s

It’s almost unnerving how little, Abby realises, she knows about not only how sex works, not just between two women, but how to initiate it. With Owen, it had been… easy? Not that she’d necessarily enjoyed the experience but he always initiated the act, he was the one who took the lead. Abby just had to lay back or bend over and just… wait, as bad as it sounded. 

She’d heard the other women talk about how fun sex was, one even harping on about how her first time was magical. That they actually… got off? Abby had only ever gotten off on her own, to relieve stress, never with someone else. But then she compared it to how Manny would boast about his escapades, and she figured that these women were fluffing it up. For the other women or so the men would think it was fun for them too, she wasn’t sure. Making it seem like they did, after all it couldn’t be that good - not after the sex she’d been having. Maybe it was just guys who got off from it, enjoyed it, was able to stay in that moment and not have their mind drift off in boredom, to what patrol she was on the next day.

Only, a bottle of contraband wine and some other questionable drinks she did not want to know the origin or contents of, with Nora and Mel, gave her second thought. Because maybe Mel would skirt around it to save embarrassing some guy but Nora? Nora gave Abby an interesting perspective with her stories of past sex encounters, both good and bad. 

“Wait, you– you’ve walked out, like mid—” Nora’s sharp nod and lazy laugh cut Abby’s words off, “Yup! Called it a day, I mean what’s the point if you’re not enjoying it, y’know”

The blonde makes a noncommittal noise, nodding her head like she gets it, like she’s relating. She doesn’t, and instead chews on the inside of her cheek as she contemplates things.

Abby figured something was wrong with her, that there must have been a reason why she didn’t seem to want it the way other girls did. 

Well, now she wants it – God, she wants it bad.

You’re not new, not some bumbling recruit she finds looking across the stadium that changes everything for her. No damsel for Abby to rescue, in fact she can’t help but appreciate how perfectly fine you are at holding your own, even protecting others when brought out on patrols. You both figure out later on you must have come in a group maybe a month or two after Abby, but neither of you had caught the others attention between then and when Abby finally did notice you.

Of course, you’d appreciated the beauty and the build of Isaac’s top scar-killer much like some of the other queer women housed in the WLF, but you’d heard about the break up between her and Owen and assumed she was straight. After all, there’d been nothing and no one before or after him, and perhaps it wasn’t a tightly held secret where Abby’s focus was: vengence. Romance, sex, it didn’t even seem secondary upon brief glance for her, if anything it felt like the last thing that would occur to her now. Abby, on the other hand, doesn’t feel like her world is flipped upside down when the person she’s stumbling over words for, her heart skipping a beat and thighs clenching as she gawks at you from a non-creepy distance, is another woman. She’s too busy trying to think of ways to get your attention and spend time with you for a sexuality crisis to occur.

Which is why you don’t assume she likes you when Abby begins to become, to put it bluntly, an issue. Taking the dogs out without letting you or another trainer know, not on patrols — no, she’s not that insane — but out of their cages to play fetch in the play pen, for a walk around the stadium, or for the worst case that had you forcing an unconvincing smile and gritting your teeth, smuggling Bear into hers’ and Manny’s apartment. Or when she somehow switches the rotations so that when it’s your turn to go on patrol with a dog, it’s her group you’re paired with even if the list says it should be otherwise. It shouldn’t irk you as much as it does, and the longer it goes on, the more it seems to only be you that’s stuck dealing with the inconveniences, the more you grow straight up annoyed. You can’t even complain about it, between Abby being Isaac’s favourite and your friends teasing you about how despite everything you still find the woman unbelievably hot.

Any excuse, anything that won’t get her into too much trouble, Abby can’t help but take any opportunity to be around you. Even if she’s kept in the distance, watching as you scout ahead with whichever dog is assigned (though she always notes her preference for Alice or Bear when putting in requests) 

It’s only after you practically hunt her down that she crumbles, her nerves and anxiety that her attempts to be close to you, to create reasons for you both to interact might have pushed you away. She’s not stammering, she doesn’t come across as a mess exactly, but she’s not her usual self and she can’t steady that nervous feeling in her stomach. At her age, she figured crushes were only a teenage thing but you’ve got butterflies circling in her stomach at what feels like all times. Her confession, your reciprocation of it, the subsequent question of will you be mine barely audible against your lips after a first kiss that has Abby feeling like air is a secondary requirement — everything about the moment makes the two of you feel like everything else blurs, sound dims and all either of you can focus on is the other. It’s only when you feel a nudge at your calf and a squeak, as Alice drops a toy Abby must of 100% smuggled alongside the dog from the pens, that the moment breaks back into reality.

Maybe it would have been easier if it was pure lust, she could have gone in with false confidence and tried to work things out in the moment. And it wouldn’t have mattered if it had been bad, clumsy, embarrassing because if it was just purely lust there was no reason for Abby to interact with you again. But instead, she’s in absolute awe of you and wants the first time the two of you have together to be perfect.

The two of you take it slow, in part out of choice — wanting to get to know each other better, establishing a relationship and making sure you’re both comfortable with each other — but also partly due to your work. Activity builds up and there’s more push for Abby to go on night rotations, longer patrols. You and your fellow trainers/soldiers feel the effect as you’re barely able to recover from patrols before you’re back checking all the paperwork is up to date, all the dogs have been checked, cared for. Even when you’re both working on the same patrol, there’s not enough time for a moment alone but that doesn’t stop the two of you from ogling the other.

Abby finds it almost embarrassing how her cunt aches, her clit throbbing against the seam of her pants as she watches you move. The sweat glistening against the definition of muscle on your arms as you check one of the dogs over following a Seraphite turned runner attack that had almost gone bad, making sure the canine wasn’t injured in any capacity before securing his harness. 

She starts actually (embarrassingly) listening when people start talking about the sex-capades, trying to take in any information she thinks might be useful at a later point.

Embarrassingly, she recalls later that night while she tries (and fails) to sleep with Manny’s snoring occasionally sounding in the apartment, that the things that you do that seem to turn her on the most never seem to be intentionally sexy. The way your hand idly caresses the back of her neck as the two of you sit, curled into each other, both in private and in group settings. An absent minded touch as you laugh and talk, but it has Abby’s breath hitching and her underwear slick.

For a while, neither of you press the topic even when your makeout sessions begin to grow more desperate, hungry kisses trailing down skin and hands touching what is offered up. But actually moving past those? Neither of you push the other, always seeming to come to the same thought that you need to slow down at the same time.

It’s Abby that brings it up, because despite how needy you feel for your girlfriend you know she’s likely more nervous, more… inexperienced than you are. You don’t want to corner her, push her into doing something when she’s not ready for it yet. Abby might showcase bravado for everyone else but with you? You welcome her softness, her hesitation and allow her to make moves as she’s ready.

She’s got one hand roaming across your body, slipping under the hem of your shirt and her touch electric against your skin, sending shivers up your spine deliciously. Her other hand delicately holds your throat, a gentle pressure as her kisses are enough to make you feel dizzy. You’ve got a hand curled beneath Abby’s braid, lightly tugging at the dirty blonde strands while your other hand grips firmly at her hip, guiding her as she rocks against your thigh and makes the neediest of noises.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t freeze but Abby realises she wants to take that step and the moment is clear to the both of you. Maybe, for you, it’s just that you did take the time to get to know her, rather than just thinking with your pussy. You started to pick up on her tells, the things that give her away. Abby’s lips pull away from yours, a beautiful kiss-bitten pair of lips that part slightly as she takes a breath — no doubt trying to think of what she was about to say. Her hand on your throat lifts, pushing the messy stray hairs framing her face back.

“I want to, I want…” She bites her lip, looking down at you beneath her and swallows her nerves thickly. She feels her cheeks heating, her words tumbling out like she’s ripping off a bandaid.  “I want to do it, I want to have sex with you”

The two of you shift so you’re both laying on your sides, Abby curled into your chest beneath your arm as she talks about her inexperience, her lackluster experiences previously, but also about how she’s been thinking about this, about this experience with you for a while now. Any time you feel Abby start to lose confidence in what she’s saying, in how she’s describing her own feelings and experiences you make sure she’s reassured. Kisses to the forehead, soothing touches against her arm as she speaks — not once speaking, letting Abby say everything she needs to. The only thing you do ask is clarification on if Abby is ready tonight or if she wants to wait, she tries to answer with a hungry kiss but, as much as it feels like it pains you to pull her away, you need to hear it.  “Words, Abigail. You’ve gotta tell me”

“Tonight” Her voice is rough, the words almost coming out like a growl. “I want you tonight”

Abby’s first time with a girl is slow, gentle and easy in a way that eases any residual nerves she has. Of course, she wants to be good — she wants to finish at the end of the night with you praising her as a god, surprise at her performance but she knows the likeliness of this is not in her favor. There’s no rush to jump into anything, languid kisses turn deeper, heavier as the two of you acclimate to it. 

What Abby struggles with in inexperience, she makes up for with enthusiasm. Needy, mewling noises rumbling from her as she tries desperately to get closer to you, peel your clothes off faster, her own clothes off faster — she wants to touch you, taste you, getting so overwhelmed at everything she wants in that moment that all she can do is clench her thighs to try and alleviate the ache from her throbbing clit. 

She doesn’t quite ask, it’s more like she begs to eat your pussy with big, wide and desperate eyes. She doesn’t make any moves to do it, not without your explicit consent, but somehow in your intense makeout she’d already ended up with your legs either side of her. You’re not cruel, you wouldn’t tell her no when her eyes look almost glassy with desperation. She wastes no time after you tell her yes, almost tearing your underwear as she helps (read: yanks) them past your legs and throws them without a care across the room. She forgoes foreplay, a noise of surprise yelping from your lips as Abby spreads you wide, the flat of her tongue licking a greedy stripe from hole to clit, before her tongue laves at your sensitive bud and her mouth closes over, sucking at you sharply. “Oh! Oh! Straight for it then, huh, oh-okay” 

Abby’s not the best, she’s never eaten a girl out before but god, does she put her back into it. She listens for your reactions to try and get an idea on what you like, catalogues what has your thighs falling lax slightly against her with soft, pleasurable sighs and what seems to send shockwaves through your system, thighs clenching and hands in her hair gripping. Her chin is soaked, half her own drool but mainly the arousal dripping from your pretty pussy. Her own pussy is soaked, grinding against her hand but she thinks (embarrassingly) she might be able to cum from the taste of you on her tongue.

She swears she almost sees heaven when she eases two fingers inside of you easily, the velvety tight grip of your pussy turning her on even more. She’s touched herself before, she’s only even cum from touching herself, but this? God, you feel nothing like it feels when she’s inside herself. She listens to you beg and guide her, asking her to please touch you or put her mouth on your clit as your hips roll, guiding Abby’s thick digits inside of you to fuck you. Then as your pleasure builds, asking with a breathy tone still if you can grind against her mouth — Abby’s all to eager, head nodding furiously as she tries not to moan against your pussy. And when you cum, when she finally helps send you over the edge, she thinks for a fleeting moment with how tight you get that you might break her fingers, looking up at you through her lashes with only the slightest bit of alarm visible as she continues sucking and licking at your overworked bundle of nerves.

There’s a brief intermission, aftercare where you both down as much water as you can and just hold each other. Abby doesn’t ask for it, but you can feel the tension rolling off her in waves as you praise her, telling her how good she made you feel, how well she listened as you told her what you liked and how some of her own initiative had your pussy drooling. Aftercare wasn’t something Abby’s had before, so she’s a little surprised when you ask her her jaw is and how she’s feeling, checking if you were too rough at times — it makes her feel seen, cared for when you check in on her.

Abby doesn’t expect reciprocation, but when you ask if you can help her feel good she can’t help but feel a mix of relief and desire. Her underwear is soaked, an unmistakable mess that has a pretty blush tinging her face and spreading down to her chest as you comment on it. It’s not a mean taunting but a gentle teasing, followed by an “All this for me, Abs?”

Her clit is hard, throbbing from lack of attention as you take in her messy cunt. Abby whines above you as you settle between her thighs, your teasing kisses across her chest leading downwards has her biting her fist and throwing her head back as you get close to where she wants, no— at this point— needs you. She whines even more, petulantly, when you avoid her pussy all-together and move to pressing gentle kisses on the inside of her thighs; working your way up on one side slowly before moving to the other thigh. She’s not quite begging but the noises she makes and how ruined her cunt seems to be from earlier has you bringing her sweet relief.

She almost keens off the bed, your hands coming either side of her muscled thighs to hold them in place as she moans loudly, unabashedly at the featherlight feeling of your tongue against her. She’s louder as you get to work on her, easing one finger inside of her first as you practically make out with her swollen clit. 

It’s almost unnerving how little Abby had felt she’d known about how sex worked, how to initiate it and if she enjoyed it to begin with before, because now? It almost sends her into a state of shock how quickly you bring her to orgasm, how you work her over until your mouth is covered in her cum, tongue lazily lapping at her cunt to soothe her engorged clit until she’s lifting you up from overstimulation. 

@azishimi @mundosafico25 @bl00df1redeath @saffrontieee

Throughout Andrew’s life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurf’s house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all. 

The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craig’s girlfriends or Smurf’s boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrew’s life. Not if they weren’t family.

He knows that everyone thinks that he’s different. That he’s weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when he’s just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.

Andrew doesn’t really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, he’s probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s just Pope and he has been for a very long time.

This party in the Cody household wasn’t different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.

His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.

J must have gotten it from Julia.

Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didn’t quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didn’t really like venturing into.

The pounding of the bass is getting to him.

He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when he’s greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesn’t stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.

You’re laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. You’ve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew can’t help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.

“Who are you?” It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do you’re shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.

“Oh my god,” you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrew’s disappointment. He gives you a once over; it’s half assessing what exactly you’re doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”

Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. You’re taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.

“So which one are you?” you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do —it didn’t bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. “Deran? Or, um…”

Andrew knows that you’re searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.

“Andrew.” he supplies, voice softer than before. Now you’ve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Cody’s provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.

“Okay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?” Now that he hasn’t kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesn’t say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. “Or just making sure nobody is defiling your room.”

“I’m not hiding,” he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. “This is my house. I’m free to go where I please.”

“Fair enough. I’m hiding,” you shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesn’t miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. “My friend is here with Craig and they’ve conveniently disappeared... I don’t even want to know what they’re doing.”

“I have a few guesses.” Another one of Craig’s girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craig’s room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense. 

He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.

Pope Cody wasn’t allowed to want.

“Is it okay if I stay here with you?” you ask, and Andrew’s heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you don’t see the blush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck. “I’m just not really sure how long it’s going to take and I would much rather be in here.”

With you, hangs unspoken in the air.

“Sure.” Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. You’re so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and it’s heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. “I don’t really want to be out there either.”

“So, Andrew,” His name sounds like honey when it’s falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. “Not really a party person?”

“No. But my brothers are.” He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’m not really a party person either,” you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch.“My friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a shitty friend.” Andrew says plainly and he’s caught off guard when you let out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess,” You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesn’t really understand why you’re laughing. “But maybe it’s like fate, or something.”

“Fate?” Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.

“Yeah. Like maybe it’s fate that she left? Because then I wouldn’t have hidden in a cute guy’s room and got to talk to him.” He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a dreamy look painted on your face and he’s so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.

He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesn’t work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friend’s voice on the other side of the line. 

You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. You’re not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. You’re kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that you’re coming, don’t move! 

Then you’ve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic —for what, Andrew doesn’t know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says plainly. You don’t really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he won’t admit that part out loud.

“I know. I want to-” you start, but your phone starts buzzing like it’s possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; you’re quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating. “It’s hard to leave when you’re looking at me like a lost puppy.”

Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.

“Thank you,” you say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once you’re straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. “Sorry for messing up your bed. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, you’re giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it he’s back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that you’re gone, he can’t help but want the opposite.

Andrew really hopes that there will be.

—

The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deran’s bar.

He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deran’s bar for any other reason besides work. It was rare that he ever got to enjoy a beer, much less have a moment of free time. But between Deran’s insistence and Craig’s staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.

He’s on the dregs of his beer when he notices Craig straighten up in his seat and saunter over to the front door of the bar. Andrew’s head turns and suddenly he’s glad he came, perking up the same way his brother had just moments ago. A girl comes out to greet Craig, looking like his usual type, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, steering her towards the bar with a sly smile.

Then you walk in and Andrew almost falls off his stool in surprise. You’re dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like you’ve just come from the beach, donned in shorts and tanks, hair curled from the salt water in the air. It makes his heart skip a beat.

You walk in far more hesitantly than your friend, like you’re not too sure if you belong or where to put yourself. Andrew can empathize with the feeling. He watches as you scan the bar; maybe for your friend, or maybe for another place to hide. You lock eyes with him once you finally notice his presence at the bar and you begin to make your way over. Andrew isn’t sure if he should break eye contact but he can’t help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.

“Fancy meeting you here,” You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but you’re not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. You’re laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. “You come here often?”

“You know Pope?” The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. He’s got a bemused look on his face, eyes darting between you and his brother. Andrew tries his best not to frown, especially at the use of his nickname when you only know him by Andrew. From the expression on your face, he can tell that he’s failing. Your eyes flicker with some kind of recognition, like you were suddenly recalling the name that you had forgotten the last time you met.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, not even acknowledging the fact that his own brother had just called him by a completely different name. You gesture to his empty glass, the one that he had set aside to fully focus on you when you approached. “And I think I owe him a drink.”

“You do?” It slips out of both Deran and Andrew’s mouths, disbelief on both their faces. It comes out a bit rougher for Andrew, while Deran inquires like you just told him that unicorns were real. You handle both questions with grace.

“Well, I said I’d make it up to you next time,” You smile, pulling the glass that Deran set down closer to you. His brother leans in closer, clearly interested in what exactly was going on between the two of you. Andrew tries to shoot his brother a glare before you look back at him but he doesn’t have enough time. “So, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?”

“Yeah.” Andrew says, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Deran snickers under his breath. He slides him a beer as well, a knowing look painted all over his features. Andrew takes it with a scowl, but his expression softens when he looks back at you. You bring the beer to your lips with a smile and Andrew can’t help but smile back. 

Two and a half beers later, Andrew’s face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. You’re so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he can’t bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothers’ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times. 

But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesn’t really want to shrink away. He’s tuned out the background noise, even your friend’s obnoxious drunk laughter at Craig’s pretty mediocre jokes. Because, in reality, Andrew is not the type of guy that a lot of girls like. And Pope especially, is not. But here with you, he lets himself believe that maybe just this once, he’s allowed to have something just for him.

“I like your smile,” You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadn’t even realized that he was smiling. He had really just been using the silence to soak in your presence; you still smell the same as you did when you met the first time. Wearing the same perfume that you left on his sheets and pillows just a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. “It’s cute. I like your teeth.”

There it was again. That word. Cute. It’s not a word anyone used to describe Andrew, probably not since childhood. Or possibly maybe never. He almost wants to swing his head around to see if the rest of his family had heard.

“You really think I’m cute?” He can’t help but ask. It might be the beers or the way you look at him or the fact that he can feel your body heat, but his brain is a bit fuzzy. You look over at him, eyes a bit glazed over from the alcohol. Now he can feel you examining him again, looking him up and down.

“I guess cute isn’t really the word for a guy like you.” His heart sinks at that, wondering what you really think about him now that you know Pope and not just Andrew. He knows the stories that circle around Oceanside about him and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the ones that you’ve heard.

“A guy like me?” Andrew echoes, trying his best not to sound so sad. His mood perks up when he feels the heat of your gaze taking him in, seemingly a bit unguarded, presumably from all the alcohol.

“Yeah. You’re all built and…” You look around, trying to place a word to describe him. Then you lay a hand on his arm and Andrew stiffens for a moment but he softens quickly, leaning into your touch. You look pleased that he allowed you to do that, smiling like you’re ready to take a bite of him right then and there. “I don’t know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.”

Andrew is sure that he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He’s also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides that’s a later problem. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly and it’s really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and it’s all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.

“Sorry, I’m being a bit forward, aren’t I?” you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesn’t really work. “I just get flirty when I’m tipsy.”

“So you don’t think us meeting again is fate?” He’s teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He can’t remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.

“I never said that,” You’re hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. “You do believe in fate then?” 

Andrew has to think about it for a moment. He’s not sure, really. Lots of fucked up shit has happened in his life and it would be cruel world if that was the fate that the universe had in store for him. Then again, he’s done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things he’s done, the crimes he committed. Julia. Cath. They swirl around in his mind, weighing on his conscience. Then he looks at you and they all seem to float away. “Maybe.”

“Well, let me know when you decide.” He thinks that you can probably sense his hesitancy or the spiral that it sends him down when he thinks about it too hard, so you pump the breaks. He almost can’t stand the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that you’re seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesn’t have the courage to ask.

“Okay.” he says, a bit too distracted by the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face as you turned to take another sip, shielding his view. His hand flexes as he resists the urge to push them away.

Then, like you could read his mind, you tuck them behind your ear and shoot him another look. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrew’s hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.

“She just puked in the plant over there, and I’m pretty fucked up, so…” Craig isn’t subtle in what he’s asking and Andrew notices the worry flicker across your face as you take in your friend, who can barely stand up on her own without his brother gripping her shoulders. You mutter under your breath and he thinks he hears you basically cursing out Craig.

“Okay, just… take her outside. I’ll be out in two minutes.” you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face that’s becoming all too familiar to him now.

“Is she going to be okay?” His gaze wanders to the door swinging shut behind the pair. You wring your hands nervously, standing up from the stool. Gathering your things a little frantically, you shrug. Andrew deflates a bit as he watches.

“Yeah, I think so. She’ll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,” Once you’ve gathered everything in your arms you give a deep sigh, turning your full attention towards him. He notes that you seem a little deflated too, but he’s not sure if it’s because you’re leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“It’s okay.” Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. It’s cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then you’re gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and it’s his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.

“You got it bad, man.”

—

After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.

Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now she’s basically living at Smurf’s house. Which means that, since you’re her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.

You two haven’t been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrew’s disappointment. The brothers have been busy planning a job, which meant that he was in and out pretty often. His mind was elsewhere though, distracted by the way you brushed arms in the hallway on his way out or when your eye contact lingered longer than usual.

So, maybe that was why the job went a little awry.

They got what they needed to, but not without a fight. The boys trail into the backyard one after the other, everyone bruised and cut up. It always annoyed Andrew when his brothers were impulsive; he was the one that was always suffering the consequences.

He quickly notes that you’re laid out next to the pool in your swimsuit, your body shimmering with sweat under the sweltering sun. Andrew watches a bead of sweat drip from your neck to the valley between your breasts. Time slows as he watches, licking his lips. He barely has time to drag his gaze away before Deran is wheeling on Craig. 

“Why are you always pulling this crap?” Deran almost has a finger in his face, gesturing angrily. Craig just rolls his eyes in response, pushing past him and giving him a glare. Andrew can see the tension tight in their shoulders as they both seethe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.” Craig shoots back, making his way back to the house. Tension has been high between the two lately, just like always, trapped in a toxic cycle.

It seems to snap for Deran, especially after the job, and he jumps on Craig’s back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craig’s skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and it’s a full blown fist fight in seconds.

The two exchange blows for a minute before Andrew and J rush forward to pull the two of them apart. They don’t put up much of a fight and the two of them stalk off in different directions; Craig into the house and Deran out of the yard. J shakes his head and follows after Craig, hands shoved into his pockets.

A quick glance proves that the pool chair you were on just moments ago is left empty, your drink still sitting on the ground next to it. He assumes that you snuck out once his brother hit the floor, probably wise enough to know how the situation was going to unfold. He can see your figure in the window padding around the kitchen, blurred from the distance.

Andrew closes the sliding door behind him when he enters the kitchen and he finds you there, skimpy bikini and all. You’re rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door.  

You’re holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrew’s state. The cut on his eyebrow, the bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek and his torn up knuckles. You make your way towards him, your brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” He hides his hand instinctively when you ask, which you definitely notice. You rub the back of your neck with your free hand, a bit sheepish. “I heard, uh, your brothers fighting.”

“Oh.” Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. He’s silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.

“Yeah, oh.” You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craig’s rooms, eyebrows raised. “So, back to my question. Is everything okay?” 

Andrew contemplates his answer for a second, not sure how much detail to go into. You eye him in the same way that you always do and he is suddenly keenly aware that this is the first moment alone you’ve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: “It’s complicated.”

“Right,” you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew can’t help but watch you move, all bare shimmering skin and he shifts a little as all his blood flows downwards. He sucks in a sharp breath as you settle in beside him, resting your arm on the counter. Your sweat and tanning oil smears all over the stone island but he’s too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. “That’s why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated,” he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.

“Andrew, I know who you guys are,” you say and now he’s shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. “I can keep a secret, don’t worry. I just… want you to be careful, okay? That’s all.”

“I’m always careful,” he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you can’t help but smile. It’s a nice sight and it even makes him brave enough to take a step closer to you, finally being the first to lessen the gap between you two.

The proximity and the way you look up at him has the haze settling in once more. Andrew wants to reach out and toy with the strings of your bikini bottoms but he thinks better of it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he almost has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought.

“I’m sure you are,” You scan him up and down, examining his cuts and bruises. Though, Andrew swears that he can feel your gaze linger on his arms and his chest. It makes a shiver run down his spine. “But if this is you careful, I’d hate to see when it gets messy.”

“I don’t do messy,” he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge you’ve left on the counter. You give a familiar giggle and your hand comes to rest on his arm, and he immediately forgets all about it again. This is the first time you’ve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrew’s stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and he’s glad you can’t feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.

“I know, Andrew. I’ve watched you clean,” you joke. Andrew loves hearing you say his name, his lips parting as you do so. He tries to pull his mind away from all the different things he would do to you to keep hearing it slip from your lips. 

“Where’s your friend?” he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his family’s line of work. You let out a sigh, making your way back to the fridge. The door swings open and you start rummaging through the freezer like you lived at the house. Really, at this point, you kind of do.

“I’m not sure,” you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. “Her and Craig are probably doing lines off each other’s chests or something.” 

You pull out a bag of frozen vegetables, shutting the door behind you and approaching Andrew once more. You hold it out to him and he cocks his head in confusion. Rolling your eyes, you grab his bad hand and place the bag on top of his knuckles, still bloody. The cold dulls the stinging that Andrew had learned to ignore too early on in life.

“Why do you hang out with her?” He all but blurts out, but he can't help it. There was plenty of time for Andrew to watch you two interact when you were over, and you seemed more like a tired mother than a best friend. Plus, Andrew figured that if he could keep you distracted with conversation, you wouldn’t let go of his hand just yet.

“She’s been my best friend since, well, forever…” Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he can’t help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. “And if I don’t take care of her, who will?” 

“I know the feeling.” Andrew says sincerely. He can’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.

“I can see that,” you hum like you’re contemplating his words. “Is there someone taking care of you?” The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.

“I don't need anyone to take care of me.” It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what he’s lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.

“Everyone needs someone, Andrew.” Coming from anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But from you, he feels a bit more inclined to agree. You sound sincere, he feels. Or he just likes you too much to think about disagreeing.

Maybe he does need someone, but no one was ever up for the job. At least no one that knew him —all of him.

A door slams in the distance and you flinch at the loud noise. Not a moment later your friend is rushing past the pair of you, clad in a similar bikini to yours. She’s crying though, mascara streaking as she pushes her way into the backyard. Andrew watches as your head turns to follow her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She sits down on one of the lounge chairs outside, shoulders shaking as she cries silently. You look back at Andrew with a frown and just like always, he knows you have to go.

Maybe his fate is that the universe just wants to cockblock him forever?

“She and Craig probably got into another fight,” you sigh, chewing your lip. You take his uninjured hand and place it on top of the bag, looking up at him. Your face is stern as you speak, like he’s a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. “Keep it iced, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

You pat his hand gently, soft smile on your lips. You always say that. Soon. Like you know that you're going to cross paths again. That he’s a permanent fixture in your life.

He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. He’s still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly. 

Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, he’s not even sure what exactly had made him hard; the sight of your body in your tiny swimsuit and the feeling of your hand in his or watching you take care of your friend so tenderly.

Yeah, Deran was right. He is so fucked.

—

If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about. 

When he was making lunch, when he was cleaning his guns, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, trying to keep quiet. All he could think about was you. Your perfume, your smile, your body. Your touch. He wanted to feel it all over his body, soft skin against the raised bumps of all his scars. 

So the fact that you weren’t around as often anymore made things more difficult for him. Your friend and Craig seemed to be on the rocks, which means she was around less and less. Which means that you were barely around.

You said you’d talk to him soon and then promptly stopped being invited around, and the thought of how exactly he would get to see you again had him pacing. He didn’t want to scare you off, so he had to pivot towards more conventional methods. Which meant waiting around until Craig had finally got bored enough to start texting your friend back again. 

Weeks passed and he rarely saw you, just in flashes; by the pool, walking through the front door, lounging on the couch. He barely had the chance to look in your direction lately, much less have any type of conversation with you. The distance made him hungry, desperate enough to try to flip the odds in his favour.

“What about a party?” He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Cody’s crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like he’s grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. “What?”

“Pope wants to throw a party.” Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that he’s become a bit too defensive just a beat too late. All pairs of eyes are still on him and he shifts on his feet uncomfortable. “Just do it.”

“You won’t hear me complaining, man.” Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder before he goes. The remaining Cody’s watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesn’t want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.

So that’s how he ended up here.

This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasn’t around for most of it; he had some loose ends to tie up for his family and he always elected to be out of the house whenever there was something going on, especially now that he had the choice. When he returns, he sees the same damage as always; trash in the pool, people passed out on the lawn, empty solo cups and wet footprints littered across the hardwood floors.

And Andrew does what he always does. Starts cleaning up. He wasn't really sure what his plan was, if he's being honest. He knew you always liked to linger once the parties were done, to make sure your friend was okay. Andrew was hoping that you were a creature of habit with this idea. Seems like right now, it's just delegated him to the role of janitor with no reward.

He starts out by the pool; toeing the stragglers to wake up and get off his property, sifting the garbage out of the pool and throwing the random discarded bikini tops into the trash bag right after it. It’s already the late hours of the morning when he finishes up outside. The neighbourhood is silent besides the sound of the chlorine water softly lapping at the tiles of the pool. Then he makes his way inside and starts tossing out everything in the kitchen, trying not to think about exactly what was occurring when he was gone to make this sort of mess.

“Do you need some help?” A small voice asks and he whirls around on instinct. He turns to face you and he almost wants to drop the black trash bag he’s holding out of shock. Andrew gives you a once over and you look so similar to the first night that he met you that it makes his heart skip a beat in his chest. A short dress and barefoot, except this time your heels are nowhere to be seen. You seem a bit groggy, dark make up smudged around your eyes. He oscillates between dwelling on how beautiful you are and wanting to get on his knees to see exactly what you got on under your dress.

“It’s late.” Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. There’s a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.

“Craig said I could crash on the couch,” you say, beginning to collect some of the empty cans off the kitchen counter. Andrew tries to level a look at you, to let him do it, but you give him a look straight back and continue. “And I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.”

He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes can’t help but follow you as you flounce around the kitchen, picking things up and tossing them into the bag into his hand. And then you speak. “So, why am I the only one helping you?”

He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and you’re looking at him expectantly. He can’t help but feel compelled to answer, although your big fluttery eyes may play a small part in that. Trying to ignore the blood rushing downwards, he answers. “What do you mean?”

“Um, I mean there’s like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,” He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. “Why am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?”

Andrew has never really thought about it before. He supposes this has always been his role, cleaning up after his family. Solving their problems. Making the bad things go away. Doing the messy work.

“I don’t need any help,” he says simply, voice gruff. He tries to ignore the heat of your disappointed eyes on him as he turns around, but he can still hear your loud sigh. You notice that he’s trying to avoid your gaze, so you catch his forearm in your hand. His muscles twitch under your touch, warmth seeping through your skin. Andrew slowly drags his gaze up from your hand on his arm to your face and he can’t help but soften. “I got it.”

“I just meant that you’re always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,” you explain, hand still on his arm. Your voice is soft in the way that he likes; a tone that seems to be reserved just for him. “Cleaning up after everyone. Making sure they don’t kill each other. Craig’s told me that you’ve bailed him out plenty of times.”

Andrew frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of his brothers talking about him when he’s not around, especially to you. He scowls at the thought, tying off the full garbage bag and placing it aside. He tries to pull away to grab another bag and continue, but your grip tightens on his arm.

“I’m serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,” You pull him back towards you, but he feels conflicted. He doubts anyone would actually do it if he left it for them to do —he’s seen the state the house gets into when he’s gone. Andrew hesitates for a moment, but all thoughts fade from his mind when your hand slips from his forearm into his palm, fingers twining with his. All he can do is stare while his brain tries to catch up to what’s happening. “Come on.”

You pull him along and it doesn’t take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, he’s got half a mind to hope that his mouth isn’t hanging open. He realizes where you’ve taken him in Smurf’s just a beat too slow as he enters the room.

His room.

He turns to face you slowly and the expression on your face is unreadable as you shut the door behind you. It reminds me of the first time that he saw you all that time ago. The room is silent for a moment as you two take each other in. Andrew hopes that you can’t hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.

“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesn’t waste any time obeying, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. His hands rest on his thighs, clenching and unclenching anxiously. You approach him slowly, closing the distance until he’s face level with your torso. The position has him blushing —he’s sure his face must be red. He tilts his head up to look at you and you take one step closer. His legs part naturally to accommodate you, bracketing your figure.

“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. He’s so distracted by the feeling of your nails scratching along his scalp as he leans into your touch that he barely even registers the question.

“Okay.” It comes out quiet and breathy, but it feels loud in the silent room. He watches the ends of your lips curl up into a smile, his eyes fluttering. You take the hands that were settled on his thighs and place them on your hips. Taking the opportunity to appreciate your body, his hands run over your curves slowly as he sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does so, too enraptured to take his eyes off you. It makes him twitch in his jeans when you lean a little closer, breath fanning over his face.

A few moments pass as you let him feel your body; he’s practically drooling at the feeling. Once you’ve decided he’s had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. He’s sure you can feel how much he wants you, the heat of your clothed pussy on his jeans making him all the more hard.

You barely give him a second to breathe before you’re catching your lips in his, your mouth parting instantly. The kiss is slow and sensual and it has him letting out a broken whimper into your mouth. That seems to spur you on, fingers gripping the front of his shirt to kiss him even deeper. 

Andrew doesn’t even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point he’s lost count, but this was beyond anything that his mind could ever put together. The smell of your perfume envelopes him and your body is so warm under your thin dress that it sets his nerves alight.

He can’t help just taking a bit more, big hands gripping your hips and grinding you against him. The small moan you let out as he does so has his hips bucking. Hands still roaming, he instinctively slips his tongue into the kiss. The fact that you continue to rock your hips against his once he lets go of your waist makes him dizzy. The kiss is wet and desperate and all Andrew wants is to get closer, greedy hands grabbing.

Then he feels your fingers drift to the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing you to pull it off. The sensation of your nails dragging across his chest sends a shiver down his spine. His hands had settled on your thighs, gripping so tight that he’s sure he’s leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that he’ll kiss them as an apology later, if you’ll let him.

You stop grinding and scoot backwards a little, moving further down his lap. He opens his mouth to ask why, but then your hands are at his belt buckle and the words die in his throat. You’re quick to undo his jeans, wasting no time in pulling him out and taking him into your hands. Your hands are much softer than his rough and calloused ones, warm against the hot flesh of his length. His head tips back as you begin to stroke him slowly, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out another shaky breath.

He had always imagined what your touch would feel like wrapped around him like this, letting himself imagine it was you touching him instead of himself when he was alone. The way you twist your wrist languidly, like you know exactly just how to get him going, has his mind going blank.

“Do you like that?” You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that he’s made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He can’t seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. “Good.”

The praise makes his hips stutter, fucking into your fist. You let out a small laugh, presumably at how desperate he is for you. A low moan escapes his mouth as you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, swiping away the precome leaking from the tip. Your touch disappears for a moment and he tips his head back forwards to you, looking at you through hooded lids. He watches as you spit into your palm and resume your actions, his jaw dropping open ever so slightly. Andrew feels drunk, the slick shlick of you stroking him filling the room.

He thinks you can tell that he’s getting close. He knows that his hips won’t stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you get him there, cock leaking in desperation as he whines. Your hand slips away and he groans out loud at the loss of sensation. His mind is still fuzzy and he almost misses your fingers wrapping around his wrist, guiding his hand across your body and under your dress. Looking down at where your hands meet, his breathing almost stops when you dip his fingertips past the waistband of your lacy panties.

“Don’t you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?” you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. He sounds absolutely wrecked as he swipes a finger along your wetness, sickly slow, brows furrowing as he watches your lips part at his touch. You’re dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch you’ve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. It’s your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, “Fuck.”

He pumps his finger in and out slowly, basking in the feeling of you sucking him right in. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours, kissing him breathlessly. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he slips another finger alongside the first. His breath catches in his throat as he feels you flutter around his digits, velvet walls pulling him in even deeper.

Andrew loves having you like this, your dress bunched around your hips, giving him a full view of your pussy covered in lace as you grind your clit into the palm of his hand. It’s all too much for him; he drops his head to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. He thinks of all the times he’s touched himself to the scent of you; whether that be from the sheets from the first time he met you or the way that it lingered in his room after a conversation with you, long after you’ve gone.

His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. You’re mewling now, coming apart on his fingers the same way you do in his dreams. He feels you clamp down around him and he can tell you’re going to cum seconds before you tell him. He can barely hear it, words lost in your soft whimpers. A rush of wetness is slick against his palm as you let out a moan so loud that Andrew remembers there are other people in the house.

Eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers out from your panties and brings them to his mouth. The way you taste has his eyes almost rolling back into his head, licking up the cum that had dripped down his fingers. He wants to get his head between your legs real fucking bad and eat you until the sun comes back up or until you’re begging him to stop. His cock aches with the desperate need to fuck you, eyes trailing down to your chest as you pull off your dress and toss it aside. He decides to save it until later. Maybe round two?

He’s appreciated your body countless times as you tanned by the pool, but the view of you on top of him, being able to touch you the way he wants, has his blood running hot in his veins. He could die under you right now and he’d die a happy man.

You push him down onto the bed with a soft push and his back lands against his freshly pressed sheets. Lifting your hips, you pull his jeans and boxers down, leaving them to pool at his ankles where his feet are still planting firmly on the floor. He kicks them off and moves further up the bed, loving how you giggle as he jostles you.

Your tongue swipes across your lips and you settle yourself into position, the lace of your panties scratching intoxicatingly against his cock. Mesmerized, he watches as you hook your fingers into your panties and pull them aside, not even bothering to remove them before lowering himself down onto his length.

The two of you let out a needy noise as you sink down, taking him to the hilt. You look absolutely beautiful, the sight of you absolutely fucked out for him making his cock impossibly harder. His hands fly to your hips as you begin to grind again, much like you were earlier.

He lets out a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes hungry. You’ve spread your cum across the short hairs at the base of his dick, whining as you chase your high. You get tired of the grinding and lift your hips, bending forward and resting your forehead against his. His eyes are on yours as you slam your hips back down, eyes fluttering shut.

The pace you set is brutal, hips pistoning as you ride him. The force of it has the frame of his bed swaying, headboard making impact with the wall every time you drop your hips. That combined with the volume of both the noises you two make as you ride him is more than enough to hear through the wall or the door. 

“So good, baby. Feels so fucking good,” he coos, lost in the way you fuck him. The wet slap of skin on skin is absolutely sinful, echoing in the room and mingling with the heavy breaths you let out. He’s got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. “Been fucking dreaming about your pussy.”

“Oh my god, Andrew,” you whine, hips moving fast. He can feel you clenching around him, trapping him in your cunt like a vice. He can barely keep his eyes open, lids low from the pleasure. You’re squeezing him so fucking tight that he swears his vision is going white. You straighten up and place a hand on his broad chest, using it as leverage to hit a whole new angle.

Andrew feels himself brush against your walls and it has his jaw dropping open as his entire body shaking at the feeling. He’s close but you’re closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You don’t stop moving your hips when you cum around him, barely able to keep yourself upright. The feeling of you tightening around him and the sight he catches of your cum glistening around the base of his dick has him moments away from falling over the edge.

“M’gonna cum,” he slurs, hands around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you now. Still sensitive from your second orgasm you squeal, falling even farther forward into his chest. Soft grunts are punched from his chest every time his hips meet yours, taking what he needs from you.

“I want it so bad,” you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. He’s never heard you like this before, but now he can’t imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. “Please, I need it.”

“Yeah?” He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. He’s so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way he’s buried so deep inside you. “You want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?”

“Please,” you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrew’s hips faltering as he does exactly that, swearing sharply as he does so. His entire body jerks from the feeling, so wracked in pleasure that he can’t control it. You let out a moan alongside his as he fucks him cum back into you, nice and slow. Once the overstimulation gets to him his hips come to a stop, sweat beading on his forehead.

You fall limp on top of him, the deep rise and fall of your chest matching his. He wraps his two big arms around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him. Andrew basks in the quiet, punctuated by nothing other than your quiet breathing, closing his eyes.

“You okay?” Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. He’s got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. “That wasn’t too much?”

“No,” he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then he’s got you under him, flat on your back. He loves the way you look up at him, legs still wrapped around his waist. He noses his way into your neck, noticing that his scent is intermingling with yours the more time you spend with him. His hands begin to roam once more and he can feel his blood rush downwards when you look at him with your big curious eyes. “Not enough.”

If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.

—

In the morning, Andrew is the first to wake up. He always had trouble getting to sleep, sometimes staring at his ceiling for hours in the night, but the warmth you brought to his bed had pulled him under within minutes.

He turned his head to face you, eyes flicking over your face as the amber light of the sun painted your face. You were clad in one of his shirts, the plain black looking much better on you than it ever did on him. Andrew shifts slowly so as to not wake you and slides out of bed.

The walk to the kitchen is quiet, like it usually is in the morning considering the fact that the rest of his family regularly kept late hours, so he was surprised to find Craig, already seated at the bar, tucking into a bowl of cereal. He looks up and sees who it is, his face twisting into something much more smug as he takes another bite. 

Andrew is quick to pull a face back, not interested in hashing out his night with Craig, who clearly wants to hear all the details. Instead, he starts to clear the mess that his brother had left out while he assembled his breakfast. Craig waits a beat, like he expects him to change his mind, but Andrew stays silent.

“Pope, man-” he starts, but a door creaks shut in down the hall that distracts him, leaving the unfinished sentence in the air. Then you turn the corner, still only in his shirt, and Andrew realizes that it wasn’t the noise that caught Craig’s attention. Your hair is still mussed and you’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you approach him. You wrap your arms around his wide torso and his arm settles at your waist. Natural as if you’ve done it a million times before. Andrew allows himself to smile at the feeling, not even caring that his brother is watching with a shit eating grin on his face.

Jack Abbot had always told himself he was excellent at reading people. It was part of the job, something you need to survive as a good attending in a place like the Pitt. You learn to catch the tremor in a patients voice, the hesitation in a colleagues hands— the things people don’t say at loud.

Which was exactly why it made no sense that he’d completely missed it. Or— no, not missed. Avoided. Because if he actually would let himself name what was happening between you and him then he’d have to do something about it. And doing something about it meant risking the only thing he wasn’t willing to lose: you, exactly as you were now, right here within reach.

So instead he kept his feelings in that safe, undefined space. The almost. The nearly. The way your shoulders brushed in hallways for a second too long, the way you both always seemed to end up in the same corner of the ER during night shifts, orbiting around each other without ever quite colliding together.    Everyone else, apparently, had not made the same mistake. 

“Jesus, Abbot,” Ellis had muttered once, not even bothering to keep her voice down as she caught his eyes burning your back. “Just ask her out already.”

Jack had scoffed and deflected back then trying to ignore the way his pulse had jumped at the suggestion; it wasn’t that simple.

He wishes it was.

And then came the day shift.

Jack wasn’t supposed to be there, but he’d picked that shift last minute. He put some weak excuse about schedule gaps and staffing shortages because the truth was far more inconvenient: he’d seen your name on the rota and made a decision before he could think better of it

But day shift felt wrong. As his therapist said once, he finds comfort in the darkness, and the day was too bright, felt too exposed for his liking— the controlled chaos of the Pitt under the daylight lacked the intimacy of the nights. More people, more noise, less space where he could disappear for a break. And even less space to pretend he doesn’t want you.

The first thing he relied on when he stepped into the Hub was always observation, eyes sweeping, cataloguing the level of chaos; who was overloaded, who was coasting, which cases were about to turn ugly.

And, without fail, where you were. Except this time, you weren’t there. He scanned once. Then again, slower.

No sign of you anywhere, not at the desks, not leaning over Princess’s desk as you two gossip, not arguing with Donahue about something trivial that would somehow become competitive along the way. The absence felt too noticeable for his liking, more than it should have been.

Jack frowned faintly as he glanced down at his watch, tilting his wrist just enough to catch the time beneath the harsh hospital lights. Early by a few quiet, deliberate minutes. Exactly how he liked it.

Exactly how you liked it.

It had become an unspoken habit between you, one neither of you had ever acknowledged out loud. On the night shifts you both arrived before the chaos had a chance to settle in. There was something almost peaceful about those stolen minutes: the low hum of a waking ER, the shared silence, the occasional conversation that hovered just on the edge of something more.

It was almost a routine between you both.

And yet you weren’t there today. 

For a moment he dreaded that he read the rotation wrong this morning and you weren’t on day shift today, shifting direction as he walks towards the nurse station. His gaze flicked to the board then, searching for your name among the scrawl of room assignments on the screen.

Nothing.

“Damn my eyes,” Dana’s voice cut in, warm and amused, like she’d just stumbled upon something mildly entertaining. “I saw your name on the rotation this morning and thought someone was playing a joke on me.”

Jack barely looked at her, still scanning the board like it might correct itself under the pressure of his old eyes. “Staffing issue. They needed hands.”

Dana let out a soft laugh, leaning back in her chair, looking at him from below. “They always need hands, Dr. Abbott. That’s not exactly breaking news.”

His jaw ticked, distracted. His eyes scanned the list again, slower this time, a slight frown between his brows.

“Room eighteen.”

It took him a second to register that Dana said that at all.

“Mm?” His head lifted, eyes snapping to her, caught mid-search.

Dana’s eyebrows climbed, her smile widening into something far too knowing. “You’re not even going to pretend, are you?” she teased lightly, tilting her head. Then, with deliberate clarity, she said your name— softly, but pointedly. “She just went into eighteen. Hasn’t had time to write it up yet.”

Jack straightened so quick that it was impossible to pass it as casual.

“I was checking which case to take,” he replied, folding his arms like that might anchor the excuse to something solid. His tone was steady, but it lacked conviction. “Looks like everything else is covered. I’ll— help her out.”

Dana hummed, unconvinced in the most entertained way possible. “Of course you will.”

He shot her a look, flat and unimpressed, the kind that usually shut people up. But this was Dana, so the stare just makes her laugh, making him exhale through his nose as he turned away before she could add anything else.

“Don’t you have a job to do?”

“Oh, I have plenty,” she said sweetly behind him. “But this is much more interesting.”

He didn’t answer her with words this time, just a hand lifted in a vague dismissive gesture as he walked off, trying to wave her commentaries out of existence, watching her eyes on him as he leaves.    Room eighteen wasn’t far away from where he was standing; each step giving his mind just enough space to start catching up with him— questioning himself why he cared this much, why he’d gone looking in the first place, why the idea of you not being on the shift had upset him this much. He knows the answer to all these, but once more, he buries it down.

By the time he reached the door, his expression had settled back into something neutral. He knocked twice on the door before pushing it open. 

Inside the air was quieter, insulated from the noise of the ER. A teenage patient sat on the bed, pale and tense, his hand pressed against his lower abdomen as his mother hovered nearby, worry etched deep in her face.

And you.

You stood at the bedside, focused, one hand gently but firmly guiding the patient through the exam. Your voice was calm, steady, the kind that made people listen without realizing they were doing it. It’s so clear why your satisfaction scores from patients was one of the highest ones.

“On a scale from one to ten?” you were asking, eyes on the patient. “Where would you put the pain right now?”

“Eight,” he muttered, wincing.

Jack stepped in fully, letting the door close softly behind him.

“Morning,” he said, voice even as he moved closer. “Jack Abbott, attending.”

Jack can see you straighten in a quick moment, eyes on him for a quick second before focusing on the patient once more. You looked surprised, like you didn’t expect him there. The mother looked at him with immediate relief, like reinforcements had arrived.

“Thank God,” she breathed. “He’s been in pain all night, it just keeps getting worse—”

“Sharp pain in the right lower quadrant,” you cut in smoothly, giving the mother a soft smile before glancing briefly at Jack once more as you summarized. “Started diffuse, localized over the last few hours. Nausea, low grade fever. No vomiting yet.”

Your eyes met with his then for a fraction of a second, and there it was.

That small, almost absent smile, different from the one you gave the mother barely seconds ago, the kind that wasn’t for anyone else in the room.

Something in his chest eased before he could stop it.

“Appendicitis?” Jack murmured, already stepping in beside you.

“That’s my leading guess,” you replied, turning back to the patient without missing a beat. “Rebound tenderness is positive. I was about to order labs and imaging.”

Jack nodded as he slipped into place as if this —working beside you— was the most natural think in his world.

Because it was.    “Let’s get a CBC, CRP, and an abdominal ultrasound,” he said, glancing at the patient with a reassuring tilt of his head. “We’ll figure this out quickly.”

The teen nodded weakly, still laying on the gurney as you continued the assessment, focused and efficient. Jack couldn’t help but find himself stealing another glance at you when you weren’t looking.

By the third hour, you had slipped away into the quiet refuge of the break room, an unspoken necessity more than a choice. The shift had already began to press against your lungs in a way that, sadly, you couldn’t ignore. Ever since the bronchitis you went through, your body had carried a lingering echo of it, like a note that refuse to fade. Nothing dramatic or visible, just the subtle theft of breath when you moved too fast, exertion coming with a price you never used to pay before the sickness.

And in this place, there was always movement and urgency, always something that required you to run before you were fully ready.

So, as a good doctor would, you paused. Not because the work stopped but because you had learned that it’s better to choose your battles, and your’e more useful when you’re not choking upon your own breaths.

The break room was never really silent, but it was close enough. A thin refuge of humming machines and distant overhead announcements, softened by the illusion of stillness.

You sat with your laptop open, fingers resting lightly on the edge of the keyboard as your eyes moved over the chart on the screen. Numbers, notes, symptoms, timelines, each line a life reduced into something structured and manageable, something you could hold without it spilling over. Rest did not mean absence.

Even here, you were working. Staying ahead of what would inevitably be waiting for you the moment you stood back up.

But your breathing slowed, just slightly, as if the room itself had decided to give you a fraction of mercy.

“You know,” Jack’s voice cut gently through the quiet, “break rooms usually imply… taking a break.”  

You didn’t look up immediately. Not because you didn’t want to but because you did, and you were trying not to make it obvious how much his voice changed the shape of the room.

You had been focused enough on the charts to not hear the door opening, or hear how Jack remained for a few long seconds standing next to it, observing you for longer than he should before talking.

When you finally looked up you saw him then- leaning slightly against the doorframe, arms loosely crossed, expression somewhere between amused and observant. 

“I am.”

“Seriously. You’re supposed to be resting.”

That got a small pause out of you.

Then, without looking away from him, you tilted your head slightly. “I am resting,” you insist.

Jack’s eyebrow lifted.    “Mmnh. Because nothing says recovery like aggressively reviewing trauma charts.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head and turning back to your screen, though your focus had already started to splinter at the edges.

“You’re insufferable on day shift,” you muttered.

“I’m always insufferable,” he corrected easily. “It’s part of my appeal,” he continued, smiling at you from where he stands. “Don’t change the subject.”

That drags another laugh from your lips, eyes trying to scan the names on the list without achievement— being in the same room as him is dizzying enough to make you forget how to read.

“I’m not changing the subject. I just function better when I ignore my physical limitations.”    “That much is obvious,” he said, pushing off the door and walking a little closer. Not too close, just enough that the space between you changed.

Your eyes tracked him without meaning to.

He noticed.

“You’re still getting short of breath,” he added, quieter now. Less teasing, more fact.

A soft hum escaped you as you shrugged it off like you always did.

“I’m fine.”     Jack huffed a short laugh, but there was no real humor in it.

“That’s the most dangerous sentence in medicine.”

You finally leaned back in your chair, studying him properly now instead of your screen. “You didn’t come in here just to lecture me, did you?”

A beat. His gaze held yours a second too long.

“No,” he admitted.

The honesty landed between you like something heavier than it should’ve been. Silence stretched, but it wasn’t empty. It never was with you two.

Outside, something clattered down the hallway. A distant voice called for a consult. Life kept moving.

Inside, neither of you did.

Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your face, to your lips, then under your eyes, just long enough to notice the tiredness you were trying not to show, the faint strain still lingering beneath your composure.

Then he said, softer, almost reluctantly:

“You should actually be resting.”

“Don’t you have patients?” you shot back.

“Not as interesting as this one,” he said, nodding toward your chart, but his eyes never left your face.

That made your eyes flick up again. He was closer now. Not close enough to crowd you but close enough that you were aware of him in a way that had nothing to do with work. The kind of awareness that lived in the space between words. Between pauses. Between everything neither of you said.

Your eyes moved towards your laptop again, realizing that you opened some patient’s chart while you were clicking around trying to act like you were focused and not disturbed by his presence. Right. He just read the chart, he was not talking about you. 

“Well, then it’s all yours,” you said a little breathless— and this time it had nothing to do with the bronchitis. “Room four.”

Jack raised a brow, as if considering your words before he huffs a chuckle, nodding.

“On it, doc.”

Hours slipped by the way they always did in the Pitt, slow and unforgiving. Cases blurred into one another, the rhythm of monitors and footsteps and voices becoming a kind of background noise Jack had long since learned to function inside of.

But today, something was off.

Or maybe it wasn’t the day. Maybe it was him.

Because no matter how much he tried to anchor himself in the work his attention kept drifting always back to you.  

It was like a first instinct, habit, the same quiet awareness that had him noting your presence without the need to look, tracking where you were in the department like it was second nature.    Except now it wasn’t enough.

Now he was aware of that awareness, and that made it dangerous. So he adjusted.

He took cases on the opposite side of the ER from where you usually hover, lingering longer than necessary in consults, volunteering for things he would normally delegate just to keep himself occupied— just to create distance where there had never been any before. 

It should have worked.

It didn’t.

Because even when he wasn’t near you, you were still there. In the echo of your voice he caught in passing. In the glimpse of your shoulder turning a corner before he could stop himself from looking. In the empty spaces where you should have been— like the nurse’s station, like the hallway near trauma two, like the break room door he passed twice without stepping inside again.

It was worse, somehow, than being around you.

When you were close he had something real to hold on to. When you weren’t, your absence was filled with too much awareness.

And the worst part?

He knew exactly why.

Because avoiding you didn’t make the feeling go away, it sharpened it. Turned it into something restless, something that pressed at the edges of his control in a way he didn’t like, that he couldn’t allow himself.    By mid-afternoon, he caught himself doing it again, scanning a room he had no reason to scan, eyes flicking over faces and bodies and movement with practiced efficiency and landing onto you.

Across the ER, half hidden by one of the curtains, talking to a patient with the same steady calm that characterized you. One hand resting lightly against the bed rail, the other gesturing as you explained something, expression focused but soft, completely unaware. Unaware of him. Of the way his attention had locked onto you like everything else had gone quiet. His jaw tightened slightly as he felt it again, the pull, that instinct that forced him to move closer, to step into your orbit like it’s the most natural think in the world. And it was. That had always been the problem. 

You fit too easily into his space, into his rhythm, into the parts of his life he forced to be closed off to anyone else. And if he let himself lean into that there would be no going back to whatever this careful, undefined balance was.

So instead, he looked away. Forced it, this time. Turned his attention back to the chart in his hands even though the words sat there useless and unread for a few seconds longer than they should have.

It was getting harder to stay away from you. He was a walking contradiction; taking a day shift to be near you, walking and searching for you to then proceeding to avoid you. Then going to find you in the break room. And then back to try and push you away. A constant cycle of what he wants but his body forces him to do.

He noticed it in small ways. In how conversations with other colleagues felt shorter, thinner. In how his patience wore out quicker, his focus slipping at the edges. In how every time he did end up near you —inevitable, no matter how much he tried otherwise— it took more effort to keep things where they were supposed to be.

Professional. Easy. Controlled.

Normal.

Like nothing was sitting just beneath the surface, waiting for one wrong move to come spilling out.

By hour seven you crossed paths once more, not planned, but the kind of collision that kept happening no matter how much space he tried to put between you both. A hallway narrow enough that neither of you could pass without acknowledging the other.

You were the one that slowed first, eyes lifted to his, and for a second everything else dropped away.

“Hey,” you said, softer than the noise around you. 

It wasn’t anything special. Just a greeting. A greeting that landed heavier than it should have on his chest.

Jack stopped in front of you, hands settling at his hips in a posture that looked casual enough, at least he tried to look like it even when it didn’t feel casual at all.

“Hey.”

His eyes flicked over your face automatically, observing you from close up finally, catching the faint signs of fatigue you were trying to hide, the way your breathing still wasn’t quite where it should be, even now. 

“You good?” he asked, quieter.

You nodded, like you always did.

“Peachy,” you answered, giving him a smile as you hugged the tablet against your chest. “You?”

He almost smiled at your words. Instead his gaze lingered a second longer than necessary, like he was debating whether to push the matter or leave it. He chose leave it. Didn’t trust himself to stay in the lane of avoiding you if he pressed. 

So he stepped back instead, just slightly to restablish space that hadn’t been there a second ago.

“I’m good,” he finally answers with a slight nod. “Try to actually rest,” he said, tone lighter again, easier.

Your lips curved faintly, something knowing in the expression.

“You first.”

A quiet huff of breath left him, something close to a laugh.

“Not a chance.”

And there it was again, that almost. That space where something more could have been said —should have been said— but wasn’t. Because neither of you moved, neither of you crossed that invisible line, just stood still looking at each other like the two in love, oblivious idiots you were.

After a second, you nodded once, humming afterwards, tongue darting out to wet your lips in a way that made Jack’s eyes zero on them. 

“See you around, Abbot.”

He watched you go. And regretted it. And convinced himself that there wasn’t anything to regret. Just stood there in the middle of a hallway that suddenly felt too still, too quiet despite everything happening around him, and let himself look.

Because wanting you was one thing.

Admitting it —even just to himself— was another.

And doing something about it? That was the part he kept avoiding the most, the part that sat heavy in his chest as he finally forced himself to turn away, stepping back into the chaos of the ER like nothing had shifted. Like everything was still under control even when it clearly wasn’t. 

By hour nine the need to see you was unbearable. He needed something, anything, even a small peek of your back would help, walking back to the center of the ED to search for you. 

You were at the nurses’ station, sleeves pushed up and hair slightly out of place in that way that always made something in his chest tighten, framed perfectly around your face. You were laughing at something Mateo was saying.

Jack slowed without meaning to.

Mateo was leaning casually against the counter, too close to you, smirking in that easy confident way of his. And you weren’t pulling away, nudging his shoulder with a smile before laughing once more as he spoke. 

Jack stopped walking.

Something sharp and unfamiliar twisted low in his stomach. No, not unfamiliar but completely inconvenient. Something he didnt have the luxury to feel towards you, his coworker and his friend.

Mateo said something else again, too quiet for Jack to hear from were he was standing, something that made you roll your eyes but that still makes you smile— still engage with him, not walk away.    Jack felt heat rise up his neck.

This was stupid.

He knew it was stupid.

Mateo flirted with everyone. It didn’t have to mean something. And you— well, you could handle yourself. You always did.

But that didn’t stop the way Jack’s jaw tightened, didn’t stop the way his mind started supplying possibilities he didn’t want, didn’t stop the thought.

Like Mateo was closer to your age than he himself would ever be. That maybe this happened in other shifts, when he wasn’t around. Or that maybe he was so blind looking at you walk by that he never noticed this was happening under his nose. The worst scenario was the one in where you noticed Mateo’s flirts attempt and just… didn’t care at all. Leaned to it.

“Abbot!”

He blinked, dragged back into the moment. One of the nurses waved him over, but his gaze flicked back to you first.

Mateo was still there, still leaning in, still looking at you like—

Jack turned away sharply. Work. Focus on work. That was the rule.

He buried himself in it. Charts, patients, procedures—anything that required enough attention to drown out the restless edge under his skin. It worked, for a while.

Jack forced himself back into motion like that could fix his thoughts, like if he just moved fast enough, thought sharp enough, filled every second with something useful, it would drown out the tight, restless thing settling under his ribs.

It didn’t, because now he’d seen it. Now he knew where you were, who you were with, how easily you fit into someone else’s space when he wasn’t there to occupy it first.

And suddenly, everything became about that.

He told himself he wasn’t watching you.

But he was.

And Mateo was everywhere, all around you. The whole. Fucking. Day.

Or maybe it just felt that way.

Jack caught it in pieces— a hand braced too casually on the counter near you, the way you didn’t shut him down, didn’t put distance there the way Jack had been trying so hard to create himself.

It got under his skin in a way he wasn’t used to, in a way he despised.

Because it made him aware of something he had no claim to, and that —more than anything— made him sharp.

By the time the next case pulled you both into the same room again, the shift had worn him thin in all the wrong places.

“Twenty-four-year-old female,” you were saying as he stepped in, already mid brief, voice steady despite the exhaustion pulling at its edges. “Severe dehydration, possible electrolyte imbalance. She’s been vomiting for the past twelve hours, tachycardic on arrival—”

“I read the chart,” Jack cut in, a little too quickly.

The words landed harder than necessary and made your body still for a second before you were quickly composing yourself, but not quick enough for Jack to not notice the tenseness on your shoulders. You continued without missing the clinical rhythm, but something in the air shifted— subtle, almost imperceptible, but there.

Jack stepped in beside you, focusing on the patient, on the numbers, on anything that wasn’t the flicker of confusion that had crossed your face.

“BP’s dropping,” you added, glancing at the monitor. “I’ve started fluids but—”

“Then increase the rate,” he said, sharper than he intended. “We don’t need to ease into it.”

A beat.

Your jaw tightened just slightly.  

“I am increasing it,” you replied, still controlled, but there was a thread under it now. “I was explaining the progression. Just presenting the case.”

Jack exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand briefly across his jaw.

Right.  

That wasn’t—

He knew that wasn’t necessary.

But the irritation didn’t settle, it just shifted, redirected into something easier to hold than what was actually bothering him.

The rest of the case unfolded the way they always did between you, precise, efficient, almost seamless on the surface, but something underneath had shifted. You could feel it in the spaces between words, in the pauses that lasted a second too long, in the way neither of you quite fell into step the way you usually did. The rhythm was still there, technically intact, but stripped of the quiet ease that had once made working together feel almost instinctive

It felt… off.

And you were aware of it the entire time.

Too aware.

Because what you and Jack had —whatever it was— had always lived in those in-between moments, in the unspoken understanding, in the way you moved around each other without needing direction, in the kind of closeness that never needed to be named to be real.

A friendship.

You swallowed that word like it didn’t quite sit right in your chest. You’d always hated it, in a quiet, stubborn way. Hated how small it felt compared to everything that lingered just beneath it. Hated how it reduced something complicated and consuming into something safe and manageable.

But you held onto it anyway

Because it was what he gave you.

And you had learned, whether you liked it or not, that you would take whatever pieces of him he was willing to offer, even if they came with edges. Even if they weren’t enough.

Still, today even that felt far away and out of reach. Jack had been off all shift. That much was undeniable. Not in any obvious, explosive way, but in a thousand small absences that added up to something you couldn’t ignore. He wasn’t where he usually was, didn’t linger where you expected him to, didn’t stay.

You noticed it in passing at first, how he’d leave a room just as you entered it, how his presence seemed to shift to the opposite side of the ER without explanation, how every time you thought you might end up beside him, something redirected him elsewhere.

At first, you told yourself it was coincidence. Caseloads, timing, it was just the unpredictable nature of the job.

But the longer the shift went on, the harder it became to believe that. Because absence, when it’s deliberate, has a different weight to it.

And this—

This felt deliberate. 

Like he was avoiding you.

That realization settled slowly, uncomfortably, in your chest as the hours dragged on. Not sharp enough to hurt outright, but persistent enough that you couldn’t quite shake it. And when you finally were in the same space again, when the distance collapsed just long enough to remind you of what it usually felt like—

He was different.

Shorter. Sharper. Colder, in ways that didn’t quite fit him when it came to you. And that, more than anything, is what stayed with you, because the distance is easy to handle, the silence too, but this strange uneven version of him, this push and pull— it was hard to understand. Hard to ignore. Even harder to pretend it doesn’t matter.

You try to excuse him, really do— day shift is not the usual for him and maybe that’s the reason of why he feels so off. But it was too much for what you were used to.

Jack found himself correcting things you did that didn’t need to be corrected, stepping in half a second too soon, taking over you once, then again, like he couldn’t quite stop himself from disrupting the rhythm you’d already established.

And the worst part is that he knew you noticed. He could feel how obvious he was being, but that didn’t make him stop, his jealousy making him irrational. 

Your responses got shorter. You stopped filling the spaces between his interruptions, stopped trying to talk to him. And then your eyes stopped lingering on him at all, jaw clenched the second he walked in the room.     By the time another patient stabilized and the room began to clear, the tension had settled into something undeniable.

You were the one who broke first.

“Okay,” you said, turning to face him fully now, voice low but firm. “What is wrong with you?”

Jack blinked, caught off guard despite the fact that he should’ve seen it coming.

“Nothing.”

You let out a quiet, disbelieving breath, shaking your head.  

“No. Don’t do that,” you said, stepping closer—not aggressively, but with purpose. “You’ve been like this all afternoon. Snapping at me, cutting me off—”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” you cut in, sharper now. Not loud, but precise. “And I don’t get it.”

Those words landed because there it was, the confusion, the frustration. Jack’s chest tightened as he looked at you, silent.

“I don’t understand you,” you continued, quieter now but no less intense. “One minute you’re—” you hesitated, like you were choosing your words carefully, “—you’re there. And the next you act like I’m in your way.”

Jack’s jaw clenched.

“That’s not—”

“Then what is it?” you pressed.

Silence stretched between you both, question hanging there in the open, heavier than anything that had been said all day.

Because he didn’t have an answer he could give you.

Not one that wouldn’t change everything.

His gaze flicked away from yours for a second, then back again, like he was trying to find something safer to say and coming up empty.

“You’re reading too much into it,” he said finally, but even to his own ears it sounded thin.

Your expression shifted, not angry but worse— hurt. In a quiet, contained way.    “I’m not,” you said softly. “I'm not reading into anything. You’ve been treating me like shit.”    That hit harder than anything else. Jack exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down the back of his neck. This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. 

And somehow, he’d made it worse anyway.

“It’s been a long shift,” he muttered, defaulting to the easiest excuse.

Your lips pressed together, clearly unconvinced “We’re in a fucking emergency department, every shift is long. That’s not it.”

No. It wasn’t. But he couldn’t say what it was.

Because saying it would mean admitting that the reason he’d been short with you had nothing to do with your work, your decisions, or anything clinical at all—

And everything to do with the fact that he’d watched you laugh with someone else and hadn’t known what to do with the way it made him feel.

So instead, he stayed silent.

You watched him for a long moment, studying his face as if you could read an answer there, like it might give something up if you looked hard enough. You searched for the problem, quietly turning it over in your mind, wondering if it was simply… you. If he had grown tired of your presence. If you had been reading too much between the lines, finding meaning where there was none.

Maybe this, this quiet, distant version, was the real Jack after all. And the one you had come to know, the one shaped by shared hours and the strange intimacy of the night shift, was nothing more than something you had imagined into existence.

Then, slowly, you stepped back.

“Right,” you murmured, not quite looking at him anymore.

And just like that, the distance he’d been trying to create all day finally settled into place. Only now it didn’t feel controlled but like something was slipping away from his fingers.

For a moment, Jack thought you might say something else, push a little further, demand an answer he couldn’t give, corner him into honesty the way you had cornered him into everything else without ever really trying. But you didn’t. Instead, you just… withdrew.

It was subtle, the kind of shift anyone else might have missed. A step back, a breath that didn’t quite reach your lungs, your gaze slipping away from his like it had suddenly become something you didn’t want to hold onto anymore.

“Right,” you had said, quiet and distant in a way that didn’t belong to you.

And that had been worse than anger. Because anger, at least, meant you still cared enough to fight. This felt like something closing.

The rest of the shift unfolded around him but Jack couldn’t register it the way he normally would. He moved through it on pure instinct, muscle memory kicked in, doing what needed to be done with the same clinical precision he always had, but his attention was fractured in a way that unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

Because now it was you who kept your distance. And suddenly, he understood just how noticeable that distance could be.

You stopped gravitating toward the same spaces, stopped lingering at the nurse’s station when he was there, stopped filling the quiet moments with those easy, half finished conversations that had always seemed to pick up exactly where they left off.

You didn’t look for him. And worse, when you did end up in the same room, you didn’t stay.

Professional. Efficient. Polite.

Nothing more.

It was everything he had been forcing himself to be all day.

And it felt wrong when it came from you.

Jack caught himself watching you once more, but this time it wasn’t the same as before. Before, it had been instinctive, almost unconscious. Now, it was deliberate. Searching, trying to find something that hadn’t changed.

But you had changed it.

Or maybe he had.

You moved through the ER like you always did but the small things were different. The glances that never quite reached him, the way your shoulders angled just slightly away when he got too close, the absence of that quiet pull that had always existed between you, like gravity neither of you had ever questioned. It was gone now. And the absence of it sat heavy in his chest, a sharp feeling he didn’t expect.

By the time the shift finally began to wind down, Jack felt it in a way he couldn’t ignore anymore, something restless, something tight, regret seeping in and settling in his bones.    He saw you at the edge of the department, gathering your things, your movements efficient and quick like you had somewhere to be.

For a second, he almost walked over, almost said something to stop you before you disappeared out of his reach again.

But he hesitated, and that hesitation was all it took. You didn’t look for him, hadn’t paused nor waited. You just left. No see you later, no lingering by the lockers, no quiet shared walk to the car.  

Just gone.

Jack stood there for a second longer than necessary, staring at the empty space you had left behind like you might come back to at least say a dry bye.

You didn’t.

He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face before forcing himself to move again and finish what was left, to pretend the shift had ended the way any other shift did, even when it hadn’t. 

By the time he finally clocked out, the hospital felt way different. Quieter, in that hollow way that came after the chaos had burned itself out.

His feet carried him on autopilot, through familiar hallways, up the stairwell, towards the one place he always went when his thoughts got too loud to ignore.

The rooftop.

The city stretched out under his eyes, lights flickering to life as the day finally starts to fade. The sky hovered somewhere between gold and blue, that quiet in between moment that never lasted long enough. 

Jack leaned against the edge, hands braced on his hips as he exhaled slowly, trying to make sense of the knot tightening in his chest.

He didn’t have to look down to know where you’d be, but he did anyway.

Across the street, the small park was already filling up, familiar figures scattered across benches. Nurses, residents, a couple of attendings, people unwinding the only way they knew how to after a shift like that. Drinks in hand, laughter carrying faintly even from up here.

For a second, his gaze moved over them without really seeing, then it stilled. Because of course you’d be there. You always were. It was your thing, staying a little longer, letting the shift bleed out of your system before going home. He’d been there with you more times than he could count, sitting side by side in that easy quiet, conversations drifting from nothing to something without either of you ever quite noticing the shift.  

His jaw tightened slightly.

He couldn’t pick you out immediately from this distance, but he didn’t need to. The assumption settled in his mind easily, naturally.

You were there, with them. Maybe with Mateo.

The thought came uninvited, sharp enough to make something in his chest twist again. Jack exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face.

This was exactly why he needed distance, or that’s what he convinced himself.

Because whatever this was, this restless, intrusive awareness, this sharp edge of jealousy, it wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t fair to you. It wasn’t something he could keep contained forever, not when it was already slipping out in ways he couldn’t control.

He needed to step back and reset. Put this back into something manageable before it ruined whatever you still had left of friendship, before he ruines it completely. 

His gaze stayed fixed on the park, on the distant movement of people unwinding, living, existing outside of the chaos of the ED.

And then, slowly, something in his thoughts shifted.

Because the more he stood there, the more that reasoning started to feel… hollow.

Distance for what?

To preserve something that was already slipping through his fingers? To keep pretending this was nothing when it clearly wasn’t just nothing?

Jack huffed a quiet, humorless breath, shaking his head slightly. He had spent so long convincing himself that not acting upon his feelings was the safest option, that staying in that undefined careful space was better than risking it— better than saying something, or doing it, better than changing the fragile balance were you both existed in.

And where had that gotten him?

Standing on a rooftop, watching from a distance while you moved further out of reach. The realization started to settle slowly, but once it did, it was totally impossible to ignore. This —this feeling, this pull, this constant awareness of you—  it wasn’t going anywhere soon Avoiding you hadn’t made it easier, if anything, it had made it worse.

Because wanting you was easy compared to watching you skip away because of his own silence.

Jack straightened slightly, pushing himself off the edge, his gaze lingering on the park just a second longer. Then he exhaled, sharp and decisive in a way he hadn’t felt all day.

And maybe, for once, he needed to stop thinking about what he might lose and start considering what he’d already been losing all along.

So he left the rooftop, walking down the stairs until he exits the ED, going straight to the park.

Jack didn’t rush, even when usually, when something pulled at him like this, he cut straight to it. But this wasn’t something that he could resolve with speed. So he crossed the street at an even pace, fatigue already wearing him down, hands tucked into his pants pockets, eyes already fixed on the cluster of people ahead.

He spotted you almost immediately just once more.

You were sitting on one of the benches, shoulders slightly slouched in that way that only came after specifically long shifts, hair loose now falling around your face like you’d stopped caring about keeping it contained. One hand wrapped loosely around a beer can, the other resting idle against your thigh, fingers tapping against denim, the adrenaline that accompanied the work still cursing through your veins.

Mateo was sitting beside you, again, too close for Jack’s liking, leaning in again like he had all day, saying something that pulled a small smile out of you. It was easy to see that it was not like ones from before, not as bright.

Jack slowed his walking enough for the moment to stretch just a fraction longer than it should have. He watched the way you tilted your head as you listened, the way your gaze stayed on Mateo instead of drifting. You didn’t look up, didn’t feel him there the way you usually did.

You actually did but were fighting yourself to not look up at him. 

After a too long second he forced himself to move once more, forwards step by step until he reached the edge of the group. A few people greeted him with smiles, casual nods and half dizzied smiles, someone calling his name too in passing. He barely registered it, his attention fixed only on you.

Mateo glanced up first catching sight of him , a knowing smile crossing his face as he nodded towards you. Then almost too easily he pushed himself up from the bench. 

“Gonna grab another drink,” he said, clapping someone on the shoulder as he stepped away.

Jack didn’t thank him or acknowledge the action. Perhaps he was being petty, but he just couldn’t focus in anything besides you. 

He just stepped forwards the moment the space opened and sat down where Mateo had been without asking, without hesitating, like that place had always been his in the first place.

You didn’t look at him, and that; that was new.

The silence between you two stretched, not in the comfortable kind you always shared but in a sharp, uncomfortable one. You took a sip from your drink instead of talking, just listening to the people around you, eyes fixed somewhere ahead, posture just slightly angled away from him like you had drawn a line without the need of saying it out loud.

Jack felt the distance immediately, the same one he’d spent the entire day creating now turned back on him in a way that sat wrong in his chest.

“Hey,” he said, softer than usual.

You hummed in response, barely, not even looking at him. It wasn’t sharp, wasn’t cruel— but it wasn’t you either.

Jack exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his jaw for the thousandth time today as he looked out toward the park for a second, gathering something that didn’t come easily to him.

“I—” he started, then faltered, the word dissolving into a quiet breath under his nose. “Nice chat with Mateo?”

It wasn’t what he meant to say, not even close to it, but it slipped out before he could catch it, sharp and misplaced. He had meant to apologize, to smooth over the tension he’d built with his own hands. Instead, jealousy spoke for him. His eyes fell shut as his arms crossed over his chest, like he could hold himself together that way, already regretting every second of it.

You _were_ mad at him, there was no denying that, but ignoring him entirely felt just as impossible.

“Uh-hum,” you murmured, voice low, taking another sip. “Been pestering me all day. Wanted help with Javadi.” A small pause, almost thoughtful. “His dumb ass doesn’t even realize that poor girl practically trips over herself for his attention.”

Right. So he’d been a complete ass, sulking, jealous and sour all day when there had been nothing to justify it. Nothing but his own assumptions, his own spiraling thoughts. If there was a title for the biggest fool of the day, he’d earned it without competition.

“I’m sorry.”

That got your attention, finally your eyes settling on him. Not fully, not immediately, but your gaze shifted just slightly in his direction, enough that he knew you were listening even if you weren’t giving him the satisfaction of meeting his eyes.

“I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” he continued, voice steady but quieter now, stripped of its usual edge. “Or cut you off. Or—” he paused briefly, jaw tightening, “—any of it.”

You turned your head then, finally looking at him fully. Your expression wasn’t angry, that would’ve been much easier. You were just… calm. And tired. 

“You think?” you said.

There was no bite to it, just a quiet kind of honesty that made it land heavier than anything sharper would have. Jack let out a breath that almost resembled a laugh, nodding slightly.

“Yeah. I do.”

Silence settled again, but this time it wasn’t as rigid.  Something in it had shifted, softened at the edges.

“I didn’t—” he started again, slower now, choosing his words in a way he usually didn’t bother to. “It wasn’t about you. Not your work. You know that, right?”

Your eyes stayed on him, searching in that quiet way you had, like you were trying to decide whether to believe him or not.

“You made it feel like it was,” you said.

“I know.”

That came quicker. Firmer. Because that part, at least, he couldn’t deny.

Jack leaned forward slightly, forearms resting against his thighs, gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to you.

“I got in my own head,” he admitted, the words coming slower now, like they had weight to them. “And instead of dealing with it like a normal person, I took it out on you,” a small pause. “That’s on me.”

You watched him for a long moment after that, quietly taking his apology in. It sat there between you two, unpolished but sounding real. You exhaled softly, shoulders easing just a fraction.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It is.”

But there was no edge to your voice anymore, softness embraced it. Jack nodded once, accepting it, not trying to push past it or soften it into something else.

Another beat passed.

Then, almost reluctantly, your posture shifted, just slightly, turning back towards him instead of away, enough that the space between you didn’t feel quite as distant as it had a minute ago. Your fingers tapped lightly against the side of your beer can, a quiet, absent rhythm as your gaze drifted ahead for a moment— thinking, weighing, deciding. Then, finally, you glanced back at him, one brow lifting just slightly.

“You know,” you started, voice light in a way that didn’t quite match the exhaustion still sitting in your bones, “for someone who prides himself on professional skills…” you tilted your head, studying him with that familiar, almost teasing scrutiny, “you were spectacularly off your game today.”

Jack huffed under his breath, something between a sigh and a reluctant laugh, his gaze dropping briefly to the ground before coming back to you with his characteristic smirk.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “Not my best showing.”

“Mm,” you hummed, taking a small sip from your drink, eyes still on him over the rim. “That’s one way to put it.”

There was a beat. Then, just a little more pointed—

“I mean, I’ve seen interns with better emotional regulation.”

That did it, a quiet surprised laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it, head shaking as he leaned back slightly on the bench.

“Wow,” he muttered. “Straight for the jugular.”

You shrugged, lips twitching at the corner, something warmer breaking through now.  

“I’m just saying. If you’re going to spiral, at least make it subtle. Hide it a little bit.”

Jack let out another soft laugh, an easier one, the tension that had been sitting tight in his chest all day finally loosening just a fraction.

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” he said dryly.

“Good,” you nodded, satisfied. “Professional growth is important.”

He glanced back at you again then, in a proper way this time, taking in the way your eyes had softened once more, no longer shut off from him. Then they shifted down, to the curve of your smile.

“Next time,” he echoed, a brow lifting slightly. “You’re assuming I’m planning to repeat that?”

“Oh, please,” you scoffed lightly. “You? Bottling things up and then acting weird about it?” you gestured vaguely toward him with your drink. “Shocking pattern. Truly unprecedented. Never will happen again.”

Jack shook his head, but there was no real argument in it, just a quiet kind of acceptance.

“Alright,” he conceded. “Maybe there’s a pattern.”

“Mmnh.”

Another small pause settled between you, but this one felt different. Lighter. Familiar, in that quiet, in-between way you’d always had, finally coming back. Your shoulder brushed his then— barely there, accidental enough to be deniable.

Neither of you moved away.

Jack’s gaze dropped for a second, catching the contact, then flicked back up to your face.“Just for the record,” he said, a little more serious now, though the softness hadn’t left his tone, “I really am sorry.”

You studied him for a moment, like you were checking for cracks in the words, for anything that didn’t hold, for a lie that wasn’t there. Then you exhaled softly. 

“I know.”

And you did. That was the thing about him— about you both. Under all the deflection, the almosts, the things left unsaid… there was always that baseline of understanding. Frustrating as hell, sometimes, but real.

Your lips curved again, just slightly, something quieter now.

“Still,” you added, glancing away for a second before looking back at him, “if you ever snap at me like that again, I will embarrass you in front of the entire department.”

Jack let out a low chuckle, something warmer settling into it now.

“I don’t doubt that for a second.”

“Good,” you said simply. “I’m being serious. Just a week until i’m an attendant— and i can put your ass back in your place. I will keep you in line.”

His eyes held yours for a moment longer than necessary, still smiling. 

“Seems like I need it.”

The words slipped out easier than they should have, honest in a way he didn’t usually allow himself to be.

  Something flickered in your expression at that, small, but real, your head nodding as your cheeks flushed just the slightest bit under the light of the lamp posts. 

“Yeah,” you murmured. “You do.”

“Jesus,” Robby’s voice cut in from the front bench, amused and far too loud. “You two are exhausting.”

Jack didn’t even look at him.

“Don’t start,” he muttered.

Robby just grinned, taking a sip from his drink as his eyes flicked between the two of you.

“No, seriously. You fight for a whole shift, then sit down and fix it in, what, five minutes?” he shook his head. “It’s disgusting.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head.

“Mind your business, Robby.”

“I am minding it,” he shot back easily. “This is my business. I’ve been watching this slow burn nonsense for way too long to pass this opportunity.”

Jack let out a quiet groan, dragging a hand down his face.

“Jesus, can someone take his drink away?” he murmurs, looking back at the man. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”

Robby grinned, completely unbothered. “Nope. Front row seats right here.”

You laughed then, properly this time, and that easy and unguarded sound hit Jack somewhere deep enough that made him look away for a second, just to ground himself in something else that wasn’t your smile.    Time slipped the way it always did after that, conversation drifting, the tension from earlier fading into something distant enough to ignore. And for a while, it almost felt like nothing had happened at all. Eventually, you shifted, pushing yourself up from the bench with a quiet exhale, stretching slightly like your body was finally reminding you how tired it actually was. 

“I should head out,” you said, glancing around briefly. “Before I fall asleep right here.”

A few people murmured their goodbyes, distracted, already halfway into other conversations.

Jack stood up before he fully registered the decision.

“I’ll walk you.”

It wasn’t a question.

You looked at him, a little surprised, but not resistant. A small pause. Then a nod. Simple as that.

You said your quick goodbyes, and then you were moving, side by side, falling into step as easily as you always did, like the rhythm between you hadn’t been fractured at all. Like it had just… waited.

The walk starts quiet, but not empty, it never is with you two. Your steps fall into perfect sync almost immediately, that familiar rhythm settling back in like it had never been disrupeted away in the first place. Even if the city hums softly around you with distant traffic and muted conversations spilling from bars, none of it quite reaches the space you two are in.

Jack walks beside you with his hands tucked into his pockets and shoulders slightly hunched forward, like he’s carrying the weight of the day on them. He glances at you once, then again, subtle, like he’s checking something. 

You notice anyway.

“You’re staring,” you murmur, not looking at him.

“I’m not.”

You hum, unconvinced, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You are.”    “…maybe a little.”

That pulls a quiet huff of amusement out of you, shaking your head slightly as you keep walking. Silence settles again, but softer now. After a moment, he exhales through his nose.

“You didn’t have to forgive me that fast, you know.”

You glance at him then, brow lifting faintly. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“Oh?” he tilts his head slightly, watching you. “Who was it for, then?”

You shrug, looking ahead again. “For me. I didn’t feel like being mad at you all night.”

That lands somewhere deeper than he expects. Jack studies you for a second longer, something unreadable passing through his expression before it softens just slightly.

“Fair.”

Another few steps pass before you add, quieter— 

“You’re still on thin ice, though.”

That earns a low chuckle from him.

“Yeah. Figured.”

You two walk the rest of the way just like that, light conversation alipping in and out, brushing against something deeper without completely landing towards that point. Every now and then your shoulders bump, hands graze, almost accidents neither of you acknowledge. Until you reach your building.

You slow first, stopping just in front of the entrance as you fish your keys out of your pocket. Jack lingers a step behind before stopping too, his gaze lifting to the building, then back to you.

“Well,” you murmur, unlocking the door. “This is me.”

The door clicks open, and you push it slightly, stepping inside before turning back toward him. For a second, it feels like that’s where it should end. It’s always where it ends.

But tonight—

“Hey,” Jack says, before you can say anything else.

You pause, hand still on the door, looking at him, eyes slightly wide at his sudden call. He hesitates just long enough to make it obvious

“I’ll walk you up.”

It’s simple. Trying to be casual— but it isn’t casual at all. There’s no real reason for him to walk you up, but still he risks and asks anyways, foolishly. Your brows lift slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face, but you don’t argue. Don’t tease him for it. Just… nod.

“Okay.”

You step back to let him in.

The hallway is quieter than the street, the soft echo of your footsteps filling the space as you move towards the stairs. Neither of you say much this time, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels… loaded. Like something’s building, sitting just under the surface, waiting. By the time you reach your floor, your pulse has picked up slightly— and you’re not entirely sure why. He was just making sure you reach your apartment safely, there’s nothing more to it.

You stop at your door, keys already in hand, but you don’t unlock it right away. Instead, you turn to face him, back resting on the wood. And there it is again.

That thing.

Heavy. Unsaid. Hanging between you.

Jack stands now a little too close, closer than he had been outside just minutes ago, his gaze fixed on your face like he’s trying to memorize something. Or figure something out.

You clear your throat softly, shifting your weight.

“So,” you start, lightly, “you survived day shift.”

“Barely,” he replies, just as quiet.

A small smile tugs at your lips. “Proud of you.”

“Yeah?” his mouth quirks slightly. “Gold star?”

“Don’t push it.”

That earns a faint breath of a laugh, but it fades quickly, his expression shifting again, more serious now. Your fingers tighten slightly around your keys as the silence stretches. You should unlock the door, say your goodbyes and step in. But you can’t, frozen to the floor with his eyes all over you.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs.

Your gaze lifts fully to his. “About…?”

“Everything.”

His voice is low, steady, but there’s something under it now, rawer.

“I shouldn’t have treated you like that.” A small pause. “You didn’t deserve it.”

“I know.”

He takes a step closer towards you, and now there’s barely any space between your bodies.

Jack’s gaze drops briefly— your lips, your jaw, then back to your eyes. His hand flexes slightly at his side like he’s resisting the urge to reach out.

“I just—” he exhales, shaking his head faintly. “I don’t… do this well.”

Your brow furrows slightly. “Do what?”

A beat passes, charged. His eyes traveling again to your lips before he can help it. 

“You.”

That stills you completely. Your breath catches, just slightly.

Jack’s jaw tightens like he’s already regretting saying it, but he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t look away.

“I don’t know how to…” he gestures vaguely between you, frustrated. “Stay in whatever this is without—” he stops himself, exhales sharply. “Without wanting more than I should.”

The words land heavy, your heart kicking harder against your ribs as your breath hitches a fraction.

“Jack…”

But you don’t finish because he is stepping closer. Because his hand finally lifts, slow and deliberate, brushing lightly against your arm— like he’s giving you time to pull away.

You don’t.

“Tell me you don’t feel it. Tell me you don’t feel the same and I will just turn around and we can forget this ever happened,” he murmurs in a lower voice. “But if you feel— it, anything, even if it’s just a fraction of what i feel…”    Your pulse is loud now, too loud, deafening your ears. 

“I do,” you murmur.

His eyes flicker up with surprise, like he didn’t expect that answer, standing still so close to you.

“Do you?” he breathes. 

And then—  

He kisses you.

It’s not a hesitant or rushed kiss, but full of certainty, like this was something he’s been holding back for too long to keep it restrained.  

Your breath catches against his mouth for half a second before you kiss him back— and that’s all it takes.

The tension, the almost, the nearly; it all collapses at once.

Your hand comes up to his chest, gripping lightly, pulling him closer without even realizing it. His hand slides from your arm to your face, firm, grounding, like he needs to make sure you’re actually there, fingers sliding through your cheek before he’s holding onto your face. 

The door presses against your back as you fumble for it, keys slipping slightly in your hand.

“Hold on—” you murmur against his lips, breathless.

“Yeah,” he breathes back, not moving far at all, continuing to steal kisses from you even when you’re trying to fight the lock.

You barely manage to get the door open and then you’re both stumbling inside, the movement clumsy and uncoordinated in the way that comes with not wanting to break contact, panting at this point in each others mouths as he pushes the door closed behind him with his foot.

Jack’s other hand finds your face then, holding onto your face with something that borders desperation, his mouth still on yours, deeper now, less restrained. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer like there’s still distance to close. There isn’t. But it doesn’t stop either of you from trying.

It’s like neither of you know how to stop now that you’ve started.

Your back hits the wall then, softer but the impact still pulls a breath from your lungs— one that Jack catches halfway as his mouth finds yours again. Hungrier now. Less careful. Weeks —months, years— of almost, finally snapping into something real.    “Jesus—” he exhales against your lips, voice rough, almost disbelieving, like he’s still catching up to the fact that this is actually happening. That you’re actually here, kissing him back like this.

Your name slips out of him next, quieter, but heavier.

You answer him with a soft sound, something between a breath and a whimper, as your head tilts back just enough for his mouth to drag along your jaw, down the side of your neck. That pulls something out of you.

“Jack—”

It’s barely more than air, but it’s enough. More than enough.

His hand tightens, moves and grasps at your waist, fingers pressing in like he needs something solid to ground himself, while the other slides from your cheek, down your neck, tracing the line of your collarbone before settling at your side.

“Tell me if I need to stop,” he murmurs against your skin, words brushing warm and uneven just below your ear, though he doesn’t actually pull away. “Seriously.”

You shake your head immediately, breath catching as his mouth finds that same spot again.

“Don’t— don’t stop,” you manage, fingers shifting from his shirt to his shoulder, gripping.

That’s all the permission he needs. His restraint, whatever was left of it, frays completely.

His mouth moves lower, slower now but no less intense, like he’s learning you in real time, like he’s been waiting too long to take his time with it. Your head tips back against the wall fully, giving him more access without thinking about it, your breathing already uneven.

“Been trying not to do this for long,” he admits against your skin, voice low, almost frustrated with himself. “You have no idea.”    You let out a shaky laugh that dissolves into another breath when his teeth graze lightly against your neck.

“I think I do,” you whisper back, and that— that makes him pause for half a second. Just long enough to look at you, really look at you.

His forehead brushes yours, both of you breathing a little too hard for how little space there is between you

“Yeah?” he murmurs.

Your answer is quieter, but steady. “Yeah.”

Something shifts in his expression then, something deeper than the heat, something that almost undoes him.

And then he’s kissing you again.

Your hands slide down his chest this time, feeling the tension there, the way he’s holding himself together by a thread. His reaction is immediate: his grip on your waist tightening, pulling you flush against him in a way that makes your breath hitch again. That’s when his hands move. Not hesitant, but slower now, deliberate in his way, slips from your waist, brushing down your side, over your hips, fingers catching lightly at the edge of your waistband like he’s testing the boundary.

He pauses there just for a second, forehead pressing briefly to yours, breath still uneven.

“Hey,” he says quietly, grounding it again, even now. “This okay?”

It takes you a second to process the question through the haze of everything else, his hands, his mouth, the way your pulse is everywhere at once. But when you do, your answer comes just as quick as before.

“Yeah,” you breathes, your hand soothing over his chest before your fingers sink into his silver hair. “More than okay.”

That’s all he needs. His hand tightens slightly at your hip before slipping under the fabric, pulling you closer again like he can’t quite believe you’re letting him— like he’s still half expecting you to pull away. You don’t, if anything, you lean into him more.

 Your fingers on his hair tug just enough to pull a low, rough sound from his throat that goes straight through you.

“Careful,” he mutters, breathless against your mouth, though there’s no real warning in it, fingers slowly pushing the material of your pants down your legs. “You keep doing that—”

“Or what?” you murmur back, just as unsteady.

His answer doesn’t come in words, it comes in the way he kisses you again, deeper, more certain, like whatever line had been holding him back is completely gone now. And this time, neither of you even try to pretend to stop. A broken sound escapes your lips as your fingers cling onto his shirt, head tilting to deepen the kiss yourself.

The sound of your breath, uneven, unsteady, fills his ears, tangling with his own as his thoughts unravel into nothing but you. Whatever hesitation once lingered, fractures completely, leaving only instinct, only the overwhelming awareness of your body beneath his hands. The way your fingers clutch at his shirt, tight and desperate, grounds him just enough to keep from losing himself entirely, though his heart still feels like it might break free from his chest.

He’s caught in you, in the taste of your lips, in the way you fit against him as though you were something he was always meant to find but never allowed himself to search for. You feel like a missing piece he never named, until now. And now it’s too late to pretend otherwise. Every inch of you is heat and he lets it take him willingly.

His fingers find the edge of your shirt, slipping beneath the fabric, and the moment his hand meets your bare skin, he feels the reaction ripple through you. The sharp intake of your breath, the instinctive arch of your body pressing into his touch— it nearly undoes him. His own breath turns ragged as his head dips, lips brushing along the side of your throat, his body pressing you back against the wall with a quiet, helpless groan.

The sound that leaves you pulls something deeper from him. Your eyes flutter shut, your fingers tightening in his hair, guiding him back up as if you can’t bear the distance, not even for a second. He doesn’t resist.

Your sounds, every breath, every quiet noise, send jolts through him, sharp and electric, his grip at your hip tightening without thought. He murmurs your name against your lips, breaking from him like something fragile, half plea, half apology, as whatever restraint he had left gives way entirely.

His hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting you with an ease that surprises even him, pressing you back against the wall as if he needs you closer, closer still, even when there’s barely space left between you.

His mouth trails over your skin, finding your pulse. He bites down, just enough to make you feel it, before soothing it with a softer kiss— a silent apology, even as he knows he’ll do it again. He’s surrounded by you, by your warmth, by your scent, the heat that builds and builds until it feels like it might consume him whole.

And still, it isn’t enough.

He captures your lips again, unable to stop, unable to slow, his hold on your thigh tightening as if letting go isn’t an option anymore.

Your legs are wrapped around him, drawing him in, and he feels how much you want this, how much you want him. It drives him further, deeper into the moment, until there’s nothing left but sensation. His mind slips again, lost to you entirely.

His hands roam your body, restless, reverent and hungry all at once, as if trying to learn you by touch alone. His fingers drift lower, tracing the edge of your underwear with deliberate slowness, teasing, testing, and he can’t stop the low sound that escapes him as he presses his mouth against your neck.

“Do you know what you do to me?” he murmurs, voice rough, lips brushing your ear.

Your breath catches, your face turning into his temple as if seeking something to hold onto, anything to steady yourself.

“I might have an idea,” you whisper, aiming for wit but losing it somewhere in the breathlessness, your hips shifting against his hand in quiet, undeniable answer.

A dark, knowing chuckle vibrates through him. His teeth graze your earlobe, slow, deliberate, before his voice drops again, thick with want. “You don’t. Not even close.”

And this time, he doesn’t hold back. His fingers slip beneath the fabric, unhurried, intentional, savoring the way your body reacts—the shudder, the way your breath stutters against him. It’s honest in a way words could never be.

His other arm tightens around your waist, keeping you steady against the wall, grounding you as his mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, edged with a hunger that feels like years in the making. And maybe it is.

Your breath breaks against his lips, the sound swallowed by the intensity of the kiss as you cling to him, and then everything shifts —movement, imbalance, laughter lost somewhere in the heat— as he stumbles with you through the living room. The couch catches you both, your back sinking into the cushions as he follows, unwilling to let even an inch come between you.

It dissolves into something breathless and uncoordinated; arms tangled, legs shifting, kisses that don’t quite land before the next begins. His hand finds your hair, threading through it, holding you close as if letting go isn’t an option. He kisses you like he’s been holding back for too long, like restraint was never meant to last this long.

And then— he falters.

Just for a second.

His breath is uneven, chest rising and falling as his gaze drifts over you, taking you in as though seeing you like this might undo him completely. Your flushed skin, your parted lips, the way you look up at him, it almost does.

He swallows, hard, trying to gather whatever control he has left.

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now. He hasn’t moved away, hasn’t loosened his hold— but there’s a tension in him, like he’s holding the choice open for you, ready to step back if you need him to.

You look up at him, still catching your breath, warmth blooming across your face and down your neck, no hesitation in you.

“Completely,” you answer, soft but certain. A small pause, your gaze steady on his. “You?”

The question seems to hit deeper than anything else. A quiet breath leaves him, almost unsteady, his eyes darkening as he looks down at you, not just like this, not just now, but everything you are to him layered beneath it. His best friend. The one he was never supposed to cross this line with. The one he never really stopped wanting.

“More than anything,” he murmurs.

He leans down again, slower this time, his presence settling over you fully. His lips brush along your throat, your ear, less frantic now, but no less intense, like he’s letting himself feel it instead of outrunning it.

“I want you.”

Your breath catches again, softer this time, as you tilt your head just enough to press a kiss beneath his ear in return, gentle, but sure.

“Yeah?” you whisper. “Then have me.”

That’s all it takes —that quiet permission, that barely there command— and whatever restraint he had left splinters. His hand tightens on your thigh, guiding it up and aside as he settles between your legs, closing the distance like it was always meant to disappear. His mouth finds yours again, hard and unrelenting, a low sound vibrating through him and into you. There’s no hesitation now, no careful pacing, just heat, just hunger, just the two of you finally crossing the line you’ve circled for far too long.

His fingers press into your hip as he moves against you, the friction of his clothed length against the dampness of your panties pulling a sharp gasp from your throat— one he catches, devours, breath rough where it ghosts over your skin.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, the words uneven, heavy with something deeper than the moment, relief, want, something long buried finally given shape.

The slow, maddening drag of him against you draws a soft, helpless sound from your lips, your head tipping back as your thighs part instinctively, making room for him, for this. Your hands fumble at his shirt, impatient, needing the barrier gone.

It is almost instantly. One second it’s there, the next it’s not, leaving only warmth beneath your palms, solid muscle and the faint map of old scars under your touch. He shudders at the contact, breath catching as your fingers trace over him, as if you’re learning him in real time.

Then everything shifts.

He leans back against the couch, pulling you with him in one smooth motion until you’re settled in his lap, your legs bracketing his hips. The new angle pulls you closer, presses you against him in a way that makes the air feel thicker, heavier.

His hand rises to your face, steady but firm, guiding your gaze back to his.

“Look at me.”

And you do. You can’t not. Your eyes lift to his, unfocused for a second before they find him fully, your breath uneven, your thoughts scattered under the weight of his attention.

His thumb brushes over your lower lip, slow, deliberate, his gaze fixed on you like he’s committing every reaction to memory. He stills for a moment, though the tension in him is unmistakable, like holding back is costing him everything.

“I want you to watch me,” he says quietly.

His hand slides from your face to your hip, adjusting you so you’re fully straddling him, your core pressing against his pelvis. His other hand settles at your lower back, drawing you closer until there’s barely any space left at all, his presence overwhelming in the best way.

“Keep your eyes on me.”

You can’t manage words, only a small, unsteady nod, your head spinning, your body answering for you instead. A soft sound slips from your lips, unplanned, as the movement pulls you tighter against him.

Your hands find his shoulders, grounding yourself there, fingers curling slightly as you steady against him— though nothing about this moment feels steady at all.

Your sounds unravel him completely, each breath, each broken note pulling tighter at something already strained to its limit. His hands tighten at your waist, fingers pressing in as he purposely grinds his hips up into yours, deliberate intent, guiding the rhythm rather than chasing it. His breathing turns sharp, uneven, as his gaze drags over your flushed face and he forces himself to hold back, to stay here in this suspended edge instead of rushing past it.

He wants to ruin you, wants to feel you come apart in his hands, to unravel around him, but not yet.

Not when he can have this, your body so close, so responsive, every small movement echoing through him. He needs to draw it out, to savor the way you tremble, the way you lean into him without thinking.

“Just like this,” he murmurs, the words barely there, more breath than sound.

The air between you grows dense, heavy with everything that’s been building for far too long, years of almosts collapsing into something undeniable. His hands roam your back, slower now, tracing the curve of your spine before slipping lower, settling at your hips to guide your movements against him—slow at first, then deeper, more deliberate. The friction burns through him like liquor, your breath hot against his neck as you buries your face there, lips brushing skin.

“Jack—”

His name breaks out of you, and it ruins him. He catches your mouth again before the sound can fully form, swallowing it down, holding it there between you. His body shifts beneath you, grounding himself, his body arching up into yours with a roughness that surprises even him. The couch creaks quietly beneath you, the only witness to the way everything is finally giving way, no hesitation, no distance left to hide behind.

The friction is as sweet as teasing, your back straightening as moans start to spill from your tongue, hips slowly moving backwards and forwards with the help of his hand on your hip guiding you. If you thought you were wet before; it was nothing compared to how much you are right now, shivering on top of him as your underwear is ruined with your own slick.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs against your skin, his teeth grazing the delicate pulse point at your neck. His hand tightens at your hip almost roughly, like he’s barely holding himself together.

The way you move against him, the soft, unguarded sounds you make— it unravels him completely, drives him to the edge of something sharp and consuming. He wants you with an intensity that borders on ache, something deep and insistent that won’t quiet, the needs to be inside you like a hunger that won't be satisfied.

Still he reins himself in. Barely.

He exhales, unsteady, pressing his forehead briefly to your temple as if to gather himself. He wants to worship you properly, make you feel how long he’s ached for this. “We’re taking this to the bedroom.”

“Wait—” you breathe out, the word dissolving into a soft moan as you shift against him, unwilling to lose the friction, the closeness. “Just… a little more—” Your voice falters, breathless, your teeth catching your lower lip as your hips move again, a little faster now, a little more desperate.

A growl rumbles in his chest at your plea, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, anchoring you against him as he obliges—just for now—letting you chase that edge a little longer. He watches you through hooded eyes, the way your lashes flutter, the way your lips part on ragged breaths, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

“Christ…” he rasps, your name slipping from him like it’s been waiting there for years. His thumb finds the wet fabric of your underwear, pressing in just enough to tease, to remind you exactly how much he wants you. “Bedroom next. No more waiting.”

“Mmnh—“ she just says as his thumb presses against the fabric, head moving to press her lips against his jaw, his pulse point, moaning softly there. “We could do it here,” she murmurs faintly there, hips still moving in those perfect rolls.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, his self-control fraying at the edges as your movements make it hard to think, let alone speak. The idea of you on this couch, spread out beneath him, it's almost his undoing, but he pushes the image away with an effort.

"No," he grunts, his voice almost strained. "First time isn't going to be on a couch. You deserve better than that."

Before you can argue, he lifts you—one smooth, decisive motion, like he needs distance from temptation as much as he needs you close.

The loss of contact draws a quiet protest from you, but it doesn’t slow you down. Your lips find his neck again, his shoulder, scattered kisses that feel like both distraction and encouragement.

“So,” you murmur, a hint of laughter threading through your breath, your head nudging towards your room, “Jack Abbot is a romantic.”

He huffs softly, the sound uneven as you find that sensitive spot at his neck, the one that makes his grip tighten just a little more.

“Don’t spread it around,” he mutters, something almost amused beneath the strain in his voice.

His steps are steady as he carries you, despite everything pulling at his focus, guiding you forward, towards the bedroom, towards something neither of you are willing to stop now.

“I’m not saying I don’t want to take you right here, right now,” he murmurs, his grip tightening just slightly against your thighs, grounding himself more than you. “But I’ve waited years for this.” His breath brushes your skin, uneven, deliberate. “I’m doing it right.”

“I don’t think there is a wrong way,” you answer softly— though the words barely hold together, your composure slipping as you lean in, teeth catching briefly at his pulse. You soothe it immediately with your tongue, instinctive, unthinking.

The reaction you pull from him is sharp. a breath dragged through clenched teeth, his step faltering just enough on the stairs to betray him. His arms tighten around you at once, steadying, protective even in distraction, making sure you don’t fall from his big arms.

“Christ…” he exhales, voice strained, roughened by you. “Trying to ruin me before we even get there?”

The bedroom door gives way under the force of his foot, swinging open without ceremony. The moment it shuts behind you, the space shifts, smaller, charged, leaving no room for anything but this. He presses you back against it, urgency returning in full, his mouth finding yours again with a hunger that has nothing restrained left in it.

“No more talking,” he mutters against your lips, though his hands already betray him, fingers already working at the clasp of your bra under your shirt.

Your laugh doesn’t quite make it out, caught and softened as he kisses you again. You answer him just as fiercely, your body arching into his touch, helping his sneaky hands. Your own hands move behind you, impatient now, freeing yourself from the shirt first and tossing it aside without a second thought.

“You don’t like my voice?” you murmur against him, teasing, breathless

That almost undoes him.

He drags the last barrier away, your bra, discarding it somewhere neither of you will remember, his hands returning to you immediately as though even that brief absence was too long.

“Your voice…” he starts, the words catching as he nips your lower lip, then trails lower, slower, to your neck. “…should be saved for when I’ve done something worth hearing it for.”

His mouth latches on your pulse point, sucking and biting, his tongue soothing the mark afterwards. "That's all the talking you're allowed."

You laugh again and he doesn’t stop you, even as he turns you, guiding you back toward the bed. There’s less urgency in the movement now, but no less intent. He lets you fall into the sheets, your body sinking into them, warm and waiting, almost naked except for the soft cotton of your panties.

“God, you’re so corny,” you manage, still smiling as your thumbs slip to the last piece of fabric, pushing it away, leaving nothing between you and the weight of his gaze.

He looks down at you, lying naked on your bed, flushed, your hair a mess on the pillow, and he's pretty sure he's never seen anything as beautiful. The need, the hunger coursing through him is overpowering, but something about that laugh, the way you look at him, makes him smile back.

"You love it," he replies, crawling over you, covering your smaller frame with his body. His hand finds the back of your thigh, hooking it over his hip, drawing you closer until he's pressed against you, his breath catching from the sudden heat.

“Yeah— keep telling yourself that until you believe it,” you murmur, the tease softened by the catch in your breath. Your lip finds its way between your teeth as you glance up at him, defiant, but not quite steady.

A low, ragged sound rumbles in his chest at the sight of you biting your lip like that— the perfect distraction from your sass. "You keep mouthing off and I'm putting that mouth to better use," he growls back, his hand running down your thigh, his thumb ghosting over your core, feeling the wetness there— a reminder of your teasing on the couch, of the desire only he can satisfy.

Your body betrays you before your words can hold their ground, hips shifting, breath unsteady, instinct chasing the warmth of his touch. Still, you try to hold onto the edge of your teasing, licking your lips as if that might steady you. “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

His eyes darken at the sight of you, your body arching into his touch— he loves the power he has over you, the way his touch alone can make you shiver. He leans down, his mouth trailing down the side of your neck, his stubble and teeth teasing your skin as he murmurs, "That's not a threat."

His hand moves lower then, his fingers slipping between your folds, gathering your slickness onto the pads, the contact light, teasing. It's not enough and he knows it, but it's just a taste, a reminder of what's coming. "That's a guarantee."

The words dissolve the instant he touches you. Thought scatters, replaced by sensation— heat, tension, need. Your body answers before you can, your legs parting instinctively, opening for him as a soft sound escapes you. Your arm lifts, draping over your face as if you could hide from what he’s drawing out of you.

But there’s no hiding. Not from him.

The sight of you —open, responsive, unraveling beneath his touch— pulls something raw and instinctive from deep inside him. He could stay here forever, watching you come undone piece by piece, but the sounds you make tug at him, awaken something urgent, insistent.

He leans back slightly, his lips brushing your waist, breath warm against your skin. “Move your arm.”

“No,” you murmur, the protest soft, almost fragile. Your body trembles, betraying you, especially when his mouth lingers, pressing heat into your skin.

Jack then pronounces your name, carrying a quiet warning, low and steady. He doesn't pause the slow movements of his fingers, keeping the pressure just light enough to keep you on edge, not letting you find the release you needs. "Move your arm."

His mouth moves, finding another spot to kiss, his teeth nipping the sensitive skin, his thumb slowly, almost torturously circling your bundle of nerves, the touch barely a whisper. "Don't make me ask again."

You mutter something under your breath, but your arm falls away, exposing yourself to him. Your brows knit together, your lip caught between your teeth as soft, helpless sounds slip free with every circle of his thumb on your sensitive clit.

He watches you and something in his expression deepens, darkens. The way you respond, the way you give in, the way your body yields to him, it nearly unravels him in return.

"Good girl,” the words come out rougher than he intended, the sight of you beneath him, listening to him, obeying him, nearly making him dizzy, his own body aching to feel you, but he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to focus on you, on making this moment perfect for both of you.

His lips move lower, his tongue darting out to taste you, his fingers keeping their slow, teasing pace. "Keep your arms above your head," he murmurs against your skin, his other hand running up your side, his fingers trailing along your abdomen.

“Fuck—“ is the only word you manage when his tongue dips where you needs him the most, the sound spilling from you before you can catch it.

Thought slips away from you, dissolving into sensation, until all that remains is instinct—your body answering him, your arms lifting above your head just as he guides you.

Your obedience sends a bolt of pleasure straight to his already aching cock, but he ignores it, focusing instead on making you unravel completely beneath him. His tongue laps at you slowly at first, teasing, savoring your sweet taste before he increases the pressure, his fingers finally slipping inside you, stretching you slowly— mapping out the way you clench around him.

He doesn’t rush. He takes his time, alternating between the slow drag of his tongue and the firm curl of his fingers, his free hand pinning your hips dow when you try to arc to chase the feeling, holding you in place as if he’s decided exactly where you belong. And still, he watches you, studies you, like unraveling you is the only thing that matters.

"Look at me, baby," he rasps against your cunt, lifting his head just enough to catch your gaze— dark, hungry, possessive. "Want your pretty eyes on me while I eat this pretty pussy."

You can’t hold the broken sound then, neither stop your hand from moving down and dipping into his hair. The sounds you make aren’t something you recognize anymore, broken, breathless, pulled from somewhere deep as your body reacts without permission. Every movement, every careful shift of his attention, builds and builds until you’re trembling, caught between needing more and fearing you won’t survive it.

And then your fingers pull.

Something in him gives way.

It isn’t gradual— it snaps, clean and sudden, like a thread stretched too far. Whatever restraint he held fractures, something darker and more instinctive rising in its place. A low sound rumbles from his throat, almost a growl, as he lifts his gaze to you for the briefest moment. His eyes are different now— shadowed, sharpened, lit with a feral intensity that feels almost consuming.

He pulls away only to surge forward again, his body pressing over yours, closing the distance in a single, decisive movement. His mouth finds yours, hard, insistent, a kiss that isn’t asked for but taken, full of hunger and something dangerously close to possession. It steals the breath from you, all urgency and heat, as if he means to lose himself in you entirely. There's an intensity in the kiss that's almost bordering on feral, the need to consume you, to claim you fully, nearly overtaking him.

He's shaking from restraint, words nonexistent now as his slightly trembling hands move down to undo his own pants— which you’re eager to help, tugging desperate as you moan in the drunken kisses. He just tugs down the pants and his underwear enough, can’t waste more time, his hand moving to slide through your wetness before using it to coat himself.

He pulls away from the kiss but just to look at you, his forehead pressing against yours, “Look at me—“ he mutters hoarsely, and only when your eyes make contact with his is when he moves.

He eases in only an inch at first, slow and deliberate, drawing a sharp breath from you and a low, strained _fuck_ from himself. He stills there, as if holding himself back costs him something, his breathing already uneven with the effort.

“Hey…” His voice is rough, coaxing. His fingers tilt your face up, thumb brushing your cheek so your gaze can’t slip away. “Look at me, baby. You with me?” A soft click of his tongue, a faint, breathless laugh. “Can I move? Just a little more, pretty girl?”

His lips ghost along your jaw, warm and unsteady. “Just one more—”

The moment you nod, he gives in, pushing deeper with a broken groan that trembles out of his chest.

Your breath catches with his, a helpless sound spilling from you as if the air has been pulled straight from your lungs.

“God… feels too good to be real,” he murmurs against your skin, his teeth grazing your jaw in a soft, absent-minded bite. His hand shifts, cradling your face, holding you there— making sure you see him, feel him, every second of it. “Feels like this tight cunt was just made for me…” he hums, voice low, almost reverent. “Isn’t that right? You’re mine— meant just for me, yeah?”

And then he moves fully, closing the distance in one slow, final push and for a moment, everything else disappears.

He can’t think straight at this point, his body and mind completely consumed by the feeling of yours wrapped around him, the look in your eyes, the sound of your gasps— every sense filled with you, with the desperate need to get as close as he possibly can.

His pace is slow, almost unbearably so, though he holds your gaze with a mixture of love and raw need in his eyes. "Still with me?" he asks, the words a whispered prayer against your skin, the need in him growing with every second that passes. He just needs your voice to anchor him, to tether him to this moment, to reality.

Then he feels your legs tighten around his waist, your voice answering him with a soft, shuddering "yeah" and it's all the confirmation he needs.

A sharp breath hisses through his teeth at the sound of your voice, the certainty in your answer sending a jolt through him, a sense of reassurance that he hasn't felt in a long time. His grip on you tightens, his eyes closing for a brief moment as he takes in the feeling of you wrapped around him, his forehead pressed against yours, his voice rough and ragged.

"Good,” the single word is a soft, possessive growl, his pace quickening just slightly, the desire flaring through him, intense and overwhelming.

There’s no holding it back, not the sounds, not the way your breath breaks, not the way your body gives in to every feeling he pulls from you. It spills out of you freely, helpless and unrestrained, each soft moan caught between your lips as everything becomes too much and not enough all at once.

He’s everywhere.

His touch is constant, overwhelming in the best way, hands mapping you like he’s learning something sacred. One grips your hip, grounding, steadying, while the other cradles your face, thumb brushing your cheek as if to keep you right there with him, right in this moment. Every place he touches feels heightened, alive, like your skin is tuned only to him.

The rhythm of his hard thrusts builds and with it, the world narrows. The dull, repeated knock of the headboard against the wall fades into the background, replaced by the rush in your ears, the pull in your chest, the way your body answers him without hesitation. Your moans become louder, accompanying the loud sound of flesh slapping, the sounds of his soft grunts.

You feel it everywhere —warmth curling low, spreading, tightening— until it almost aches, until it has you clinging, breathless, undone.

He leans into you, lips finding yours, not gentle but not careless either, something in between, something desperate. The kiss steals what little breath you have left, turning your soft sounds into something shared, something swallowed.

And still, it feels impossibly good.

Too good to think, too good to question, just sensation, just heat, just the way your body moves with his like it knows exactly what to do without being told. Like this is where you’re meant to be.

It doesn’t take long before the tension coiled inside you snaps.

You hover at the edge for what feels like forever, breath stuttering, his name slipping from your lips in a soft, broken cry. Your fingers dig into his back, grounding yourself in something real as everything else blurs, your teeth catching his bottom lip as if that might keep you tethered just a second longer. It doesn’t.

The feeling rushes through you all at once, overwhelming, leaving you breathless and clinging to him as it crests.

He isn’t far behind— not after the way he’s held himself back, not after wanting you for so long. There’s a fleeting thought in the back of his mind, something almost disbelieving, that he made it this far at all without coming in his pants, especially after the way you were grinding on him back on the couch.

He presses his mouth to yours more firmly, the kiss messy, desperate, a quiet, broken sound of your name slipping from him as his rhythm falters. The control he had before dissolves, replaced by something more instinctive, more raw, until even that fades. His thrusts slow, then still. Warmth lingers between you, the moment stretching out as everything settles.

The silence that follows isn’t empty but heavy, in a different way than before. No tension left to fight with, no distance to bridge, just the slow return of breath and awareness, like both of you are remembering how to exist outside of the same shared pulse.

Jack doesn’t move right away. He stays close, forehead resting against yours, eyes half lidded, still catching fragments of himself as they settle back into place. His hand is still on you but the grip has softened, no longer anchoring you like something he’s afraid to lose, just holding you close.

You feel him exhale first, slow and uneven, like his body is finally letting go of something it’s been carrying for far too long.

For another moment, neither of you speaks.

Then his thumb moves, lightly brushing your cheek, almost absentmindedly, as if he needs to confirm you’re still there, still real, still with him after everything that just happened.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

It’s softer than anything he’s said all night. Stripped of control, stripped of distance, just him.

You nod first, then realize that isn’t enough, and let out a small breath that turns into something like a laugh, tired, disbelieving.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “I think I just… forgot how to form sentences for a second.”

That gets a faint sound out of him, something close to a laugh, but quieter. Relieved more than amused.

“Same,” he admits.

There’s another pause, but this one is different too.

He shifts slightly, careful now, like he’s suddenly aware of every point where your bodies are still connected, and not wanting to lose any of it just yet. His hand slides down to your waist instead, resting there in something gentler.

Then, quieter:

“I should’ve said something sooner.”

You look at him at that, properly this time.

“Yeah,” you say, not unkind, just honest.

He nods once, like he expected that answer.

“I kept trying to make it… manageable,” he admits, eyes flicking away for a second, like the words cost him something. “Whatever this was. Whatever I thought it was supposed to be,” a pause, then he breathes. “But I think I just made it worse.”

You study him for a moment. The version of him you’ve seen all day —the distance, the irritation, the control slipping at the edges— feels miles away from the man looking at you now. Not fixed, not perfect. Just… him.

“You didn’t exactly make it easy to read,” you say quietly.

A faint, self-aware huff leaves him.

“That’s kind of my thing,” he replies.

That pulls a small smile from you, despite everything, then it fades a little. Because this is where it gets complicated. You shift slightly, adjusting against him, your hand resting lightly against his chest, not pushing away, just grounding yourself too.

“So what now?” you ask.

Jack goes quiet for a moment. His hand tightens just slightly at your waist, not possessive this time like he was when he was pounding into you, but uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he admits.

Then, more honestly than anything he’s said all day:

“But I don’t want to go back to pretending I don’t feel this.”

Your gaze softens slightly at that. “Pretending was kind of exhausting,” you say.

That gets a quiet breath out of him, something like relief again, threaded with disbelief.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Tell me about it.”

Another pause settles, but it doesn’t feel like there’s any distance between you both anymore. His fingers trace lightly along your side again, absent but attentive.

“I wasn’t trying to push you away today,” he says after a moment. “Even if that’s what it looked like.”

“I know,” you answer, softer now.

That seems to surprise him a little. His eyes flick back to yours.

“You do?”

“Jack,” you say quietly, like it should be obvious. “I know you well enough to know when you’re in your own head.”

That lands. Something in his expression shifts, subtle, but real. Like hearing that from you undoes a piece of whatever wall he was still holding up.

“Yeah,” he says after a second. “I was.”

Silence again, understanding trying to catch up to everything that just changed.

He exhales slowly, then shifts just enough to look at you properly, not just hovering over you, but meeting you where you are.

“I don’t want this to be just…” he starts, then stops, searching for the right word. Fails. Tries again. “A mistake I ignore on Monday.”

You blink at that, then let out a soft laugh.

“That would be a pretty inconvenient mistake to ignore,” you say.

A faint smile tugs at his mouth— relief creeping back in.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “It would,” another pause. Then, quieter:

“I don’t know how to do this right.”

You lift a brow slightly, the smile never leaving your lips.

“That’s never stopped you before.”

That earns a real laugh this time, short, warm, tired at the edges.

“No,” he admits. “It hasn’t,” his hand shifts again, gently brushing your hair back from your face. “But I don’t want to screw this up,” he adds, more serious now. “Not with you.”

That quiets you for a moment, because underneath everything, the tension, the restraint, the chaos of what just happened, there it is. The thing neither of you have been saying out loud until now.

Not just want. Care.

You look at him for a long second, then exhale slowly.

“Then don’t try to control it,” you say finally. “Just… be honest. For once.”

A faint, almost helpless smile crosses his face.

“That’s dangerous advice coming from you,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you reply. “I know.”

For a moment, neither of you move. Then he leans down —slower this time, no urgency left, just closeness— and presses a brief, quiet kiss to your lips.

“I can do honest,” he says softly.

You hum lightly.

“Good,” you whisper. “Start there.”

And for the first time all night, the silence between you doesn’t feel like something waiting to break.

Just something beginning to settle into place.