how long, and then give me ‘just because’.”

“Fine,” he laughed. “Specializing in emergency is kind of like specializing in a little bit of everything. It’s fast paced. You can walk in the door each morning and have no idea what your day will look like. And… I feel like it’s the closest to the general population you can get, you know? We take everybody, no matter what, and figure out how to help them. Doesn’t matter what they have, doesn’t matter if they have money, if they’re homeless, rich, young, old, whatever. When you need help, you come to us.”

And that was when you knew you were fucked. Because before you talked to him, he was just hot. Now you knew he was not only hot, but also kind, thoughtful, and with a strong as shit moral character? Interest became a full blown crush, and your discomfort became raging embarrassment. The best part? From that night on, you could never escape him.

Dylan and Jenna’s friend groups had been circling each other since the two started dating, but it seemed all they needed was one more link to send them crashing together. You and Jack were that one link. All of a sudden, Dylan and some buddies would be chilling on your couch when you walked through the door. All-you-can-eat brunch Sundays at the diner on the corner was coed. You could never be sure each time you rounded a corner that Jack’s smiling face wouldn’t be waiting to jumpscare you. He even showed up to your next BCSM meeting, a newly minted member.

You didn’t completely hate it, to be fair. Dylan the Dull might have been just that, but he had some surprisingly interesting friends. Jack’s closest, a man named Michael who told you to call him Robby, was probably your favorite. He was older, a senior, and treated Jack like a baby brother, with a healthy balance of teasing and advice. And Jack? Well, he was a dream. That was the problem.

He kept doing nice things for you. If he got to the cafeteria before you, it was, “They were running out of your favorite juice, so I grabbed one for you!” If he ran into you in the copyroom, he was paying for your pages. If he saw you struggling with your mountain of books, he said, “Let me grab those! We don’t want you pulling a muscle. Trust me, I’m in med school!” Two weeks before every crew race, he was hand delivering you a personal invitation, even though you never showed up.

But the overwhelming generosity and kindness weren’t the worst part. The worst part was that about a week into the new arrangements, you finally realized why he was so dead set on becoming your friend. Or at least, you thought you did. See, you might not have been Jack’s type, but Jenna certainly was.

She had sheets of black hair that fell over her back in shiny waves. She wore sensible flats, and mini skirts, and teeny tiny golf sweaters. The two of them could have posed for JC Penney catalogues and no one would bat an eye.

And you kept catching them whispering with each other when they thought no one was looking. The first time you got suspicious, you keyed into the apartment to find them with their heads bowed towards each other, muttering. When they saw you, they sprang away from each other. Jack jumped to stand so suddenly that he knocked his knee hard against the edge of the table and shifted all his weight to the other leg for a while. He was bright red, Jenna’s eyes were shifty. They wouldn’t give you a straight answer when you asked what they were talking about, and they were the only two home.

Maybe you were imagining it, reading into things that weren’t really there. Jenna did have a boyfriend, after all, a boyfriend who was good friends with Jack. And maybe you filled your mind with this narrative because some part of you felt some type of ownership of Jack. You weren’t dating, weren’t even close, but the idea of him going out with someone else still seemed to hurt a little.

By the end of October, the unfamiliar additional mental strain, along with all the hours spent in the library helping Jack with the midterm paper, was catching up to you. When you floated the idea of staying home from the usual halloween party, though, your friends exploded.

“You can’t not come!” said Iris, the night before. “You’re the Halloween queen!”

“Besides, Celia already started ironing your bloody dress,” said Jenna. “And you worked so hard on that costume, what are you gonna do, scare the trick-or-treaters? What a waste!”

You were excited about the costume, Carrie, so you agreed to go but not drink. They needed a designated driver, anyway.

You weren’t a big partier, never had been, but Halloween was usually the exception. This year, you stood in a stranger’s crowded kitchen, pressed against the wall and trying not to get stepped on. As it turned out, Halloween wasn’t nearly as much fun when you were sober.

It took three minutes for your friends to abandon you, and five for Jack to find you. It was like he had a radar or something.

“Hey!” he bellowed, forcing his way through the throng to get to you. “Carrie?”

“Yep,” you half smiled. “And you…”

“Michael Meyers,” he said, pulling the mask out of his pocket. “The mask is a little warm, though, so I guess I’m really just a railroad worker with a knife.”

“A murderous railroad worker,” you said. “So, like, Angel Resendiz.”

“Who’s that?”

“The Railroad Killer?” you said. “He was just caught. I don’t think he actually worked on railroads, but he used them to travel and get away, and he always murdered people close to the train stops.”

“Huh,” said Jack. “See, I never knew about him.”

“He was on the Ten Most Wanted list,” you said matter of factly.

“So it isn’t just fictional crime you’re interested in, then?” he asked.

“No, no, I love my true crime mags,” you said. “Jenna says that’s a sign I’m a secret serial killer. I’m not, but if I was, I’d last way longer than most of those idiots.”

“I don’t doubt it,” said Jack with a smile. “What are you drinking?”

“Nothing,” you said. “I’m driving tonight.”

“Really? Jenna said you usually go crazy for Halloween.”

And she would have had plenty of time to tell him that during their secret rendezvous. You crossed your arms.

“Not tonight,” you said shortly.

“Oh,” said Jack, scratching the back of his head. “Well… how about a soda?”

Before you could answer, he was setting aside his full cup of beer and digging through the fridge. A second later he was placing a freezing cold can of Dr Pepper in your hand, and holding a rootbeer in the other.

“Thanks,” you said, staring at the can. It was your favorite.

“Want ice?” he asked. “I can put it in a real glass, if you want. This is Robby’s place, he’s not the cleanest, but he never empties the dishwasher, so I know whatever’s in the cupboards hasn’t been touched since he moved in.”

“That’s okay,” you said.

“How about a straw?” he asked, spinning on the spot. “I’m sure we’ve got some here… somewhere…”

“Jack, it’s fine,” you said firmly. “I can drink from a can.”

“Right,” he said, and he cracked open his only after you did yours. “Sorry.”

You sighed. You were being mean to him, and he didn’t deserve it. He was only trying to be polite. Like always.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you said. “I think I’m just feeling a little overwhelmed. And definitely tired.”

“Of course, why wouldn’t you be!” he said quickly. “I know how hard you work, you — probably work harder than anyone I’ve ever met.” He tugged his ear nervously. “Um, do you maybe wanna go somewhere a little quieter? Away from all this?”

You did. So you nodded, and he led you back through a deserted room filled with boxes and junk, opened the window, and stood aside to help you out. I was a little fire escape, rusty and cold like all of them were, but there was a threadbare blanket draped across the cold metal. You settled against it, adjusting the long skirt of your dress to cover your crossed legs, but the wind still reached you from between the little metal slots. You shivered. Without skipping a beat, Jack handed you a puffy jacket.

“Where did this come from?” you asked.

“I was out here earlier,” he said, looking around at the other buildings. “Left it behind.”

You shrugged it on. It was warm and smelled like him. You hadn’t even realized you knew what he smelled like.

For a second, all was quiet but for the faint base thumping from inside, the honking of traffic below, and the sound of slurping as you both sipped your drinks. 

“So, listen,” said Jack finally, and you turned to look at him, leaning against the brick. He was twisting the tab of his rootbeer can around and around, not looking at you. “I just… wanted to thank you for being so helpful this semester. I wouldn’t have made it this far without you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said, nudging your knees together for a second.

His leg twitched when you pulled away.

“Yeah, it’s just,” he cleared his throat. “I think you’re a really, really cool person. I mean, watching you debate in class? I don’t even know why Charlene tries anymore,” he chuckled.

You stayed silent. You were never sure what to do when faced with a compliment. Jack shifted his position. Then he rested his elbow back against the exposed window sill. Then he drew it back towards himself. The rootbeer can squeaked slightly as he continued to fidget with it.

“I — I,” he started, then he cleared his throat again. “I don’t know if you… I mean, I — jesus christ. I — for the past few months, or, no — for — a long time, I guess —”

You watched him struggle, and even in the near total darkness, in just the faintest of glows from the street lamps and headlights, you could see the burning red color of his skin. From his cheeks, to his neck, to his ears. He cleared his throat a third, then a fourth time.

“I feel… I’ve been — okay, here’s what it is,” he said, taking a breath. “You are — and, maybe it’s been obvious, but I don’t — I mean, no it’s — it’s been obvious…”

You were in complete and utter confusion. You looked back over at him. His mouth was open, but the words seemed to be stuck. You leaned a little closer.

“Are you having a stroke?” you asked.

“No,” he chuckled, rubbing a hand down his face. “I mean, maybe. I mean, no, I just —” he sighed, staring at his knees. “You have become a really good friend to me this semester, and — the last thing I want to do is make things awkward.”

And your heart sunk down to your butt faster than an anchor in a lake. You turned back to face the city, away from the flustered mess next to you. So that’s what this was. He really had been playing the long game with Jenna, and now he was enlisting your help. Well, you weren’t interested.

“Jack, stop,” you interrupted him, a strange mixture of acidic emotions swirling in your waterlogged chest. “I know what you’re trying to say.”

“Shit,” he said. “So I was obvious, huh? I — fuck, Robby would be happy, he told me to be straight with it, but nothing I did ever seemed to be noticed, but I guess it was? I mean, unless… Jenna didn’t tell you, did she?”

“She didn’t have to,” you said coldly. “And I’m sorry, but whatever it is you want me to do or say, I’m not going to.”

There was a metallic clinking sound, and the soda tab finally popped off and landed next to your hand on the blanket. You crossed your arms. He was quiet for a long time, and when he spoke, his voice sounded a little rough and a lot disappointed.

“You — you’re not?”

“No!” you said indignantly. “And frankly, I’m disappointed that you would ever even consider doing something like this. And offended that you thought I would help you do it! She has a boyfriend, you know, one you claim to be friends with!”

You started gathering up your skirts to leave, but Jack stopped you.

“Wait, wait, wait, now I’m confused,” he said, holding out his hands to block the window. “Who has a boyfriend? Help me do what?”

You let out a harsh, impatient breath.

“Jenna!” you said. “I know you like her, and I’m sorry, but it’s not right! And I’m going to be having a serious talk with her about this. No one likes Dylan, but this is just fucked up.”

You lifted a foot to ease through the window, but Jack placed his hand on it and slid it shut with a snap.

“I don’t like Jenna!” he said, sounding desperate. “I never liked Jenna! Ever! And I’d never go after a girl with a boyfriend! Especially not Jenna!”

“Really,” you huffed. “And all the times you were whispering together? That was just about school, right? Because what don’t economics and med school students have in common?”

“That wasn’t anything!”

“And you showed up pretty abruptly, too,” you said suspiciously. “Playing the long game, huh? Shoulder to cry on and what not?”

“No!” said Jack frantically. “This had nothing to do with Jenna, okay? I like — I like you!”

In the ringing silence, the blush returned full force. You were shocked. You were hesitant. You were elated. You were confused. But you were already filled with anger, so it kept coming out.

“What the hell are you talking about?” you hissed. “You don’t like me.”

He grunted in frustration, tugging at his curls.

“Right, no, I like Jenna,” he said, throwing his hands in the air. “That’s why I talked to her friends to find out what kind of things she was into! And why I spent the summer researching her subject so that I would be able to talk to her about it without seeming dumb! And why I spent four hours at the registrar’s office switching my schedule around so that we could be in the same section of a class! And why I spent months trying to show her how much I cared about her, and asking her to come to my races, and committing everything about her to memory! And why I asked her to come out to this stupid fucking fire escape, to confess my stupid fucking feelings.”

Silence fell again, this time filled with his somewhat heavier breathing as he finished his rant. You were frozen as you watched him deflate the longer you stayed quiet. You wanted to speak, you just didn’t know what to say. Or how to say it. Maybe there were no words.

“Sorry,” said Jack, sliding the window back up. “I’m not trying to trap you here. I just needed you to know… I mean… I guess I wanted to put all my cards on the table.”

He leaned his arms on his bent knees, and his head against the brick, and closed his eyes. The window was open, a portal away from this horribly awkward, vulnerable moment. You stood, stretched your legs, then lined your shoes up perfectly opposite his so the toes were touching, and crouched back down.

This is crazy, you thought to yourself as you threaded your fingers through his curls. This is crazy, this is crazy, this is crazy.

His hazel eyes opened with shock and confusion. His lips parted slightly, but before he could talk, you were pressing your own against them.

This is amazing, this is amazing, this is amazing.

Your head went staticky, taking in only the softness of his lips and the easy, natural way they moved against yours. You used handfuls of his hair to pull him closer, and your teeth clashed for one second but you didn’t, couldn’t, stop. At least until you ran out of air.

You pulled back just barely, still close enough that you were sharing air, and muttered, “I like you, too.”

And there was that familiar, intoxicating smile.

“Really?” he asked in awe.

“Well, duh,” you said, pulling your hands back, but he caught your wrists.

“I like you a lot,” he said.

“You told me,” you said.

“Yeah, but like, a lot,” he said, tracing the ink on your forearm gently. “Like, more than I’ve ever liked anyone before, I think.”

You took a deep breath, then buried your face deep into his chest and muttered your requital so it came out muffled.

“What?” he asked.

You rolled your head to the side so your mouth peaked out.

“Nothing,” you said. “You’ll find out later.”

And he would. And walking home that night in his arms, somehow, the future didn't seem quite so daunting.

---

requests open!

jack masterlist

But midnight ideas involving a ladder, a light bulb, and an unexpected vision hadn't proven to be a good combination. You'd been on the third rung, reaching overhead, when the familiar sensation hit. Your body had locked, your vision hazing as your mind left your apartment, and by the time the vision released you, your foot had slipped, and you'd fallen hard onto the ground. You'd blinked back to a shattered bulb beneath your palm and a sharp flare of pain where your head had clipped the coffee table. This was, unfortunately, an injury too severe for you to fix yourself. 

Now it's three a.m., and you're holding a soaked dish towel to your bleeding hand as you try to avoid eye contact with the spectres drifting past. It takes another twenty minutes of staring insistently at the ground before your name is called and you're led into a room. 

You sit on the crinkly paper, tapping your fingers against your pants as the door shuts again. Another five minutes pass before the door opens again, but you don't mind. At least, it's quiet in here—no ghosts following you. 

"Hi. Sorry for the wait." A man in black scrubs steps inside, smiling at you kindly. "I'm Dr. Henderson." He's got one foot on the rolling chair, about to sit down when the door opens again. 

"Crus." An older man interrupts, one hand on the door as he holds it open. He nods out towards the hallway, greying curls falling slightly forward at the motion. "Head to Trauma 1. You can assist with a lumbar puncture." He turns to you with a charming smile. "I'll take over here."

Heat rushes to your cheeks when his intense gaze lands on you, and you quickly avert your eyes. Instead, you watch as Dr. Henderson's face lights up. He sends you an apologetic smile, clapping the other man's shoulder on his way out. 

"Sorry about that." The door shuts behind him as he finally steps fully inside and draws the curtain. "I'm Dr. Abbot." He picks up the tablet left behind and scans your chart quickly. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he drops down onto the chair. 

"So," he says, eyeing the towel around your hand and the dried blood on your temple. "How bad did the other guy look?"

You blink. "What?"

Dr. Abbot gently tips your head toward the light to inspect the cut. His gloved fingers are surprisingly warm against your skin. "Whoever hit you got a decent shot in. Still, it's nothing we can't patch up."

"I didn't fight anyone."

"No?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he turns his attention to your hand, carefully peeling the towel away. His gaze flicks down to your heart-patterned pyjama pants. "I don't know. You look like you could be hiding a professional boxing career."

Heat creeps into your cheeks as you realise he's teasing you. "Oh. Ha."

His grin widens, and you find yourself watching the way his eyes crinkle. "So, what happened?"

"...I fell off a ladder."

His eyes flick up to yours. "Strange hour to be climbing ladders." He shifts your hand back and forth, testing your grip.

You shrug. "Couldn't sleep."

"Ah," he says. "That, I get." He rolls the chair back to gather supplies once he determines it isn't a severe cut. "There's a bit of glass stuck inside, so I'm gonna give you a shot for the pain, pick out the pieces, stitch you up and then send you on your merry way. Sound good?"

You nod, glancing down at your hand, expecting your stomach to roll, but feeling strangely detached from it. You guess you've seen worse in visions before. A surprising positive, you suppose.

He pulls off his gloves, throwing them into the trash behind him. As he leans forward to grab a new sterile pair, the chair suddenly rolls forward beneath him. The wheels squeak as it turns to face you, and Dr. Abbot's hands shoot out instinctively, landing briefly against the plush of your thighs to steady himself.

You both freeze. His eyes flick down to your thighs, then back up.

"Sorry," he says, pulling away immediately.

"No, that's—" You swallow. "That's okay."

Dr. Abbot rubs the back of his neck before turning back to the task at hand. The room suddenly feels too warm. Something metallic flashes beneath the fluorescent lights, drawing your attention to his wedding ring. He's married. Of course. A man like that doesn't go through life without attracting someone. You look away before you can wonder why that thought bothers you.

You focus on the ceiling tile above him instead. A faint crackling sound brushes against your ears before disappearing. Your attention snaps to the corner, but no one is there. The sound comes back, like an old radio searching for a station. Your skin prickles, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise in warning.

You're not alone, but no one appears. No one speaks. It's just that crackling sound, continuing for another minute before it disappears again.

Dr. Abbot reaches for your hand again, oblivious to it. He administers the shot as you try to look around the room without him noticing.

"So, what were you doing on the ladder?" he says, breaking the awkward silence. He moves to clean your forehead as he waits for the lidocaine to set in.

You huff a laugh. "Putting in a new light bulb. I've been putting it off for weeks. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn't have waited that long." Your chin lifts, a sense of pride filling you when his lips twitch. You get the feeling that he isn't that easy to get a reaction out of. 

"Not handy, I gather?" he says as he finishes placing the butterfly stitch on your forehead.

You glance down at your hand. "What gave it away?"

He huffs a laugh.

The saline feels odd, but not unpleasant, and you barely notice as he plucks out the glass pieces. The silence that settles over the room is comfortable, and for a moment you believe the ghost has left you alone. Maybe it has finally decided you're not worth bothering. But as Dr. Abbot dresses your wound and turns to write follow-up instructions on a notepad, the crackling starts again. Then, his pen flies off the desk.

"Oops," he says, not sounding particularly surprised. He ignores it and turns back to you. "The stitches are self-dissolving, but come back if there's any swelling or irritation." He hands you the note, his mouth curving into another teasing smile. "And no more fights, at least until you're healed."

"No promises." You grin. "Thank you."

He gives you a small nod. "You're welcome."

You slip off the bed, clutching the note in your good hand. At the door, you glance back without really meaning to. He's still looking at you. For a second, neither of you says anything, then you leave. There's a slight pull, almost as if something is trying to keep you in the room, but you push forward without placing much thought on it. Whatever ghost is trying to communicate can find you tomorrow.

The bookstore Cordelia's is located next to the park and has been yours for almost three years. It's small, but you've managed to make the most of the space. Tall shelves line almost every wall, some of them old enough that you constantly worry they'll fall apart at the slightest touch. There's a little reading nook tucked beneath the front window, two mismatched armchairs beside a low table, and a counter near the register that has been scratched and dented by years of use. The bell above the door has a slightly different ring depending on how hard someone pushes it, and the floorboards creak in places you've long learned to avoid. 

It's comfortable. Warm. The kind of place where people come in intending to browse for ten minutes and somehow end up staying an hour. 

Ethan is similar in that way. He never dreamed of working in a bookstore, and somehow, he's gone from a part-time worker to being here more than you are. He's always liked books—even has a minor in English literature—but he'd always imagined himself doing something more. Maybe teaching or being a famous author—something that involved people knowing his name. Definitely not standing behind a counter for eight hours a day arguing with customers about whether a particular first edition was worth what the internet claimed it was. And yet, he loves it. 

He hadn't at first, but that was before his roommate started haunting him.

Ethan had been drawn to the store, and you'd found him overwhelmed in the back row, head in his hands. Somehow, without even meaning to, he had divulged it all to you, and you hadn't been even a little bit unnerved by the strange things he'd told you. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't suggested he was imagining things. Instead, you'd asked him what his roommate's name was, and then you'd revealed your abilities. 

You were able to see and speak to ghosts.

Ethan had laughed at first—right up until his bathroom mirror had smashed in his face and the pieces spelt out his name on the ground. After that, he was a true believer. And with his roommate crossed over, Ethan put his plans on hold to follow you. He'd offered to work in your store, which was closed more often than not with you out dealing with your ghostly companions. He'd expected it to be temporary. It wasn't.

The bookstore came with its own companions. Lydia and Delia, the couple who had owned the store before you, who had apparently decided that death was no reason to leave. It had taken Ethan a while to get used to them. It had taken them even longer to get used to him. Now he can't imagine the place without them. Even if he does wish they'd stop throwing the books they dislike at him.

Still, it's nice to have some company, even if he can't see them. Especially since he never knows exactly when you'll be in or for how long. He knows it's one of those days where you disappear for hours when you enter the shop with two coffee cups and an already apologetic smile.

His attention immediately catches on the stitches on your forehead and the white dressing covering your hand. "What happened to you?"

You shrug casually. "Ladder. Light bulb. Ghost. It was an accident." 

Ethan's brows pinch together. He reaches out, fingers catching lightly beneath your jaw in an attempt to get a better look at the cut, but you duck away before he can inspect it properly and push one of the coffees into his hand instead.

"I think I figured out who it is. Is it okay if I—?" You tilt your head towards the door.

Ethan worries his lower lip for a second. It's not the first time he's seen you hurt by a ghost, but he still doesn't like it. He knows better than most how casually you treat your injuries. If it weren't for him reminding you, you'd forget to eat during cases. "Be careful. This ghost doesn't seem too happy with you."

"This was just bad timing." You brush it off. 

He stares at you. You stare back. Eventually, you sigh. "...Fine. I'll be careful."

"Good." He nods. "Call me if there's anything."

You hum, already halfway across the store again. "Sure. Thanks!" The door slams shut behind you.

Ethan sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He knows you can take care of yourself. It's just that the two of you have very different ideas of what that means.

He steps behind the counter again and slumps down onto the chair. A few boxes are waiting to be unpacked and placed on shelves, but they can wait until he's finished with this cup. He's got at least another hour until the first customers filter in, so he leans back and grabs his notepad. His novel won't write itself. He stares at the blank page, then writes two words. Deletes them. Takes a sip. Writes another sentence. Deletes that too. He sighs. Maybe he should've stuck with teaching.

The bell rings again, barely a minute later. 

"Forget something?" he calls out, still staring at his paper while chewing on the end of his pen.

"I don't think so."

The male voice makes him look up.

Ethan shoots to his feet, notepad clattering to the ground. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else." He bends to pick it up, cheeks burning with embarrassment, before his flustered gaze meets the eyes of an older man.

Scrubs. Tired-looking. Handsome. 

The man looks around the store, almost confused, as though he's not entirely sure why he's here. Seeing that, Ethan's customer-service persona finally clicks into place. "Looking for anything special?"

The man hesitates, frowns, then shakes his head.

 "Okay. Well, we've got a bit of everything." Ethan gestures to the aisles. "Give me a shout if you need anything." He logs onto the computer to give the man some space to explore, but keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.

The man wanders slowly between the shelves, fingertips occasionally brushing over the spines. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. Eventually, he stops at one of the displays and picks up a book. "How long have you had this store? Don't think I've seen it before." 

"Oh, I'm not the owner; she's out at the moment—" The light flickers above him, and he looks at it with a frown. It's not like Lydia or Delia to interrupt when there's a customer. "It's been here for about three years now."

The man nods, puts the book down, then takes a step toward one of the aisles. A book flies off the shelf next to him.

Ethan freezes. The man doesn't. His shoulders rise, tensing, but not in a way that suggests surprise. It's more like resignation. Another book flies from the shelf on the opposite side. Then another. It lands directly in front of him.

Ethan's certain now. There's a ghost attached to this man. But it's the man's reaction that unsettles him most. He barely reacts. No startled jump. No nervous laugh. No frantic glance around the room. He simply looks down at the books, bends down, picks them up and puts them back.

Ethan watches him carefully. He's seen people react to ghosts before. He knows the usual responses. Fear. Confusion. Denial. This man looks like someone who's seen this before. Before Ethan can say anything, the stranger nods at him and hurries out of the store. 

Ethan stares after him, waiting for something else to happen, but the store is quiet again. "If you're still here, I can't see you, but my friend can," he calls softly. He looks toward the aisle. "She'll be back later."

He waits for an answer, but nothing happens. No books fly out. No lights flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. Even after years of seeing you interact with ghosts, he can't help his instinctual fear when he's alone. At least when you're around, he has an idea of what the ghost wants. On his own, he's completely clueless about their intentions.

He looks toward the door again. Who was that guy? 

Ethan wanders over, fishing out the books that had been pushed half-hazardously back between the others. His fingers brush the spines, reading the titles, then he crouches to retrieve the last one. The theme is clear, but the one that landed closest to the man says it best.

The Art of Dating.

Ethan stares at it. "Well," he mutters, putting it back on the shelf. "That's subtle."

It's close to midday when you enter the store again, but instead of this morning's excitement, there's a dull headache throbbing behind your eyes. It sits stubbornly at your temples, refusing to ease no matter how much you rub them. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep that's finally catching up with you, the hit your head took last night, or the disappointment of your visit, but either way, you feel drained.

"Hey, how'd it go?" Ethan calls from somewhere between the shelves. He emerges a moment later, a book tucked beneath one arm, and takes one look at your face. "Bad, huh?"

You don't bother pretending otherwise. "Yeah..." You sink onto the plush chair behind the counter, letting your head fall back against it with a sigh. "I'm gonna try again tonight. Maybe I'll get a read of something."

Ethan hums, leaning his elbows against the counter. He studies you for a moment, his expression telling you he's considering arguing before apparently deciding against it. "I'll come with you."

You close your eyes and shake your head. "You don't have to."

He shrugs, completely unconcerned with your refusal. "It's good research for my book."

Your eyes open again. "Oh! How's that going? When can I read something?"

"I'm nowhere close to that," he groans, his head dropping dramatically. "I've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours now."

You blow a raspberry at him. The sound earns you a look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Lunch then?" you suggest, sitting up slightly. "We could try that new place down the street?"

He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. "Yes, I'll go get it. Some fresh air might get rid of my writer's block."

You lean back again, closing your eyes once more as he heads toward the door. You hear him rummaging around for his wallet, then the soft jingle of the bell as he pulls the door open. "Oh," he calls out, the door halfway open. "Some man came in earlier with a ghost attached to him. I told it you'd be back later."

"Did you get a name?"

"No, he ran out before I could ask. He was in scrubs, though, so maybe a doctor or nurse?" He shrugs, then shuts the door behind him, leaving the store quiet again.

Scrubs?

You frown. For a second, your mind supplies the image of Dr. Abbot before you can stop it. The kind man from last night. His warm fingers against your skin as he'd examined your forehead. The crooked smile when he'd teased you about fighting someone. The flash of his wedding ring beneath the fluorescent lights.

You shake the thought away. The hospital is across the park, and you've never seen him here before. The chance of him coming into the bookstore afterwards is low. It was probably just an odd coincidence.

You let your head fall back against the chair again.

"He was real handsome, too," a warm voice croons from your right.

You don't even open your eyes. "You say that every time a man walks in here."

"I do not," Lydia protests. You crack an eye open, finding her beside one of the shelves, arms folded across her chest, looking deeply offended by the accusation. She turns her head to Delia. "Do I?"

"...You do," Delia says, wincing when Lydia turns to glare at her. "But"—she points a finger at you—"this time she is right."

You roll your eyes before closing them again. "Mm," you hum. "I'm not looking for anything." You settle deeper into the chair. "You know that."

There's a pause before Delia clears her throat gently. "Honey, maybe it's time to—"

"No," you cut her off, opening your eyes just enough to look at her. "But thanks."

You close your eyes again before she can start arguing, effectively ending the conversation. The two ghosts sigh in unison. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Lydia moves, followed by Delia's faint scent of roses. Then a rush of cool air brushes across your skin, signifying that they're gone.

You let out a slow breath as the bookstore settles around you again. You know they're trying to help. You know they have the best intentions. But Lydia and Delia have been together for decades, including the years after death. They've managed to find the kind of love that survived everything—life, death, and apparently even the refusal to cross over. 

You're happy for them. You really are. But sometimes, when they talk about love like it's something inevitable, something that simply arrives and stays, you can't help wondering if you're the exception.

Because you've already been given this gift. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe you're simply meant to spend your life helping other people find their way to the other side while you stay back. The thought shouldn't still bother you. You've told yourself that often enough that it shouldn't, and yet, when you do think about it a little too seriously, it aches and pulsates somewhere deep down. 

So, you try not to. And with the embers of your last relationship still burning after its fiery end, it's becoming easier to believe. Your ex, John, had made it clear how he thought you were crazy for believing in things nobody else could see. You'd loved him. That had been the worst part. You'd finally trusted him enough to open up, and that was his response. For a long time afterwards, you'd wondered whether he had been right about everything. Maybe you were too strange. Too difficult. Too much. 

You stare at the ceiling through half-lowered lashes. You don't doubt it anymore. It's easier that way. Easier to believe you're not meant for love than to risk it all again. 

You don't think you can handle it. 

Considering that you've been involved in ghost activities since you were a little girl, you should know by now that nothing is ever a coincidence when ghosts are involved. You'd seen it, following your mother around, fingers clutching her skirt as she got roped into ghostly schemes, openly parading her abilities—right up until your father had her committed when her visions took over.

You learned then and there that what she had considered a gift was best left hidden. That it wasn't everybody who understood. That, at times, it was more a burden than a gift. 

Despite having all that experience, you don't think much of it the first time you see Dr. Abbot again. You see him in the supermarket, his hand reaching for a bunch of bananas as you turn into the fruit aisle. Your eyes meet across a display of apples, and for half a second, both of you stare at each other, until recognition flickers across his face. You send him a brief, polite smile before ducking into the nearest aisle and pretending to become intensely interested in a selection of tinned tomatoes. You stay there until you're reasonably certain he's gone.

The second time could be coincidence. The third is harder to explain. By the time you see him in the park, you've stopped counting.

It's late evening, the last rays of the sunset shining across the park and through the store windows. You'd sent Ethan home earlier, telling him you'd deal with the odd technological error that had somehow deleted all your online orders and the ones you'd placed for new books. Once that is sorted, you close the shop, a little later than usual, and head home.

But rather than taking the fast way, you turn right at the park entrance, choosing the scenic—and considerably longer—route. An unexplainable feeling guides you, but you're too tired to examine it. 

You walk past friends sprawling across picnic blankets with half-finished drinks between them, couples walking hand in hand along the paths, and children chasing one another through the grass while their parents call after them. Then you hear laughter. Your attention drifts toward a group of scrub-clad people gathered beneath one of the trees, several cans of beer scattered between them. You take another step, let your gaze fall forward, and then the sight of a familiar face registers.

Your eyes snap back.

Dr. Abbot's already looking at you. His lips twitch when he sees your surprised expression, and he lifts his beer in greeting. Your mouth lifts in an unwitting smile before you can stop it, and you give him a small nod in return. A few of the people around him follow his gaze, curious eyes turning toward you. You immediately look away and hurry down the path before any of them can catch your gaze properly. You try to ignore the heat that's flaming under your skin. 

It's a coincidence, you repeat to yourself. Just a coincidence.

That assumption promptly gets thrown out when he shows up at the store. Now you're certain that something is going on. 

It's just you this time, with Ethan having been given the day off after you'd closed your last case. The death had been accidental—a slip and fall down a flight of stairs—but things had remained dramatic until the very end. Things had been thrown before your ghost was ready to listen, and the family was ready to talk. You'd been caught in the crossfire, leaving bruises scattered across your arms and a particularly ugly one blooming near your elbow.

Still, books needed to be placed on shelves and with Ethan out, you were forced to make your aching arms comply. You bend to pick up another box, already mentally calculating how many more trips you'll need to make before you can finally sit down. Maybe you should order a take-out for lunch to celebrate? 

"Do you need help?" A gruff, familiar voice says from behind you.

You huff, half amused, half annoyed. You're used to ghosts appearing without warning and asking for help at the worst possible moments, so you don't bother turning around immediately. "And how would you do that?"

Warm fingers brush against yours as he takes the box from you. "I may be older than you, but I'm not decrepit."

You gasp, your eyes snapping up to meet Dr. Abbot's warm, teasing hazel gaze. For a second, you're too surprised to say anything. "I'm so sorry, I thought you—" You shake your head and gesture toward the cart. "Never mind. You can just put that there. Thank you."

Your gaze follows the box as he sets it down, lingering despite yourself on the way his arms barely strain beneath the weight of the heavy books you'd struggled to lift just moments earlier. Without a word, he picks up the remaining boxes and sets them down beside the first.

You stare at him. He glances at you. "What?"

You smile awkwardly. "Nothing."

When he turns back, his eyes fall down the length of your arms. They narrow slightly.

You snatch the cardigan you'd abandoned on the counter when you'd gotten hot earlier and tug it on, trying to make the gesture look casual. "So, what can I help you with?"

He frowns, but decides to leave it alone as his gaze turns to the aisles. "One of our med students just landed a residency, and I offered to get the gift for her."

"And you have no idea what to get her?" you ask.

"Yeah." He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You step out from behind the counter, your arm brushing against his. The contact is brief, barely anything; still, heat sparks through the fabric. You ignore it. "Do you know what she likes?"

"Uh... She's big on social media and very into astrology." 

"Ah." You nod, moving with certainty to the cart. You grab a box cutter, slice through the tape, and fish out a book from the box. "Get her this. It's been sold out for months, and I just got it back in stock." 

You hold out a book with astrological signs circling the cover. He takes it, turning it over once in his hands. "You're lucky you came in now. I was gonna update our socials after I'd finished shelving the books. They'd probably be gone in a few hours."

He hums as he follows you back to the counter, scanning his card without glancing at the price. "Guess my intuition proved me right."

Your fingers pause against the wrapping paper, glancing up at him. "Intuition?"

"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck again. "I don't really believe in it, but I was here a few weeks ago, and I just had this feeling that I would find what I was looking for here."

Your fingers still for the briefest second before finishing the bow. When you look up at him, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"I see." You put the book into a bag and hand it over to him, forcing a smile onto your face. "Guess you were right."

He nods. For a moment, neither of you moves. He hesitates, swallowing down whatever he was about to say before settling on a soft, "See you around?"

You nod, smiling. "I'll be here." 

He smiles back, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave before turning toward the door. The bell gives its familiar little chime as the door swings shut behind him. The grin on your face falls the second you can no longer see him through the windows.

He's the scrub-clad man Ethan told you about, and after all these encounters, you're forced to admit that his ghost has proved more persistent than you thought. You're just not sure what it wants.

"Handsome, right?" Lydia grins as she appears beside you.

You roll your eyes and move to roll the cart toward the shelves.

"Oh, ignore me all you want, sweetheart. You have a tell."

"I do not." You turn to glare at her.

Her smile widens as she shrugs. "If you say so." She disappears before you can argue.

A second later, Delia appears in her place, softer around the edges. She winks at you before following Lydia's path through the shelves.

Ghosts.

It's early morning when you settle onto your usual bench in the park, thermocup warming your hands as the last rays of the sunrise fade over the horizon. The air still carries the faint chill of the night, drops of dew clinging to the blades of grass. 

You take a slow sip and lean back against the bench. It's been a nice couple of days—ghost-free and able to fully focus on the store without somebody dead demanding your attention.

A blur materialises out of the corner of your eye. It was too good to be true, you suppose. 

You sigh lightly, then turn to face it. "Hi."

A woman blinks at you. Water drips steadily from her clothes, darkening the fabric around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and she looks incredibly confused. "Where am I?"

"What's your name?" you ask her instead.

"I—I'm—" She spins around, sending droplets of water in every direction. You cover yourself instinctively, even though none of it can actually touch you. "What's going on?"

"Hey, it's okay. I can help you."

She frowns. Her mouth pulls into a tight line, but just as her shoulders begin to loosen, a figure steps straight through her. She disappears immediately.

You bite back a groan. You were just about to reach her.

"Sorry..." A low voice pulls your attention away. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but... are you okay?"

You glance up to find Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, one hand half-raised like he wasn't sure whether he should approach. Of course.

You look toward the empty space where the woman had been. "Sorry. Just a second." You hold up a finger to him and turn your head slightly, pretending to listen to something only you can hear. "I gotta go. Yeah... Bye."

You turn back to him and pull out your headphones, feigning confusion. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

He studies you for a second longer than feels comfortable. His eyes move briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "Nothing. Sorry."

You smile awkwardly at him, thanking your past self for the foresight. 

Dr. Abbot leans slightly to his left, an expression of pain flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you gesture to the space beside you. "Do you wanna sit?"

He hesitates, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench before lowering himself onto it, leaving a polite gap between you. Silence falls for a second before he speaks. "My resident loved the book."

Your face brightens. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," he says, his mouth curling slightly. "I'm apparently her favourite attending now." He nods in your direction. "All thanks to you." 

"You're welcome!" You grin. "Next time you need a recommendation, you know where to find me." You take another sip of your coffee. "Is she the reason our page is popping off?"

He hums. "She did say something about posting it on her TikTok..."

You smile at the unsure grimace on his face. Clearly, he's not an avid user of the platform. "Give her my thanks, then. The store's been buzzing the last few days. The coffee corner's been packed since."

"Oh, you have coffee now?"

"Yeah! New addition. Ethan thought it would be good."

"Coffee's any good?"

You shrug. "Depends who's asking."

His mouth curls. "I am."

"Then I'll say yes."

He huffs a laugh.

Silence falls between you again, but this time it's more comfortable. You find yourself noticing that with him, silence doesn't seem to demand anything. You don't have to fill it, and neither does he. He just sits beside you, looking out across the park.

You lift the crinkly paper bag beside you and take out a croissant. You break it in two and hold out one half to him. He looks from the pastry to your face, as though checking whether you're serious.

You nod. "Take it."

The corner of his mouth lifts before he accepts it. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does. The reminder sends a quiet swoop through your stomach, though you're unsure why. 

You take a sip. "Feel free to bring your wife with you," you add. "We get lots of couples coming in."

"Oh..." His expression changes almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his hand. His thumb brushes over the edge of his wedding ring. "She passed away a few years ago."

The words are simple. There isn't a dramatic pause afterwards, no visible struggle to say them. Just a quiet fact placed between you. It explains the weird feeling you've gotten each time you've seen his ring—you must've picked up on it subconsciously.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. "Don't be."

You glance at him.

He looks down at the croissant in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "I was lucky to have her."

You smile softly. It's clear from his voice just how much he loved her. "She must've been special."

His own smile appears, small but genuine. It's still wider than any you've seen from him so far. "She was."

You've seen enough death to know there's no right thing to say afterwards. Sometimes people want sympathy. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they just want someone to acknowledge that it happened and then let them breathe. So you don't try to fix it. You just sit beside him.

After a moment, Dr. Abbot takes another bite of his croissant and changes the subject. "So, was it always in your plans to own a bookstore?"

You breathe out. "No, I actually stumbled on it a few years ago." 

You don't tell him about Lydia and Delia making life hell for the new owners, or how their refusal to move on had eventually led to the place being sold to you for barely a dime. Instead, you tell him, "I've always loved books. So, it just felt right to share that love with others."

He hums, smiling slightly. "That makes sense."

"What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"

"Couldn't afford college, so I joined the army. Lost my leg." He pats his right leg, but doesn't make more of it. So you don't either. "Then after that, I entered emergency medicine. And that was that."

You glance at him. "That was that?"

He shrugs. "Seemed like a reasonable way to spend the rest of my life."

You snort. "Most people would say they wanted to help people."

"Well, I try to keep the inspirational speeches to a minimum." 

You laugh. The conversation drifts again. It's strangely easy. You talk some more about the bookstore. He tells you about some of the residents who have passed through the ER, right until a yawn interrupts his words. 

You fight back a smile. "I'd better get going," you say, standing and brushing pastry flakes from your jeans. "The store's not going to open itself." Well... it might. But the last time Lydia and Delia tried, it hadn't ended particularly well.

Dr. Abbot's eyes flick briefly to the fading bruises on your forearms before meeting yours again.  He opens his mouth, hesitates, then simply says, "Take care of yourself."

You smile. "I usually do."

"Thanks again for the book recommendation."

"Anytime," you say, smiling at him. You give him a small wave before turning towards the path. 

The tension in Jack's shoulders eases the second he steps into Cordelia's and is met by the familiar smell of paper, ink and coffee. The bell chimes softly above him as he swipes his wet feet at the mat. 

"Oh no, poor you." You emerge from the back, taking in how the rain clings to his hair. 

He waves his hand. "It's not that bad. Just a light—" A loud boom of thunder interrupts him, followed by rain pelting hard against the windows, "—drizzle. Huh." He leans slightly to his left, trying to place more weight on his good leg, but even that one is hurting today. 

He can feel your gaze on him, so he turns back to you with a charming little smile in place, trying his best to avoid letting you know how bad it is. 

"Go sit." You nod towards the armchair, an air of resolution over you as you head for the coffee machine. Somehow, you see right through him every time. 

Jack doesn't have the energy to argue. He settles into the armchair, propping his leg on the ottoman that appeared after his second long visit. He's not sure when it became tradition for him to show up after shift. It just did.

You're not even open yet, so most mornings you sit with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. It's nice. You've become an unlikely friend, someone who he looks forward to seeing after shift. It certainly beats going home to an empty apartment. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia's had become part of his routine.

"Here." You reach over, bringing him his cup. He lets his hands warm against the porcelain before taking a long sip. 

"You've done it again," he breathes out. "You really are magic."

You shake your head. "I thought we agreed not to call me that."

"You agreed. I didn't." He shrugs. "You always find the best books and, somehow, make this coffee taste good. Magic."

"Uh-huh." You roll your eyes, heading back towards the counter with your own mug. Jack rests his head against the chair, letting the quiet rustle of the bookstore and the sound of rain wash away the beeps and shouting voices still ringing in his ears.

His eyes follow you as you lift a box up onto the counter. "What'd you got there?"

You grin widely. "One of our customers left us a few boxes of vintage books." You slice cleanly through the tape. "I mean, look at this." You pull out a gorgeous green-covered book, holding it carefully in both hands, your entire face lighting up.

Jack can't help the little smile that tugs at his lips. You're cute when you're excited. He looks away before you can catch him staring, spinning his ring around. He's not sure where that thought came from.

"It's beautiful," you say, running your thumb carefully along the spine. "Look at the binding."

The bell rings again as Ethan drags himself in through the door, shaking his umbrella and leaving it at the entrance. He waves to Jack before immediately slumping down behind the counter with a yawn.

"You look like a wet rat," you tell him.

"Oh, thank you." Jack hears the offended tone in Ethan's voice as he stands up, shaking his wet sleeve at you. 

"Hey!" 

Jack chuckles quietly to himself as the two of you begin bickering.

"What's all this?" Ethan asks, finally noticing the box. A low whistle escapes him. "This might be worth a pretty penny."

Jack watches the two of you fall into your familiar rhythm. You inspect every book before Ethan checks the condition. You argue over whether certain editions should be sold or kept. Ethan reads out the occasional title with a laugh. You keep nudging books toward him for him to look at.

Jack mostly stays quiet. He doesn't mind. That's one of the things he likes about the store. He doesn't have to perform here. He can sit with his coffee and listen to the two of you bicker about books while the morning slowly settles around him.

His gaze drifts back toward you. Your hands are scratched. Again. He notices immediately. Fresh little cuts cross your fingers and knuckles, some still pink around the edges.

At first, he worried someone was hurting you. Ethan had been the obvious possibility, if only because he was the person Jack saw you with most often. But a little careful observation—and a few questions asked in the casual way only a doctor can manage—put that suspicion to rest.

You trust Ethan. Completely. There is nothing between you that suggests otherwise.

So now he's left with another question. What's happening to you? He doesn't like the thought. You've always been a little accident-prone. He knows that much. There was the initial fall from the ladder. The bruises. The scrapes. And now this. He could ask. He should probably ask. But he doesn't. Not yet. You aren't his patient. You aren't even—

He doesn't finish the thought.

Instead, he takes another drink of coffee and watches you laugh at something Ethan says. You're both leaning over the same box, shoulders nearly touching. For some reason, he finds himself smiling again.

Then you pick up another book. It's blue, covered in tiny butterflies. "Oh, this is so pre—"

You stop. Completely. The change is so sudden that Jack sits up. Your fingers remain frozen against the open page. Your eyes stare somewhere beyond the book.

"Magic?" He says it lightly at first, his eyes roaming over your frozen figure. You don't respond.

Ethan notices at exactly the same moment, but unlike Jack, he doesn't move toward you. Ethan moves toward him, stepping directly into his line of sight, and blocking you from view. "You want another cup?"

Jack frowns. "I—" He leans sideways.

Ethan shifts with him. He tries the other way. Ethan follows.

"What are you doing?"

Ethan's face is neutral, but the tightening around his eyes reveals his true position. He doesn't want Jack to see you for some reason. "Offering you coffee."

Jack looks down at his still half-full cup, his frown deepening. He shifts forward, planting his good foot firmly on the floor. Ethan still doesn't move. Jack pushes himself upright, his prosthetic taking an extra second to cooperate. By the time he's standing, Ethan has finally stepped aside.

And it's like nothing happened. You're fine. You're flicking through another book with the same casualness as before. Jack stares. "Hey, you okay?"

A smile immediately settles over your face. "Yeah." It arrives too quickly, too smoothly.

He doesn't believe you. You know he doesn't. For a second, something passes between you. A silent acknowledgement that whatever just happened, you both know it did.

Ethan clears his throat. "So, coffee?"

Jack looks at him, then back at you. "I—no. I should head home."

You frown. "So soon?"

He pauses. 

Your expression changes the second you realise what you've said. "Sorry, go on. You're tired," you add quickly. "You should sleep."

He smiles faintly. "Yeah." He looks at you for another second. "See you tomorrow, Magic."

You roll your eyes, waving him off.

The bell jingles softly behind him. Outside, out of sight from the store windows, he pauses on the pavement. He barely takes notice of the rain, his mind busy running through everything he's seen. Bruises. Scratches. Lethargy. Disassociation. The way you froze just now. His thoughts begin sorting possibilities automatically.

Anemia. Thrombocytopenia. Something autoimmune.

He discards some almost immediately. Others linger. His stomach twists. He knows better than to diagnose someone from a handful of observations. He knows better than to let his mind run ahead of the evidence. But his brain doesn't care. It keeps circling back.

Cancer.

He closes his eyes for a moment. Not again.

You've only seen Jack once this week, a significant enough break in your routine that you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You catch yourself wondering whether he heads straight to bed instead of coming to the store, whether he's been working more shifts, whether he's okay.

You'd made Ethan leave him a note after you'd missed two mornings in a row. Somehow, the two of you have never exchanged numbers, so you don't even know he's seen it. Maybe he hasn't even come by, and you've been worrying for nothing. He's a busy man, after all. 

You hope he doesn't think you're avoiding him. The last time he came by, you could see the questions swimming in his eyes. Questions you had elegantly sidestepped, but the doubt was still in his posture when he left. 

You're just not sure what to tell him. Oh, that? That was just a vision. I get those sometimes—ghosts like to talk to me through them. What? Yeah, I talk to ghosts. It's no big deal.

He'd think you were crazy. 

And you're genuinely busy. The vision from the blue book has led you through one dead end after another, the child ghost attached to it proving considerably harder to cross over than usual. Every time you think you're getting close, something changes. A new location. A new clue. Another fragment of a memory that sends you in the wrong direction.

So the bookstore has been running mostly without you. Ethan has taken care of most of the day-to-day things, with you dropping in whenever you can. Long enough to check the register. Long enough to unpack a few boxes. Long enough to make sure Lydia and Delia haven't started another argument over which section needs reorganising. Then you're gone again.

You push through the bookstore door late in the afternoon, the bell giving its familiar little chime above your head.

Ethan looks up from behind the counter, his eyes trailing over you. "You look awful."

You drop your bag onto the counter. "Gee, thanks."

"You know what I mean." He closes the book in front of him and crosses his arms. "You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?"

You shrug, already heading toward the boxes stacked in the back. "I'll sleep after."

"After what?"

You crouch beside one of the boxes and start digging through it. "After."

"There's no after with you." His brows pinch together. "You can't help anyone if you're not taking care of yourself."

You ignore him, pushing aside a stack of paperbacks. "You sound like my dad."

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"It wasn't."

"Still taking it."

You finally find what you're looking for. The blue book. You pull it free and hold it against your chest. You stand again and turn toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? Close the store early if you want."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Your hand closes around the door handle. "I'm sorry for leaving it all to you. I'll make it up to you."

He waves you off. "You know, I don't mind... Jack's been asking for you."

So he has been by. Not directly after shift, because Ethan doesn't open that early. He's taken time out of his day to actually come by, disturbing the little sleep he gets. You stop, the bell above you giving a tiny jingle as the door shifts beneath your hand. "What did you say?"

"That you were busy." He leans back on the counter. "He's worried about you."

You swallow. "Well, tell him I'm fine."

Ethan's eyebrows lift. "That's it?"

"What else am I supposed to say?"

"Maybe ask why he's been asking about you."

You give him a flat look. A faint thump comes from somewhere behind the shelves. Ethan's eyes flick toward the sound, but you keep yours straight ahead. 

"Tell him I'm fine."

"You could tell him yourself, you know."

You pause. For one brief, stupid second, you're tempted. The temptation is sharper than it should be. You could stop by the store one morning, let this ghost wait a little longer, but the wide-eyed, fearful gaze of your ghost reminds you that this is a little more important.

Jack can wait. Besides, it's not like the two of you really are anything to each other. He knows what you like to eat at breakfast, the books you prefer to read, and how your mother died when you were young. You know how he likes his coffee, the way he walks when he's trying to hide how his leg is hurting, and the passing of his wife. He'd even told you how his mother passed just a few years later and how he hadn't coped well with it.

Normal things. Things friends know about each other. Nothing that meant anything. 

You push it down. "I'll see you later, okay?"

Ethan watches the door swing shut and sighs. Delia and Lydia join him from their hiding spot behind the shelves. 

It's yet another early morning when Jack heads toward Cordelia's. He's stopped telling himself he's only going for the coffee by now. At first, it had been an easy excuse. He liked the place, the coffee, the books, and the quiet.

And, admittedly, he liked seeing you. He liked the way you made the silence feel comfortable. He liked that you noticed when his leg hurt even when he tried to hide it. He liked that you never made a big deal out of it.

That last part had been easier to ignore when you were actually there.

Now it's been over a week since he last saw you. Still, every morning after a shift, he finds himself turning down the same street, parking in the same spot, and walking toward the same little bookstore with the faint hope that this will finally be the morning he catches you. His hope grows when he sees the lights are on, which normally doesn't happen this early unless you're in.

Ethan looks up when the bell rings. His smile is polite, almost apologetic. "Morning."

Jack steps farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ethan is fiddling with something in the middle of the store, adjusting one of the little displays.

Jack leans against the counter, watching him for a moment. He doesn't bother pretending he's here for a book. He stopped doing that after the first two times. "...You talk to her?"

Ethan glances over. "Yeah, she came in yesterday."

Jack's shoulders ease slightly. "And how was she?"

"Fine." The answer comes too quickly. Ethan turns back toward the display.

Jack watches him. "Fine?"

"Yeah."

Jack nods slowly. Something about it doesn't sit right. He's seen you. Not properly, but he's caught glimpses. Once through the hospital window when you'd been crossing the street. Another time when he'd been driving past the bookstore and spotted you leaving through the side entrance.

You'd looked different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. He'd wanted to ask if you were okay, but each time he'd tried to get your attention, you'd climbed into your car and driven away before he could reach you. He'd told himself you were busy. Then he'd told himself you were avoiding him. That thought had bothered him more than it should have. Then he'd wracked his mind for a reason but ultimately landed on none.

"Is she sick?"

"What?" Ethan's head turns sharply.

"Is she sick?" Jack repeats. The words sound worse spoken aloud. "I've been seeing her around. She doesn't look well."

Ethan's expression shifts.

Jack's stomach drops. "She is sick."

"...No."

Jack catches the hesitation immediately. "Then what?"

Ethan looks away.

Jack's pulse starts beating harder. "She's been exhausted. She's lost weight."

"She's busy."

"She looks pale."

"She's been busy."

"She keeps leaving before I can talk to her."

Ethan sighs. "Jack—"

Jack watches his face. He's a doctor. He knows what people look like when they're trying not to tell you something. He knows what hesitation means. His mind starts filling in the blanks before he can stop it. Bloodwork. Imaging. Specialists. Treatment. His stomach twists. He pushes away from the counter. "Please."

Ethan finally looks at him.

"I'm a doctor. I can help."

"You can't."

"Please."

Ethan's expression softens.

Jack swallows. "If it's money, I'll take care of it." The words come out before he can think better of them.

Ethan blinks. "Jack—"

"I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "I'll pay for whatever she needs. Tests. Treatment. Whatever."

He doesn't explain why. The memory is already there in his mind. A hospital room. A diagnosis he'd wanted to believe wasn't serious. A woman he loved telling him she was fine when she wasn't. All the little things he'd missed. The things he should have noticed. The things he should have done differently. He'd promised himself he'd never make that mistake again. Not with someone he cared about.

Ethan stares at him, then shakes his head. "...She's not sick."

"Then what?"

Ethan bites his lip. For a moment, Jack thinks he's going to tell him. Instead, Ethan looks down at the display. "That's not for me to say."

Jack's jaw tightens. "Ethan."

"I'm sorry."

"Please."

"I can't."

Jack stares at him. There is something desperate in his own voice now, but he doesn't really care. "You know something."

Ethan doesn't answer.

"You know what's wrong with her."

"I know she's dealing with something."

"Then tell me."

"I can't."

Jack exhales sharply. His hand curls against the edge of the counter. "She doesn't have to know I'm asking."

"Jack."

"She doesn't even have to know I can help."

Ethan shakes his head. "It's not my secret."

Jack looks away. For a moment, the anger drains out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Right. Of course. He can't demand this. You aren't his patient. You're not his responsibility. You're—

He doesn't know what you are to him. He grabs his keys from his pocket. "Okay."

"I'm sorry."

Jack nods once. "Yeah." He turns toward the door. 

"Jack?"

He pauses.

Ethan's voice is gentler now. "She's okay."

Jack looks back.

Ethan gives him a small, reassuring smile. "She'll be okay."

Jack searches his face. He wants to believe him. He wants to believe him more than anything. "Right." He steps outside, the door closing behind him.

He stands on the pavement for a moment, staring at the bookstore window. His chest feels tight. He should go home. Sleep. Forget about it until tomorrow.

He thinks about the first time you'd met. The stupid heart-covered pyjama pants. The cut on your forehead. The way you'd laughed at his terrible jokes. The coffee you'd started making exactly the way he liked it. The bench in the park. The croissant you'd split with him. The way you'd listened when he'd talked about Rachel without making him feel like he was saying too much. The fact that he'd noticed your absence almost immediately when you stopped coming around.

He'd told himself it was because he'd grown used to seeing you. That was all. Just routine. Except now he has to admit how much he misses you.

Jack exhales slowly. Because whatever you're dealing with, you're dealing with it alone. And for reasons he's not ready to examine, Jack really, really doesn't like that.

You feel like you're losing your mind. 

Your ghost won't leave you alone. She's there when you wake, when you eat, when you try to work. Barely a second passes without seeing her somewhere in the corner of your eye, hovering close enough that you can hear the quiet hitch of her breathing. When you try to sleep, she cries because she's scared. When you're at the bookstore, she cries because she's scared of Lydia and Delia. When you tell her to stay away from the shelves, she cries. When you tell her you'll help her, she cries harder.

For your own sake, you need to cross her over. Soon.

But it's not proving easy. She doesn't remember anything. Not where she lived. Not how she died. Not even where her mother is. You know exactly one thing about her. Her name is Poppy. That's it.

You've tracked down the customer who left the blue book behind, hoping there might be some clue in where they'd bought it or who had owned it before them. Nothing. You've searched. You've asked questions. You've followed every lead Poppy has given you. Every single one has ended nowhere. You're completely lost. 

One lead keeps bringing you back to the same place, though. An old house on the edge of town, where you've felt the presence of more spirits than you can count. Not the lost, confused ghosts you're used to. These are different. Angry. Territorial. The kind that makes the air feel heavy before you even cross the property line.

The first time you went near the house, something had whispered your name from inside before you'd even reached the door. You hadn't gone back alone since. You're not sure what Poppy's connection is to these spirits, but she always seems more frightened after you've been near the house. You haven't been able to figure out what they want from her.

So, trying to change your surroundings in the hopes that it might clear something up, you head to the park. You sit on your usual bench, which you haven't done in a long time, with a thermocup warming your hands. For once, there's no one around. No customers. No Ethan. No Lydia or Delia. No Jack. Just you.

And Poppy sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away.

"I miss my mommy," she whispers.

Your eyes close. "I know."

"She'll find me, right?"

You swallow. You don't know. "Try to see if you can remember something."

Poppy looks at you. "I'm trying." Her voice is louder this time.

"I know." You keep your voice gentle, trying to soothe her. "But—"

"You're just trying to get rid of me," she accuses.

"What?"

She stands. "You don't want me here."

"Poppy—"

"You don't want me!"

You lift a hand. "I want to help you."

"You want me gone. Just like they said." 

The words catch somewhere in your mind. They? But Poppy is crying again before you can ask.

"You need to cross over," you say, more firmly now. "This isn't where you're supposed to be."

Her face crumples. "You don't want me," she cries louder. "I want my mommy."

"I am trying to find your mommy."

"I want her!" Her voice rises.

You wince. "Poppy—"

"I want my mommy!"

The sound tears through you. You press your fingers against your temples. "Stop."

She freezes.

You breathe hard. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."

Poppy's lower lip trembles. "You don't want me."

The anger drains out of you immediately. You rub a hand over your face. "Wait. Poppy, I didn't mean it like that."

She's already disappearing.

"Fuck." You stare at the empty patch of grass, your chest rising quickly. You don't notice the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice speaks beside you.

"Hey."

You look up. Jack. He's standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across his face. Of course. Of course he's here now.

You wipe quickly beneath your eyes. "It isn't what it looks like."

Jack's eyebrows lift. "No?" He gestures toward the empty grass. "Then what is it?"

You stare at him. Your heart starts pounding. You can't do this. Not with him. Not after everything. You remember Ethan's words. He's not like John. You swallow. "I—"

This is much harder than when you meet the family members or friends of ghosts. You can show them proof—hand them something that assures them you aren't crazy. You can't do that with Jack. He might have a ghost attached, but his mother hasn't tried to reach out to you in weeks. You haven't seen or spoken to her. You have nothing that will convince him.

Jack doesn't interrupt. He simply sits down beside you, leaving enough space between you that you don't feel trapped.

You fiddle with your fingers. He waits patiently. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe Jack isn't like John. "This is gonna sound crazy."

"Okay."

You glance at him. His expression doesn't change, but he reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours.

With another deep breath, you finally say, "I can see ghosts." The words sound ridiculous the second they're out. You stare at your intertwined hands and wait for him to pull away. He doesn't.

When Jack doesn't say anything, you look over at him. He's watching you. His eyes are kind and curious. Not horrified or pitying like you suspected.

"I've always been able to," you continue quietly. "I help them cross over. Go into the light. Like my mom." You swallow. "Do you believe me?"

Jack nods. "I do."

The relief that moves through you is almost painful. You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. He doesn't ask for proof. Doesn't ask you to demonstrate. Doesn't ask whether you're sure. His thumb brushes over your palm, then he looks at you again.

"Would you be willing to come to the hospital with me?"

The relief stutters in your chest. "Why?"

The warmth in his voice remains, but concern slips into it. "You're thinner than when I met you. You show up with random bruises and scratches."

Your stomach sinks.

"You're tired. You freeze up sometimes, and just now you were talking to the air."

Your other hand curls around the thermocup, holding it tightly. You stare at him, tears welling up.

He squeezes your hand. "I want you to get checked out."

It's like it all processes at once, the air in your chest rushing out of you. "You think I'm crazy."

"No." He shakes his head immediately. "I think you're sick, sweetheart."

The words hit harder than they should. For a second, you're back somewhere else. Not the park. Not Pittsburgh. Years ago. John sitting across from you. A much different expression but that same certainty. You're imagining things. You're crazy. You're just like your mom.

And now Jack—

Jack, who you'd thought was different. Jack, who had listened. Jack, who had made you feel normal. Jack, who has a ghost attached to him and has seen strange things happening around him. Who acts like it isn't unusual—

He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're sick.

You shake your head. "I'm not."

"Honey—"

"I'm not." You stand so quickly your coffee nearly spills.

Jack rises with you.

"I'm not sick."

His brow furrows. "I'm worried about you."

"No." You shake your head. "You're worried because you think there's something wrong with me."

"There could be." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it all worse.

"I don't understand. You should know better than anyone that I'm not crazy. You've experienced things you can't explain—I know it."

Jack goes still.

Your eyes burn. "I know what I'm seeing."

He takes a small step forward. "I believe that you believe you're seeing—"

You flinch and move backwards. "Don't."

Jack's face changes. He realises too late what the words sound like. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm not sick." A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.

Jack's expression twists. "Magic—"

"Don't call me that." You look at him through teary lashes. "I thought you were different."

His face falls.

For a moment, neither of you speaks, then you turn away. "I need to go."

"Please." His voice is suddenly unsteady.

You shake your head. "I can't do this. Don't come to the store again."

His expression breaks, and his lips form your name, but nothing comes out.  You turn around. You don't wait for him to say anything else. You walk away, and for once, you don't look back.

You hole up in your apartment after that day. Steer clear of anything that could lead to a ghost finding you. You don't go to the park anymore. Jack doesn't come to the store. Ethan checks in every day, but you keep your replies short and insist you're fine. He eventually decided to stop asking, but you feel his eyes following you in the store constantly.

Poppy also doesn't show herself again. Part of you is relieved, another part of you worries that you've made things worse. You don't have the energy to figure out which feeling is winning.

You're sprawled across the couch sometime after midnight when the crackling starts. The sound grows louder. Your hands fly to your ears. It doesn't help. The static crawls through your skull, sharp and distorted. Your vision blurs at the edges. You squeeze your eyes shut. The crackling rises. Louder. Louder. Then—

It quiets.

You slowly open your eyes. A woman is standing in front of you. She's watching you carefully. You stare back.

"Can you see me?"

You let your hands fall into your lap. "...Yes."

Her eyes widen as her face lights up. "Finally!"

That's not the usual reaction you get from ghosts.

She grins. "You have no idea how long I've been trying."

You blink as the pieces connect. "You're Jack's ghost, aren't you?"

Her smile wavers a bit. "Yes."

His mother looks younger than you expected, with kind eyes and an expression that's almost painfully patient. Frail. It's the lack of hair that surprises you most—her head is entirely bald.

"Is he okay?" The question comes out before you can stop it, even as your stomach twists.

Her smile returns, softer this time. "All things considered, yes."

You look away. "Good."

"He's worried about you." 

You stand immediately, turning toward the kitchen. "I mean no disrespect—I know, he's your son—but I don't really care."

A burst of laughter follows you. You turn around slowly.

The woman is laughing so hard she's doubled over. She wipes beneath one eye. "Oh, no, I'm not his mother."

You frown. "Then who are you?"

She straightens. "I'm his wife." Rachel.

The words move through you strangely, hollow and sharp at the same time. "Oh." You make it three steps. "Wait." You look over your shoulder. "It's been you this entire time?"

Rachel appears next to you in the kitchen. "Yes."

You exhale slowly. "You've been here for a long time, then."

She hears the question behind it. "I can't leave yet." Her expression softens. "Not until he lets his guilt go."

You turn to her fully. "Guilt?"

She sighs. "He blames himself for my death."

You lean against the kitchen counter. "Why?"

"By the time we found the cancer, it was too late. Jack thought he should have seen it as a doctor, but—" She looks down at her hands.

No one could have known. Sometimes life is cruel like that. You know that better than most. Sometimes people die. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes the world simply decides that someone isn't getting another day.

You fill the kettle. "So you want me to help him?"

"Yes..." She hesitates.

You narrow your eyes at her. "What else?"

Rachel gives you an innocent smile. "Well... We thought maybe you could help each other."

You stop filling the kettle. "We?"

"Us ghosts."

You stare at her.

"We talk."

"You talk."

"Yes."

"About me?"

"Sometimes."

Your eyes close. "Wonderful."

"I followed Jack into the park one morning and met Lydia and Delia. They told me about you. We thought you might understand each other."

You stare at her, then the realisation hits you. Your mouth falls open. "What?"

Rachel's expression turns sheepish. "We thought..."

"You thought what?"

She doesn't answer.

"You guys thought you could set us up?"

She has the decency to look embarrassed. "I—well..."

"I can't believe this. This is insane."

"We didn't mean to hurt you."

"You're his wife! Why are you involved in this?"

"His dead wife!" she counters, voice rising slightly. "He deserves more than this. He deserves to be loved. I want that for him. I want him to be with someone who understands him—and you do. You get it. You know what death does to a person. You understand what it means to carry someone with you even after they're gone. And he'll understand you if you just let him. If you give him another chance—"

Your voice is hoarse as you cut her off. "Please, get out."

Rachel looks panicked. "Please, we didn't mean—"

"Get. Out." You tell her, pointing toward the door. "I won't ask again."

She looks at you for a long moment, then she nods. "I'm sorry."

She disappears without another sound. For several seconds, you don't move, not until the kettle pings. You blink back tears, cursing out Delia and Lydia in your mind.

Maybe they'll be able to hear you. You hope so.

Weeks later, the bookstore has been quiet. Not just quiet in the ordinary sense. Quiet in the supernatural sense. No books flying from shelves. No lights flickering. No crackling static in the middle of the day. No Lydia appearing beside you with unsolicited advice. No Delia whispering things you absolutely didn't ask to hear. After your last conversation with Rachel, you'd made your feelings very clear to everyone involved. Apparently, they'd listened. For once.

Ethan is behind the counter when you emerge from the back room. He looks up, then does a double-take. "You look pretty."

You glance down at yourself. You've traded your usual jeans and cardigan for a dress, slipped into a pair of heels, and touched up your makeup. You put in one earring. "Thanks."

Ethan continues staring. "Got a hot date or something?"

"Yeah."

He straightens, the teasing tone disappearing from his voice. "What?"

You laugh. "Yeah."

"Really?"

"Is it that unbelievable?"

"No," he hurries to say. "I just thought..."

You pause. "What?"

"Nothing."

"No, tell me."

He sighs. "I thought you were in love with Jack."

Your fingers still around the clasp of your earring. For half a second, you don't say anything, then you scoff. "I was never in love with Jack." 

Ethan raises an eyebrow.

"We were friends." You grab your purse from the counter. "And now we aren't." You check that you've got your phone, wallet, and keys. "End of story." 

There is also some stubborn part of you that wants to prove to Rachel, Lydia and Delia, and every other ghost who'd decided they knew better, wrong. You and Jack don't fit together. Whatever they thought they'd seen between you was wrong. 

"Right, sure." His tone is carefully neutral. "So, where are you going?"

"Uh… that restaurant that serves that pasta dish you like—Angelo's!"

"Damn, I'm jealous." He shakes his head. "Where you'd meet this guy?"

"Hinge."

Ethan makes a face as he fiddles with a piece of paper. "I thought you were over dating."

"Boyfriends," you correct.

"There's a difference?"

"Obviously." You check yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. "A boyfriend gets to know everything."

"Everything?"

You shrug. "About me."

Ethan watches you.

You adjust one of your earrings. "A date doesn't. We can just have fun and let it be that."

"If you say so," he replies.

"You're the one always telling me to get laid."

"I didn't mean this."

You give him a warning look.

He raises both hands. "Fine. Have fun. I'm a phone call away if anything happens."

You send him a small smile and sling your purse over your shoulder. "Got it. You have my location. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah, tomorrow."

Your dating attempts all go down the drain. Every single one. Even if it starts promisingly enough.

The first guy is named Daniel. He's handsome in an unassuming sort of way, with dark curls, a charming smile, and the kind of manners that make you able to imagine going home with him. He holds the restaurant door open for you. He compliments your dress without making it sound like he's expecting anything in return. He even listens when you talk.

You make it through appetisers without incident, then the wine glass beside his hand tips over. It spreads over his shirt, soaking into the fabric. You don't suspect that it was anything but clumsiness until the dessert, and his plate shoots sideways, landing straight in the lap of the woman sitting at the next table.

You don't see anyone, but you know exactly who did it.

You haven't forgotten what happened by the second date, but after forty spectacle-free minutes, you've relaxed. It's pleasant. There's no sparks flying, but you don't need that. You don't want that, actually. The pleasantness comes to an end when his salad bowl jerks sideways, launching dressing straight into his eyes. And that was that.

The third, fourth and fifth go exactly the same. One man receives a drink he didn't order and has it thrown directly into his face. Another finds his phone repeatedly dialling the same number despite the fact that he hasn't touched it. One poor bloke gets locked in the restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes while you stand outside listening to him insist that the door "just won't fucking open."

No one shows themselves, but you feel their presence, that tell-tale feeling of ghosts being near. Delia's perfume drifts past your nose one time. Lydia's laugh echoes another time. You even hear Rachel's voice in between other ones that you don't recognise. It seems like your matchmaking ghosts have made all their friends part of their schemes. You can't even blame your dates for leaving. You'd leave too. 

And the worst part is that, even before the ghosts got involved, none of them had felt right. Daniel was charming. The second was funny. The third had made you laugh so hard you'd snorted wine through your nose. They were all perfectly nice. Perfectly suitable.

None of them is Jack.

You hate that your mind keeps making the comparison. Jack's dry humour. His crooked smiles. The easy silences between you. The way he's never made you feel like you had to perform or explain yourself. With everyone else, you find yourself waiting for something to click. Some spark. Some feeling that tells you this is worth pursuing. It never comes. 

By the time you finally stomp into Cordelia's, you're furious. You slam your purse onto the counter. "Show yourselves." You fold your arms. "I'm not in the mood for this." You glare toward the shelves. "I know you're here."

Slowly, three figures appear across the room. Rachel at least looks apologetic. Lydia doesn't. Delia looks like she's trying very hard not to smile.

You stare at all three of them. "You need to stop."

Lydia opens her mouth. "But dear—"

"No." You hold up a hand. "Nothing else. This stops now."

She looks offended. "We're only trying to—"

"I don't care." Your voice cracks through the room. "You've ruined every date I've been on."

Delia winces as Lydia folds her arms. "They weren't right for you."

"You don't know that!"

"They were boring."

"That doesn't mean you get to throw food at them!"

"We didn't throw food at them," she argues.

You stare at her.

"We threw the plates." Lydia gives you a tiny shrug. "Technicality."

You breathe deeply, eyes flaring. "Are you serious?"

Delia loops Lydia's arm in between hers, holding her back.

"If you do this again, I'm selling this place."

All three look at you. Delia hesitates. "Dear—"

"I mean it."

Rachel takes a hesitant step forward. "We only wanted you to be happy."

"You don't get to choose for me." You look between them. "Are we clear?"

Rachel nods first. Slowly, reluctantly, the other two follow.

"Good." You grab your purse.

You're over dating. Completely. It's not worth it anymore. Unfortunately, that leaves you with a lot of extra time to think. To think about Jack's face when you told him to stay away.

So, you start seeking ghosts out deliberately. Cemeteries. Old houses. Anywhere you hear rumours of someone who hasn't crossed over. It's easier when you're busy. If you're talking to a ghost, you don't have to think about Jack. You don't have to wonder whether he's angry with you. Whether he hates you. Whether he still thinks you're sick. It also means you're spending more time around hospitals than you used to, but you've been careful around PTMC. You tell yourself that's enough distance. 

Until the ghost in the park finds you. He's flickering badly, his form disappearing every few seconds before snapping back into place. He begs you to tell his family he's fine—that they don't have to worry about him. You promise you will.

You reason with yourself that there's no reason that you'd meet Jack. It's daytime. Jack works nights. Even if he's here, he's an attending in the E.R. You're not heading there. Ergo, you're not going to see him.

You really should have known better.

The elevator doors open, and as you step in, you find Jack already inside. His expression changes the second he sees you. Surprise first, then something softer, something that looks painfully close to relief.

"Hi."

Your breath catches at the sight of him. He looks tired. More tired than you remember. You manage a small nod. "Hi." 

You stand beside him, folding your arms and fixing your eyes on the numbers above the door. He glances at you. You can feel it without looking. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.

The ghost stands in the corner beside you, watching the two of you with open curiosity. "Is that Jack?"

Your head nearly snaps to the side. How does this random ghost know Jack? Does the entire ghost community gossip about you? You stare straight ahead. 

The ride takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of Jack standing close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you. Thirty seconds of remembering what it felt like when that same closeness had once been comforting. The doors open. You step out immediately.

Jack's brows rise when he registers the floor. Oncology. His expression changes.

"Wait—" 

You keep walking. You don't turn around.

That was just the first awkward meeting. The next time, you're sitting in the waiting room for bloodwork with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll while a ghost whispers in your ear.

You're tired. You're always tired lately. You haven't slept properly in days, and your body feels like it's made of something heavier than bone. You rub at your temple, trying to ease the dull ache behind your eyes as you listen. A familiar pull makes you look up, and your eyes meet with Jack's.

He's standing across the waiting room. His eyes travel over you. Your face. Your hands. The dark circles beneath your eyes. His expression tightens, concern flashing across his face. As he takes a step toward you, you finally regain control of your limbs. You stand immediately and leave before he can get any closer.

Somehow, he's everywhere you go. 

Hallways he has no business being in. Elevator rides that you were certain would be clear. Waiting rooms you thought would be empty. Once, you even catch sight of him through a glass door just as you're leaving. 

And every time, his expression gets worse. More worried. More confused. He tries to talk to you more than once, but you don't want to listen.

The more you see him, the harder it becomes to keep your walls up. Every time he looks at you like that, some small part of you wants to stop running. Wants to tell him everything. Wants to let him explain. Wants to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe he really would understand if you gave him the chance.

And that's exactly why you start avoiding the hospital again. Because if you keep seeing Jack, eventually you're going to stop running. And you're not sure if you can survive another rejection. 

It's another lonely afternoon again. You're sprawled across the couch in an old sweatshirt, a carton of takeout balanced precariously against your stomach. Some terrible rerun plays on the television, the kind you've seen often enough that you don't really have to pay attention. You take another bite. For once, you're not thinking about ghosts. Or Jack. You're just tired. 

The lights flicker.

You sigh. The television crackles. You slowly lower your fork as the lights flicker again. A cold gust sweeps through the room, lifting the edge of the blanket pooled around your legs.

The air shifts, and Poppy appears in front of the television. Her eyes are wide. "Help me!"

"Poppy?" You stand, moving toward her. You haven't seen her in weeks. Her hair is tangled around her face, her little body flickering so badly that pieces of her seem to disappear before snapping back into place.

She takes a step toward you. "Please."

"What's going on?"

"They're gonna get me." Her voice breaks.

"Who's going to get you?"

Poppy looks toward the front door, seeing something you can't. Pure terror crosses her face. "Hurry. They're so angry."

"Poppy, wait."  

For a second, she's gone. Then she appears beside the front door. 

"Who is going to get you?"

She doesn't answer. She just looks back at you. "Please." She disappears through the door.

You stare after her. "Goddammit." You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, shove your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and snatch your keys from the counter. You barely remember to lock the door behind you.

You hurry down the steps, shivering slightly in the cold autumn weather. Your jacket is too thin, but you don't care; you just need to find her.

You don't know what has changed, but it's enough that she was terrified enough to return to you.

Jack can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.

It starts small. A nagging sensation in his gut that he can't quite explain. He's spent weeks trying to convince himself that you're fine. Ethan said you were fine. You told him you were fine. He should leave it alone. Instead, by the time he's getting ready for work, the feeling has grown too large to ignore. So he calls Robby and asks him to cover his shift.

He doesn't even know what he's going to do when he gets to the bookstore. He just knows he needs to see you. There's something restless in the back of his mind. Not a thought exactly. More like a pressure, an insistence he can't quite place. It eases as he nears the store. 

When he pulls up outside, Ethan is locking the door with frantic, fumbling motions, panic written across his face.

"Hey," Jack calls as he steps out of the car.

"I don't have time to talk right now." Ethan hurries past him to his car.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing I can explain right now."

"Ethan."

Ethan keeps moving. "I'm serious. I don't have time for this right now."

"Why? What's going on?"

Ethan slams the car door, but Jack opens the passenger door before he can pull away. "Ethan."

Ethan sighs, clearly conflicted. "Just—get in or close the door."

Jack hesitates.

Ethan turns toward him, anger flashing on his face. "Get in the car or stay here. I don't care. I need to go."

A gust of wind rushes past Jack, and he stumbles into the car, more pushed than moving under his own power. For a second, he could swear someone shoved him. 

Ethan hits the accelerator so hard that Jack is thrown back against the seat. "Jesus, Ethan."

"Put your seatbelt on."

Jack buckles himself in. "You could've mentioned that before you launched me."

Ethan doesn't respond. 

"What happened?"

Ethan glances at him out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road. "I don't know."

"Ethan."

His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm not sure you want to know."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ethan swallows. "I got a message from Lydia and Delia."

Jack frowns. "Lydia and Delia?" He's heard the name before in the store when you and Ethan have been whispering back and forth, but he's never put a face to them.

"The ghosts in the store."

Jack stares at him.

Ethan keeps his eyes on the road. "They said she's gone somewhere she shouldn't be. They're scared."

"How did they tell you?" Jack forces himself not to dismiss Ethan outright, even as his mind starts searching for a rational explanation.

"They wrote me a message." Ethan sighs. "I told you she wasn't sick."

Jack breathes out. "Ethan."

"No." Ethan cuts him off. "I told you. She told you. I thought you were different." His jaw tightens. "I was wrong, apparently."

Jack's brow furrows.

"She's not sick. I need you to trust me—or her, or whatever you have to trust—when I tell you she was telling the truth."

"I—" Jack starts carefully.

"No." Ethan's grip tightens on the wheel. "I need you to have an open mind, or you need to get out of this car. She's in trouble, and I can't help her if I have to worry about you."

"...Okay." Jack is silent for a moment. His worry for you wins. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere bad."

The sun has set by the time Ethan and Jack pull up to the house. The place looks abandoned from the outside. No lights. No cars. Nothing to suggest anyone is inside. Then a light flickers behind one of the windows.

Ethan's hand is already reaching for the door.

Jack gets out after him. "Ethan, wait—"

But Ethan is already heading for the front door. Jack follows, every instinct he'd learned in the army and SWAT kicking in as he crosses the threshold. He scans the room automatically, checking corners, doorways, anything that could be a threat. Then he sees you, and everything else disappears.

You're standing in the middle of the room with candles surrounding you. Dozens of them. They're arranged in a perfect circle, their flames flickering wildly despite the fact that there isn't a breeze. Your head hangs forward. Your arms are loose at your sides. You don't move.

He breathes your name out quietly.

Ethan takes a step toward you, calling out for you in a louder voice. You don't react.

Jack's pulse hammers against his throat. "What's wrong with her?"

Ethan doesn't answer. He looks just as horrified. Then the air changes, a sudden rush of cold tears through the room. Every candle flame bends toward you. Your body jerks harshly.

Jack takes a step forward, calling out for you again. 

Another shudder runs through you. Your head snaps back. Your feet leave the floor. Jack freezes. For one impossible second, he simply stares.

You're floating.

Not stumbling. Not being lifted by anything he can see. Just—floating. Your hair shifts around your face as though you're underwater. Your eyes open, two black pools staring back at him. 

Jack's heart stops. "What the fuck—"

Ethan lunges forward. Jack follows before he can think. He steps straight through the circle. The instant his foot crosses the line, something slams into him. He staggers. It feels like walking into a wall. "What—"

He pushes forward anyway. The pressure bears down against his chest, trying to force him backwards. He grits his teeth, taking another step. His entire body strains against whatever is holding him there. Finally, he reaches you. His hands close around your waist. You're cold. Far too cold. "I got you."

He pulls. For a moment, nothing happens, then the resistance changes. The pressure eases. Jack feels something tugging at you from the opposite direction, but it's no longer trying to keep you there. It's almost as though something else is helping him. "Come on."

He pulls again, and your body suddenly tears free. Jack stumbles backwards, dragging you with him. The candles go out. All at once. He doesn't stop to wonder; he keeps moving and gets you through the doorway and onto the grass.

He drops to his knees, keeping one hand beneath your head so it doesn't hit the ground. He calls your name, fingers pressing against your pulse point. It's weak.

"Call 911," he orders Ethan, without looking away from you. Ethan is already reaching for his phone, but Jack barely hears him. His entire world has narrowed down to you.

"Come on." Jack brushes your hair away from your face, his hands shaking. He checks your eyes for any reaction, but there's still nothing behind your eyelids but that unnatural darkness. He's never seen anything like it before.

"Don't do this. Come back." He bows his head over you. He thinks about the last time he'd seen you. The way you'd looked at him. The hurt in your eyes. He'd been so sure. So fucking sure. His eyes burn.

"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've believed you. I should've believed you." A tear drops onto your cheek, followed closely by another. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it." His hand cups the side of your face. "And I still—" He can't finish, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry." He repeats it again, and again. Until the words barely sound like words anymore.

Ethan kneels beside him. "Come on," he murmurs, taking your hand. "Stay with us."

Neither man notices the figures gathering around them. A woman with kind and patient eyes. Two ghosts who have spent years watching over you. A little girl who had been frightened into trusting the wrong people. Ghosts from the hospital. Ghosts you have helped, even if they didn't want to cross over.

They gather in silence. One by one, their hands link, until they form a circle around you. Together, they turn toward you. The darkness inside you pulsates, but the ghosts hold their ground. The air grows colder as the darkness recoils. It fights. The candles inside the house flare back to life one by one.

You arch violently in Jack's arms, and your mouth opens. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as black smoke pours from your mouth. Thick and unnatural, it twists through the air before disappearing into the darkness of the house.

Your body goes limp again.

Jack catches you against his chest. For one terrifying second, there is nothing. You're completely still. Then your chest rises with a shaky, shallow breath.

Jack presses his forehead against yours. "That's it. Come on, baby." His voice is barely audible.

Your eyelids flutter, opening slowly. They're normal again. Your gaze struggles to focus, then finds him. "Jack?"

He nods. "Yeah. I'm here."

Your mouth parts again, but before you can say anything else, your eyes roll back, and your body slackens again.

Jack immediately checks your pulse. He pulls you carefully against his chest when he's certain it's there. "I've got you." He holds you tighter. "I've got you," he whispers again.

Ethan can't remember much of the past day.

The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and clipped voices. The E.R. is worse. People moving around him, asking questions he can't seem to process. Someone taking you away from him. Jack refusing to move until someone physically makes him. Then the ICU. Monitors. Machines. A bed that makes you look impossibly small. It all blends together into one long stretch of panic and fear.

There had been a moment in the ambulance when Ethan was certain they were too late. You'd been so still. So pale. He'd watched the paramedic work on you and thought, you're going to die.

He'd thought he'd failed you. That he'd found you too late. That the last thing you'd ever hear would be him telling you to hold on. He'd never been that scared in his life.

Now he's sitting in the ICU waiting room with a cup of coffee he hasn't touched, staring at the wall. You're still unconscious, but you're alive. That's all that matters. Ethan looks toward your room. Jack is there. Of course he is. The man hasn't left your side once. Not when the doctors explained what they knew. Not when they explained what they didn't know. Not when Ethan finally went downstairs to get something to eat and came back to find Jack sitting exactly where he'd been before.

He's barely spoken. Ethan can see how he's trying to wrap his mind around it—trying to find a medical explanation for what happened. Ethan knows there isn't one. He doesn't know what happened inside that house. He doesn't know what took hold of you. He doesn't know what drove it out of you, but he knows you were dying. And he knows Jack brought you back. Or at least helped.

Ethan and Jack haven't talked about the ghosts. Not really. There hasn't been time. But Ethan isn't angry with him anymore. He'd seen Jack's face when he found you. He'd watched him walk straight into something impossible without hesitation because you were on the other side.

Whatever Jack had believed before, Ethan knows he believes you now. That's enough for him.

Ethan stands and looks into the room. Jack is sitting beside your bed, one hand resting over yours. His head is bowed. He looks exhausted, dried tear tracks still visible on his face.

Ethan knows that look. Maybe Jack doesn't. But Ethan does. Because he's watched the two of you for months. The way Jack always showed up at the bookstore. The way his face changed whenever you walked into a room. The way he'd ask Ethan how you were doing and pretend he was only making conversation. The way he'd worry. The way he'd look at you when he thought no one was watching.

Ethan glances through the glass again, watching as Jack lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.

The room is quiet when you wake. Not silent; there are always noises in a hospital—the steady beep of the monitor beside you, the faint hiss of oxygen, footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door—but quiet enough that you can hear Jack breathing.

He's asleep in the chair beside your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, even in sleep. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched across his face. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.

You squeeze his fingers weakly. He doesn't wake.

Your eyes drift shut again. The lights flicker, sending different shapes across the back of your eyelids. When you open your eyes, Poppy stands at the foot of your bed.

She's crying. Not the frightened, angry crying you've grown accustomed to, but a silent, guilty outpour. Her shoulders shake as tears stream down her face. "I'm sorry."

Your heart aches. "Poppy."

She takes a hesitant step toward you. "I'm really sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to."

"I know."

"They said if I brought you there, they'd help me find my mom."

You swallow. "They were lying to you."

She nods, tears dripping from her chin. "I'm sorry"

"It's okay."

"Are you mad?"

You shake your head. "No."

"But I hurt you."

"You didn't mean to, sweetie." You reach a hand toward her, even though you know you can't actually touch her. "You were scared. They used that."

"I'm really sorry."

"I know."

Her crying finally quiets, and you give her a tired smile. 

She takes another step closer. "I found my mommy."

Your breath catches. "You did?"

Poppy nods. "The others helped me." A smile slowly appears through her tears. "She's waiting right there." Poppy points toward the corner. "Can you see her?" 

You smile back, only able to see the light warming Poppy's face. "I can't."

"Oh. Maybe you will later?" Poppy looks toward the corner of the room, then back at you. "Can I go now?"

You nod, blinking back tears.

She smiles. And for the first time since you've known her, she doesn't look frightened. She turns toward the light and steps through. 

You breathe deeply, fingers tightening around Jack's. You take a moment before turning your head toward him. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now." 

Jack's eyes open slowly. 

"Hi," you murmur.

"Hi."

"I'm guessing you heard that?"

He nods.

You bite your lip. "Still think I'm sick?"

His face falls slightly. "I'm sorry. I should've—"

"It's okay," you interrupt. "I know it's a lot."

"It isn't," he hurries to say. "I just... I saw you getting thinner. I saw the bruises. You were exhausted all the time, and then I found you talking to someone who wasn't there."

He swallows hard. "And all I could think about was Rachel. I watched her get sick, watched her get weaker and weaker, and kept thinking I should have noticed sooner. I'm a doctor. I should have known something was wrong. So when I saw you doing the same things…" He blinks wetly. "I thought I was watching it happen again. I thought I was losing you."

"I was scared," he says. "But that's not an excuse. I hurt you. I made you feel like I was just another person who thought you were crazy." His voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry."

You have faint memories of what happened that night. Jack coming to get you. His voice breaking as he apologised. Tears on his face. But memories aren't enough. You need to hear it from him. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice. "Completely."

You study his face for a long moment, searching for the doubt you'd spent your whole life learning to recognise. You don't find it.

Jack shifts closer, careful not to disturb any of the wires attached to you. "I don't expect you to forgive me yet." His fingers tighten around yours. "I just want the chance to earn your trust back."

You stare at him for a long moment. "I missed you." The confession slips out before you can stop it.

Jack's face softens. "I missed you, too."

You look down at your joined hands. You aren't ready to say everything is okay. Maybe you won't be for a while. But you don't pull your hand away.

Three days later, after you've been discharged, Jack joins you in the store. You sit on the edge of the armchair opposite him, your hands wrapped tightly around a mug you haven't touched.

For several minutes, neither of you speaks.

You'd thought about this conversation constantly since waking up. You'd imagined telling him everything in a dozen different ways. Some versions were angry, some were tearful, some were calm enough to make you wonder if they were even real. None of them prepared you for actually sitting across from him.

"I don't know where to start."

He shifts in his seat. "You don't have to start anywhere in particular."

You look at him. He's not rushing you, not filling the silence, just waiting. There's a familiar shift in the air as space refits itself around two new forms. Lydia and Delia stand near the shelves, their expressions softer than you've ever seen before. There's an apology in their faces. No excuses, no teasing, no insistence that they know what's best for you.

Just sorry.

You let out a slow breath, then you nod. Delia's eyes fill with tears; Lydia gives you the smallest smile. You watch them disappear again, then turn back to Jack. Somehow, it feels a little easier to speak after that.

So you tell him everything. About your mother and the visions. About your father deciding that what she called a gift was an illness. About the hospital, and how young you were when you learned that some truths were safer kept to yourself. You tell him about the ghosts you've helped, about Lydia and Delia, about Ethan. And eventually, you tell him about John.

That part is harder.

Your voice gets quieter as you explain how you'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth and how he'd used it against you. How he'd looked at you like you were broken. How, for a while afterwards, you started wondering if he was right.

Jack doesn't interrupt. Not once.

When you finally run out of words, the store is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the coffee machine behind you. "That's everything," you whisper.

Jack looks at you for a long moment. "Thank you for telling me."

Your throat tightens. "I was scared you wouldn't believe me."

"I know."

You swallow. "I don't want to hide it anymore."

His expression softens. "You shouldn't have had to in the first place."

Your eyes burn, and you look away before he can see.

Lastly, you tell him about Rachel. His face settles into a quiet understanding as every strange thing that has happened to him finally falls into place. 

The air beside the window changes. You know the feeling before you even turn. Rachel is standing there. She smiles at you.

You glance at Jack. "She's here."

His expression changes immediately. "Rachel?"

You nod.

He sits straighter. "Can she—"

"She can hear you."

Rachel moves closer. For a moment, she simply looks at him. There's so much love in her expression. 

"What does she say?"

You look at her, then back at Jack. "She says you've spent enough time blaming yourself."

His jaw tightens.

You translate as Rachel speaks. "She says none of it was your fault."

Jack looks down. "Tell her..." He stops. "I should have known."

Rachel shakes her head.

"You couldn't have known. You did everything you could."

A tear rolls down Jack's cheek.

Rachel steps closer. "You loved her." You repeat the words softly. "And that was enough."

Jack closes his eyes. His shoulders shake quietly. 

You keep your voice gentle. "She doesn't want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving her."

You look at Rachel. She smiles sadly at him before looking at you.

"You're good for him," she says.

You sigh.

"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I see. And life's too short for this. Be brave."

You bite your lip. "Rachel."

"Let yourself have something good."

Jack looks at you, his eyes wide. "What'd she say?"

You keep this to yourself, breathing out before repeating her next words.

"To tell you that she knows and that it's okay." You don't know exactly what Rachel means, but whatever she said reaches something in him that nothing else has. "She wants you to keep living."

His face crumbles. "Rachel."

She moves closer to him, sitting on the corner of the armchair. "It's okay, Jack." Her hand brushes against his cheek gently. 

Jack's eyes close, his head tilting toward a touch he can't really feel. A long breath leaves him, and for the first time, something in his face seems to loosen. Years of grief don't disappear in an instant, but the fight against it does. "Okay."

Rachel's smile widens, then the light begins to gather around her.

Jack sees the change in your expression. "She's leaving?"

You nod. "She's ready."

He looks toward her. "I'll be okay."

You squeeze his hand. "She knows."

The light grows brighter. Rachel takes one final look at Jack, then at you. She mouths two words, thank you, and disappears.

Jack stares at the empty space for a long moment, then he turns toward you. He looks down at your joined hands. For years, he's carried the weight of losing Rachel like a punishment. Now, for the first time, he lets himself put it down.

He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. "Thank you."

You squeeze his hand.

After that, things are slow.

Jack starts coming back to Cordelia's. At first, he asks if you're sure he can stay. You tell him he can. Then he starts bringing coffee, and you start saving him the chair he likes. Some mornings you talk. Some mornings you don't.

You don't call it anything. You don't need to. Little by little, the distance between you disappears.

Weeks later, the bookstore is thriving. Not just surviving but thriving. The shelves are stocked, the front window is decorated for Halloween, and there's a steady stream of customers throughout the day. The little bell above the door seems to ring constantly now.

Ethan is unbearably smug about it. Not just because of the bookstore and his coffee corner idea, but mostly because Jack is once again the store's most frequent customer. 

"Morning," Ethan calls from behind the counter as he spots him.

You look up from the books you're sorting through. Jack stands in the doorway, two coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other. By now, the sight barely surprises you. 

"Morning." His eyes find you immediately.

You smile. "You know, I'm gonna get spoiled enough to expect this every morning."

Jack grins. "Wouldn't hurt anyone."

Ethan makes a noise of disgust. You ignore it and grab your coat. From somewhere behind you, Lydia makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. You shush her.

Jack pauses, then glances toward the empty space beside the shelves. "Someone disapprove?"

Delia appears between the shelves, giving you an enormously delighted smile.

You roll your eyes. "The opposite, actually."

Jack lets out a pleased hum, grinning as he opens the door for you. The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of rain from somewhere nearby. You walk beside him toward the park and finally reach the bench. Jack sits first, stretching his leg out slightly as he settles. You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his. He hands you the bag, and you break the croissant in half and hand him a piece. Silence falls as you watch the people passing through the park. Your shoulder brushes Jack's lightly as you eat.

His hand rests on the bench between you, right next to yours. Your fingers touch. You glance down. Jack does, too. His pinky hooks around yours gently. A second later, his hand shifts, palm turning upward, and you slide yours into it. Neither of you comments on it.

You lean your head against his shoulder after a moment. His cheek rests lightly against your hair. For once, nothing is demanding your attention. No ghost asking for help. No mystery to solve. No fear. Just Jack. His thumb moves slowly over the back of your hand. 

You turn your head when his cheek lifts. He's already looking at you. "What?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"

You smile. "You don't have to ask."

Jack huffs, his expression softening. He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

You don't.

His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. His hand lifts to your cheek as your eyes close. When you pull back, neither of you goes very far. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, after a moment, your lips again. 

For once, you don't wonder whether this is a mistake. You don't wonder what the ghosts think. You don't wonder what comes next. 

You trust him.

You spend another night in the hospital, and the next morning, 31 hours after the birth, you’re about to be released from the hospital.

As you slowly pack the last of your things up, Jack gets Birdie settled in her car seat. She squirms and whimpers, but he whispers soft reassurances as he buckles her in.

“I know the car seat’s not as warm as Mommy and Daddy are, Birdie girl. I know, but you’ll be okay,” he coos. “The car ride’s only gonna be about ten minutes. Ten minutes, then Mommy’ll hold you again. You might even get the boob.”

From your spot on the foot of the bed, you let out a soft snort.

“All ready?” Jack asks once he’s got Birdie settled.

You nod and stand to step closer to peek in the car seat.

“Aw, she looks even smaller in there,” you mutter as you reach out to adjust her onesie.

“Tiny but mighty,” Jack says, placing a comforting, possessive hand on your hip.

You look from Birdie to him and find him pulling the ‘#1 Dad’ cap on.

“Wow,” you laugh softly.

Jack furrows his brow. “Hey, Jerry got it for me, so I’m gonna wear it with pride.”

Yesterday afternoon, your mom and stepdad, Jerry, came to the hospital with lunch to check in on you and meet the baby. Jerry handed the baseball cap to Jack with about as much pride as you can imagine.

“Okay, babe.” You smile and reach out to adjust the cap. “You actually do look hot in it.” 

Jack grins, and you kiss his cheek, then a nurse comes in with a wheelchair.

“Ready to go home?” she asks, smiling cheerfully.

Jack dropped all the bags off in the car when he pulled it around, so the only thing left for him to grab is the car seat where Birdie is now sleeping soundly. 

On the way out, he walks ahead of you in jeans that hug his ass a little too well and a t-shirt that is fighting with his broad shoulders and his grays peeking out of the cap’s strap.

His forearm is flexed as he carries the car seat, and you’re positive this moment in time is going to live in your mind forever.

When you make it to the car, you peer over Jack’s shoulder as he secures the car seat. It’s not that you don’t trust him to do it properly; it’s just that you’d like to watch over your baby.

He steps back, accidentally bumping into you, then turns around and puts his hands on your hips.

“Hi,” he chirps, happy to see you there. “Wanna ride in the back with her?”

You cover his hands with yours and lean in to peck his lips. “Hi. And, yes, I do.”

Jack takes a step back and keeps his hands hovering near you as you settle into the backseat.

“Comfortable?” he asks as your brow furrows.

Your face relaxes, and you nod. He reaches over and lovingly squeezes your knee before he shuts the door.

The entire drive home, Jack maintains exactly the speed limit on every road. He gets passed at every chance, but he’s got precious cargo in the back, so who really cares if he’s driving like his 97-year-old grandma?

When you get home, he helps you out of the car, then pulls Birdie from her car seat and hands her to you before guiding you up the porch. He unlocks the front door and holds it open for you.

“This is your house, Birdie,” you coo down at the baby in your arms. “This is where you’re gonna live with Mommy and Daddy until we find a different house.”

“Should we give her the tour?” Jack suggests.

You nod at him, then look back at Birdie. By the time you complete the brief tour of the house, she starts to fuss.

“Okay, last room, Birdie girl,” you mutter to the baby as she starts rooting for milk. “It’s your room. Your daddy and Uncle Robby–-who you’ll meet when he gets back from sabbatical–painted the room for you.” You go to sit in the glider chair and start pulling your shirt up and undoing the nursing bra. “And Mommy sat right here while Daddy built the crib.”

Jack crouches down and smooths a hand over Birdie’s soft hair.

“Need anything?” he asks as you get the baby latched.

“Not really,” you say softly, smiling contentedly.

He nods and straightens up. “I’ll bring the stuff inside from the car.”

Then it’s just you and the baby in the nursery, the only sound being her soft suckling.

“We’ve got all kinds of stuff to do,” you say, speaking softly, but not exactly baby-talking. “Gotta make your baby wellness appointment, get you on the insurance, give you a bath. All real exciting, huh, baby girl?”

For a few minutes, you just rock in the glider and watch Birdie’s jaw move.

Jack comes back in and crouches in front of the glider again.

“You gonna want lunch soon?” he asks, slipping his finger in Birdie’s grasp.

“Yeah. I think there’s sandwich fixings and chips. Will you put extra turkey on mine?” you ask, reaching a hand out to caress his shoulder.

Jack nods and leans down to kiss Birdie’s head, then pecks your lips before he heads to the kitchen.

“Your daddy’s love language is physical touch. That’s how he shows us he loves us,” you say, one hand gently stroking Birdie’s hair. “He also loves words of affirmation. I think those two are tied. He also loves doing acts of service. Your daddy’s very talkative and passionate.”

You sigh and stay quiet for a few minutes, eyes just fixed on all her squirming and swallowing and blinking and clenching and unclenching of her fists. Eventually, she unlatches, and you reposition her to nurse from your other breast.

“You know, you’re a very good-looking baby, Birdie. You look like Mommy, except for your chin. I guess sperm donor 18645 gave you that. It’s not bad. And, hey, maybe it gets him all the ladies.” You slip a finger into Birdie’s grasp. “You’re an Abbot, no matter whose DNA mixed with mine to make you. It’s no one’s business, anyway, but just so you know, Daddy and I are going to do everything we can to make sure you don’t feel insecure about that. We don’t ever want you to feel like you don’t belong.”

//

The rest of the day is spent on the couch with just the three of you. You and Jack take turns holding the baby, shirts and Birdie’s onesie long forgotten in the interest of skin-to-skin bonding. She’s relatively quiet outside of the cries that tell you she’s hungry or needs a diaper change. 

When it feels like bedtime, Jack feeds her a bottle with the milk you pumped earlier while you take a shower.

You come out half an hour later–because Jack was adamant that you take all the time you need in there–wearing only a nursing bra and your postpartum diaper. You feel your most unattractive, yet Jack looks at you with awe when you emerge from the shower. 

This body carried his baby and labored for hours to birth her. So, maybe you feel funny about the current state of your stomach, but Jack feels lucky to get to witness it.

“You look so pretty and happy,” he says softly as he burps Birdie, the bottle completely finished on the nightstand.

You smile and lean down to kiss Birdie’s head.

“You’re a good-looking dad, baby,” you say as you sit down next to Jack on the bed.

Jack wraps an arm around your shoulders, the two of you staring down at Birdie in the crook of his elbow, her tiny mouth slightly agape as she sleeps.

“She took the bottle well,” he says softly. “A whole ounce and a half, like a champ.”

“Mm. You like giving her the bottle?”

“Yeah, I did. Good father-daughter bonding.” He turns his head toward you. 

“You’re tired,” you mutter softly, gently cupping his jaw. 

“So are you.”

You huff a soft laugh through your nose. “Go shower. I got her.”

Carefully, Jack transfers Birdie into your arms, then heads to the bathroom. When the door shuts, you pad over to your side of the bed where the bedside bassinet that Jack put together today is all set up.

“Okay, Birdie girl,” you sigh, gently lowering her inside. “This bassinet only has three full walls, so you can still see me if you turn your head to the right. I’ll be right here, and when you wake up hungry, I’ll put you right on the boob. If it’s a diaper situation, you’ll have to go to Daddy, though. He’s a good man, won’t let me do the stinky stuff.”

Birdie settles immediately, not disturbed by the transfer at all. You press a kiss to her chubby cheek, then get in bed and pull the covers over your body. 

A few minutes later, Jack emerges from the bathroom, and before crawling into bed, he stops by your side of the bed to kiss Birdie good night and whisper that he loves her. When he’s in bed beside you, he kisses you and whispers the same thing.

He holds onto you a little tighter tonight than he usually does. You don’t say anything. He presses another kiss to your cheek before he finally settles.

//

The next day, Birdie has her well-baby checkup in the early afternoon. 

Thanks to one of the copious matching sets you bought for postpartum, you feel put together enough to leave the house confidently. You hand Jack the ‘#1 Dad’ hat on the way out the door.

Jack’s a little quieter today. You can’t tell if he’s just tired or if something else is weighing on him. He has therapy today, though. 4:00, you’re pretty sure. Maybe at 5:00. It doesn’t really matter since it’s virtual. 

He pushes the stroller, walking a little slower than he would if a freshly postpartum woman wasn’t walking next to him, through the pediatrician’s office. He only talks when you get situated in the waiting room chair, asking if you’re comfortable. Still, in his quietness, he keeps one hand on the handle of the stroller and the other on your knee, ever protective of his girls.

Birdie’s name is called, and Jack follows behind you and the nurse with the stroller. Once you’re all inside the room, the nurse instructs you to strip Birdie down to be weighed.

She fusses as Jack undoes her onesie but settles when he wraps a blanket around her and cradles her in his arms while the nurse sets up.

“Alright, Dad,” the nurse sighs. “You can set her down.”

Birdie continues to fuss when the warmth is taken away again, but she gets through it.

The nurse declares that Birdie’s weight is in a good place, then measures her head and says those measurements are normal too. After all that, the nurse tells you the doctor will be in for the head-to-toe exam, then slips out.

Jack gathers Birdie in his arms, careful to make sure her whole body is covered by the blanket.

“Babe, are you okay?” you ask softly, leaning against the exam table, your head against his shoulder. “You’re pretty quiet today.”

He turns his head toward you. He shrugs and leans his head down to kiss your temple.

“Just tired. Guess all the adrenaline is finally gone,” he says softly.

You kiss his shoulder. “Hopefully therapy helps today.”

Then the doctor knocks at the door. She’s nice and performs the exam very well, in Jack’s opinion. 

Soft spots of the skull are good, no signs of hip dysplasia, collarbones didn’t break during delivery, femoral pulse is strong, no irregularities anywhere.

“Possibly the most perfect baby ever,” the doctor jokes.

You ask a few questions that you came up with on the drive over. The doctor explains your concerns away, and when you look at Jack, he seems to be in agreement with the pediatrician that everything is normal.  

“Alright,” the doctor says as Jack puts Birdie’s onesie back on. “That’s it for Birdie for today. Cute nickname, by the way. Remember to also take care of yourselves. You guys are a team, so lean on each other and help each other out.”

“Yeah, we haven’t crashed and burned yet,” you joke. “Thank you so much, doctor.”

The doctor smiles and shuts the door behind her.

“Wanna get lunch on the way home?” you suggest as Jack goes to open the door.

“Yeah, sounds good,” he says, following you out while you push the stroller.

//

When you get home, the three of you take a nap after you nurse Birdie. Jack sets an alarm so he doesn’t miss therapy.

By the time the alarm does go off, you’re still sleeping. As Jack puts his prosthesis back on, Birdie starts fussing. He glances at his phone and decides she probably needs a bottle after he checks her diaper.

He scoops Birdie up and sniffs her bottom. Nothing, but he checks more carefully while her bottle warms up. A peek tells him she’s all dry. Just hungry.

“You wanna sit in on therapy with me, Birdie?” he mutters to the baby as he grabs her bottle. “Yeah? Gonna do your best to be quiet?”

Birdie just stares up at Jack with her big, bright eyes, waiting for a bottle or a breast.

Once he’s signed into the virtual waiting room, sitting in your home office, he brings the bottle to Birdie’s mouth. For something so tiny, she sure is a greedy eater.

His therapist, Leo, joins the call, surprised to see Birdie in Jack’s arms. 

“I see we have a guest,” he remarks, smiling.

“This is Birdie. Her mom’s sleeping, and she needed a bottle. Figured she doesn’t understand anything besides milk, so she could sit in today, if that’s okay,” Jack explains.

Leo smiles, eyes clearly fixed on the tiny baby rather than Jack as he talks. “Yeah, of course, as long as you’re fine with it. Wow, the baby’s finally here. How’re you feeling?”

Jack shrugs. “She was born on the sixth, early in the morning. We got home yesterday, took her to the doctor earlier. I feel… I feel good.” He looks down at Birdie, checking in to make sure she’s still taking the bottle okay. “She’s amazing, looks just like her mom except for the chin. I guess that’s from the sperm donor.”

There’s a pause, so Leo takes advantage.

“How do you feel about that? Your daughter having biological ties to another man?” Leo asks, blunt as always.

Jack swallows roughly. “I knew what I was getting myself into when I got involved with my wife. I always knew that Birdie wouldn’t look like me. I actually was kind of expecting her to look exactly like the sperm donor, but she’s really more of her mom’s twin, so I guess that makes me feel better.”

“Would it be possible for you to feel insecure about it if your daughter didn’t look like her mother?”

Jack doesn’t like that question; Leo can tell. Maybe that’s what makes it an important one to ask.

“Guess it could be possible,” Jack says softly, eyes fixed on the door rather than Leo on the screen or Birdie in his arms. “I wouldn’t… She’s my kid, blood or not, so I… I don’t know. I don’t want to sound like an asshole.”

Leo shakes his head. “It’s perfectly natural to want your children to look like you. With Birdie, that’s impossible, but you were there when she was born, Jack. You were friends with her mother in the early stages of pregnancy, and along the way became her romantic partner. Birdie doesn’t know that you didn’t contribute to her DNA, and she doesn’t care. You’re the man holding her right now. Nobody else is. She’ll give you gifts on Father’s Day, and her first word will probably be ‘Dada’, and even though that’s more of a phonics and developmental thing, she’ll be looking at you when she says it.”

Jack sighs and scrubs a hand over his face, holding Birdie and the bottle with one hand for a moment.

“I caught her,” Jack says softly. “When she started crowning, I moved down between my wife’s legs, and I was there to catch my daughter when she was born.”

Leo smiles softly. “You’ve delivered babies before. I assume this one was different.”

“Yeah.” Jack nods and looks down at Birdie, still suckling. “This one… I took this one home. I signed her birth certificate. She’s got my last name. I had to hold back tears when I got my hands on her head. She’s mine.” He swallows roughly again. “I never thought I’d have this.”

“Right.” Leo sighs. “Have you expressed your past feelings about children to your wife?”

Jack sighs now and lets out a sniffle. “No, I didn’t really see the point, honestly. I don’t want her to get the wrong idea and start thinking I’m not happy with how things have turned out.”

Leo nods. “It’s not uncommon to go from being neutral on an idea to being 100% on board. You fell in love with your wife, and the baby came with her.”

“It’s not just that,” Jack says. “Helene didn’t want kids. I thought it was better for me to maybe regret not having kids than her regretting having a child. Now that Birdie’s here, I can’t imagine there ever being a reality where I’m not her dad.”

His phone buzzes just then, the distinctive ringtone he set for your texts filling the room. He glances at the phone and reads the message: I know you’re in therapy, but if you want, I can pop in real quick and grab Birdie.

“It’s my wife,” he says as he sends a message back: That’d be nice. Thx

“Is she okay?”

“Yeah, she’s coming in to grab the baby.”

Then there’s a knock at the door, and Jack tells you to come in.

Eyes a little puffy from sleep, hair slightly mussed, still in the matching pink sweatshirt and shorts set, and the world’s softest and prettiest smile on your face. 

His beautiful wife, mother of his perfect daughter.

Still on the bottle, Jack carefully transfers Birdie into your arms and whispers a soft thank you to you on your way out of the office.

Once the door shuts, Leo smiles. “It’s obvious your wife loves you, Jack. I’m sure she’d understand your feelings. Besides, now that Birdie’s here, how do you feel about her presence, your role in her life?”

Jack nods and swallows the lump in his throat. 

“I’m happy,” he says, his voice warbly. “I don’t… I feel like I can’t believe that there was a universe where I was going to miss out on this, on being a dad. But, y’know, I wouldn’t have this if I hadn’t lost Helene, so I feel kind of… I don’t know, maybe guilty? That I’m having this life that I wouldn’t be having otherwise and…really loving it.”

The adrenaline is finally wearing off, and Jack can finally stop and let his mind get consumed with the question of how he got so lucky with you and also how to rationalize his love for both Helene and you.

He always thought everything bad that happened to him–losing his leg, his and Helene’s early struggles, Helene dying–was all punishment for every bad thing he did in his life, the things he did with the American flag on his shoulder that helped a younger Jack believe it was for the greater good.

That didn’t work for long.

“That’s a valid feeling,” Leo says. “It’s true that you wouldn’t have the life you do now if Helene was still here. Let me ask you this, Jack. Are you happy with where you are today?”

Jack sighs but doesn’t hesitate to nod his head.

“I am. I’m happy with my wife and with Birdie. I just… I look at Birdie…” He trails off, eyes squinting. He clears his throat, gaze fixed on a doodle you made on a sticky note next to the computer mouse. “I look at my daughter and wonder what I did that makes me worthy of her. It’s the same thing when I look at my wife, but Birdie… She’s two days old. She’s never done anything wrong in her entire life, and she’s so pure and loved, and I… I wonder if I deserve to be in their lives.”

Leo takes a moment to come up with a response. “Jack, from what you’ve told me, you’ve married a very intelligent and thoughtful woman. She gave up on men and was going to have Birdie on her own. Then she got to know you, and you’ve become her partner in all of this. If you’re feeling doubtful about your worthiness in your family, try thinking about your wife’s decision to involve you, how much you trust her.”

“Yeah,” Jack chokes. He clears his throat. “She’s great. Amazing woman, man, so fucking strong.” He can steer the conversation. “She didn’t get an epidural for about twelve hours. She managed to stay clear-headed the whole time. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before.”

Leo doesn’t miss the avoidance, but one thing is for sure: Jack will talk about it when he’s ready, when he doesn’t feel so raw.

//

When Jack steps out of your office, he doesn’t join you and Birdie on the couch. You’re not upset; he just spent the better part of an hour talking about who knows what. He’s entitled to some alone time. You’re fine to sit on the couch with Birdie at your breast, the remote, water bottle, and a snack nearby.

It’s when nearly an hour goes by that you send him a text asking if he’s okay.

Five minutes go by, and he doesn’t respond, so you pad into the bedroom with Birdie in your arms.

He’s on the bed, back to the door, prosthesis near his nightstand.

You round the bed to put Birdie in her bassinet on your side of the bed, then crawl in next to him, leaving him some space. For someone who didn’t answer your text, he doesn’t seem to want the space as he pulls you toward him. You let him pull your left leg up and rest it on his hip as you bring a hand to his cheek.

“I love you, Jack,” you whisper as he pulls your head toward him so your foreheads touch. “I’m sorry if you’re feeling overwhelmed today, baby.”

He pecks your lips and sighs. 

“Baby, are you okay?” you ask softly, brow furrowed in concern, thumb rubbing back and forth across his cheek.

He nods softly and kisses your lips again.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind, is all,” he mumbles against your lips. “Let’s just stay here for a while until Birdie needs something. Yeah?”

He’s probably got his entire life story leading up to this point on his mind right now. If he wants to process things on his own before he talks to you about it, that’s okay. You won’t argue against letting him hold you in his arms.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “We’ll just chill for the rest of the day. Um, tomorrow, though, I wanted to take Birdie on a walk. I think it’d be good for all of us.”

“Sounds perfect, sweetheart,” he whispers softly before pressing another kiss to your lips.

//

As the next few days go by, Jack seems to relax a bit more, which makes you feel calmer, too. The two of you take Birdie on walks in the neighborhood with her fan attached to her stroller.

After the walks is when you shower since the girdle you wear during them creates a lot of sweat.

Today is day seven of being home, day eight since you’ve given birth. Jack has put Birdie down for a nap, so he watches you in the bathroom as you carefully remove the girdle.

“It’s not giving you trouble, is it?” he asks softly. “You feel okay when you wear it?”

You smile as you meet his eyes in the mirror. “I feel fine. It’s doing its job, making things a little easier.”

He nods along, his eyes flitting from your eyes to your still swollen middle.

“Okay, good.” He steps closer to you, his hip brushing your side. “Y’know you’re beautiful?”

You smile brighter, and you caress his cheek. “I do. Thanks for not letting me forget.”

He smiles softly, his gaze softening along with it. Pure would be a good word to describe the way he’s looking at you right now.

“I love you,” you say, rubbing your thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

He kisses the juncture of your neck and shoulder. “I love you, too.”

He pulls back and you look him in his eyes. So full of love and adoration and peace. You wrap your arms around him, chest to chest, belly to belly.

“So much better without Birdie in the way,” you mutter, your voice muffled with your cheek against his chest.

Jack chuckles softly and kisses the top of your head before letting his arms fall.

When you get out of the shower, you find Jack on the bed with Birdie on his bare chest, a soft pink blanket over her back.

Skin-to-skin has become an addiction.

You walk to your dresser in just the postpartum diaper to put on a nursing bra before you join them on the bed. Jack holds an arm out to get you as close as possible. You sneak your left arm under his neck and cover his left bicep with your hand, your right hand going to Birdie’s fist. Jack’s right hand skates up and down your back, eyes fixed on Birdie like her lip occasionally twitching is the most bewitching thing he’s ever seen.

//

Jack has told you about his nightmares. He told you they didn’t happen very often anymore. You’re pretty sure the last one he told you about happened when you were 37 weeks pregnant, but he didn’t wake you up with his screams or his fingernails digging into your skin.

It’s almost 2:00 in the morning when you hear the sounds of Jack screaming. With the lack of sleep due to having a one-week-old baby in the house, you think it’s Birdie at first. Then you feel his nails dig into your thigh, and you know it’s him.

“Ow, fuck, Jack!” you whimper, whipping your head around in his direction to find his skin drenched in sweat, his left hand gripping your thigh like it’s personally offended him.

You vaguely remember a Google search telling you not to touch him or be too loud.

So you sit there in bed and start speaking in a calming voice.

“Jack, it’s okay,” you murmur. “Please wake up.”

Birdie starts crying in the bassinet to your left.

Your head turns back and forth between your daughter and your husband.

Birdie’s upset that she’s been woken up. Jack is fighting off metaphorical demons and taking it out on your thigh. Birdie’s going to have to cry it out for a second.

You lean your head down, your fists clenching as you fight the urge to caress Jack’s cheek.

“Baby, please wake up. You’re having a nightmare,” you say softly. “Jack, it’s okay. You’re safe.”

His eyes shoot open faster than you’ve ever seen. His grip on your thigh momentarily tightens, and you fight back your whimper while he shoots up in bed.

“Jack, it’s me. You’re safe. You’re in bed with me in our house,” you whisper, keeping your distance as you sit up.

As he comes to, all he can hear is his breathing and Birdie crying.

“I woke them up,” he mutters to himself. 

“Jack, it’s okay,” you say, but he barely hears it.

He finally looks at you, fear in his eyes. You’ve never seen him scared.

The hand he has on your thigh suddenly pulls back in toward himself as if he’s been burned.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his eyes glazing over.

You shake your head. “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

His eyes focus on the bassinet behind you.

“She’s crying,” he whispers, sounding as if the notion is bringing him physical pain. “Please, you gotta pick her up.”

You furrow your brow, unsure if you should keep your focus on Jack or rock Birdie back to sleep, but his intense gaze decides for you.

Birdie’s cries die down when you finally pick her up, your legs hanging off the bed, your back to Jack as you stare at the broken blood vessels on your thigh.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, finally getting his breathing under control. “Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I haven’t… I haven’t had one like that in years. I’m so sorry I woke you up.”

You carefully lower Birdie back in the bassinet and turn back around.

“Jack, it’s not your fault. Everyone’s okay,” you whisper. “Do you want to go to the kitchen and have some water?”

He swallows roughly and eventually nods.

You slip out of bed and grab his crutch for him. He takes it and follows you to the kitchen. When you hand him the cup, his eyes fall to your thigh, the dotting on your thigh telling him something hurt you.

“Was that me?” he asks softly, guilt already seeping into his voice.

You chew on the inside of your cheek as you debate lying.

You land on staying silent as you wrap your arms around him. He melts into you, which is relieving. It could’ve gone either way, given his current state.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he sobs into your neck. 

“I know,” you whisper.

“You just had our baby,” he whimpers.

“It’s okay, Jack. It’ll heal in a day or two.”

“But I hurt you,” he reiterates. “You’re fragile, and I hurt you.”

“You didn’t mean to, baby. It doesn’t even hurt, I promise. I’m okay.”

You press a soft kiss to his cheek and scratch your fingernails up and down his bare back.

“I love you,” you whisper as you pull back slightly. “I’m okay. We’re all safe. Birdie’s asleep in our room, and you and I are having some water. I love you, Jack. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

He nods, taking in your words, eyes fluttering shut as he tries to take some deep breaths.

“I love you, too, sweetheart,” he breathes.

“We can sit out here in the living room and talk if you need,” you offer. “Or we can go back to bed. Whatever you need.”

Whatever he needs.

Fuck, you just had a baby. He’s supposed to be telling you that. He’s also amazed you feel safe enough to go back to bed with him after he just about detached your skin from your quads.

Slowly, he leans in to kiss you. You reciprocate immediately, your hands flexing against his back.

“I love you,” he whispers against your lips.

Flashbacks of the nightmare play in his head. Helene sits in the middle of the bathroom floor as blood pools beneath her. You clutch a lifeless Birdie as you bleed out. It makes his stomach churn.

“I love you, too, baby.”

Jack takes in a shuddering breath and pulls back to kiss your cheek now, your temple, your forehead, then pulls you closer with one arm while he balances on his crutch with the other.

Eventually, you go back to bed. Jack’s conflicted between wanting to keep a safe distance from you and wanting to hold you in his arms to lull himself to sleep like he usually does.

You decide for him, wrapping your arms around him in a way that makes his heart ache.

He feels a little better as you rest your head on his pillow, your nose brushing against his neck, your fingers gently stroking the top of his hair, your other arm secure around his middle.

His heart breaks a little when he feels your tears rub against his skin. Your hormones are still a little all over the place, and your brain is finally able to catch up to what just happened. Jack is your strong and tough husband, and seeing him crumble like he just did hasn’t made you believe that any less; it’s just made you sad over the fact that he’s feeling anything other than content. 

You shift a little closer and kiss the underside of his jaw and gently tighten your arm around his waist.

Jack begins gently scratching his fingernails up and down your back, and eventually, your stroking his hair and his scratching your back lulls both of you to sleep.

When you get things moving for the day around 10:00 AM, the sadness in both your and Jack’s eyes lessens just a bit as Birdie lies between her parents in their bed.

He grabs her tiny fist and kisses it while she looks at you like you’ve hung the moon. And after how you supported him last night, Jack would have to agree with his daughter.

*reminder that you get side eyed hard if you're on one of these taglists and don't reblog

All works taglist:  @person-005 @tearsweetenedtea @canonisoptional @xoxoloverb @saralovesjoelmiller @rach2602

All Shawn Hatosy characters taglist: @realwhoreforfictionalmen  @ezmina98 @hehehehahahohohuhu @janeety @rumoured-whispers @1dhoe93 @dopeasope @itzpixiebabe @lacy1986 @messyyhairr @abzidabzy

Jack Abbot: @staygoldsquatchling02 @thehockeynerd30 @nutbutterjellie

Songbird taglist: @itsmycorneroftheinternet @laughsandlivia 

A few days before Andrew was sentenced to six years at Folsom State Prison, he broke up with you when you were visiting him at the county jail. It broke his heart and hurt him more than he thought he was capable of hurting when he saw the look on your face. The utter heartbreak and shock as you processed his words. 

“I don’t want to see you again,” Andrew said, barely able to look you in the eye. 

Tears were already streaming down your face. Your first instinct was to blame yourself. You racked your brain trying to figure out what you had done wrong, analyzing the past few days you had spent with him. “I don’t- I just don’t understand what I did wrong,” you gasped, choking on your tears. 

He closed his eyes and turned away from you, blinking his own tears away. Every instinct he had was telling him to hold you, wipe your tears away and comfort you but he couldn’t. He needed it to hurt so you wouldn’t wait for him. “I don’t want to be with you. You need to forget me and move on. Even when I get out of prison, I don’t want to see you.” 

“Andrew, please, just tell me what I did wrong and I’ll fix it. I’ll fix it just please don’t leave me. Please, Andrew,” you sobbed, frantically reaching for his hands from across the round table.  

His jaw muscle clenched and it took every ounce of strength he had to push your hands away from him. It killed him to see you crying and breaking down like this, even more so because he was the reason for your pain. 

Right from the start of your relationship, Andrew knew that he wasn’t good enough for you but he had tried so hard to prove himself otherwise, not just to you and everyone else, but also to himself. He stopped doing risky jobs where there were high chances of getting caught, all the jewelry he bought you was with clean money, and he distanced himself from Smurf to protect you. But all of his efforts turned out to be in vain when he got caught robbing a bank. 

“Just stay away from me,” Andrew said, his voice was hoarse and gruff as he stood up. Without looking back out of fear that he would crumble under your tearful gaze and run to you, he walked out of the county jail visiting area. 

It was the hardest decision he had ever made, letting you- the person he loved more than anyone or anything else in the world go, but it was because he loved you so much that he made the decision. He didn’t want you wasting the rest of your precious vibrant life waiting for him. You were too smart, ambitious, and capable to tie yourself to some convict.

Without giving it a second thought, Andrew answered your call. “Hello?” 

“Andrew? What- wh- when did you get out of prison?” you stuttered. Your eyes were wide with surprise and shock as you stared at him on the screen. You blinked a few times, making sure it was really him. 

“Yesterday,” he answered quickly, more concerned about you. His eyebrows furrowed as he stared at the screen, taking in your tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes. “Why are you crying?” 

It took you a few seconds to answer. You were still in shock that he was out of prison and captivated by his shirtless image on your screen. His hair was shorter, trimmed into a neat buzzcut that showed off his cute ears.  “I’m not crying-”

“Why are you calling me?” To anyone else, his tone would’ve sounded impatient, but it was actually out of concern. He wanted to understand what was wrong so he could fix it for you. “I had two hundred and eighteen missed calls from you.”

“Oh well at first, I called you out of habit- even after the breakup, whenever something happened, I wanted to tell you. But you never answered- obviously because you were in prison. Even though you couldn’t answer, I just started calling you whenever I needed to talk-” halfway through your barely coherent rambling, you scratched the outer corner of your eye three times, then another three, and a final set of three. 

Andrew caught it immediately. During your relationship, he had grown accustomed to identifying your habits and compulsions. “What was that?” 

“What was what?” your voice went high pitched, an obvious tell that you were lying. 

“You scratched your eye three times.” 

“What eye?” you shrugged as you sunk down into your bed. 

Andrew said your name in a low voice, the exact tone that had you doing whatever he told you to do. 

“No I didn’t,” you shook your head. 

“Yes, you did. I can see you, kid. I thought you were done with that.”

You blinked back tears as you stared into the screen, trying to be strong. “So did I,” you whimpered, your voice breaking. 

“What happened?” Andrew asked, his voice and expression softening. 

“I’m really scared, Andy-”

His heart skipped a beat when he heard you call him by his nickname, something only you could call him. 

“It’s like everything is falling apart. I can’t afford my rent, my boss is driving me crazy, and I just…I feel like I can’t do anything right.” You couldn’t fight the tears anymore, they began streaming down your face. You felt so overwhelmed, not just from the mental breakdown you were having but also from the fact Andrew was speaking to you. Everyone else in your life hadn’t noticed how you were unravelling but with Andrew, he caught it within seconds. That was the beauty of your relationship with him, he saw you, truly saw you in a way you had never been seen before and not in spite of it, but because of it, he had loved you. 

“Are you at home?”

“Yes,” you nodded. 

“Stay there. I’m coming to you,” he said. He threw the sledgehammer across the grass and started running. 

Shirtless and without shoes, Andrew ran through the pitch black streets of Oceanside with his phone held out in front of him so you could see him. 

“You really don’t have to do this,” you sniffled, clutching your blanket up towards your chin. 

“Just keep looking at me. I’m almost there,” he said, breathing heavily. The sweat on his body glistened under the pale moonlight as he reached your building and ran up the stairs towards your door. 

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you shook your head. 

“Open the door,” he said, his tone firm but gentle because he could never be rough with you. 

“No, I’m scared!” You pulled the covers over your head and hid in the safety of the darkness. 

The next thing you heard was a loud crash and the sound of your door swinging open. Then the sound of heavy footsteps and breathing approaching your bedroom. You could already smell him, his sweat and natural musk that matched his t-shirt that you were wearing. 

Andrew gently pulled down the covers, revealing your shivering body covered only in his old t-shirt. You looked up at him with wide eyes, unafraid to blink out of fear that you were dreaming and if it was a dream, it was one you never wanted to wake up from. After all this time, Andrew was here. You called and he came. 

“You’re here,” you whispered softly, your voice hoarse from all the crying you had done. 

A part of you felt embarrassed. This was the first time Andrew was seeing you in three years. You wished that you had undergone a post breakup glow-up or at least washed your hair but the second you looked up at him, all those thoughts went away. This was the real you, the you Andrew had fallen in love with, mental crises and all. There was no mistaking the look in his eyes for anything but pure love and adoration. 

“I was always here,” he replied as if it was the most obvious thing. To him, it was obvious, he had always been there and always would be there for you. 

Andrew reached down and effortlessly lifted you up, carrying you in his big strong arms in a bridal carry. He fought back tears as he held you in his arms. He leaned his head on your shoulder so he was facing towards you, not away from you, which was something he only ever did with you. Your arms wrapped around his tightly, you never wanted to let go of him. He melted into your touch, closing his eyes as he breathed in your scent and felt your soft skin. It had been so long since someone held him and longer still since he wanted it. 

“It’s okay. You’re safe now,” he said, pressing his face against your hair. 

“I missed you so much,” you sighed, pulling away from him slightly so you could look at his face. Your fingertips gently traced the freckles on his face before moving down to his broad chest. 

Andrew leaned in and kissed you. A low groan escaped his lips as he savoured your soft lips and sweetness. “I love you” he said breathlessly, pulling away from the kiss to look into your eyes. One kiss and he was hard already, pre-cum leaking through his jeans, leaving a dark spot at his crotch. 

“I love you too, Andy.” 

He gently placed you down onto the bed and climbed on top of you. “I’m gonna take care of you and everything’s gonna be okay.” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he started kissing you. His hands were moving across your body, gripping at every inch of skin he could find, desperate to feel you everywhere. You felt his coarse hands across your soft skin, squeezing your tits, your hips, and your ass. His cock was straining in his jeans and you could feel his hard length grinding against your aching pussy. 

“I need you inside me,” you whined. You arched your back, pushing your hips into him. 

Andrew quickly pulled his jeans down and took out his big cock. Tears formed in his hazel eyes as soon as he pushed his cock into you. It had been so long since he had you like this. He couldn’t believe you were really here and that you still loved him. “I love you so much,” he groaned, his voice breaking as tears fell down his face. 

“I love you, Andy.” Your back arched as you felt the full length of his cock stretching you out. Your nails dug into his chiseled chest, leaving your mark on him as you kissed his neck. 

He closed his eyes, fighting back the urge to cum right then and there as your nails scratched him. You felt so good, your warm and wet pussy squeezing around his cock. All those pretty sounds you were making just for him. His hands were resting on the bed against either side of your head, his big arms caging you in as he thrust into your wet pussy. He was mesmerized at the sight of you below him. Fully naked, tits bouncing up and down with each thrust, and your pretty eyes staring up at him. The soft squelch of every thrust, your loud moans, and his soft whimpers filled your dark bedroom. 

“Fuck, I’m not gonna last. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Feels too good,” he whimpered, dropping his head down onto your chest as his thrusts became erratic, pathetically trying to fuck into you as hard as he could. 

“Cum for me, Andy. I want you to fill me up,” you moaned, encouraging him by squeezing your pussy around him. 

That was all he needed to go over the edge. His cock twitched inside of you before spilled his load into you. “Yeah yeah yeah. Fuck,” he moaned as he collapsed on top of you. You felt his warm cum fill you up and leak out, dripping down your thighs and onto the bedsheets.

“I missed you so much. Missed being your girl,” you sighed as you kissed him softly on the cheek. His cock was now soft but still inside you. He didn’t feel ready to pull out and you didn’t want him to. 

“You’ve always been my girl,” Andrew said, pulling you closer to him. He kissed you on the forehead, cradling your head in his big hands and whispering sweet words to you, lulling you into peaceful sleep. 

My main masterlist

Lately, with Jack, you aren't sure where to step, unsure if the floor beneath will give way to a tense conversation that is an argument in disguise.

He's still reassuring, the affection never lessens between you two, and maybe Jack didn't change at all — but you did. Your mind burrows deeper within, searching for a shadow of doubt in his quick and easy promises, weaving a conclusion for the backstory of an excuse that you can't swallow without chewing on it.

The water churning below the below that metaphorical precipice is dotted with rocks now but you can't find it in you to turn away.

"It's fine," Jack says but both of you hear the lie before he can even continue talking. "Go to the dinner with Trinity, sweetheart, I have some lyrics to look over."

His voice never falters, his gaze doesn't harden — everything in his response aligns with a man that isn't bothered, nothing like how Baz would twist the conversation to his advantage and leave you feeling like shit — and yet you tense where you're tucked against him in bed.

Your eyes never leave his even as he scrolls through his phone, his glasses sitting primly upon the slope of his nose. Emails and the like, nothing incriminating. "But Jack— are you sure?"

When he looks at you then, you feel that fear of being too much rise, like a tide tugging at your ankles, ready to sweep you under. "Sweetheart." That petname rolls roughly off his tongue, the affection that clings to each syllable tasting bittersweet. "It's fine. It's good that you're hanging out with people your own age."

Now that's bait, you think. The age thing seems to be bothering Jack more; you had initially thought the uneasiness festering between you might've been him holding resentment for the kiss you shared with Robby. But he seems far more upset every time TMZ or Entertainment Tonight! rave about your newest superstar clique: Trinity, Dennis, Mateo, and occasionally Dove.

You refuse to take the bite. Jack's a grown man — he should know how to communicate better.

You swallow down your rebuttal and decide to go along with this nonchalant front he's putting on. "Okay," you shrug. "If you insist."

The book Robby had recommended you sits on your side of the bed and you detangle from Jack to roll over, grabbing the loved novel and picking up from where you left off. You tangle your legs with Jack beneath the covers out of habit as you lean against the headboard, absentmindedly stroking the dog-eared pages.

Jack watches you read, sees the way you turn the book just enough to read Robby's annotations scrawled in the margins.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

NORTHWESTERN UNIVERSITY, ORRINGTON HOUSE, SECOND FLOOR, JACK AND ROBBY'S SUITE.

Jack stretches out on the lumpy couch he and Robby nabbed at a sale (the side of the road right after an Alpha Tau party right before fall semester) in hopes to smooth out the kink in his lower spine, an unfortunate result of studying all night at the library. His legs dangle off the edge of the arm rest on the opposite end, his eyes glazing across the sitcom blaring off the television with mild interest. He's about to light up a blunt — a wonderful possibility now that he and Robby finally moved out of the freshman dorms and into the houses near campus — when his roommate's door opens and shut.

"… the big deal? Why can't I just borrow your copy?"

He glances away from the screen to see Robby escort a pretty girl to the door; Jack might've given up on remembering the girls' names with how often he brings home a new face every few days or so.

"I can just buy you your own copy," Robby insists with a charming smile, sweet and puppyish even with his newly grown beard. Jack fights back his own grin when the girl visibly melts, hovering by the doorway as his roommate lifts an arm to lean against the door.

"… okay," the girl swoons, tilting her head up for a kiss that Robby happily indulges in… while gently nudging her out the door. "I'll call you."

"Sure, sweetheart," Robby smiles. Once the door's shut, he lets out a low exhale of relief and trudges over to the tiny couch. Jack lifts his legs just in time for Robby to settle, bringing his legs back onto his lap.

An amused chuckle escapes Jack, throws a twizzler at his friend's head to gain his attention. "What was that about?"

"She wanted to borrow my copy of White Nights," he mutters, catches the twizzler to nibble at the ends.

"What's wrong with that? Is it some kinda first edition?"

Robby shakes his head, hands the half-eaten twizzer to Jack who finishes it off without thinking. "No, I have annotations in there. It's as personal and private as it can get, man. I'd rather not have a girl whose name I can barely remember reading that."

Jack frowns. thinks of his East of Eden copy he's yet to give back to Robby sitting on his nightstand.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

"That's it, sweetheart, take it—"

Jack grunts, his palm hugging the length of your neck as your head is positioned carefully off the edge of the bed while he fucks your throat. Tears well up, eyes rolling back while your lover's balls hit your forehead, heavy and warm against your skin. It should be uncomfortable, the way his cock seems to drive even deeper while Robby finds a rhythm of his own tip slamming against your cervix.

They've gone longer than you've expected but perhaps having two older men is enough to sate your own libido as they take turns, passing you between each other. But it's the first of the evening where you're taking them both, Jack feeding his cock in your waiting throat while you've got your legs tossed up on Robby's broad shoulders as he fucks you slow and deep.

A shiver zips down your spine each time Jack would gingerly stroke your jaw and Robby would kiss the anklet that both men had chosen for you.

"Mmf…!" You whimper as the blood rushing to your head becomes too much but Jack's pulling out just as you tap his thigh, painting your collarbone and tits with his release just in time for Robby to do the same. He finishes between your thighs instead, making a mess upon your lower abdomen and the ruined lacy thong he didn't even bother removing when he began an hour ago.

You bask in it, the depravity of being used as a canvas for their pleasure, but then Robby's sneaking his index and middle finger in you. Your thighs quiver, hips jumping at the sudden intrusion as your overstimulated clit throbs.

"Come on, princess," Robby coos as he hovers over you, his beard scratching along your cheek. "You can give us one more."

A refusal sits on your tongue but then you feel another finger join. Your lashes flutter open and you gasp, seeing Jack settle on the bed beside Robby, a half-smirk on his lips as you see his wrist move in tandem with his best friend's. "Oh fuck—"

"Think she got wetter, man," Robby chuckles darkly and Jack glances over to him.

"I think so," Jack replies and this elicits a needy keen out of you; by now, they've fucked you stupid, words failing you as you chase yet another climax while they finger you relentlessly, treating you like a toy they aren't tired of yet.

Despite wringing three orgasms out of you already, the two men manage to bring you to the precipice once more, tears sliding down your blotchy cheeks. A broken whine spills from your kiss-swollen lips when they remove their fingers, feeling hopelessly empty. Jack helps you up, settles you in between them before Robby leaves to get a clean washcloth.

You no longer whine for him; it's a practiced routine now, both men moving around you to get you comfortable while making sure one is maintaining contact with you as you slowly come down from the haziness of your afterglow. You feel more settled into your bones when they've cleaned you gently, sharing chaste kisses until you're tucked between them.

"Who do you want to be the big spoon, sweetheart?" Jack asks quietly.

"Mm… Robby," you murmur and both men share a little look before shaking their heads fondly. You've been swapping between them both, having picked Jack last time and then Robby the night before. They lift the covers for you, waiting patiently as your turn to your side so you can tuck yourself into Robby's embrace while facing Jack with a soft and sleepy smile.

Darkness descends into the room now, nothing heard but your soft breathing as you fall asleep in the safety of both their arms.

But when morning comes, brought in by bird song and soft kisses from Jack and his stubborn internal clock, you know better than to seek out Robby and yet disappointment sinks like a stone in your gut when your arm reaches out to his side of the bed and only feel cold sheets.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Entertainment Tonight! — DAILY STAR SIGHTINGS.

LOOKS LIKE STAR'S GATHERING MORE TO JOIN HER ORBIT AS HER CLIQUE MEET UP AT CHATEAU MARMONT FOR A PRIVATE DINNER. SOURCES SPOTTED STAR WITH TRINITY, DENNIS, AND MATEO SHARING APPETIZERS. WHILE IT'S NO SURPRISE THAT TRINITY IS PRESENT (IT'S NO EXAGGERATION WHEN WE DUB THEM OUR FAVORITE CONJOINED TWINS), DENNIS THE COUNTRY STAR AND MATEO, OUR UPCOMING FAVORITE HEARTTHROB, ARE DEFINITELY NEW FACES. MANY SPECULATE THAT DENNIS HAD BEEN PULLED INTO THE CLIQUE DURING COACHELLA WHILE MATEO AND STAR HAVE CLEARLY HIT IT OFF AFTER PLAYING ROMEO AND JULIET IN HER MUSIC VIDEO.

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TMZ — REWRITING TRAGIC LOVE STORIES?

STAR AND MATEO ARE HOT HOT HOT IN HER NEWEST MUSIC VIDEO, FANS ARE RAVING ABOUT THEIR CHEMISTRY AS ROMEO AND JULIET. WHILE MANY ARE BEGGING FOR STAR TO BREAK INTO HOLLYWOOD, A GROWING PORTION OF FANS ARE BEGINNING TO SPECULATE IF THERE MAY BE SOMETHING MORE BETWEEN THE TWO.

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drop dead enthusiast! @.dropdeadd — 39m who tf is writing all these articles and are they living under a rock? star's obviously dating jack abbot lmao god forbid a girl has guy friends??

star's luvbot 3000 @.starsluvbot — 42m we! don't! care! who! she's! dating!

troll @.ragebaiter — 51m What a slut, is one man not enough for her? Used to listen to Nightcrawler back in my day, I can't believe their standards would drop this low.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

"I think I'm gonna have to stop asking you what you've been up to and just check TMZ," Mateo snorts as the two of you sit in a new coffee spot that had just opened in Culver City. Despite the drive down the 405 being literal hell, the two of you figured it'd be easier to catch up like this than be caught visiting each other's houses.

You roll your eyes behind your sunglasses, face bare of makeup while having dressed down considerably to avoid any kind of recognition. You hide your snort behind the rim of your coffee cup while Mateo does the same. His curls are tied back in a low ponytail, his own sunglasses sitting low on his nose. "You're confident in the tabloids' accuracy? Last article about me claimed I was secretly engaged to Parker Ellis."

"Who's engaged?"

You glance up and smile, instinctively opening your arms to greet Penny in a warm hug — the real reason why you had happily taken the drive to Culver: Mateo's girlfriend. Unlike the rest of your friend group, Penny isn't a celebrity and highly values her privacy, something you and Mateo can never promise. But without leaving LA county, Culver City has become no man's land whenever you'd happily third wheel with Mateo and his partner.

It's a nice reprieve from your odd lovelife and the chaos that follows whenever you third wheel Trinity and Dove. The other people you know of that are in normal relationships are a plane ride away.

"No one's engaged," you answer, watching fondly as she sits beside Mateo across the table.

"Not according to TMZ," Mateo grins. "Rumors say that she's been secretly seeing Parker Ellis— another director to add to your list?"

It's truly a testament of how much time has passed since your breakup with Baz and your budding friendship with Mateo that his little joke did nothing to actually offend you. If anything, it just makes you gasp at his audacity. "Oh, fuck you."

You and Penny laugh as you toss a napkin at his head. "Okay, but it's safe to say that you got a type, right?" Mateo nudges, casually taking the drink that Penny gives him while she takes his.

You frown slightly. "What do you mean?"

"Dude. You date older men. Baz was your longest and now Jack. That's a type. And it's not like you only attract older men, I've heard you reject Dennis Whitaker and Frank Langdon even before you met Jack. Ergo— a type.."

"It is not—" You pause, recall back all your exes and once realization settles in, you don't finish your sentence and opt to sip at your coffee instead with a glance to the street. Mateo still waits patiently for your reply, a mischievous smile growing on his lips. "I hate you."

"Nah, you don't."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

With your EP packaged and ready for the higher-ups to finally complete the little details of release days and promotional schedules, your own personal schedule finally has pockets of free time that you readily fill up with lunch dates with friends and dinners with Jack (and now occasionally Robby).

But with your sudden insurgence of appearances, so did the paparazzi. They've learned their lessons last time they had swarmed you but even with the few feet of space they allow, the calls of your name and the flashing lights is enough to kickstart the panic in your heart.

"Come on, Star, give us a smile!"

"This way, sweetheart!"

"Just one look over here, girly!"

It takes all your media training to keep your face neutral and unbothered, grateful for the sunglasses that never leave your purse as it shields you from the blinding camera lights. Trinity, however, has no qualms in shouting their vitriol back at them, fully protected by her status as an A-Lister. Dennis takes your left side, a hand on your lower back while Trinity's got her arm hooked around your right elbow. They flank you, pressing together as the two of you make it into Poppy lA, a nightclub that Dove had been begging you to drop by.

The bouncer at the door steps away from his perch to wrangle the paparazzi out of the way, allowing the three of you inside past the red velvet ropes.

"I can't believe you roped me into this," Dennis mutters, looking very much like his cute humble roots as a farm boy before his songs catapulted him to the front of every tween fantasy. You chuckle, wriggle out of your coat to hand over to the attendant, before slightly hunching over to tug at the sinfully short hemline. "I think I wanna tap out at midnight."

Your smile is genuine, reaching up to ruffle Dennis' curls. "Dennis, my love, it's 11:32 PM… you wanna leave in twenty eight minutes?"

"Earlier would be better."

Trinity groans and hooks her arms with yours and Dennis, tugging you further inside. "Come on, it's been forever since we got to just dance and let loose! Don't ruin my vibes, Huckleberry."

"How about 1 am?" You barter and despite the grimace on your friend's face, he gives in just as Trinity brings the both of you to the table Dove's occupying with a bunch of other big names in the industry. A handful of greetings and cheek-kisses are swapped before a round of shots are delivered into everyone's hands.

The room whirls around you, reaching that edge of tipsiness where everything is hilarious and every song that blares is a hit. Somehow you find yourself on the dance floor with Trinity behind you and Dennis in front, grinding to the beat before the three of you burst into laughter. Your heart seems to beat in time with the bass, rocking the walls and floors beneath you. Suddenly, the room tilts floor tips under you and it takes a second to right yourself with Dennis' help.

His warm hands cup your elbows, gliding up to your upper arms. Your own hands settle on his chest as Trinity hugs you from behind, catching a whiff of her perfume when she hides her face into the side of your neck. Muffled giggles tickle your skin and Dennis ends up hauling the both of you off the dance floor.

"Let's get some air," he chuckles but Trinity breaks away first, pulled into Dove's orbit as usual as she settles onto the girl's lap. When you make no movement, Dennis nudges your side. "I think you and I should call it."

The addictive spinning room is giving way to nausea and it takes all you can from throwing up on Dennis' shoes to nod. "God, yes— please."

Dennis frowns, his hand on your cheek before he's looking around urgently. You're about to ask what's wrong but your chest heaves, your upper body nearly lurching over before he's got an empty glass pressed against your heated cheek. The nausea is momentarily abated enough for him to bring you to the closest bathroom. Fortunately for the both of you, it's single use and gloriously line-free — you nearly trip over your heels to get to the toilet before you're emptying your entire stomach content.

"I'm sorry—" you mumble before you're throwing your head back over the rim. Warm, calloused hands gather your hair, quiet hums of support given without a drop of judgment. Once the nausea's passed and your stomach is empty, you sit back with a pathetic groan. "That was disgusting."

Dennis laughs quietly, moves your hair out of the way before he settles on the floor on the opposite side. "Don't worry about it… s'like unlocking a new level of friendship."

You chuckle, sitting with your legs folded beneath you. The music's bass thumps beyond the door, a pleasant reprieve to keep away the budding headache growing at the base of your skull. "That's one way of looking at it. Let me take you out for lunch someday, though — you literally held my hair up as I puked."

"Sure. Can't say no to free food."

A beat passes and Dennis rises first, offers his hand to you which you take. His grip is steady when you carefully get onto your feet, a feat on its own considering how high and unstable your stilettos are. The world is no longer spinning but you hug Dennis' bicep anyway as he leads you out. You draw in a few curious looks but neither of you pay them any attention; you're determined to make it out the door without faceplanting in front of a horde of influencers.

This time around, there aren't many paparazzi waiting outside the door but in your rush to get out, you realize you left your coat inside. Dennis remembers the same time you do and he squeezes your waist to gain your attention as he stops at the top of the steps.

"Let me get your coat," he says, pats your hip and gives a nod to the bouncer who nods back; you won't be bothered by anyone while he's inside fetching your things.

Your hands rub at your bare arms, goosebumps arising. "You've got a good friend," the bouncer tells you, his voice gruff and no-nonsense but his eyes hold a warmth that you didn't qutie expect. A tentative smile grows upon your lips just as the door swings open once more. Dennis has his own jacket on but he's got your coat hung on his forearm. "Have a good night, you two."

Your smile blooms into something more genuine as Dennis helps you in your coat, realizing that there isn't anything suggestive clinging beneath the bouncer's words. Not a statement to add onto the reputatation that's evolving without your permission but an observation after a genuine interaction. It's a welcomed reprieve.

You give the bouncer a little wave just as your phone starts to ring and you eagerly answer, recognizing the assigned ringtone. "Jack—" you gasp as the line connects, bursting into excited giggles while Dennis stops guiding you along. "Hi!"

Jack chuckles on the other end and it's honey smooth, warm and raspy that you can feel yourself melt if it isn't for Dennis's arm around your waist. "Hi, pretty girl. Trinity texted me, told me you were ready to go home. Where's your phone, hm?"

You giggle again. "It's in my hand, baby!" Dennis chuckles quietly beside you; while you aren't tripping your feet, you're still the furthest thing from sober.

Across the city, that ugly monster in his gut rears its head when Jack hears a male voice laugh beside you. His jaw clicks but he keeps his voice casual for you. "I know it is, sweetheart," he chuckles. "Stay put, I'll come pick you up."

"Mkaaay," you slur and despite the growing jealousy that's blistering in his heart, Jack's hopelessly endeared by you. He's hearing you babble about nothing and everything and sure, half your sentences are unintelligible but he hums and nods anyways, grabbing his keys to drive out to wherever you are. He'll always come whenever you call.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Dennis keeps you from stumbling off the curb when Jack's G-Wagon pulls up, the bright headlights nearly blinding you. When the lights shut off, Jack circles and something dark passes across his gaze but it leaves as fast as it had arrived.

"Jack!" You giggle excitedly, leaning away from Dennis' arms to fall right into your lover's waiting embrace. His smile is gentle when his arms wind around your waist, chuckling when you press messy kisses along his scruffy jaw. "You're here!"

"Hi, silly girl," he greets with a tender kiss to your cheek. "Ready to head home?"

You give a nod, your arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders while your fingers card through his silver curls with a dreamy sigh. "Mhm… thanks Dennis—" You remember to say with a wave of your hand behind you, barely catching the amused chuckle from your friend while Jack's eyes harden when you see him looking over his shoulder. A pout settles on your lips and the hand that had been tangled in his hair comes down to hold his chin, pulling his gaze down back to you. "Why so grumpy, Jackie?"

"Jackie?" He repeats with an amused yet incredulous laugh, his bad mood shedding when he gets the full impact of your adorable pout. "That's a new one… no, baby, I'm not grumpy. Come on, let's get you home."

He hauls you into the front seat, pressing kisses all over your cheeks and lips to get you to sit still long enough for him to buckle you in. He lets you hug his arm as he drives, the little green monster in his chest purring satisfactorily each time your nail runs up and down his bicep. When he doesn't feel your hands move, he steals a glance during a red light and his heart bleeds at the sight of you: fast asleep with the pendant still sewn into his sleeve pressed gently between your index finger and thumb.

"Sweetheart?" Jack murmurs a few minutes later, the car parked and the front porch lights on to light the way inside his home. He'd managed to get you in his bedroom, gently placed on the ottoman at the foot of his bed. "I'm gonna need you to stay up for me a bit longer, hm? You'll fall right off your seat."

You pout up at him but he makes sure you're no longer listing to the right before he stands to get the makeup wipes from his bathroom. He knows you have a whole routine but he'd rather not accidentally waterboard you. When he returns, he sits beside you and gently holds your face where he starts to wipe away the foundation and blush.

"Eyes closed for me, pretty girl," he murmurs and when you do as he says, you're rewarded with a chaste kiss on your lips. Then you feel the slightest pressure along your eyelids, his touch still so heartbreakingly gentle. When the most of your makeup is finally off, getting you changed is a routine he can do in his sleep. Soon enough, he's got you out of that little dress and into one of his shirts, curled up in his arms. By the time he's got the covers pulled up, you're out like a light.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Even with Jack's gentle kisses drawing you out of sleep, it doesn't soothe the absolute riot beneath your skull as the sun's rays pierce through your orbital lobe. You groan and roll over to shove your face into his bare chest, trying to escape the hangover that's already settled deep in your every being.

"Ow," you whine when he leans over you, stretching across to grab something from the side of the bed and inadvertently pressing you into the mattress. When he leans back, he kisses your forehead and hairline.

"Painkillers and water," he says, offering the two little pills and water bottle which you gratefully accept.

"Thank you," you sigh with a soft smile but there's something in Jack's eyes that unsettles you, something he's holding back. A loose thread that you want to keep on tugging. "Jack? What is it?"

His mouth parts and you huff.

"Don't lie. Please don't do that thing where you pretend nothing is wrong," you say quietly. "I don't want to be that person where we— that we wait for things to blow over without talking things through."

"Sweetheart, what are you talking about?"

Something in your eyes shutter, your lips pressing in a firm line, and that fear sparks in his chest— he doesn't know what to do if you'd ever start pulling away.

"I didn't know Dennis was joining your night out."

You swallow back a sharp retort, eyes widening for a moment. "I didn't think it was an issue," you say as carefully as you could. "Dennis is a friend, Jack."

He shifts slightly as you sit up, hates the space that grows when you lean back against his headboard. Instead, he lets his gaze take you in, memorize the way his shirt hangs perfectly off your frame. "You're right," he concedes, shakes his head as though it could shake the frustration that's been building.

It's not that he doesn't want to talk to you; he loves talking to you! Rooftop pizza dates, midnight chats in the kitchen when sleep evades the both of you … he just doesn't know what to say this time around. It's a growing clump of something, building and growing like a cyst behind his heart that eludes any kind of description that could probably justify what he's feeling whenever you're around men your age.

But he sees the disappointment that clings to your smile as you swallow down another lie from him. "Jack, I only ever want you," you promise and when your arms open, he falls into them.

He'll swallow your lies, too.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

"Baby?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?" He leans his head back off the couch to peek towards the kitchen where you're divesting his freezer of ice cream and whatever you're currently craving. He hears the faucet run, ceramic hitting the bottom of the sink, and he cranes his head to find you in the kitchen. You pad around the island counter to get to his line of sight and what he sees fights back the little monster in his chest.

Bare legs, a peek of the lacy pink undies he'd bought for you in New York after he'd torn your last pair from his own impatience, and the cropped band tee that you might've stolen from his closet. But what does it for him is your face undone, hair pulled back as you've got little gummy patches under your eyes and star stickers dotting your cheeks.

You look completely at home.

"Nicole and Matt's wedding invites came in last week," you announce as you bend over slightly, rewarding him with a perfect view of your ass which he shamelessly gropes, to dig into your purse you've discarded on the opposite couch a few hours ago upon arrival. Once you've found it, you join him on the couch, legs folded beneath as Jack's arm loosely falls around your shoulders.

"Nicole… she's the one with the lawyer fiance, right?" Jack asks as he looks upon the thick cardstock of Nicole and Matt's name written in loopy script above the braille beneath each line. "The one you flew out for Coachella?"

You nod as you gently fan the invite, sighing contentedly at the sweet scent that wafts from the card. "She's giving me a plus one."

A stupidly wide grin curls on Jack's lips. "You askin' me out, sweetheart?"

Your eyes roll as you try to get up, squealing when Jack's arms wind around your waist to pull you back into his lap. You squirm and jostle but your lover's arms are cords of steel when he keeps you on top of him. "Jack—! Okay, okay, yes!" Your giggles fill the room and his heart pounds, hiding his smile against your neck.

"Then, yes. I'll gladly be your plus one for your friend's wedding."

Jack chuckles at your resounding squeal, watches you flit off his lap to call up your friend. It leaves him feeling sticky sweet, forgetting the tension that has been hanging over the both of you recently.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Your head hangs off the edge of the chair, legs propped up on Trinity's vanity as the woman in question sits in the eye of a storm — the storm being heaps of clothing dragged out of her closet as she attempts to finish packing. You had come by to help but you've gotten distracted, watching reruns of a sitcom the two of you are obsessed with.

"Have you ever made it official? You and Jack?"

You pointedly ignore her question as you help yourself to her snacks while she tries to fold but the silence is deafening and it results to a pillow thrown right at your head. "Jesus Christ, how long has it been now? A year?"

"I wasn't counting—"

Especially not after adding Robby to the mix.

"You're fucking Robby, too?!"

Your groan is swallowed up by the pillow you shove your face into, hoping it could deflect the waves of judgment rolling off your best friend. You can feel her eyes on you, searching for any semblance of common sense from you but you've long accepted that none can be found when it comes to Jack Abbot.

"I don't think it matters anymore. Things have been weird between us. Tense. I wouldn't be surprised if things just crash and burn."

Trinity winces. "I think you've been hanging out with me too often, you're too cynical." She stops folding, abandons her three open suitcases in favor of crossing the room to kneel by the chair you're lounging on. "Come on, talk to me. You've been too preoccupied with old man dick to keep me updated."

"Gross," you gag dramatically but your hands find your best friend's hair anyways, soothing yourself to play with her soft tresses as you try to find the words. "Things were fine even after Robby joined in, you know. We even have a routine, all three of us— they're both so protective."

"Well, there's your answer," Trinity hums. "They're both jealous men."

"What?" You laugh incredulously.

"Think about it. Those two already come as a set—they won't be jealous with each other. But any other guy? All bets are off."

You're just about to refute Trinity but it fits too easily, jigsaw puzzle pieces slotting into place. Jack didn't flinch when Robby had bought you that bracelet nor did he start to pull away when Robby had kissed you solo. But Jack did get territorial when Mateo was casted as your love interest for your music video, started getting distant when Dennis joined the friend group.

He even fucked you a bit harder when you had made it onto Page Six with both Dennis and Mateo flanking you.

"It doesn't matter," you say eventually, removing your hands from Trinity's hair. "He's never asked to make things exclusive. He doesn't get to dictate who I hang out with if he can't even bring himself to call me his. Officially."

It had been something the two of you made very clearly during that first night, right before you had fallen asleep in his bed but right after he had fucked you into the mattress. While you were both in agreement that this was supposed to be a casual affair, any changes have to be said outright, whether it's ending things officially or wanting anything more.

You don't get to be taken for granted, never wanting to be the girlfriend of a man under assumption.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Frustration begins to build into something nastier but it's something a few steps removed from you, just more annoyances and grievances from past flings that are rising from the past just out of similarity. Jealousy has been an ugly habit of Jack's, something he nipped in the bud immediately with Iris. A whirlwind romance is what the public saw, a desperate fix to cling to whoever deigned to stay longer than a month is the truth. He'd been lucky enough that Iris had been just as insane as he was, hopelessly in love and eager to be claimed.

The flings that follow only ever stayed as flings, back when he kept his heart on the top shelf for the night as strange women would keep his bed warm. They liked the fame that came with spending the night with Jack, the possessiveness that bloomed and expired once they left right after.

But you've been staying longer than a night and that same jealousy — possessiveness — has nowhere to go but cultivate. The easy fix is there, the same solution that had won him the love of his life a decade ago, but the stakes seem higher with you. He doesn't know if his final push to claim you would result in the same with Iris or if he'll lose you forever. You're a younger woman, what the hell would you want to do settling down with a man as old as him?

So that's where every night takes him, every night that he doesn't spend with you, writing in a notebook to finish a song he's begun since losing Iris. Then the song is born, carefully put together by producers and other in-house musicians that are too professional to let themselves dwell on the lyrics that they aren't allowed to change.

Soon the song is ready, Jack avoiding Robby's gaze when they wrap up recording. Once they get the OK from the company, it'd be ready to be released soon.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

NIGHTCRAWLER @.NIGHTCRAWLER — 1m New single: 'TEETH' out now, streaming everywhere.

Todd @.ncbuddies — 1m I think this was a demo from after that huge blowout between Jack and Iris, glad to finally see it out

JACKSTAR ENTHUSIAST @.jackstarsbitch — 1m oh god THIS RIFF???

STAR'S BABY @.starluvbot — 1m these lyrics,,,,,, i mean both jack and robby are credited but the Wife Line,,,,,,

PINK LIMOS OUT SOON @.bbystars — 1m all men do is disappoint and never get over their ex

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

The world falls beneath your feet, a mutinous storm churning as the waves tug at your ankles and wrists to try and pull you under. The four walls of your bedroom disappear and the sheets tangled around your limbs are suffocating. You can't breathe.

It almost feels like a mistake refusing Trinity's offer to sleepover. Although it was only earlier that afternoon that you had been attempting to help her pack, it feels like days since then as you listen to the surprise drop of NIGHTCRAWLER's single. You shouldn't be so shocked; Fridays are the usual for new music. You just didn't expect the lyrics to feel like a stab to the gut.

With your chest heaving, you sit up in the middle of your bed and kick away your duvet. Your eyes are glimmering with angry, unshed tears when you catch a glimpse of your reflection upon your laptop screen before it wakes up.

You jam in the new title of the song on Genius lyrics, hit play on your phone. The bass kicks in, empty vocals following.

Robby sings the first verse and you shut your eyes. "Sometimes you're a stranger in my bed, don't know if you love me or you want me dead." The knot in your chest eases; Robby's infamous seven week itch would obviously culminate in a song like this. "Every little lie gives me butterflies," he sings and you manage a half smile.

The chorus comes and goes, a heavy-hitting punch delivered straight to your chest. But then Jack's voice kicks in and you hate the way your heart flutters. "Some days, you're the best thing in my life. Sometimes when I look at you, I see my wife."

Your eyes fly open and that knot in your chest feels like a stone, sinking deeper and deeper. It tears through your windpipe, angrily batting away the tears that threaten to spill. When the lyrics confirm the bullshit you're reading, you throw on the closest jacket your fingers touch, shove your feet into a pair of uggs and grab your keys and wallet.

It's nearly midnight but you swerve between the traffic of Los Angeles to get to Jack's neighborhood. You punch the clicker attached to your visor, the gate swinging open for you to pull through. The cold bites at your bare legs; you might've tossed a jacket over your threadbare sleep shirt but your baby pink cotton shorts do nothing against the chill.

"Jack—" you call, knocking at the heavy door. He answers with an easy smile and you can feel the way your heart splinters, willing to let it all go and fall into something safe— but that splintered piece lodges deep in your lungs and a shaky breath snaps you to attention, to the hurt that's been growing like a bruise between your ribs. "We need to talk."

"Sweetheart? I thought you were sleeping early—" he frowns but steps aside to let you in. "It's fuckin' cold outside, why didn't you call me and let me know that you were coming?"

"Your song," you whisper as you step further in. His alarm bells are ringing in his head when you maintain the distance between you and him, stumbling back when he takes a step forward. "Teeth. Did you mean it?"

His frown deepens, the panic clawing to escape the cell he's got it trapped in with that jealous little monster inside his chest. "Baby, what are you talking about—"

"The song, Jack! The fuckin'—" Your voice breaks and the sharp breath you take in, jagged and raw has him trying to step closer but you lift a hand to stop his progress. A wet laugh escapes you. "The lyric. About your wife. Did you fuckin' mean it?"

"Those lyrics… they're old—"

"Jack, please," you beg. "You said that when you see me, sometimes you see your wife. Don't insult me further by saying that that isn't about me and Iris— because I'm not an idiot. I'm— I know I'm younger than the women you date a-and I can't even begin to comprehend what it's like to be a spouse but I think I deserve better than to live in the shadow of your late wife."

Despite the solidity of your statement, Jack sees the way your shoulders tremble, the tense posture you maintain. A paradox of control in your speech but an unraveling in your body language, like a cornered animal trying to maintain its position. "That's not—" He pauses when you let out an indignant noise of disbelief. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

"That's bullshit." Your arms raise to hug yourself, a protective barrier against Jack. "I— You can't be that obtuse, Jack. You can't claim ignorance for something as obvious as— as…"

"As what?" And you hate the way how patient he is despite this, how tender and delicate the words roll off his tongue.

"God—!" You exclaim with a frustrated noise, a humorless smile on your face as you meet his eyes. "That I'm in love with you! That I fell so—" Another shaky breath punctures your sentence. "—so in love… fuck, there's no way you didn't know, Jack. You can't be this fucking blind to it, can't be this cruel to write that line as if I'm just a replacement for Iris. Is that what I am to you? Because I don't even know where I stand in your life—"

He interrupts as he surges forward, desperation clinging to his every word. "I want you, you know I do—!"

"But do you love me?"

The room goes horribly still and the silence yawns like a cavernous chasm between you two. You two are nearly chest to chest but the warmth that usually follows with close proximity is bone-chilling now. "I—"

You take pity and the smile you give him is heartbreakingly sad. An amalgamation of heartache and understanding. "Maybe it's best we take some time apart… I think this has been a long thing coming."

"Wait, angel—" His arm reaches out to grasp your wrist as you move for the door. His touch burns but you don't shake him off. "Are you breaking up with me?"

"Can't break something that was never whole, Jack."

While he's stunned, you take the chance to leave but the tears roll down quickly, obstructing your view as you make your way towards his driveway to your waiting car. At this point, the world blurs away into nothing; it feels like you've sunk to the bottom of the ocean, Jack's pleas unheard on you like he's above water. You enter the car and begin to pull away.

"… can't drive like this—"

But you give him one last tearful look before you pull out of his driveway and down the street. You can only make it a block until your unshed tears start to blur your vision so you pull over in front of someone's house, kill the headlights and engine, before you drop your walls and sob into the steering wheel.

It's raw and ugly, snot dribbling past your upper lip as you let it all out; all the frustration and grievances of Jack's inability to communicate, dragging you on to a place he can't name. Your chest is heaving and your eyes are swollen when you finally feel the vestiges of your heartache abate for the time being, catching the time displayed on your dashboard.

1:02 AM.

Guilt tugs at your heartstrings but Trinity's line rings twice before she finally answers. "Trin?" you whisper. Rustling sounds echo through the line, another woman's voice unintelligible in the background.

"Hey— what's wrong? Are you okay?"

"I… I need a ride. I can't drive home like this." Your voice is nasally, cracked and raw. You're in no state to explain why you need a ride but Trinity is already sending her ETA, promising that she and Dove are on their way.

Dove's deep red vintage Mercedes Benz rolls up beside your car and the two women are quick to help you into the back seat. While Trinity grabs your main things from your car, she locks it up and shoots a text to Cassie that you'll need a tow truck to pick up your vehicle the following day.

When you don't offer any explanation, both women follow your lead and keep silent. They take you straight to Trinity's place, tucking you between them both with a quiet hug of support. You fall asleep just like that, surrounded by your closest friends.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

"You wanna talk about it?"

You don't look up from Trinity's laptop where you're browsing through flights to New York on her couch the next morning. "Nothing much to say, Trin. He wouldn't talk to me. Not in the way it matters. So I broke things off."

"So you're running away to New York?"

"I'm not running away, I'm going to Nicole's wedding."

"That's a week away from now!" Trinity huffs as she leans against the back of the couch, hovering above where you're perusing flights. "Come on— when have you been the one to run away from your problems?"

You tilt your head up, give your best friend a stupid grin. "Looks like you've been rubbing off on me, Santos." Her eyes roll and she shoves the laptop shut. "Hey—!"

"Just fly with me," she sighs, thumbs flying across her screen as she contacts her own manager. "I'm heading out for the press junket in New York anyway… besides, I'd rather not leave you alone anytime soon."

"I'm not fragile!"

Dove passes by, drops a kiss to the top of your hair. "You kinda are, babes."

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

The six and a half hour trip to New York had been spent watching every movie you can find on the available services, promptly annoying Trinity to shove an eyemask over her head to try and nap. Sleeping is out of the question, it'll leave you alone with your thoughts until you're stuck mourning a relationship that never quite existed and you're absolutely done with crying.

Nicole had been all too eager to welcome you when you called her while boarding in LAX, asking if it'd be alright with her and Matt if you fly in earlier than expected. When you finally landed that Sunday evening, Trinity's drivers had dropped you off at Nicole and Matt's brownstone in Brooklyn, tucked in an affluent neighborhood.

Matt must make bank as a lawyer, you think to yourself as you exit the car, thanking the driver with a smile when he brings out your meager luggage. You didn't take long to pack when Trinity had taken you home before the flight, just grabbed the essentials before leaving in case Jack had the idea of coming by after your fight. Anything else you needed, you could just buy and the idea of retail therapy is a lot more appealing than crying your troubles out in a tub of ice cream.

Just as you make it to the first step, the door flies open and Nicole rushes down so quickly to hug you that you had thought she might've fallen. "You're here—!" She squeals, peppering your cheeks with chaste kisses before she tugs you inside. "Come in, come in. We cleared up the spare guest room just for you. Matt's at the office but he'll be home in a couple of hours for dinner, and— hey, is everything okay?"

The sudden switch gives you whiplash and your eyes fly up to your friend's gentle concern; despite the years that's passed, she still knows you better than you do, a superpower of being childhood friends, you suppose. "Yeah—! Just… stress from work, you know? I needed a break so I figured I could fly in early, get my Nicki time before anyone else arrived!"

Her smile returns reluctantly but you pull her in for a tight hug, hiding your own heartbreak. You push aside your own issues for now, shelving them to the backburner. The last thing you want is your feelings to poison what's meant to be the happiest moment of your childhood best friend's life.

"Okay…" she says hesitantly but your smile must come off as genuine when she pulls back enough to meet your eyes because her spark returns and she's back to tugging you further into her home. You listen in as she rambles excitedly for the week she has planned out. "So, Saturday—! That's the big day, obviously. The bridal party is arriving Wednesday and we're all staying at the Bryant Park Hotel up until the ceremony and reception. We reserved the top two floors for all our needs. You get to stay in the largest suite right beside Jacqueline—"

She continues to line out the festivities as she helps you unpack and settle in the guest room— spa day for the bridesmaids on Wednesday, final fittings on Thursday, and rehearsal along with the rehearsal dinner on Friday.

Busy enough to keep yourself from thinking about Jack.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

You throw yourself in the last minute details of wedding planning with Nicole during the two days you stay at their home, tying up any loose ends. In the evenings, you pour over old photos and yearbooks with her, regaling Matt with your childhood spent together.

You try not to stare whenever Matt kisses her, how he never seems to hold back in telling her how much he loves her.

By the time the rest of the bridal party arrives, you're lugging in a larger suitcase— a result of shopping with Nicole the day before to pack up on outfits you may need for the rest of the trip. You greet the rest of the bridesmaids, recognizing some of Nicole's sorority sisters from college and blushing when they compliment your music.

But you get the largest hug from Jacqueline, your other childhood best friend and Nicole's maid of honor. The three of you had been a trio of trouble growing up and Nicole had nearly thrown a bridezilla fit when the wedding planner had casually mentioned that 'two maid of honors aren't traditional'. You were quick to bow out despite your regretful pout during her engagement party about a year and a half ago, reminding her that your career isn't the most consistent to help her plan the wedding. Jacqueline had been all too eager to step up but always included you in the conversation whenever you had the chance to get on your phone.

"It's been forever—!" Jacqueline wails dramatically as she hugs you as tight as Nicole did. You match her dramatics perfectly, whining and huffing as you two waddle and sway around the lobby while latching onto each other. "I'm so so sorry I couldn't come to Coachella! Nicki said you did amazing!"

You laugh softly and gently pull away, beaming under the attention of your closest friends. The ache in your heart feels less jagged, less raw when you're surrounded by this much love. "As long as you come to my tour, all's forgiven!"

"You're going on tour—?!"

"Shush—" you laugh as you link arms with her, following the parade of women and men to the ornate elevators. "It's not something I told the company I wanted yet…"

The two of you catch up, listening in on what's new with her life. While she's able to do so from how often TMZ reports on you, you drink up every detail she gives you as her new life as a married woman.

"With how amazing your honeymoon sounded," you giggle while you two stretch out on the balcony chaise, swaddled in fluffy white bathrobes, "I completely forgive you for missing my Coachella performance."

She laughs and somehow, the conversation is derailed for the nth time that Wednesday afternoon. Your heart is full and for a moment, a sweet blissful hour, you've forgotten the pieces Jack had left your heart in.

⋆⋆⋆✧⋆⋆⋆

Your skin feels soft and clean, your body renewed after the almost-intensive session with the spa day that Nicole had planned a few hours before the dinner Jacqueline insisted on for just the three of you. The other bridesmaids took no offense to it, opting to explore the nightlife New York City offers.

The three of you end up in your room after you've begun to get too close to tipsy at the restaurant — the last thing you need is to get messy drunk. It feels like high school when you shower and freshen up, changing into the matching silk pajama sets that Nicole had monogrammed with your names as a gift for her bridal party.

"Alright." Jacqueline says quietly, calling for your attention as Nicole wanders out to the balcony of your room to answer Matt's call. "You may have fooled her but not me. What's going on?"

It takes everything in you not to fall apart under your best friend's sharp gaze, protective and fierce as her hand finds yours. Your smile barely falters but the anguish in your eyes is unmistakable. "I ended things with Jack. It's why I flew in so early," you whisper. "I didn't want to tell Nicole— I don't want to ruin her wedding."

"Oh, sweetie—" Jacqueline tuts but there's nothing but empathy written across her features, pulling you in for a tight hug and a gentle rub of your back. "After the wedding, stay with John and I. Gosh, I can't even imagine a breakup, let alone being in the public eye."

You nod, grateful that she understands your hesitance on being seen back in Los Angeles so soon. "I'll catch you up on everything, I promise. Just… after the wedding, okay?"

"Of course, of course."

Despite Nicole having her own room with Matt ("traditions can go fuck themselves, I'm sharing the bed with my future husband—") and Jacqueline settled in with John in the room beside yours, the two of them have made themselves comfortable on your massive bed— sprawled out on their stomachs, flipping through bridal magazines with little under-eye masks on as if the three of you are back in high school.

A knock interrupts your conversation but you roll off the bed, figuring it may be another bridesmaid wanting to join in on the impromptu sleepover. "If it's Grace, tell her to bring back my hair-curler—" Nicole shouts and you give her a nod, pulling the door open.

"Gracie, Nicole wants her— Robby?"

Two heads pop up at the name, eyes widening to look over your shoulder to see Michael "Robby" Robinavitch standing at your hotel door.

whew okay thank you for reading! i know it's a cruel spot to end but i promise to have part 5 asap! comments, likes, reblogs, and asks are highly appreciated!

He was looking forward to nothing more than driving home, taking a scalding hot shower, and slipping into bed where he hoped you would still be sleeping peacefully, entirely unaware of the chaos he spent his nights wading through.

Keeping your relationship a secret had been your idea originally, though Jack had agreed without much resistance, knowing precisely how protective and intensely possessive your older brother could be.

Robby was a brilliant physician, but he viewed the emergency room, and everyone within it, through a lens of strict, professional compartmentalisation, and he guarded his family with a fierce, almost suffocating tenacity.

Jack knew that if Robby discovered his close friend and colleague was quietly slipping out of his younger sister’s apartment in the early hours of the morning, the fallout would destabilise the delicate balance of the entire department.

So, you had kept it hidden for four months, snatching quiet moments in empty breakrooms, lingering hand-brushes by the elevator banks, and long, warm nights wrapped up together away from the harsh, flickering fluorescent lights of the hospital.

The sudden, piercing blare of the telemetry alarms and the sharp, urgent rattle of the double doors being thrown open shattered the low hum of the morning shift change. Dana looked up instantly from her desk, her brow furrowing as the paramedics burst through the entrance, pushing a stretcher at a dead sprint.

Jack didn't think much of it at first, traumas rolled through those doors every twenty minutes, until he caught the sheer, pale panic on the lead paramedic’s face, and the distinct, sickening crimson pattern soaked into the white sheets draped over the gurney.

Jack stepped forward purely out of muscle memory, his voice raspy from a long night of shouting over sirens. "What have we got, guys?"

"Twenty-eight-year-old female, victim of a aggravated burglary at her residence forty minutes ago," the paramedic rattled off at breakneck speed, her heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum. "Neighbour called it in after hearing a struggle and glass breaking. Stab wound to the left upper quadrant, deep laceration to the right forearm, massive blood loss at the scene."

Jack took two paces toward the stretcher to take the chart, his eyes dropping casually to the patient’s face to assess her airway, and in that split second, the entirety of his world shattered into jagged, unyielding pieces.

The color drained from his face so rapidly that Dana actually reached out a hand, thinking he was about to faint. The woman lying pale and motionless beneath the blood-soaked trauma blanket was you.

The breath left Jack’s lungs in a harsh, strangled gasp, his professional distance evaporating so violently that he stumbled forward, his hands trembling uncontrollably as they hovered over your bloodied, chest-stained clothes. "No... no, no, Jesus Christ—"

"Jack? What the hell are you doing?" Dana barked, her eyes widening as she grabbed his elbow, shocked by the total collapse of his usually unflappable demeanor. "Get back, let us transfer her! Shen, I need a trauma team right now! Call down to blood bank, give me four units of O-negative on the rapid infuser!"

Jack didn't hear her. The sterile, controlled world of the Pitt was completely obliterated, replaced by a terrifying, primal panic that choked the throat right out of him. He grabbed the side rail of your stretcher, his knuckles turning stark white, his eyes wide and wild as he looked down at your face. You were barely conscious, your eyelids fluttering weakly, your lips parted as you sucked in shallow, wet breaths.

"Look at me, hey, look at me," Jack begged, his voice cracking, entirely devoid of his usual calm authority as he reached out and cupped your ice-cold cheek with a hand that was shaking like a leaf. "I'm right here. You're at the hospital, you're with me, you're going to be okay. Please, sweetheart, stay with me, stay open for me."

You turned your head toward his voice, your eyes unfocusing as you tried to track him through the thick, terrifying haze of shock. "Jack?" you rasped, a tiny, frail sound that nearly brought him to his knees right there on the blood-spattered floor. "Jack, it hurts so bad..."

"I know, I know, I’ve got you," he sobbed out, not caring in the slightest that half the nursing staff was staring at him in utter shock. He pushed alongside the paramedics, helping to physically lift your limp body onto the trauma bed.

The scene erupted into controlled chaos around him. Clothes were being cut away with shears, cardiac monitor leads were being slapped onto your icy skin, and the metallic thump of suction devices filled the small room.

Jack stood at the head of your bed, his gloved hands cupping your face, his head bent low so he was inches from yours, whispering desperate, broken promises against your hairline while Shen sprinted into the room, snapping on a pair of sterile gloves.

"Abbot, what is going on with you? Step back, I need space at the airway!" Shen yelled over the shrill, alarming beep of the heart monitor, which was ticking at a terrifyingly rapid rate. "Who is this?"

"It's... it's her," Jack choked out, his eyes never leaving your face. "It's Robby’s sister. Shen, please... "

Before Shen could even process the devastating weight of Jack's plea, the door to the trauma bay swung open with a bang, and Robby walked in, holding a tablet and adjusting his stethoscope around his neck, looking fresh and prepared for his morning shift.

"Hey, what's the noise down here? Dana said we had an unstable stab—" Robby stopped dead in his tracks. The tablet slipped from his fingers, clattering loudly against the hard floor. His eyes swept over the blood-soaked trauma shears, the bags of crimson red blood hanging from the IV poles, and finally landed on your pale, bruised face surrounded by monitoring wires.

"Y/N?" Robby’s voice was barely a whisper, a hollow, disbelieving sound that shattered the room. In three long strides, he shoved past a nurse, his face contorting into a mask of pure, unadulterated horror as he grabbed the edge of the bed. "What happened?! What the fuck happened?!"

"Robby, listen to me—" Shen tried to interject, stepping between him and the bed.

"Get off me!" Robby screamed, his voice cracking with a terrifying mixture of grief and rage as he looked at your open, bleeding abdomen where Shen was applying heavy, firm pressure with sterile gauze to slow the massive internal hemorrhage.

"Why was she brought in like this?!" Robby’s eyes swung wildly around the room until they landed on Jack, who was still standing at the head of the bed, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.

Robby froze, his mind racing through the dark, frantic puzzle of the room. He looked at the way Jack was holding you, not like a doctor holding a patient, not even like a friend holding a colleague's relative, but with the terrifying, desperate agony of a man watching his entire life bleed out on a stainless-steel table.

Robby stepped forward, his eyes narrowing into slits of pure, lethal fury. "Jack... why are you holding her like that? Why are you touching her like that?"

Jack didn't look up. He couldn't take his eyes off your face, watching your oxygen saturation levels dip dangerously low on the overhead monitor. "Robby, please, not right now," Jack pleaded, his voice thick and broken. "She's bleeding badly, she needs to go straight to theatre—"

"I asked you a fucking question, Jack!" Robby roared, lunging forward and grabbing the front of Jack’s scrub top, pulling him away from the bed with such violent force that the cardiac monitor cart rattled. "Why are you looking at my sister like that?! What is she to you?!"

"Robby, stop it!" Dana yelled, stepping boldly between the two grown men, her hands slamming against Robby’s chest to keep him from shoving Jack into the wall. "She is in hemorrhagic shock! Look at the fucking monitor, Robby! Look at your sister!"

"I love her!" Jack snapped, the secret ripping out of his chest like a jagged blade, his voice echoing loudly over the frantic, rhythmically failing beeps of the cardiac machine. "We’ve been seeing each other for months, Robby! I fucking love her, and she was attacked in her home while I was sitting here doing paperwork! So hit me, tear me apart, do whatever the hell you want, but do not make this about us while she is dying on this bed!"

Robby reeled back as if he’d been physically struck, his hands dropping from Jack’s shirt. His face twisted into a complex, ugly storm of betrayal, shock, and profound, terrifying panic. He looked from Jack’s blood-stained hands to your quiet, still face.

“You... you were lying to me? Both of you?" Robby’s voice shook, a bitter, wounded sound. "You were sleeping with my sister behind my back while—"

"Robby, her blood pressure is insane!" Shen yelled, his voice cutting through the rising argument like a scalpel. "We don't have time for a surgical team to come down, we need to open her right here or she goes into cardiac arrest in minutes!"

The harsh reality of the medical emergency slammed back into the room like a tidal wave. Robby blinked, the anger in his eyes instantly drowning in a wave of sheer, unadulterated terror as he watched your heart rate spike, the waveform on the screen flattening out into dangerous, erratic rhythms.

“No," Robby breathed, his voice small, vulnerable, and completely stripped of his usual arrogance. "No, no, no, look at me. I'm right here. You stay with me, do you hear me?"

"I need a thoracotomy tray and a laparotomy kit, right now!" Shen shouted, his hands working furiously to pack more gauze into your side. "Someone get on the suction! Robby, you need to step out!"

"Like hell I'm stepping out!" Robby yelled, shoving his way back to the side of the bed, his hands trembling violently as he reached for a pair of sterile gloves. "She's my sister! I am operating!"

"You cannot touch her, Robby, you know the protocol! You’re not doing shit either, Abbot," Dana sternly intervened, putting her body directly between Robby and the instrument tray. Her face was set like granite, though her eyes were filled with deep, maternal sympathy. "You will freeze or you will make a mistake, and she will die because of it! Out! Both of you, get out of this bay right now!"

"No!" both men barked in unison.

"I am not leaving her!" Jack yelled, his knuckles white as he grabbed a pair of gloves, his eyes fixed on Shen. "Shen, let me assist! My hands are steady, I swear to God my hands are steady!"

"Jack, look at yourself, you're shaking so hard you can barely stand!" Dana snapped, taking Jack firmly by the upper arms and physically pulling him away from the head of the bed. She looked at Robby, then at Jack, her voice dropping into a fierce, commanding tone that left no room for argument. "If you two care about this girl, if you love her at all, you will get the hell out of this room and let Shen and the trauma team do their jobs! Every second you stand here fighting like children is a second she doesn't have! Move!"

She didn't wait for them to comply, she aggressively pushed both men out of the sliding glass doors and drew the blue privacy curtains shut with a sharp, definitive snap.

The waiting corridor outside the main trauma suite felt like a cold, sterile tomb. The morning sunlight was just beginning to bleed through the high frost-tinted windows, casting harsh, pale light across the linoleum floor, but inside the hallway, time had ground to a complete standstill. The only sound was the distant, muffled shouting of medical commands from behind the blue curtain, punctuated by the steady, terrifying rhythm of automated alarms.

Jack stood leaning against the far wall, his hands buried deep in his curls, his body slumping down until he was on the floor. His scrub top was ruined, smeared with bright crimson streaks of your blood that had already begun to dry into stiff, dark patches.

Every breath he pulled into his lungs felt like glass, his chest tight with a crushing, suffocating guilt. He should have been there. He should have insisted on driving you home after your shift two days ago, he should have checked your locks, he should have protected you. The image of your bruised skin and the frail, terrified sound of your voice calling his name kept repeating in a horrific, endless loop behind his eyelids.

A few yards down the hallway, Robby was pacing like a caged beast. His fists were clenched so tightly that his nails were digging drawn blood into his own palms. Every time he turned around, his furious, bloodshot eyes landed on Jack sitting against the wall, and the bitter, hot rage inside him flared back to life, offering a brief, desperate distraction from the sheer, paralyzing fear that his little sister was dying on the other side of that glass.

Robby marched over, stopping directly in front of Jack. "Get up," Robby spat, his voice trembling with venom. "Get up and look at me, you coward."

Jack slowly lifted his head. His face was ghastly, his eyes hollow, dark, and utterly deadened by grief. He didn't offer any resistance, didn't raise a hand to defend himself. He just looked up at Robby with a hollow, broken expression. "Go ahead, Robby. Say whatever you want. It won't be worse than what I'm already telling myself."

"You lied to me!" Robby shouted, his voice echoing down the empty, quiet corridor, causing a few passing nurses to flinch and walk faster. "For months! I treated you like a brother, Jack! I trusted you with my life in this department, I took shifts for you, I let you into my home, and the whole time you were sneaking behind my back with my sister! You manipulated her!"

"I didn't manipulate anyone!" Jack rasped, standing up slowly, leaning his heavy back against the cold wall to keep his legs from buckling beneath him. "I love her, Robby! I didn't plan for this to happen! It started off slow, and then... Christ, she became the only good thing in my life! She asked me not to tell you because she knew you'd react exactly like this! She was terrified you'd make her feel guilty for just wanting to be happy!"

"Don't you dare put this on her!" Robby barked, stepping directly into Jack's personal space, poking a harsh, rigid finger into Jack's chest right over a dark bloodstain. "She is my little sister! My responsibility! She was hiding things because of you! You put her in danger!"

"You think I don't know that?!" Jack suddenly roared back, his composure snapping entirely as he grabbed Robby's wrist and shoved his hand away, tears spilling freely over his blood-stained cheeks. "You think I'm not sitting here wanting to tear my own skin off because I wasn't there to protect her?! I would have taken every single one of those fucking knives for her, Robby! I would lay down on that table and let them cut my heart out right now if it meant she gets to wake up! So don't you dare stand there and pretend you're the only one who cares whether she lives or dies!"

Robby stared at Jack, his jaw working as if he wanted to scream, but the sheer, raw agony in Jack's voice hit him like a physical blow. The anger drained out of Robby just a fraction, leaving behind the hollow, terrifying reality that neither of them had any control over what was happening behind those blue curtains.

Before Robby could fire back another bitter insult, the double doors at the end of the hall swung open, and Dana walked out alongside Shen. Both of them looked thoroughly exhausted, their blue gowns splattered with blood, but their faces were calm, settled into that weary, professional relief that both Robby and Jack knew so intimately.

Jack was across the hallway in a fraction of a second, grabbing Dana's forearms with desperate, trembling hands. "Is she... is she alive? Please, Dana, tell me she's alive."

Dana looked down at his hands, then up into his terrified, bloodshot eyes, her expression softening into a gentle, reassuring smile. "She's alive, Jack. She's stabilised."

A long, ragged sob burst from Jack's chest as he slumped against the wall, covering his face with his hands as the suffocating weight lifted off his lungs. Robby let out a shaky, desperate breath of his own, running both hands over his face, his shoulders slumping in profound, overwhelming relief.

"The blade missed the important stuff by less than a centimetre," Shen explained quickly, pulling off his surgical cap and wiping his damp brow. "Park and the guys are finishing up her sutures right now. She's going to be okay, guys. She's strong."

"Can I see her?" Robby asked immediately, his voice thick with emotion, stepping toward the trauma bay doors.

"She's being moved up to a different unit in a few minutes once she comes round from the anesthetic," Dana said gently, stepping smartly into Robby's path and laying a firm hand against his chest. She gave him a stern, motherly look that made even the senior attending doctor pause. "And before you step foot into that room, Robby, you are going to take a long, deep breath and leave your ridiculous ego at the door."

Robby blinked, taken aback. "Dana, I—"

"I don't want to hear it," Dana interrupted smoothly, turning her cool, unyielding gaze between Robby and Jack. "I have watched the two of you act like absolute idiots for the last forty-five minutes while that poor girl was fighting for her life. Robby, your sister just survived a horrific, traumatic assault. She does not need to wake up to her brother screaming at the man she loves. She needs peace, she needs rest, and she needs both of you to pull yourselves together and be adults."

Robby looked at Dana, his mouth opening to argue, but the sheer authority in her posture held him silent. He glanced over at Jack, who was still standing by the wall, wiping his face with the back of his wrist, looking entirely drained, hollowed-out, and deeply ashamed.

"Go up to the fourth floor," Dana added softly, her tone loosening into something kinder. "Clean yourselves up. Change out of those ruined scrubs. By the time you look like proper doctors again, she'll be awake in her room."

Your room was quiet, illuminated only by the soft, warm glow of the bedside lamp and the gentle, rhythmic pumping of the IV drip monitor. The harsh smell of the trauma bay was replaced by the clean, faint scent of lavender soap and fresh linens. You lay propped up slightly against two large pillows. A thick white bandage was wrapped securely around your right forearm, and beneath the heavy hospital blanket, your abdominal dressing sat quiet and intact.

When the heavy wooden door pushed open, you turned your head slowly toward the sound. The heavy pain medication made your head feel light, floaty, and distant, but the moment you saw Jack and Robby walking into the room together, the fog cleared just enough for your heart to ache with sweet, overwhelming relief.

Both men had changed into clean, dark scrubs. Robby walked in first, looking hesitant, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his usual confident posture replaced by a cautious, quiet guilt. Behind him stood Jack. He looked like he hadn't slept in a week, his eyes were bruised with dark circles, his jaw tight with anxiety, hovering near the doorway as if he wasn't entirely sure he was permitted to be in the same room as you.

"Hey, kiddo," Robby whispered softly, walking over to the right side of your bed. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, his face softening into a look of pure, unadulterated big-brother affection. "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a very large truck," you rasped, your voice scratchy and dry. You offered him a weak, tired smile. "Dana told me that you were making a scene down there, Robby."

Robby let out a soft, wet laugh, dropping his head for a second as a fresh wave of emotion hit him. "Yeah, well, you scared the shit out of me. I thought, God, I don't even want to say it." He took your uninjured hand, holding it tight between both of his. "The police caught the guy, by the way. He was a petty burglar who panicked when he realised the apartment was occupied. He's in custody. He won't ever come near you again."

"Good," you murmured softly, squeezing his hand weakly. Your eyes drifted past your brother's shoulder, locking onto Jack, who was still standing quietly by the door, staring down at his shoes, his posture heavy with guilt. "Jack, come here."

Jack lifted his eyes, looking at you with such a raw, desperate tenderness that it made your chest tighten. He glanced cautiously at Robby, then slowly walked around to the left side of your bed. He stopped a few inches away, looking as though he wanted to reach out and touch you, but was terrified of breaking you further.

"I'm sorry," Jack whispered, his voice cracking on the words. "I am so, so sorry. I should have been there. I should have stayed with you last night, I shouldn't have taken this shift—"

"Jack, stop," you interrupted gently, reaching your left hand out toward him. "Stop that right now. It wasn't your fault. You couldn't have known."

Jack lowered himself to the floor, wincing at the discomfort. He brought your hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against your knuckles, tears slipping quietly from his eyes and wetting your skin. "I thought I lost you," he choked out, ignoring Robby's presence entirely now as he leaned his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. "When they brought you through those doors... I've never been so terrified in my entire life. I don't care about anything else. I just need you to be okay."

You ran your fingers through his curls, feeling the heavy, frantic racing of his heart slowly begin to settle against your side. "I'm okay, Jack. I'm right here."

Across the bed, Robby watched the two of you. He saw the way Jack held your hand not with possessiveness, but with a deep, reverent care that was entirely selfless. He saw the way your face relaxed the moment Jack touched you, the way the lingering fear in your eyes melted away into complete, absolute safety.

Robby let out a long, heavy breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he looked up at the ceiling. "You two are absolute idiots, you know that?" he said softly, breaking the quiet emotional tension in the room.

Jack lifted his head from the mattress, looking over at Robby with a guarded, wary expression. You offered your brother a small, pleading look. "Robby, please don't be mad at him. It was my idea to keep it quiet. I didn't want you making things complicated at work."

"I am mad," Robby admitted honestly, though the harsh edge in his voice was completely gone, replaced by a weary, warm acceptance. "I'm fucking furious that you both lied to my face for months. I'm furious that I had to find out while my sister was bleeding out." He paused, looking directly at Jack, his dark eyes firm. "But... I saw you down there, Jack. I saw how you looked at her."

Jack stood up slowly, keeping his hand firmly wrapped around yours, meeting Robby's gaze across the bed without flinching. "I love her, Robby. I'm not going anywhere. I'm sorry for lying to you, but I am never going to apologise for loving her."

Robby stared at Jack for a long, silent moment, before a small, dry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He shook his head, leaning over to kiss the top of your head before stepping back from the bed.

"Well... at least I know if she ever gets hurt again, the attending doctor will be too terrified of failing to let her die." Robby walked toward the door, turning back with his hand on the handle. "I'm going down to the cafeteria to get some decent coffee. Real coffee, not that shit in the breakroom. Jack, you're staying right here until I get back. And then we're going to have a long talk about boundaries."

"Understood," Jack said softly, offering a quiet, respectful nod.

Robby looked between the two of you one last time, his expression softening into pure relief. "I'm glad you're alive. Don't do it again." With a final, gentle click, the door swung shut, leaving the room in a warm, peaceful quiet.

Jack immediately leaned in close, wrapping his arms around you with extraordinary gentleness, careful to avoid your bandaged abdomen as he buried his face in the warm crook of your neck. You wrapped your uninjured arm around his back, pulling him as close as you could, feeling the steady, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"You really scared me, sweetheart," Jack whispered against your skin, his hands smoothing down your back with a soft, desperate rhythm.

"I know," you murmured, kissing the side of his neck, breathing in the clean scent of soap and his familiar, comforting warmth. "I'm sorry. But I'm safe now. You've got me."

"Yeah," Jack breathed, pulling back just enough to look down into your eyes, his face lit by the soft golden light of the bedside lamp. He leaned in, pressing a slow, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips that tasted of salt, relief, and quiet promises for the future. "I've got you. And I'm never letting you go."

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No hi, hello, how are you. If you were to scroll through your text thread with Dr. Jack Abbot, you would see that the faux pleasantries stopped three months ago. The two of you started sleeping together four months ago; it took four weeks for Jack to discern that he didn't need to use basic human greetings to get you in his truck, in his bed. That's not to say you were easy—god, no—it was just that you two had a mutual understanding for what this was.

Sex. That was all it was. Pure primal, fuck like you're going to die otherwise, sex.

It started after the night of the PittFest mass casualty. You had come in early along with your fellow night shifters to work through what was one of your most gruelling shifts to date. The Pitt only lost six patients, but the weight of that day was going to stay etched into your bones for the rest of your life.

Dr. Abbot came back to the ED around two am, checking in on how Shen was handling things—at least, that's what he used as a guise. The truth was that he had struggled to close his eyes once he got home, tossing and turning with the police scanner on, endless memories of dust and gunshots plaguing his mind.

He stayed until shift change, the act of caring for others quietening the buried memories that were crawling to the surface. He stayed to keep an eye on his staff—noticing how people were a little more quiet, how they were exchanging soft, hesitant smiles with one another instead of their usual jokes. At least, that's what he noticed about you.

You couldn't remember what exactly was said to transition from you two walking towards your cars to you sinking onto his cock in the backseat of his truck. In your memory overridden by lust, you could vaguely hear him saying something vulnerable; a response you weren't expecting after your exhausted tongue let slip how you were struggling with the events of the day.

Mutual words about feeling on edge, needing some kind of release, were whispered into the hazy dawn glow—the fusing saffron skies and coral clouds painting you both in a different light.

Mosaics of amber and olive flaked with gold stared up at you, catching every morsel of pleasure that scrunched your eyebrows and relaxed your mouth. Strong, sure hands moulded the flesh on your hips, keeping you completely at his mercy as he pounded up into you. One of your hands met the condensation slicked window, the wet glass providing no support as his every thrust bruised your cervix.

Your nails dug crescents into his sun-speckled canvas, a crescendo of moans and gasps drowning out the wet mess gushing from your core. Hands you admired while wrist deep in chest cavities clutched your ass, one rearing back to land harsh slaps to the heated and aching skin—setting the fire coursing through your veins ablaze.

Your head flung back with a guttural cry of his name, the warmth of his release coating your walls plunging you into a sea of ecstasy. A groan of your name pushed through the ringing in your ears, the thick chest pressed against yours rapidly rising and falling with pants.

The sex thick air in the truck turned suffocating in the tense aftermath—both your minds spiralling about how bad of a mistake this was. Jack's stomach curdled from his blatant abuse of power, your hands trembled in fear of fucking for special treatment accusations—terrified of tarnishing your reputation.

Jack was the first to break the silence. "This was a one time thing."

You nodded, avoiding his eyes as you straightened your scrub top, pulling your pants up while his seed continued to leak out of you. "Agreed."

Despite his unforgiving mind reminding him how badly he screwed up, Jack fell into a dreamless sleep—the ghosts that permanently resided in the back of his mind staying locked in their rooms, letting him rest alone for once.

He struggled to make eye contact with Dana when he arrived for his next shift—the feeling of betraying one of his dearest friends gripping his chest. The logical side of him reasoned that you weren't her daughter—you were an adult capable of making her own questionable decisions, and letting him manhandle you in the back of his truck was just one of them. Unfortunately, that logical side couldn't silence the guilt that invaded him when he saw her wrap an arm around your shoulder and kiss your temple.

However, that guilt vanished hours later—replaced with a sick sort of admiration, one wrapped in barbed wires of lust. He always knew you were competent—hell, out of all his residents, he would trust you the most with his life in your hands. He always knew you were beautiful—it was a fact he accepted with ease the second you set foot in the Pitt.

But now, he knew how your pussy felt squeezing his cock—knew how your hips moved the closer you got to your release, how you crumbled into a whimpering mess as you reached your precipice. Your competency mixed with this new knowledge created a dangerous concoction, one that infiltrated his bloodstream and made him drunk on the thought of you.

You tried to not let it affect your work—willed your nerves to steady with a scalpel in hand, trying to ignore the empty ache you felt since you left his truck. The ache you tried to soothe on your own but failed every time. Because Jack Abbot had fucked you better than all of your exes combined, and it pissed you off. You refused to be a cliche—the young resident who followed the older, handsome, charming attending around, basking in whatever affection and praise he discarded without a care.

You were better than that. Stronger. Evans women didn't risk their careers for silver foxes who hid behind wry quips and flirty smiles.

Apparently, you weren't as strong as you thought.

One week later, you found yourself back in his truck—your knees pressed into the worn carpet, drool dripping down your chin and neck, the air filled with the sounds of his grunts and your gagging.

He instructed you to slip a hand into your pants, to swipe your fingers through your folds and show him how wet you were from sucking an old man's cock.

"Fucking soaked," he groaned out, the slick on your hand shimmering like liquid gold as the sunrise filtered through the tinted windows. "Knew you'd like being on your knees," a calloused finger tapped your cheek, urging your glistening eyes to meet his, "always so eager to please."

The finger slid down to your jaw, tracing a line until his hand cupped the back of your neck. His grip was tight and strong, keeping your head exactly where he wanted it. His other hand encircled your wrist, yanking your hand coated in your arousal to his mouth. Eyes black with hunger penetrated yours, daring you to look away and disobey his silent command. His tongue slipped out, licking a strip up your fingers. Your responding whine was muffled by his cock thrusting down your throat, resulting in a sinful vibration that had his spine tingling.

In this moment, he wasn't your attending and you weren't his resident, weren't one of his closest friends' nieces. You were two willing adults—a man and woman troubled by their own demons, seeking release and relief.

His hand gripping your neck kept you still as he started to fuck your mouth in earnest, each hit of his tip to the back of your throat earning him a gag. Jack watched as tears breached your waterline, slipping down your cheeks to mix in with the slobbery mess glazing your neck. His eyes drifted down, taking in the sight of your wrinkled black scrubs—committing it to memory, to fuck his fist to later. The shift of your hips didn't go unnoticed, the way you were trying to grind against nothing drawing a mocking laugh from his chest.

"You that desperate, huh? Drooling all over my cock got you so worked up you're tryna fuck nothing."

You nodded your head with another muffled whine, lust overpowering your innate urge to bite back. He eased your head back, leaving his leaking tip resting on your tongue, letting you fill your lungs with oxygen before he continued his efforts to ruin you.

"Touch yourself, pretty girl."

You happily obliged, trying to pull your hand from his grasp.

"Uh-uh," he tutted, tightening his grip—just shy of leaving bruises. "This one's mine. You got another one, don't you?"

Your hand clutching his thigh for support let go in an instant, eager to please Jack and in turn please yourself.

You were so sensitive, your panties already soaked, your clit puffy from arousal and neglect. The first touch had you mewling around him, your hips humping your hand with fervour. Jack chuckled above you, gleaming eyes enraptured by your desperation.

"Fuck your fingers like you wanna fuck my cock." He ordered, heat gathering at the base of his spine when you obeyed immediately. He brought your hand back to his mouth, eagerly licking and sucking your slick off it, all while keeping his eyes locked on your hooded, hazy ones. "Taste so fucking good," he moaned, his hips picking up speed.

He came down your throat minutes later, watching your eyes roll back as you swallowed all of him down. Your own orgasm rushed up behind you, tightening every muscle in your body as you clamped down on your fingers with a moan.

Jack manoeuvred you onto the seat next to him, brows furrowed as his post orgasm clarity soured his gut again.

He kept his eyes locked on where he was twisting his ring around his finger. "That wasn't—I didn't mean to," he cleared his throat. "I didn't intend on being so harsh—mean."

You could feel the stress radiating from him, his words softly spoken and genuine.

"It's okay," you murmured, biting your lip. "I…I liked it." And because you wanted to ease his worries and silently give him permission—"I've begged for worse."

He lifted his head, shocked eyes meeting yours with a disbelieving chuckle and shake of his head.

"This is gonna keep happening, isn't it?"

You answered by pulling your scrubs and panties down your legs, pouting at him with a twinkle in your eyes.

"Need you to help me clean up my mess, Doctor Abbot."

You collapsed into the drivers seat of your car with two orgasms and a mutual agreement under your belt.

Strictly physical, no strings attached. No kissing, no cuddling, definitely no staying the night. Nothing untoward within the Pitt's walls—these two hookups in the parking lot staying as the only ones.

Never speak a word of this to anyone else.

Three nights—technically mornings—a week you found yourself pulling into Jack's driveway, parking your barely road-legal car behind his truck. His black, navy, and white minimalist interior didn't surprise you one bit, neither did the barren walls. The first few times, he led you into the kitchen with the offer of a drink, exchanging idle chatter about the weird cases that came through the Pitt's doors hours before.

The first time your skin touched his soft sheets, he had you on your back with large, calloused hands pushing your legs towards your chest as he devoured your pussy like a man starved. He made your vision dance with stars, made your ears ring from two earth shattering orgasms before he removed his face—his mouth and chin soaked with your release, a cocky smirk deepening the lines carved around his eyes. Your skin was still tender from his stubble when he sunk in deep, reaching spots you didn't even know existed—pulling sounds from your chest you didn't know you could make.

As you floated from his front door to your car, you knew that Jack Abbot had ruined you for any other man. No one had read your body that quickly before, no one else had found the switch to turn off your brain and give in to primal desire.

And you didn't even know what the simple touch of his lips against yours felt like.

By the sixth night you had learnt absolutely nothing new about him. Well, nothing that was outside of bodies and pleasure.

You learnt he was an ass man, needing to land slaps to your cheeks no matter what position you were in. You learnt he liked to talk—liked to mock every pathetic sound he wrung out of you. You learnt that he had a bottle of blue pills in his bedside drawer, learnt that he was unashamed to swallow one down in front of you and fuck you with his tongue and fingers until it took effect.

You knew exactly what Jack liked in bed. Outside of that? Absolutely nothing.

His favourite colour? Fuck knows. How he cared for his leg after a long shift and long night of screwing you senseless? That was between him and his physiotherapist, you guessed.

And he knew nothing about you. Or, at least, he didn't try to get to know you.

You stopped thinking of this arrangement as friends with benefits—friends felt too generous of a word. Coworkers with benefits sounded the closest to the truth. You worked together, spent at least twelve hours a day in the same building, exchanged the occasional witty remark under fluorescent lights. There were no lingering looks, no secret touches, no dropped voices and subtle smirks. And you were fine with it being that way.

Until you weren't.

By month two it had become impossible to ignore the pang that ricocheted behind your ribcage every time you drove away. The pang that grew to an ache every time you went to Dana and Benji's for dinner.

You adored their relationship, admired it. Your parents' messy divorce had left you skeptical of love, had you doubting if it was worth pursuing if it only ended in misery and spite. But your aunt and uncle softened that cynical side of you, reminding you that yes, love could be messy, but it could also be beautiful and fun. It could be coming home to your best friend everyday, hugging each other even after an argument because going to sleep angry never solved anything.

You tried to find what they had in your exes, putting more effort into relationships that drained you by the end. You heard too many times to count that your lives weren't compatible, that they couldn't give their all to someone who was happy to run out the door when the hospital called.

They didn't understand you—didn't understand what it meant to make a difference, to hold someone's life in the palm of your hands and safely return them to their loved ones. They only focused on the days when you couldn't save someone, when the grief held you captive and motionless. They didn't want to continue holding your hand on those hard days.

And so somewhere along the way you stopped trying—convincing yourself that you were fine with casual, that it was the most suitable relationship for your lifestyle. But every time you saw Dana and Benji, you knew that wasn't true.

They reminded you that you wanted, and deserved, more.

Jack had never slept better. Even with that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he had crossed a line—that he was risking not only your career but his friendship with Dana. He managed to silence that voice three times a week; the sounds of the pleasure he was unleashing on you drowning out everything else.

He truly believed he could keep things separate—that the beautiful woman he had in his bed wasn't the same beautiful woman he trusted and found himself proud of every shift. He could totally keep them separate.

So what if his eyes followed your ass when you walked away from the Hub, admiring how the black scrubs clung like a second skin, knowing how they looked discarded on his bedroom floor. Knowing how the globes of your ass felt clutched in his hands, the sound of his palms slapping them reverberating off his walls.

So what if he found himself craving your taste a minimum of three times every shift, the mere thought of your sweet nectar drenching his face leading to inopportune boners.

No one had to know that whenever he saw you biting back at arrogant surgeons that his eyes were glued to your lips, remembering how good they looked—how good they felt—wrapped around his cock. The no kissing clause had been his suggestion—a subconscious part of him knowing that if he felt your lips against his, he wouldn't be able to let go.

The simple act of kissing felt infinitely more intimate than everything else you did. It was a tender act, saved for the person who walked out his door in the morning only to return in the evening. Saved for the person that had left one cold, winter morning and never returned in the frigid evening.

Jack ignored the warmth that spread throughout him in your company, convincing himself it was just lust, just sexual desire. He convinced himself he didn't need to know anything new about you—he already knew what type of student you were, the doctor he had watched you flourish into from the sidelines.

He knew where to touch you, that mouthing at the spot below your ear made you putty in his hands. He knew what positions had you trembling, had your eyes rolling back as you squirted on his dick, on his face. He knew his favourite view was a tie between you above him, suffocating him as you ground your pussy on his mouth, nose, chin, and him behind you, holding you up with a bicep wrapped around your neck in a chokehold, ordering you to keep your eyes on the mirror across from his bed as he stretched your tight pussy with his thick cock over and over again.

He knew that your car was a piece of shit, knew he was worried every time he heard it sputtering out of his driveway—worried enough to demand you stop driving it, to let him drive you to and from work until you could get it fixed, or better yet, buy a new one from this century. (You compromised by getting the bus instead, saying that you two arriving and leaving together would look suspicious.)

And unfortunately, due to his close friendship with Dana, he knew other things about you. What your childhood nickname was, that you once found an abandoned kitten and tried to hide it from your parents—the kitten that was now an old cat, spending it's days curled up on the couch in Dana's sunroom. He knew your parents had an ugly divorce, one they threw you in the middle of—forcing you to choose a side, which subsequently left you in the care of Dana and Benji for a few years.

He knew more about you than he ever wanted to.

"Strip."

Oh, you fucked up.

The drive to Jack's had been dead silent, his anger rolling off of him in waves—sitting in between you two like a physical being. It had your muscles tensing, and more shamefully, had a fire brewing in your core. Because you liked when he got mad—when he barely spoke a word to you, choosing to get his frustrations out by relentlessly drilling you into his mattress. You liked when he got mean—because at least then you knew he was feeling something towards you other than indifference.

You did as you were told, stripping out of your black scrubs, leaving you in your mismatched bra and panties. From his spot leaning against the wall, Jack could already see the damp patch spreading on your underwear. He let out a humourless chuckle, a thrill running through him seeing how desperate you were already.

"Take your bra off. Lie on the bed."

Again, you followed his instructions with no complaint, no backtalk. Which was the complete opposite to how you had been three hours before—questioning his treatment plan in front of everyone in Trauma One, implying that his orders would cause the patient unnecessary problems later on.

You had a good argument, but he was not going to let your attitude go unchecked. He was not going to let you think the way you spoke to him was something you could do again.

He pushed off the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg—he would deal with it later, once you were in an uber on your way home. He sat down next to you on the bed, trailing light fingers from your ankle up your leg, avoiding the area you wanted him the most. He revelled in the sight of your breasts heaving up and down—you were so responsive, nothing more than his teasing touches starting to unravel you. His fingers continued their journey up your body, skimming over your trembling stomach and resting in the valley between your breasts.

The light touches distracted you enough that you weren't expecting his other hand coming up, slapping your tit before pinching the pebbled nipple. Hard.

"Ah—Jack!" You shrieked, your back arching away—or towards, you weren't sure—from the pain. Whimpers slipped from you as his touch eased up, his head dropping to place soft kisses around the tender skin. The fingers between your breasts trailed to the neglected nipple, tweaking it gently.

He pulled back, smirking when you whined at the loss of his touch. "Anything you want to say before we get started?" He drawled, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

You pouted, pretending to think. "Your curls looked really good today."

A rough hand dropped to your thigh, spreading them apart and pinching the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. "Flattery will get you nowhere, not in this room."

"So there are other rooms where it will get me somewhere?"

"You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut." He didn't give you time to talk back, raising his hand and landing a harsh slap to your clothed pussy. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, chasing the friction—needy for it. He openly laughed at you, his free hand pushing your thigh down as he delivered another slap.

He moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh with a warning look. He watched with sick pleasure as you crawled towards him on all fours, grabbing your upper arm once you were close enough and pulling you over his lap with force. You let out a yelp, muffled by the sheets as you failed to catch yourself on your arms.

His hands gripped your ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them. "Love this ass, sweetheart. Distracts me a bit too much at work, though. Somethin' else you need to be punished for."

You huffed, pushing up on your arms. "How is that my fau—" you cut off with a gasp, a hard slap to your left cheek stealing your breath and jolting you forward. The heat travelled the short distance to your core, adding fuel to the flames already blazing. Your panties were embarrassingly soaked from his rough treatment, sticking to your skin and his scrub pants.

"What did I say about keeping your mouth shut, huh?" His hand rubbed over the tender spot, tsking.

"Technically," you started, voice light and breathy, "you didn't tell me to shut my mouth."

You were rewarded with three slaps in quick succession, pulling a loud moan from you. You ground your hips the best you could, trying to get the right angle for your aching clit to rub against the growing bulge under you.

"Fucking brat," Jack spat, faux malice lacing his tone. "Running your mouth in my ED, and now you're trying to get off without my permission?" He pulled the ruined cloth between your legs to the side, a light finger ghosting along the slick covering your folds. He groaned, pulling his finger back to suck it clean. "You're dripping—not much of a punishment if you're enjoying yourself, is it?"

Any response you had is stolen from your mouth, whines falling out instead as he plunged two thick fingers into you. He didn't start slow—he never did when he was like this—pistoning them in and out at a force that was bordering on inhuman, making sinful wet sounds fill his room. His other hand forced your head into the sheets, muffling your whimpers—the sheets growing damp underneath you from your drool.

He hit your sweet spot with every thrust, your clit rubbing against his leg from the force. You could feel your high rapidly approaching, the spankings leaving your nerve ends feeling raw and exposed. Jack could feel it—how your walls were fluttering and clenching around his fingers, your muffled whines and moans turning high-pitched. He inserted a third finger, stopping the thrusting and leaving them still—the pads of them rubbing oh so slowly against the textured spot.

He knew it felt like torture to you, how slow he was going—keeping you right on the edge, suspended in the air, looking down at the waves of pleasure he was denying you. Your hips moved back and forth, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers. His hand left your head, delivering another harsh slap to your aching ass—making you sob from the unbearable mix of pain and pleasure swirling in your core. "Who said you're allowed to do that, sweetheart?" He asked, mockingly sweet.

"Please," you whimpered, turning your head to look at him with glazed eyes. "Please, Jack."

"Begging isn't gonna do you any favours tonight, pretty girl."

He pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. "Up you get," he said, helping you move until you were straddling him—your naked thighs bracketing his clothed ones. One large hand was clutching your ass, keeping your hips from meeting his—prolonging your search for sweet relief. His other hand came up to your mouth, a wet finger tapping your bottom lip. "Clean up your mess," he muttered, hooded eyes focused on your lips parting for him.

You licked the tip of his finger teasingly, moaning at the taste of yourself on his skin. Something low rumbled in his chest, and he pushed all three fingers into your mouth—watching intently as you licked and sucked your slick off of them. Your dazed eyes met his and it struck him—not for the first time—how beautiful you were, how you allowed him to see you like this. It made that annoying thing in his chest happen—the thing that felt like his heart was aching in longing, yearning.

He thrust his fingers in deeper, making you gag around them—watching in sick delight as tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hips started to rock in his hold, seeking friction that you weren't going to find. His cock was painfully hard and tenting his scrubs, making it impossible to ignore—especially not when you looked so fucking ruined.

He removed his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva keeping them connected to your lips. He felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you—again, not for the first time—and knew that the only way to stop himself from doing so was to fuck you from behind—a position he had been favouring lately, for this very reason.

He unceremoniously shifted you onto the bed next to him—a small, surprised squeak escaping you. His lips twitched at the cute sound, and he briefly forgot what he was doing, what he was mad about. Your hand sneaking onto his lap to squeeze his cock reminded him.

Jack abruptly stood up, placing himself between your open thighs. He gripped your chin, tilting it up so you couldn't look anywhere except his eyes—his desire painting them black, amber flames surrounding the dilated pupils. "You're just making this harder for yourself, sweetheart. You sure there's nothing you wanna say?"

Your eyes dropped down to the tent inches from your face, your fingers twitching with the need to start palming him. "You sure you're not the one making it harder for yourself?" You met his eyes again, watching them narrow menacingly as your innocent smile morphed into a cheeky smirk.

His hand moved from your chin, gripping your cheeks hard and squishing them 'til your lips puckered. "Still haven't learnt your lesson." He pushed your head back, encouraging you to lie back.

He grabbed the sides of your soiled underwear and yanked them down your legs, leaving you completely bare while he was still fully dressed. His hands found your waist, flipping you onto your stomach with ease and pulling you back so your legs were hanging off the bed with your ass in the air.

Your cheeks received one more slap each—Jack really was obsessed with your ass—before you felt his tip prodding at your entrance, slipping down to nudge your clit. You whined at the teasing, pushing your ass back against him. A large hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the mattress with force.

"Stay. Still." He ordered through gritted teeth.

Then he plunged in, sinking to the hilt in one thrust. A choked moan lodged in your throat, his size still a shock no matter how many times he stretched you open. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a harsh rhythm, making your hands scramble around on the sheets looking for support.

"So big," you gasped out.

A deep laugh rumbled from him. "So big," he mocked you. "You say that every time."

Skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with his grunts and your mewling. You could feel the fabric of his scrubs on the back of your thighs—the fact he was fucking you while fully clothed sending a shiver down your spine.

Jack picked up on the signs of your impending orgasm straight away, feeling his own tightening his balls. "Hold it," he demanded, slipping a hand under your hips and easily finding your clit. You sobbed into the sheets as he rubbed tight circles, your body locking up in effort to keep your release at bay.

"S'not fair," you whined, high and wrecked. The fire in your core was raging, threatening to set you aflame—Jack's orders be damned.

"Y'know what's not fair?" Jack grunted. "When pretty residents walk around like they own the place." His hand moved from your back, his palm resting on the sheets next to your head. He dropped forward, dragging his lips up your spine, biting down on the curve where your shoulder met your neck. Your eyes rolled back, the pain adding to the dizzying pleasure that was making your whole body ache from holding back. "S'not fair," he mocked you again, "when you make me walk around hard. All. Fucking. Shift." He punctuated the last words with hard thrusts, the force knocking breaths out of you.

"Come in me, Jack, please." You whined, delirious and in need of whatever he'll give you. "Need it s'bad, I'll be good f'you—promise!"

He groaned at your begging, pulling out at the last second to deny you what you were so prettily asking for. Even if he wanted nothing more than to fill you to the brim, this was part of your punishment. He spilled over your ass and lower back, painting your skin in white streaks.

You sobbed at the loss of him, at his hand leaving your burning clit and giving you no relief. He leaned back over you, his mouth hovering right next to your ear. "Aw, you wanna come, sweetheart?" You nodded fervently, tears soaking the sheets below you. He gripped your chin tight, turning your face until your lips were inches from his—your breaths mingling together. "Be a good girl and apologise."

"But I didn't do anything wrong." You whimpered out.

He tutted. "Try again."

His hand returned to your clit, fingers rubbing agonisingly slow figure eights—the fire blooming at full force beneath his touch. He watched the sweat beading at your hairline, the tremors running through your body making his bed shake; you were so determined to not give in, and it only made him inevitably breaking you that much sweeter.

He moved his head, nuzzling into the side of your neck—breathing in your intoxicating scent before he started nipping and sucking at the spot below your ear. And just as he predicted, that was your breaking point. Your body shook harder underneath him, a debauched moan slipping from you lips.

"M'sorry, Jack! I'm so sorry—won't do it again." You whimpered, hips rolling back and forth, trying to hump his hand. "Please—it hurts so bad!"

Satisfied that you finally said you were sorry, he moved off of you—flopping onto his back next to you and not wasting a second to grasp your waist and pull you on top of him. He positioned you so you were hovering over his face, giving you a moment to get your bearings before yanking you down and absolutely devouring you.

Your hands were quick to thread into his curls, tugging hard as you rode his face. Three fingers thrust into you again, this time curling and hitting your g-spot perfectly. The most sinful sounds he'd ever heard fell from your mouth, a sharp cry jolting out of you when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked hard. You were so close already, the teasing and edging for what felt like hours leaving a painful knot that was ready to unravel violently.

"Jack—oh, fuck!" You shook above him, your body glistening with sweat as you climbed higher. He groaned, marvelling at the sight of you—yeah, he was never going to forget this. It sent vibrations through your pussy and your vision started to blur at the edges. "I'm gonna come—please let me come!"

He doubled his efforts, silently telling you to let go. You threw your head back with a scream, an all-consuming orgasm tearing through your core—ripping every single one of your nerves apart, a new galaxy bursting behind your eyes. You squirted all over Jack's face, his eyes never once leaving your heaving body as he eagerly drank every drop you offered him. He continued fucking his fingers into you, mouthing at your clit as you came down. You tried to lift your hips off his face but he refused, not letting up until overstimulated sobs left you and you begged him to stop.

He sat you on his chest, rubbing his hands along your thighs and hips. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

You returned home feeling both light and heavy—your head light from the brief sub space Jack put you in, your heart heavy because you couldn't do this anymore.

You couldn't do casual, you deserved more. And you knew Jack could never offer you what you truly needed, not when he was so adamant on being alone—which, honestly, was bullshit. He was never alone—choosing to either strap his SWAT vest on or pick up an extra shift in the ED, calling you up when he wanted company sex, refusing to sit in the silence by himself.

You didn't re-download the dating apps right away, content with accepting the fact that you were ready to start looking again. You continued your routine with Jack, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than usual. If he picked up on it, he didn't say anything—it wasn't like you two talked much anyways.

A few weeks later, you were at the Northside Farmers Market with your mom, browsing the stalls before you had to leave for your night shift. It was something the two of you tried to do every other week when your schedules lined up—an old tradition you had as a kid, every Friday going to the market to buy fresh, local ingredients for your family dinner the following Sunday. It stopped when your parents' tumultuous arguments in front of the vendors, the public, tainted something you once held so dear. Now that you were an adult, you were determined to replace those memories with good ones again.

You were at the baker's stall, exchanging idle chit-chat with Billie—the vendor—when a tall man approached the stall. Billie's face lit up at the sight of him, the older woman rounding the counter to pull him into a hug.

"Ollie," she said, pulling back and swatting his arm lightly. "I should be mad at you, y'know. You work how many blocks away, and you're only visiting your Ma now?"

You turned to the man in surprise, watching his cheeks flush red. He was older than you—most likely in his forties, if you were to guess from the few grey hairs streaking his dark beard. He was ruggedly handsome but tamed—his clothes looking like he would fit in on a farm, but the stitching on his jacket told you he would've paid at least a couple hundred for it.

Before he could respond, Billie looked between the both of you—the smile of a cunning mother overtaking her face. She placed a hand on his bicep, turning to you. "This is my son Oliver, he works at Westbridge as an anesthesiologist. If I remember correctly, you work at a hospital, don't you?" Oliver turned to you fully then, kind green eyes looking you up and down in pleasant surprise.

You smiled bashfully. "Yes, you remember correctly. I'm a third year resident at PTMC, specialising in Emergency Medicine." Oliver held out a hand and you shook it, offering him your name.

Billie returned to the other side of her stall, helping out with another customer. You and Oliver stepped to the side, falling into easy conversation about your jobs. Time passed quickly, and before you knew it your warning alarm to leave for your shift was going off. Oliver politely asked if he could get your number—saying that it's been really nice talking to you, and that he would love to get to know you more over a coffee or dinner sometime. You happily gave it to him with the smallest flutter in your chest—something in the shape of hope.

You found your mom at the books & records stall, gushing to her about the handsome man you just met.

"People hardly meet organically anymore!" She exclaimed, looping her arm through yours, the two of you practically squealing as you left the market.

Not even an hour later, you were standing at the Hub, talking to Lena about the parents in North Three with a degree in medicine from Google University, when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a text from an unknown number.

7:15pm

(412) 858-5725: It was really great meeting you today, I would love to take you out for dinner one night soon if you're interested (412) 858-5725: I completely understand if our schedules don't match up, no pressure at all :) (412) 858-5725: This is Oliver, by the way. If that wasn't obvious already haha

"I know that look," Lena singsonged, pointing an accusatory finger at your face. You looked up from your phone to see a sly smirk on her face. "Who's the guy?"

You looked away, biting your lip to suppress the smile you didn't realise had bloomed across your face. "It's no one, really. We only met, like, an hour ago."

"Ah, young love," the older nurse swooned. "Let me know how it goes, hon." Then she was throwing you a wink and calling after Vivi who was rushing past.

Luckily, you and Oliver figured out you both had the following Friday off and made plans to go to a family-owned Italian restaurant—not too intimate, not too casual. You kept the date to yourself—not even telling your mom—in fear of jinxing it. The two of you exchanged a handful of texts before your date, each one making you feel more giddy about your upcoming date.

You went to Jack's once in the week before your date with Oliver—cutting your usual three nights a week down to one, claiming that you were feeling too unwell the other nights. Which technically wasn't a lie, the guilt was starting to make you feel uneasy. You reminded yourself that you had no reason to feel guilty—you and Jack weren't dating, weren't exclusive, and you hadn't even been on a date with Oliver yet. But even with your reasoning, there was something clenching your chest and curdling your gut. You reminded yourself that you and Jack were just coworkers who used each other for stress relief; you didn't tell Shen about your date, so why would you tell Abbot?

The guilt stayed with you as you got ready for the date—feeling like you were trying to cover a cold secret with someone else's warmth. Your thoughts were briefly distracted when your phone pinged with a text.

7:03pm

Abbot: Come over to mine tonight. 9pm.

You: Sorry, can't tonight. I have plans.

Abbot: 👍

You scoffed at his response, your previous guilt evaporating in an instant. This was what you needed—the reminder that you deserved more than what Jack could give you.

You walked into the restaurant just before seven thirty, feeling like you had something to prove—to yourself or to someone else, you weren't sure.

The date went well—great, even. Oliver was charming, but also humble—mentioning his less than glamorous upbringing, how he got into med school on a scholarship, that the first thing he did with his first big paycheck was pay off part of his parent's mortgage.

You bonded over the struggle that was med school, the failing healthcare system, the weirdest cases you've worked on. Dinner continued into dessert, then another bottle of wine, but there was still a tension in the back of your head. It had you turning your head when he leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing your cheek instead of your lips. It had you comparing the hand on your bare shoulder to another hand, one that wore a dark ring and knew exactly how to touch you.

You parted ways with tentative plans for a second date; the next time your nights off aligned wasn't for another two weeks, and you both didn't want to put too much pressure on a set date just yet.

You visited your mom the next day for lunch, filling her in on all the details about your date. She was ecstatic for you, claiming that she always knew the market was going to pay you back somehow.

Monday rolled around quickly, and you walked into your shift ten minutes early like you always did—allowing yourself a few minutes to catch up with your aunt before she went home. Dana was at the Hub as usual, complaining to Robby about the nurse shortage and the pressure it was putting on her people.

She looked over as you approached the counter, her face morphing into a smirk that you knew meant she had been talking to your mom.

"Hey, doll. How was your weekend?" She emphasised the question with a small wink. "Your mom told me you had a handsome date on Friday."

You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "I should've known she'd tell you as soon as I left on Saturday."

Dana rounded the counter and slung an arm around your shoulder. "It wasn't straight away, she waited until we had dinner that night." You laughed with a small shake of your head. "Don't leave me hanging, how was it?"

Robby was still stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, partially paying attention to you and your aunt. His face was pulled into a puzzled expression as he observed Jack standing not far behind you—clearly eavesdropping on your conversation with Dana, a small frown furrowing his brows and setting his mouth in a straight line. It wasn't really eavesdropping since you were both talking at a normal volume, any of your colleagues passing by would've heard your conversation.

What Robby found odd was that Jack had stopped walking on his way to the lockers to listen, one hand frozen on his bag strap and the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His cheek twitched in the way that meant something was bothering him, and Robby came to the chilling realisation that Jack was jealous. Over you—Dana's niece.

You started recounting the date to Dana, a giddy smile stretching your lips. It felt good to be openly wanted by someone, to not be a secret kept in the dark—to be something other than a stress relief booty call.

Robby watched in unease as Jack continued to stand as still as a statue, the vein in his forehead starting to bulge as a dark red crept up his neck.

Robby grabbed a tablet and casually rounded the Hub's counter, trying not to draw your attention. He started towards the North rooms, grabbing Jack's bicep in an iron grip and forcing him through the North Bay doors.

Once safely out of your earshot, he turned to his friend with a scolding glare.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Jack was pretty damn proud of himself. He managed to get to the end of his shift without blowing up at you once. It was due to Robby's threat ringing in his ears for the most part—having your best friend threaten to castrate you with a dead serious face tends to lower your anger to a simmer.

Jack hadn't uttered a word to Robby, the guilt and jealously written all over his face told him enough. Robby kindly reminded him that he was the least of Jack's worries—if Dana found out he so much as touched a hair on your head, losing his dick would be sweet relief compared to what she'd do.

So, Jack treated you as normal—ignoring the stabbing in his chest, the beast in his gut demanding to be let out.

There were less than ten minutes left of his shift when he caught sight of you talking to Lena at the north nurse's station.

Keep walking, he told himself. His feet didn't seem to get the memo.

"I meant to ask," Lena said, leaning her arms on the counter. "Any update on Market Guy?"

Robby had dragged Jack away before he heard the full recount of your date to Dana, which he had been both grateful for and disappointed by. He needed to know like he needed air to breathe—which was a terrifying realisation to him.

"We went out for dinner on Friday," you replied, biting your lip to hold back yet another smile. "It was really nice. He was a total gentleman, very charming, pretty down to earth." Lena nodded along, hanging off of every word. "We're planning a second date for when our schedules next align."

That was it for Jack. His vision clouded with a red fog, the beast in his gut rearing its head and breaking out. He stormed over to the two of you, gripping your upper arm.

"We need to talk," he bit out, ignoring the shocked look Lena gave him.

He didn't wait for your response, pulling you towards the only empty Central room. Once the door was closed, you struggled in his hold, trying to rip your arm free.

"Let go of me, Dr. Abbot." You demanded as calmly as you could, your heart beat quickening at the storm rolling over his face. He let go but stepped closer, crowding your personal space.

"That's why you couldn't see me on Friday? Because you had a date?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You stepped back, anger starting to grip your chest. "I'm sorry—what?"

He followed you, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Did you sleep with him?"

"How the fuck is that any of your business?"

Unbeknownst to the both of you, the day shift had started filtering in—Robby and Dana finding their command posts at the Hub. Dana was the first to notice the two of you in Central Seven, her eyebrows drawing together at the furious look on your face.

"Hey," she said to Robby, getting his attention. She nodded towards where you and Jack looked like you were having a heated discussion. "You know what's going on with them?"

Robby followed her eyeline, tensing as he saw what he prayed wouldn't happen within the walls of his ED. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. "Uh, no, not a clue."

Dana eyed him suspiciously. "Well, do you mind telling them we have patients who could use that room?"

"I'd rather not go in there."

Dana slowly turned to him, levelling him with a glare. "Michael Robinavitch, what aren't you telling me?"

Back in the room, your hands were starting to shake from anger, and Jack's head was throbbing from holding back the full wrath of his jealousy.

"I have the right to know if you're screwing other people."

You let out a humourless laugh. "Are you kidding me right now? You don't have the right to know shit!"

Jack's cheek twitched. "Yes I do. You said no to me to see some other guy."

"Oh, what—so I'm meant to come running at your beck and call?"

His jaw flexed and he opened his mouth, but your anger and disbelief at the situation had taken over.

"This has just been one big waste of time! I don't want casual anymore—not with you, not with anyone."

Jack opened his mouth before he could think better of it. "I didn't hear you complaining when you opened your legs for me."

A crack echoed throughout the room, the sound of your palm slapping Jack's cheek filling the tension riddled air. "You're a fucking asshole, Jack Abbot."

You shoulder checked him as you rushed out the door, refusing to let him see the tears streaming down your cheeks. You hurried past the Hub, not noticing Dana and Robby watching you with shock painting their faces. Your hand was tingling from the impact, your vision blurring as you made your way out the ambulance bay doors.

Dana didn't stop to think, storming into Central Seven where Jack was staring at the ground—his hand rubbing his tender cheek.

"What the fuck did you do to my baby?" She demanded, her voice dangerously low.

Shit.

The cold morning air made the tears staining your cheeks sting slightly, the sensation grounding and stopping you from completely falling apart. You never cried over a man—it was a rule you made for yourself when you were young, after seeing how your dad would make your mom fall apart at least once a week. They weren't worth your tears.

You wanted to charge back into the ED and slap Jack again for making you cry.

You stayed sitting on the ground with your back against the brick wall until your tears dried, until your breaths evened out and didn't hurt on their way out your lungs. You tensed when you heard uneven steps approach you—there was only one person whose steps sounded like that.

Your head shot up as he sat down opposite you, glaring daggers at him. He raised his hands placatingly.

"Please don't hit me, I'm here to apologise." When you didn't make a move to leave or attack him, he slowly lowered his hands. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean what I said—to imply that you were easy."

"Then why did you say it?" Fuck, you hated how small your voice sounded.

He let out a long breath, looking up at the sky. "Because I was mad—upset." He looked back at you, his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "I didn't know that's how you felt…you never said anything to me."

"How could I when you barely speak to me? You just fuck me and then push me into an uber. Really makes a girl feel special," you shook your head, wrapping your arms around your chest—starting to feel exposed. "I can't read your mind, Jack. You can't tell me you want casual one day and the next get mad because I went on a date."

He had the decency to look ashamed, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut. "That's fair. I don't really have any excuses, no good ones at least."

You sighed, your head feeling heavy and starting to throb. "I don't need excuses; I just want to know why. Why you act like you don't know me, why you won't—" your voice dropped, wobbling slightly. "Why you won't kiss or hug me. I mean," you let out a bitter chuckle, "do you even know what aftercare is?"

He started to twist his ring around his finger, his mouth moving side to side as he struggled to find the right words to say. "Kissing and hugging felt too intimate—felt like things I couldn't take back." He looked up at you again, his eyes glassy. "I didn't want to admit to myself that I had—have—feelings for you, and the thought of kissing you…I mean I've thought about it a lot—to the point it's been driving me insane." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, a huffed laugh leaving him. "I was worried that by kissing you I wouldn't be able to let go, and that terrified me. It meant you could become another photo I keep in my nightstand."

You knew what he was talking about—you had opened it while looking for tissues, finding a collection of photographs in the drawer. You tried not to snoop, but you were fairly certain one of them was his wife and a couple others were his old army buddies.

"I get that, I do. The universe has handed you more than enough grief and hardship for one lifetime." You stood up, closing the distance between you and sitting next to him. "But that isn't solely your decision to make, Jack. You've been hurting us both by keeping your feelings to yourself." You brought your knees up, hugging them to your chest and resting your cheek on them. "And, honestly? A girl needs kisses and cuddles after coming four times in one night; a sub drop can be pretty brutal."

Jack's guilt multiplied tenfold. "Shit. Fuck, I'm sorry—I didn't even think about that." He shifted slightly, turning to look at you fully. "I would like to try again, if you'll let me. No casual bullshit, no pretending like I don't think about you all the time. Lots of kissing and cuddling—and orgasms, so many orgasms."

It was then that you noticed the ice pack in Jack's hands, resting over his groin. You couldn't stop the snort that slipped out. "I see you had a chat with Dana."

"Don't know if I would call it a chat. She's got a harder kick than I was expecting."

You hummed. "Just be glad you didn't get to experience her right hook—she gave my dad a black eye when she found out he was cheating on my mom. And she won't hesitate to give you one if you hurt me again."

His eyes were shining, hope swirling around the honey gold and sunlit green. "Does that mean you'll give me another chance?"

"Yes," you replied, letting the small smile break through. "But no sex until I think you deserve it."

Jack nodded, his own megawatt smile putting the sun to shame. "You're in charge here, sweetheart." He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "Can I kiss you, at least?"

You barely managed a nod before his mouth descended on yours, his lips achingly tender. He moved slowly, basking in the warmth he had been denying himself of for so long. A cold hand came up to cup your cheek and you jerked away in surprise, making him laugh and apologise before diving back in, settling the hand on your back to pull you in closer.

"I was right," he mumbled against your lips. "There's no way I'm letting go now."

Your back hits the mattress hard enough to make the old springs squeal beneath you and Jack’s first hiss isn’t one of pleasure.

“Shut. Up.” 

His hand closes around your jaw before the laugh can properly make it out, fingers digging into the hinge just shy of painful. His thumb finds the soft under of your chin and presses until your mouth falls open for him.

It’s supposed to be corrective, presumably. Intimidating. To make you reconsider whatever smart thing you were about to say.

Instead, you turn your head just enough to catch the heel of his palm between your teeth. Salt. Sunscreen. Jack.

You bite down lightly and watch the quick flare in his eyes that says try me again.

It makes you want to try him again.

This is perhaps your most enduring character defect, the congenital need to worry at Jack Abbot until something gives, to poke one finger into every concealed pressure point and keep pressing until that pleasant facade finally fractures and you get the man underneath, irritated and looking at you like patience is a finite natural resource you have personally exhausted.

Conveniently, this defect has also made the two of you very easy to hide.

Wanting Jack has never looked substantially different than hating him. Same symptoms, really. 

At work it manifests as narrowed eyes across the nurses’ station, remarks delivered half an octave louder than necessary, shoulders knocking in hallways wide enough to accommodate two functioning adults.

In private, the argument merely changes medium.

You end up underneath him with your thighs spread around his hips while he fucks every complaint back into you, and somehow neither of you has to concede the point.

That is, more or less, what is happening now.

Jack is attempting to fuck a confession out of you, specifically the admission that he had been right when he told you not to challenge the ocean after three frozen margaritas and one declaration that rip currents were mostly “a mindset.”

In your defense, this had sounded perfectly reasonable at the time. The ocean disagreed.

You made it maybe six yards before a wave hit your broadside, folded you clean in half, stole your sunglasses, and deposited you at Jack’s feet with enough seaweed caught in your bikini to suggest the beginnings of marine conservation.

You called him an insufferable bastard for saying he told you so. 

Now he keeps insisting he “rescued” you because he hauled you upright by the waist while you sputtered saltwater.

He would like an apology. You would like him dead. Compromise remains unlikely. You would swallow your own tongue before giving him the satisfaction. 

You nip him again, sharper this time, then grin around his thumb. “Go on — make me. You’ve been trying all day.” 

“Fucking brat.” He drags his thumb free, replacing it with two thick fingers that press insistently at your tongue. “Keep talking and I’ll stuff you so full the only word you remember is sorry.” 

He’s close to delivering on that promise, hips battering the breath from your lungs until all you can do is claw the navy sheets below you.

You almost give him the noise he’s hunting for, but feeding Jack’s ego has never been on your to-do list, so you smother the sound and glare your defiance instead.

You clamp down on his fingers, hard enough to make him grunt, and he jerks back, slick digits slipping free. 

“Jesus — watch the teeth,” he growls, shaking the sting before flattening your wrist to the mattress. “You want a muzzle, sweetheart?” 

You swipe your tongue over enamel, savoring the residue. “So many threats, Doctor. I’m starting to think you’re all talk.” 

“Careful,” Jack murmurs with a hollow laugh. “You might hurt my feelings.”

He apparently decides conversation has exhausted its usefulness.

One second you are on you looking at him; the next he has you flipped facedown, dragged your hips into the air, and buried himself back inside you with enough force to make the entire bed complain in sympathy. 

His chest covers your back, breath searing the shell of your ear. A half-moan, half-sob cracks loose out of you, palms skidding for purchase as your pelvis jerks forward as if distance could blunt the stretch, make it more manageable.

Jack only laughs again, settling both hands over your shoulder blades as he lets his weight weld you to the sheets.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” Each thrust stakes you there, sensation cresting so hot the edges of the room tremble out of focus and into watercolors.

You mash your face into the pillow, trying to hide the choked noises bleeding from you but they seep through cotton and feathers just the same.

“Listen to you,” he croons, mock-tender, thumb stroking a false comfort along your spine. He grinds you down while he pushes in again, slow enough you feel the catch of every ridge. “So fucking mouthy until I start making you feel good.” 

His hand snakes beneath you, palm burning a trail down your stomach until two fingers find your clit. The first tight circle detonates in your core. Supernova heat.

“Pretty thing like you shouldn’t fight common sense,” he purrs. “Just admit it — You were right, Jack. Should’ve trust you. Smartest guy I know. That’s all I want.” Another figure-eight of his thumb, another planet collision behind your eyes. “I keep you safe, I make you feel good — why’s it so hard to give me a little credit?”

“Because — you’re such — a cocky — asshole,” you gasp, the insult dissolving into a helpless whine when his thumb presses harder. 

“Dirty mouth on you,” Jack tuts. “C’mon, honey. Be sweet for ten little seconds — tell me I’m right — and I’ll let you come.”

You give him nothing but a furious side-to-side wobble, hair stuck wetly across your cheeks.

He can make your thighs shake and turn your brain into warm soup but he cannot make you surrender a point you are still technically convinced is yours. 

The knot low in your belly winds tighter in retaliation, every muscle beginning that little climb towards something inevitable, and then Jack simply stops.

Fingers gone. Thrust halted. He holds himself inside you like a blade sheathed to the hilt, every inch throbbing but inert, punishment by deprivation. 

Your muscles fire once more on instinct, grasping at a phantom that’s already gone, walls twitching uselessly around empty air.

The knot loosens with insulting patience — twist, release, release — until climax slips from reachable to hypothetical. 

A brittle, involuntary sound hooks in your throat, proof that your body has accepted what your mind refuses to: Jack Abbot means to leave you suspended in this awful limbo until you fold. 

“Please — no.” You writhe beneath him in shallow arcs, powerless under the weight pinning you. “Need you — need you to keep going.” 

He slips a broad palm under your jaw, lifting your mouth off the pillow for your gasps to reach him unfiltered. “You know what I need, honey. Say the words, and I’ll give you everything you’re begging for.” 

“I — I’m sorry,” you finally spit out. “You were right, Jack. Always are. Just — please — don’t stop.” 

The words hit like blood in the water. He buries himself with a hoarse snarl, rhythm turning brutal, inexorable, as though the apology were a starting gun. Wood knocks hard against the plaster wall and your body jolts forward with every drive.

“Was that so hard?” His voice drips triumph while his teeth worry a shallow crescent into your shoulder. “Christ, sweetheart, what’re you always fighting me for? You know I’m gonna get my way.” 

The only reply you manage is a shaky “uh-huh — ah, Jack —” strangled into the pillow, every syllable climbing higher until it breaks apart in a thin, urgent keen that tells him exactly how close you are. 

“There you go, pretty girl. Give it to me — yeah, just like that.” 

That’s all it takes.

Your body locks, squeezes, and he answers with a raw-throated groan, bracing you inside the bracket on his arms while your trembling tries to shake both of you off the bed.

Then everything goes incandescent. A long, rushing hush, white and depthless, flooding every corner of your mind as you come all over his length.

Somewhere inside all that brightness, Jack loses whatever rhythm he had left.

He lasts two more strokes. 

“Fuck — sweetheart.” His hips snap tight against your ass, burying himself as deep as he can go, filling you in heavy surges that make your already-softened core flutter all over again. 

You barely understand it at first, only feel another strange wave roll through you, your body squeezing reflexively around every throb until his arms tighten and his forehead drops heavily between your shoulder blades. 

Jack stays folded over you until both your breathing begins to settle, the hard rise and fall of his chest gradually slowing against your spine.

When he finally moves, it is with considerably more care than anything he has done in the last thirty minutes.

He withdraws from you slowly, and your cunt manages one useless twitch at the emptiness he leaves behind. Pathetic, really, but apparently it's all the reaction your spent body can afford.

Sensing the weakness, the bastard takes advantage.

He rolls you onto your other side until you're nose-to-nose, the world tilting under the authority of a man rearranging furniture. Normally, you'd bark at him to ask first. Right now you just marvel that you're the furniture.

You blink at him through the pleasant cotton packed between your ears.

Jack studies the damage he's done, mouth curling like he's content with his handiwork, then lowers himself to press a kiss above your hipbone.

He works upward without hurry, lips brushing warm over skin still prickling with aftershocks, teeth occasionally catching in a light nip that makes you squirm before he kisses the same place better.

Your fingers slide into the silver-flecked hair at his temples, nails scratching lightly until you feel the growl rumble against your ribs.

“Funny how suddenly you like me again.”

“Like is generous.” You give the silver strands at his temple a tug. “Give me five minutes. I’ll remember everything I hate about you.”

“Mm. I can do a lot with five minutes.” He lifts his head just enough to give you that smug, crooked look.

“Four and a half now.”

Jack laughs, apparently delighted by the threat of your imminent return to hostility, and works his way up until there is nowhere left between you for him to kiss.

He folds down beside you and takes your mouth one final time before you can decide whether final kisses are perhaps too affectionate for people who supposedly cannot stand each other.

“Better use ’em wisely, then.”

He does, in fact, use them wisely. Spending what remains of his allotted minutes with his mouth between your thighs and apparently deciding there is some obscure world record for orgasms induced out of spite that he intends to break before sunrise.

But by breakfast, the consequences have arrived.

You sit at the island with a fork slack between your fingers, pancakes cooling untouched beneath a generous pour of syrup.

Your eyelids keep flirting with gravity; every time they drop Jack clears his throat in exaggerated warnings, as if falling face-first into breakfast would somehow be his fault.

It would be. Somehow. You'd make it so.

“Late night?” Frank asks from across the island, not bothering to look up from whatever he’s doing to his coffee.

Your head lifts approximately half an inch.

“No, I'm fine,” you say, far too quickly. You hear it the second it leaves your mouth, that bright little note of guilt you have apparently developed overnight, and clear your throat before anyone else can appreciate it. “I'm fine. Just tired. All that swimming yesterday wore me out.”

Dana, standing at the sink with her sleeves pushed up, lets out a thoughtful hum as she rinses a plate.

“Funny, everyone seems to be dragging this morning,” she remarks, flicking water off her wrist. “Can’t imagine why.”

“I can.” Robby lifts his mug. “Some of us were awake until two in the morning. Against our will.”

There is a tiny, merciful interval where you almost misunderstand him.

Of course people were awake. There are more than twenty coworkers crammed into one beach house, sleeping on couches and air mattresses and whatever other horizontal surfaces they could claim before someone else did.

Somebody is always awake. Somebody is always opening a refrigerator or flushing a toilet or talking too loudly in the hallway.

But when you finally drag your eyes up from your pancakes and find several people already looking at you with expressions ranging from tired amusement to outright accusation, the alternate interpretation arrives all at once.

They heard you. They heard Jack. Possibly extensively.

Fuck.

You lower your eyes and shovel another piece of pancake into your mouth.

Then again, maybe they're staring for some completely unrelated reason. A syrup stain, bed hair, the fact that you still haven't blinked in ten seconds.

“So, Jack,” Trinity suddenly says from the other side of the island, casual enough that for one stupid second you don’t hear the trap opening beneath your feet, “how's it feel being right all the time?”

You keep chewing.

“I mean, so right,” she adds, her voice climbing into a suspiciously breathy imitation. “The rightest man alive, apparently.”

The pancake becomes significantly harder to swallow as a hot ribbon of mortification slides up your throat. You manage a strangled cough and focus on sawing your next bite into pieces the size of atoms so you don't have to lift your head and meet anyone's eyes.

Without missing a beat, Jack wipes a smear of syrup from his thumb and shrugs. “Feels pretty nice, if I’m honest.”

“You are such a smug little —”

“Language,” Dana cuts in from the sink without even turning around.

You clamp your lips together, cheeks still burning, then lean just enough into Jack’s line of sight and mouth, shit.

His smirk cuts sideways across his face, eyes dropping briefly to your lips before coming back up darker than they were a second ago. His nostrils flare faintly, then his thighs spread another inch beneath the island as he leans back.

A minute repositioning of his hips that would mean nothing to anybody else and means everything to you because you know exactly what Jack looks like when his body gets ahead of his better judgment.

“Ew,” Trinity says suddenly, pointing between you and Jack with her fork. “This is flirting, isn’t it? You two have just been doing foreplay in front of us for, like, years.”

Robby grimaces. “Freaks.”

“I have no idea what you mean,” you insist, despite the heat steadily colonizing your entire face.

Jack undermines you immediately as he shoots you a wink. “It’s worked pretty well for us.”

Your eyes widen ten sizes. “Shut. Up.”

His grin only gets worse, teeth showing this time, and something about that makes you want to kick his ankle under the island just to restore the natural order of things.

Frank shakes his head. “Get a room.”

“We had one. Apparently that was the problem,” Jack says.

A chorus of disgusted groans answers him.

MARIA NOTE jack abbot getting pussy as a direct consequence of being annoying… terrible precedent to set actually 🍋🫧🌀 HOPE YOU ENJOY I LOVE YOU ALLLL