em :)

"This is my song!" You shout as the familiar dun-dun-dun-dun of Act Up starts blasting through the stereo speakers.

As if on auto pilot, you lean forward and look back over your shoulder, not caring who your eyes land on as you anchor your hands firmly onto your knees.

Locking into the beat, you drive your hips back in time with each drop of the heavy bass, sending a sharp ripple through your body as your ass moves in sync.

Beau’s standing to the side watching you dance as he waits for his invitation. He knows you’ll give it; you just need to dance to a few songs on your own first.

He watches you through countless songs, body moving appropriately to whatever the beat required. The song changes into a slower song and you gesture him over with a curl of your index finger.

Your boyfriend comes to stand behind you, hands on your waist as you gyrate to the music. Beau doesn’t need to guide you, if there’s one thing you know, it’s how to feel the beat of the music through your body. You push your ass back and roll your waist, “Fuck,” he groans into your ear.

Your arms raise to the air and your hands find his dark hair. He pulls you impossibly closer, nuzzling into your neck as one slow song blends into the other. Taylor really did have the best assists.   

Another pair of hands find your waist and you look up to see Dean smiling down at you.

“Hey gorgeous,” you purr as you wrap your arms around his neck.

The three of you find a comfortable rhythm. Hips swaying and twisting to the music. You feel warm, the mixture of the alcohol in your veins taking effect and the bodies moving around you acting as a furnace.

“Should we take this party upstairs?” Beau’s breath tickles your neck.

You look up at him. He has that look in his eyes, the one that completely contradicts his sweet, dimpled, smile.

“Great idea,” you smile, slipping out from between them. You grab hold of Beau’s hand and pull him behind you, swerving through the crowd with ease and running up the stairs. You’re well aware that your too-short skirt is putting on a show for anyone that happened to look up as you were going up the stairs.

Dean doesn’t need to be invited to know that he’s supposed to follow you both up the stairs. The unspoken agreement between you all having been in play for months now. He stops at the makeshift bar at the bottom of the stairs, his blonde hair catching in the strobe lights, as he grabs the tequila, salt, and limes.

Once you get into Dean’s room, you pull your shirt over your head and lie back on the bed. You know the drill by now, but the familiar routine does nothing to quell the spike of anticipation in your chest.  

Dean comes bumbling in seconds later, a careful smile playing on his face when he sees you’re ready for him. He quickly pours two shots, placing one small shot glass in each hand for you to hold. You focus your attention on balancing them as Beau leans over you, his dark eyes locked onto yours as he carefully shakes two thin lines of salt across your stomach, stopping just under the lace of your bra.

Dean puts the bottle of tequila on the nightstand and places a lime wedge firmly between your breasts before shooting you a wink.

“Open up,” Beau coos, placing his lime firmly in your mouth.

Your stomach knots, they’re both towering over you and looking at you with a ravenous desire. It’s intoxicating.

They slowly come to a kneel on the bed either side of you.

“Ready?” Dean asks, as they put their hands behind their back.

You nod your head, careful not to move to much and spill the shots balancing on your palms. In unison, they lean forward to pick up their respective shot with their mouth. It’s a competition now with them quickly downing the shot and spitting out the glass.

Dean gets to your stomach first, using the tip of his tongue to lick the salt. Beau’s tongue is flat and flush against your stomach. He licks a fat stripe up and past your chest. You feel his warm breath against your skin and it leaves a trail of goosebumps.

Dean gently bites one of your breasts before taking the lime that’s there as Beau’s lips meets yours to suck the juice from the lime. The blonde presses his face further into your breasts, thrusting his tongue between them.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” Dean calls, lifting his face from where it was buried between your breasts. “Doesn’t she look so fucking pretty, Beau.”

“You really do look so pretty.” Your boyfriend accompanies his words with a kiss to the tip of your nose.

You smile around the half-eaten lime that’s still in your mouth. You and Beau had been dating a little while before Dean came into the mix. You couldn’t understand why he was so hesitant to introduce you to his best friend. That is, until you saw them together. You saw the bond that he was afraid you’d see and run from. He worried you’d feel jealous and make him choose. But you didn’t feel jealous; you saw it for the opportunity it was.

The night you finally suggested bringing Dean into your shared bed, Beau had pinned you down and fucked you so fiercely that even days later, just the memory alone was enough to leave you completely breathless and aching all over again.  

You shiver as the cold tequila is poured directly into your bellybutton. Two fresh lines of salt are sprinkled across your stomach, and the old limes are replaced. Taking their places on either side of you again, the men exchange a quick smile before leaning forward. Their tongues dive into your navel, brushing against one another as they lap up the liquid pooled there.

They make quick work of sucking up the liquid that had overspilled before tracing the salt lines up your ribs, each using their tongues in different ways. You love the way your body reacts to them.

This time, it’s Dean that moves up to your face. Instead of just taking the lime, he plucks it from your teeth and replaces it with his own mouth. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth until you dart your tongue out to meet his. He catches your tongue between his lips and sucks on it. He tastes of sharp tequila and a deep, intoxicating familiarity that should be reserved for your boyfriend.

Blonde hair falls across your face as he deepens the kiss, you had told him that you liked it when he kept it longer, he hasn’t cut it since.

Heat pools in your belly as Beau gently pulls down the cup of your bra away from your breast. His warm mouth settles over your tight nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive skin before sucking on it. His hand is heavy on you, groping your other breast and running a calloused thumb over the sensitive nub. You moan in Dean’s mouth as Beau’s fingers pinch the nipple.

The sensation of having four hands roaming your body and two mouths on yours sends your heart racing. Your short nails scratch Beau’s scalp, urging him on. Your other hand makes its way between your legs where you’re aching to be touched. You run your hands through your slick folds and a satisfied hum escapes your lips.

Your boyfriend releases your nipple and stands up, yanking his shirt over his head and pulling off his jeans. He watches as Dean leaves a trail of kisses down your body, the blonde repositioning himself to settle between your legs.

Dean pulls off your underwear and uses his hands to spread your knees apart. Although you’re completely comfortable with them, you feel a blush creep up your neck. You’re fully exposed as they eye you hungrily, Dean between your legs and Beau at the foot of the bed, fully naked now and gently palming himself.

Dean looks back at his best friend for approval, they were yours and each other’s, but you were Beau’s unless he told Dean otherwise. Beau gives him a curt nod.   

You cry out, back arching, as Dean takes your throbbing clit into his mouth. The warmth of his mouth around you has your hips rolling. Dean moves your legs onto his shoulders and leans back to spit directly onto your pussy. He watches the spit roll down before diving back between your legs again, flicking his tongue around your folds in his journey towards your clit.

“How does it feel?” Beau asks, voice husky, “tell him how it feels.”

“Feels… fucking… incredible.” Your thoughts are incoherent; all your brain power is focused on the overwhelming pleasure. You look at Beau through hooded eyes to find him looking at you. His dick is growing in his hand as he watches Dean pleasure you. His lips are parted and you can hear his ragged breaths. You can also hear the sound of your wetness between your legs, Dean’s slurping and dragging a finger between your soaking lips.

You’re too turned on, the need to combust rising quickly within you.

Beau’s still only gently palming himself, not wanting to get too caught up. He doesn’t want to come now; he wants to be buried deep in you when that happens.

Your hips jerk up as Dean slides a finger, then two, into you. He curves them inside of you as he flicks his tongue back and forth against your clit.

The combination of the blonde between your legs and your boyfriend’s hungry gaze has you quickly spiralling to an orgasm. You shudder then cry out as your orgasm crashes over you.

“That’s it, you like that huh?” your eyes roll to the back of your head.

Both men whine at the sound of your moans, it’s their favourite song.  

Dean gently pulls your leg from his shoulders; you’re still twitching as you come down from your high. A satisfied smile spread across his face, you’re a mess.

“You taste so sweet,” Dean says, as he sits back on his knees, you can see a bulge in his jeans. “I could eat you for every meal.”

“Let him know how I taste,” you encourage jerking your head towards Beau. You prop yourself up on your elbows to get a better view of the men at the foot of the bed.

Dean pulls off his shirt before climbing off of bed and pulling Beau into a hard kiss.

A jolt of electricity shoots down your body and settles in your stomach as you watch them. The sight never fails to make your breath hitch. The kiss is intense, their teeth are clashing and they’re moaning into each other’s mouths. There’s no jealousy in you, no concern that you’ll be pushed to the side. You unlocked this side of them and you get to reap the rewards of that.

Dean grabs the back of your boyfriend’s neck, deepening the kiss. You swallow hard, your hand coming between your legs again. You’re already slick, aching for the weight of them to pin you down.

Beau pulls back to unbutton Dean’s jeans, pushing the denim and boxers down Dean’s thighs in one motion. Dean kicks them off the rest of the way.

Both of their chests are heaving, grasping for air as they turn their gazes to you. You’ve taken off your bra and skirt, legs spread open and you’re frantically circling your clit.

“Look at her,” Beau murmurs, his voice thick with desire.

“Lie back, baby,” you breathe, “wanna ride you.”

Beau sits on the edge of the bed and lies back. He looks at you and slaps his thighs. “Come take a seat.”

Dean stands between Beau’s open legs and grabs hold of his erection. He helps guide you over Beau’s hips and down onto his hard, leaking, dick.

“Can you feel how wet I am for you?” You whine, taking him in inch by inch. The way you stretch around his thick dick feels so good, you take a minute to feel it before bracing your hands against his chest and beginning to bounce in a steady rhythm.

Beau’s hands slide along your thighs; your breasts are bouncing with each thrust.

“Dean, look at how my pretty girl takes me in,” Beau grunts. You make a show of riding him; lewd moans escape your lips as you alternate between bouncing and rolling your hips.

Dean’s still between Beau’s legs, taking care of himself with his hand. That won’t do. “Dean, come here. Wanna taste you.”

Your mouth waters, you love sucking off Beau but Dean’s dick is heavier and it falls on your tongue in just the right way.

You turn your head to the side as Dean comes to stand beside you, squatting down a little so you can take him in your mouth. Your tongue swirls around the tip before you take him all in. His neatly trimmed pubic hair tickles your nose as you bottom out.

Your bounces falter as you focus on the throbbing dick in your mouth. Dean looks down at your lips, swollen and stretched around him. “Nngh… your tongue… ah.” Dean’s babbling incoherently.

His hands come into your hair, pulling you towards him as he bucks his hips into you. “S-shit, fuck,” he whimpers and Beau’s hips snap up into you.

Every moan and whimper that your mouth gets out of Dean earns a snap of Beau’s hips up into you.

“That’s my girl, taking both her boys in.”

Your nails dig into Beau’s chest as Dean’s breathy moans grow louder and faster. He’s close. Your hand comes up to play with his balls and that’s all he can take. He pulls out of your mouth as he cums, wanting to coat you both with it. Warm cum trails down your chin as Dean spills the rest of his climax onto Beau’s chest.

His dick continues twitching in his palm as he comes to a seat next to you. He lazily circles your clit as Beau chases his own release, hips snapping into you in a dizzying pace. Your second orgasm hits you more forcefully than the first. Your eyes squeeze closed until you see stars. You cum with a scream of both of their names.

Engulfed in your wet, clenching, heat, Beau cries out.

“I’m gonna fill you up,” he rasps.

You don’t think you can move, too exhausted and sensitive as Beau continues fucking up into you with pace. You’re willing yourself to move your hips, you want to take good care of him.

“Fuck.” Beau holds you in place as climaxes into you. You feel him throbbing inside of you and you clench, milking him for all he can give you.

You choke back a sob as you lean forward, completely spent.

Dean’s there immediately, wrapping an arm around you and raising you off of Beau’s softening dick. He lays you down and cleans you off with a washcloth. He wipes you gently, aware of how thoroughly fucked you are, and your heart tightens. He puts you under the covers before cleaning Beau up.

Once cleaned, Beau moves to press up behind you.

“Dean, cmhere,” your words slur as sleep threatens to take you over.

Dean climbs into bed beside you and you immediately snuggle into his chest.

“Happy Birthday, boys, I love you,” you say. Two pairs of arms tighten around you and you fall asleep with a smile on your face.

The dream of becoming a lawyer had started when you were young. It hadn't started glamorously, no single defining moment, no courtroom drama that changed everything. Although you really did have a knack for binge-watching shows like How to Get Away with Murder and Suits. But the real want had started with the slow, accumulating understanding that the world was not fair, and that fairness was something you had to build rather than wait for, and that the people who built it tended to know the rules better than everyone else. You had decided, young and furious, that you were going to know the rules.

Now, years later, it finally felt within reach.

Last summer you had taken the LSAT. When the score came back — 176 — you had screamed so loudly your roommate came running from the other room convinced something had happened. Something had happened. Everything had happened. Applying to Harvard had been a no-brainer after that, the natural conclusion of four years of work that had never once felt like anything other than work. To say it had all been a dream would be a lie. You had earned every grade, every internship, every recommendation letter. Every achievement had come attached to long nights and sacrificed weekends and more cups of coffee than you were prepared to account for.

Still, every now and then, you allowed yourself a moment to appreciate how far you had come.

Then you remembered the Harvard interview scheduled in just a few weeks, and the knot in your stomach returned immediately. It lived there, that knot had been living there for months, through the application and the waiting and the acceptance, through every good thing that should have dissolved it and didn't. You had stopped expecting it to go away. You had just learned to work around it.

What if you stumbled over your words? What if they asked something you couldn't answer? What if four years of work came down to one bad afternoon?

Which was exactly why Professor Whitaker's announcement nearly made you lose your mind.

The second she wrote Semester Project across the whiteboard, a collective groan spread through the lecture hall. Over the next month, students would work in pairs to complete a research project on the evolution of constitutional rights in the United States , a project worth a significant portion of the final grade.

At any other point in your college career, that would have been merely annoying.

Right now it felt catastrophic.

You could not afford for your GPA to slip. Not when Harvard was finally within reach. Not when everything you had worked for was balanced on the edge of these last few months. And that meant you absolutely could not get stuck with a partner who didn't care like a jock who only cared about a sport, someone who would contribute three bullet points to a shared document at the eleventh hour and disappear for six weeks while your entire future quietly collapsed.

The thought alone made you grimace.

So as Professor Whitaker reached for her roster and began assigning partners, you found yourself doing something you almost never did.

Praying.

"The class will be sorted according to performance on the most recent exam," Professor Whitaker announced, scanning the room over her glasses. "That way the workload stays balanced and the pairing is fair for everyone."

A few students groaned.

You sat a little straighter.

Actually, that wasn't terrible. At least now there was a reasonable chance your partner wouldn't be dead weight. You had carried enough dead weight in your academic career to last a lifetime and you were done with it.

Professor Whitaker called your name first. You looked up from your notebook on instinct, even though she already knew exactly where you were. You hated change. You liked knowing where everything was. You liked routines, systems, the quiet reliability of things being where you left them.

More importantly, you liked being good at things.

Which was why hearing that your partner would be someone on your level was oddly comforting. Most of your life had been spent balancing on a very thin line between confidence and crippling self-doubt. On good days, you knew you were intelligent. On bad days, you were convinced everyone else was smarter and better than you. The trick was not letting either version get too loud.

Professor Whitaker glanced down at her roster.

The next five seconds would remain engraved in your frontal lobe for at least thirty years.

"Dean DiLaurentis."

Silence.

Jesus H. Christ.

Your head snapped up. Not because you needed to find him. You already knew exactly where he was sitting. You always knew where he was sitting, a fact you had never examined too closely and were not going to start examining now.

Middle of the sixth row. Today he was wearing a green cardigan over a white t-shirt, looking far too comfortable for someone who had just become the source of your newest academic crisis. He was mid-conversation with Beau Maxwell when his name was called, laughing at something, completely unaware that your entire carefully managed semester had just been handed to him without his consent or yours.

Dean turned around.

Then he smiled.

That smile. The one that belonged on toothpaste advertisements and nowhere else, the smile of someone who had never once in his life worried about whether he was welcome somewhere. It was the kind of smile that assumed the answer before the question had been asked, and it had always, privately, made you want to argue with it.

His eyes found yours immediately.

The realization landed half a second later, oh, you're my partner, and his grin widened, and then, because apparently the universe had a sense of humor that you had never personally found funny:

He winked.

He actually winked.

You stared back at him with the expression of someone who had just been personally wronged by the laws of probability.

You knew Dean. Not personally, god forbid. But you knew of him, the way everyone knew of him. Hockey player. Trust fund. Chronic flirt. The kind of person who walked into a room and somehow became the room. Loud and charming and surrounded by people at all times, the social gravity of someone who had never once had to earn a seat at the table.

Meanwhile, you considered making eye contact with strangers a form of cardio.

This could not be right. There had to be a mistake. How could Dean DiLaurentis possibly have a grade comparable to yours?

You spent your Friday nights in the library. You color-coded your notes by subject, by date, by relevance. You had cried over constitutional law, like actual tears, in the bathroom of the third floor study room, alone at eleven pm because that was what it cost and you had paid it without complaint.

Dean spent his weekends at hockey games and parties.

The math simply wasn't mathing.

Unless.

Oh.

Oh, god.

He was sleeping with the TA.

That had to be it. Everything suddenly made horrifying, perfect sense. The TA was a graduate student from somewhere in the Midwest who had spoken to you exactly three times all semester, and every single interaction had felt like she was being held at gunpoint. If Dean was somehow managing to maintain a functional relationship with her —

Honestly? He deserved the extra credit for that alone.

Three months earlier, it had started.

Professor Whitaker had a specific way of running discussion that you had privately categorized as controlled chaos. She threw a question into the room and stepped back and let whoever was going to talk, talk, with the quiet authority of someone who already knew what she thought and was waiting to see if anyone else did. The lecture hall always felt different during these sessions. Bigger somehow, the overhead lights slightly too bright, the charged quality of a room full of people deciding whether to say the thing they were thinking.

You almost always said the thing you were thinking.

Today the question was about Shelley v. Kraemer.

You had opinions about Shelley v. Kraemer.

"The court got it right," you said, when Whitaker's gaze landed on you. "State enforcement of a racially restrictive covenant is state action. The fourteenth amendment doesn't care that the covenant itself was private — the moment a court steps in to enforce it, the state is complicit. You can't separate the two."

Whitaker nodded — the small, noncommittal nod that meant continue or let someone else.

"I'd push back on that a little."

You turned.

Dean had his pen between two fingers, not quite raised, the posture of someone making a point rather than asking permission. He was looking at Whitaker, not at you, which was somehow more irritating than if he had been looking at you directly. Like the argument was with the room rather than with you specifically. Like you were incidental.

"The ruling is right," he said, "but the reasoning has a ceiling. If state enforcement equals state action, you've created a framework that depends entirely on whether someone decides to litigate. The protection isn't structural, it's reactive. It only exists if someone can afford to fight for it."

The room was quiet for a moment.

You became aware, distantly, that your jaw had tightened.

"That's not a flaw in the ruling," you said. "That's a flaw in the system the ruling exists inside of."

"Sure." Dean looked at you then, for the first time. His eyes were steady, interested in a way that wasn't performative. "But you're writing a decision, not a philosophy paper. The decision has to function in the system it's handed to."

"So your position is that the court should have ruled differently because the system might not implement it correctly."

"My position is that a protection that requires money and access to activate isn't really a protection." He said it evenly, without heat. "I thought that would be something you'd agree with."

The last sentence landed differently than the rest.

Not unkind. Not pointed exactly. Just specific, in a way that implied he had thought about what you would and wouldn't agree with, which was a thing he should not have been thinking about. Which meant he had been paying attention quietly and consistently.

Whitaker moved on.

You looked back at your notes and wrote nothing for the remainder of class. Outside the lecture hall windows the sky was the flat white of a November afternoon, and you sat with the particular discomfort of someone who had just been surprised by a person they had already decided to understand.

That was when it had started. Which meant that three months later, sitting in the lecture hall watching him smile at you like you were a problem he was looking forward to solving, you did not have the excuse of not knowing better.

The lecture hall emptied in a slow, shuffling wave that you had no patience for.

You were already packing your bag when you heard him.

"So." Dean dropped into the empty seat beside yours with the casual confidence of someone who had never once been unwelcome anywhere. He turned to face you, one arm resting on the back of the chair, bringing with him the faint smell of something clean, something woody, or the cold outside air. "Partners."

"Observant," you said, without looking up from your notebook.

He made a small sound, not quite a laugh, not quite not one. You could feel him watching you with that specific brand of unhurried attention that probably worked on most people and was currently working on you in ways you were categorically refusing to acknowledge.

"We should exchange numbers," he said. "Figure out when we can meet."

"I have time Thursday afternoon." You zipped your bag closed. "After three."

"Thursday I've got practice until five." He pulled out his phone, apparently unbothered. "What about evenings?"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays I tutor until nine." You finally looked at him. "Weekends I pick up extra sessions when I can."

Something shifted in his expression, brief, almost imperceptible. Not pity. Something more like recalibration, the specific adjustment of someone updating a model they had been working from.

You watched him process it and kept your face completely neutral, the way you always did when people did the math on your schedule and realized there was no give in it, no free afternoon that existed just for the sake of existing. You didn't need him to feel bad about it. You just needed him to understand that his time was not the only time being managed here.

"Okay," Dean said, and to his credit, he didn't make it weird. "Wednesday? I'm free after two."

"I have a session at two."

"After three, then."

You considered this. "Three. Library. Third floor."

"Done." He held out his hand for your phone with the easy expectation of someone who had never once been told no and somehow, inexplicably, made that feel more like charm than arrogance.

You looked at his hand for exactly one beat longer than necessary.

Then you unlocked your phone and placed it in his palm, your fingers brushing his warm hand briefly.

"Don't put anything weird in my contacts," you said.

Dean smiled and typed with the focused, two-thumbed efficiency of someone taking the instruction very seriously.

He handed it back.

You looked down.

Dean DiLaurentis 🏒 (ur partner deal with it)

You stared at it for a long moment.

"Truly," you said, "a legal mind."

He laughed then , a real one, surprised out of him, and stood to leave, shouldering his bag. He paused at the end of the row and looked back at you with the expression of someone who was about to say something and had decided against it.

"Wednesday, then."

"Wednesday," you confirmed, already looking back at your notes.

You did not watch him go.

You listened to his footsteps until you couldn't anymore and then looked back at your notebook and found the page completely blank.

By the time Wednesday rolled around, you had done the mental gymnastics of calculating exactly how much this project was going to cost you. Not much, you had decided. You were already at maximum stress capacity between the Harvard interview and the end of semester closing in, so there was simply no room left for anything Dean DiLaurentis-related to take up residence.

This was the conclusion you had reached.

You woke up early anyway, restless, and got ready with the focused efficiency of someone who was absolutely not anxious about a study session. In the kitchen, Elisa was at the stove, hair still in a braid from the night before, doing something that smelled like butter and brown sugar.

"Morning, sugar plum." She turned and pointed her spatula in your direction. "Do you want to have breakfast with me?"

Elisa was the easiest person you had ever lived with, which was not something you said lightly. You had moved into her house sophomore year knowing no one and she had made you feel like you had been there the whole time. Wednesdays were her day off no classes, no obligations, and she spent them cooking elaborate things and playing at domesticity in a way that you found deeply comforting. She called them the Tradwife Wednesdays, in a joking manner.

"I can't, I have a class I can't miss." You grabbed your bag from the hook by the door. "Sorry."

"That's okay." She stirred something. "Are you coming back for lunch? I'm trying a new caesar salad recipe I found on TikTok. Caesar 2.0."

"I can't do lunch either. I have a study session at noon."

"Bring your partner. We can all have caesar salad 2.0."

"My partner is —" you paused, already regretting what you were about to say — "Dean DiLaurentis."

Elisa put down the spatula.

"Shut up."

"I'm not going to —"

"No way. You hate him."

"I don't hate him."

"Despise, then."

"Not even that." You pulled on your jacket. "I don't care about him at all. He just exists in the same world as me."

"Sure," Elisa said, in the tone she used when she was humoring you. She picked up the spatula again. "Ask him if he remembers our little trip in the Mystery Machine."

"Goodbye, Elisa."

"Caesar salad is on the table if you change your —"

You closed the door.

session one

He was already there when you arrived.

That was the first thing that threw you off, small and inconvenient, the kind of detail that shouldn't matter and did anyway. Dean DiLaurentis, sitting at the table you had specifically chosen because it was tucked into the back corner of the third floor, away from foot traffic and group study noise and every possible social distraction. You had chosen it because it was your table, the one you came to when you needed to actually work, claimed over three years of afternoons and late nights. The carpet near the window had a worn patch from your chair. You knew which overhead light buzzed slightly and had learned to tune it out.

He was sitting in your chair.

He had a coffee on each side of the table.

Two coffees.

You stopped.

"I didn't know your order," he said, not looking up. "So I got you black. You seem like a black coffee person."

You were a black coffee person.

You sat down without commenting on it and pulled out your laptop.

"I started an outline," Dean said. "Sent it to your email."

You opened it without responding. It was actually structured. Clean headers, logical progression. You stared at it for a moment longer than you intended, turning it over, looking for the flaw. There wasn't one.

"You cited Marbury v. Madison in the intro," you said.

"It's foundational."

"It's also the first thing every professor expects to see. It makes us look like we opened the textbook once and called it a day."

He looked up then. "So where would you put it?"

"Section three. After we've established the framework."

Dean looked at the outline. Then back at you. "...Yeah, okay."

You pulled it up on your own screen and started restructuring. He watched for a second, then turned back to his own laptop without making it a thing, and something about that: the absence of wounded ego, the lack of argument, the simple yeah, okay, was quietly unexpected.

You worked in silence for a while. A real silence, the functional kind, punctuated only by typing and the occasional ambient noise of the floor around you, someone whispering two tables over, the elevator arriving and departing, the hush of a library in the afternoon when the day outside has gone grey.

At some point he shifted in his seat and his foot knocked against yours under the table. He pulled it back immediately, said a distracted sorry without looking up, and kept typing.

You looked back at your screen.

Ten minutes later it happened again his foot finding yours under the table, settling against it with the absent, unthinking quality of someone who wasn't paying attention to their own body. This time he didn't notice. Or didn't move. You couldn't tell which.

You didn't move either.

You looked at your screen and read the same sentence four times and told yourself it was nothing, the table was small, it meant nothing at all.

His ankle was warm against yours for the rest of the session.

An hour passed, and then another. The coffee went cold. The light through the window shifted from afternoon grey to early evening grey, and you were deep enough in the due process section that you had stopped noticing either.

"Take a break," Dean said, without looking up.

"I don't need a break."

"You've reread that page four times."

You looked up. He was still looking at his notes, which meant he had been paying attention to you without appearing to pay attention to you, which was somehow worse than if he had just been watching you openly.

You closed the case study.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean leaned back in his chair all the way back, with the easy, unhurried comfort of someone who had never had to fight for a seat at any table he wanted to sit at. You had noticed that about him early, the specific posture of someone for whom things had always been available, every room an environment that had been pre-adjusted to suit him. It was the kind of thing that was difficult not to notice when you had spent your entire life doing the opposite.

"You know," you said, mostly because the silence was starting to feel companionable in a way you weren't ready for, "you hooked up with a friend of mine once."

Dean looked up. Something shifted in his expression mild interest, maybe the faintest trace of wariness. "Oh really."

"Daphne."

A pause. He turned the name over, and you watched the moment he didn't find it.

"I don't remember," he said.

"She was dressed as Daphne for Halloween. You were, surprisingly, dressed as Fred."

Something cleared in his expression. "Halloween two years ago?"

"That would be the one."

He considered this with the equanimity of someone who had made peace with a certain kind of personal history. "Can I ask why you're bringing this up?"

"No particular reason." You picked up your cold coffee. "Can you even remember her name?"

"I just said I couldn't."

"Right." You set the coffee back down. "Well. For the record."

Dean looked at you for a moment with the expression you were already starting to recognize the one that meant he was deciding whether to say the thing he was thinking. He usually said it.

"You know," he said, "you hooked up with a friend of mine too."

You kept your expression very neutral. "Did I."

"Garrett."

"We made out at a party freshman year," you said, with the patience of someone correcting a factual error. "Did he tell you we hooked up?"

"He didn't say anything." Dean's mouth curved slightly. "I saw you two leaving and made an assumption."

"A wrong one."

"Clearly." He tilted his head. "So. Has Daphne said anything? About her experience."

You considered the question with the gravity it deserved.

"She tried to tell me," you said. "I didn't want to hear it."

"So she didn't give a great review."

"Ravishing," you said pleasantly. "It almost made me want to sleep with you too." You paused. "But then I remembered I have something called self-respect."

Dean laughed a real one, sudden and unguarded. It was, you noted with some irritation, a genuinely good laugh. Warm and surprised, the laugh of someone who had not seen it coming and was delighted by that fact. The kind of laugh that made you want to have caused it again.

"That's funny," he said.

"I know."

He was still smiling when he looked back down at his notes. You looked back at your case study. The library settled back into its particular silence the low buzz of the overhead light, the distant elevator, thirty people pretending they weren't exhausted but something had shifted in the quality of it. Imperceptibly, the way temperature changes in a room before anyone acknowledges it's warmer.

You didn't say anything about it.

Neither did he.

Twenty minutes later he slid his notes across the table, pointing out something you had missed without making it feel like a correction. You leaned in to look without thinking about leaning in and then you were close, closer than you had been all session, his shoulder warm against yours, and you could see the slight curl of his handwriting on the page and the way his finger traced the line he was pointing to, and you became aware very suddenly of his hands. How big they were. How deliberate.

You had not thought about his hands before. Or you had thought about them in passing and moved on. But up close, right now, pointing at a citation on a page they were careful and unhurried, the kind that did things with attention.

You looked at the citation.

"You're right," you said. "Good catch."

He glanced at you sideways, briefly, with that expression.

You both looked back at the page.

Neither of you moved away.

It was near the end of the session when it happened. You were flagging sources, half your attention on the screen, the room around you reduced to the low hum of concentration, when Dean said, mostly to himself, still reading:

"You always sit in the same seat."

You glanced up. "What?"

He seemed to catch himself, just barely, a slight tensing around his jaw. "In Whitaker's class. Third row, right side, second from the aisle. Every lecture."

The air shifted in a way that was difficult to name. Outside the library window the sky had gone fully dark, the glass reflecting the room back at you, two people at a table, closer than they had been three hours ago, the space between them negotiated down to nothing without either of them signing off on it.

"I like consistency," you said, after a beat.

"Yeah." He looked back at his screen. Something in his jaw had gone slightly careful. "I know."

I know.

Two words. Completely neutral on the surface and yet carrying the specific weight of something that had not been meant to be said out loud. Not an admission exactly. More like a door opened a half-inch before he caught it and eased it shut , slowly enough that you both knew it had moved.

You looked at him for a moment.

He did not look back up.

"We should finish the first amendment section," you said.

"Yeah," Dean said. "Probably."

You both looked at your screens.

Neither of you said anything else about it.

You packed up at eight-fifteen, twenty minutes later than planned. The third floor was empty by then, the overhead lights on their late setting. You walked to the elevator in a silence that had become, somewhere in the last six hours, a different kind of silence entirely, not neutral, not loaded, just inhabited.

In the elevator he stood beside you with his shoulder against yours, the same way it had been at the table, and neither of you shifted. The floor numbers climbed down. You looked straight ahead.

His ankle had been warm against yours for three hours and you had not moved away once.

You filed that under the place where you kept everything you weren't ready to examine yet.

session two

The second study session had started with considerably less hostility than the first, which you were choosing not to read into.

It was late afternoon again, the library emptying out around you as people made the reasonable decision to leave, and you and Dean had been working for three hours straight with the focused efficiency of two people who were both too competitive to be the first to suggest stopping. The case briefs were spread across the table in a system that was half yours and half his and somehow, irritatingly, better than either would have been alone. Your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. Your precision and his instinct for where an argument wanted to go.

You had noticed that yesterday too. Filed it away.

What you had not filed away or had tried to and failed was the moment an hour into the session when he had reached across you to grab a case brief from your side of the table without asking, and his arm had crossed in front of you close enough that you felt the warmth of it before it was gone. He hadn't noticed. He had grabbed the brief and gone back to his side of the table and kept reading, completely unaware.

You had read the same paragraph for twelve minutes after that.

"Okay," Dean said, dropping his pen and leaning back. "Break."

"We just had a break."

"That was an hour ago."

You looked at the time. It had been an hour and twenty minutes, which meant you had lost track of time, which meant you had been absorbed enough in the work — in the conversation around the work, the back and forth of it, the way he argued a point and actually listened when you argued back — that the time had disappeared without asking permission.

You put your pen down.

"Fine," you said. "Break."

Dean stretched his arms above his head with the unselfconscious ease of someone completely comfortable in his own body, the cardigan riding up slightly, a sliver of skin at his waist, the line of his shoulders, the way his head fell back for a moment, which you observed in a purely detached and analytical capacity and then looked at the ceiling.

"So," he said. "Harvard Law."

"What about it."

"That's the goal?"

"That's the goal," you confirmed.

He nodded slowly, with an expression that was hard to read. Then, in a voice of complete casual confidence: "What, like it's hard?"

You turned to look at him.

He was already smiling.

"That's the second time today," you said, "that you have made a Legally Blonde reference."

"Is it?"

"You quoted it earlier when I said the admissions rate was three percent."

"I don't remember that."

"Dean."

"It's a great film."

You looked at him for a moment. "Is it your favorite movie?"

"Top two," he said, without hesitation. "Just after Top Gun."

You stared at him. Dean DiLaurentis. Hockey player, pre-law, top of the class, sitting in the library surrounded by case briefs, whose top two films were Legally Blonde and Top Gun.

"God," you said.

He laughed. "What?"

"Nothing." You picked up your pen. "It explains a lot actually."

"Does it."

"The confidence," you said, gesturing vaguely at him. "The hair. The complete inability to walk into a room without knowing exactly how you're going to be received." You paused. "You've watched both of those films a concerning number of times, haven't you."

Dean pointed at you. "Elle Woods and Pete Mitchell are two of the most —"

"Please don't finish that sentence."

"— compelling character studies in the history of American cinema."

You laughed and put your head down on the table.

His laugh was warm and close and you could feel it more than hear it, and when you looked up he was leaning on his elbow facing you — close, comfortable in the way he had gotten over the past two sessions, close enough that you could see the specific color of his eyes in the library light, and the way they crinkled at the corners when he was actually amused rather than performing it. The late afternoon light was doing something completely unreasonable to his face — the angles of it, the warmth of it, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone making a deliberate choice.

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work," he agreed.

But he was still smiling when he turned back to his notes, and you were very carefully not smiling, and the library was quiet around you in that way it had been yesterday, warmer than it should have been, the silence between you easier than it had any right to be.

Top two, you thought, against your will. Just after Top Gun.

God help you.

You made it another forty minutes before it went sideways.

It started, as these things often did, over something small.

Dean wanted to include a law review article you thought was analytically weak. You had said so. He had disagreed. It had escalated with the particular efficiency of two people who were very good at arguing and had been carefully not arguing for weeks, the pressure of it finding the first available exit.

"It's not a weak source," Dean said, for the second time. "You just don't like the conclusion."

"I don't like the conclusion because the methodology doesn't support it. There's a difference."

"You've said that. You haven't explained it."

"I sent you three paragraphs —"

"You sent me three paragraphs about why you were right," he said. "That's not the same thing."

You looked up from your laptop. He was looking back at you with the expression that meant he was done being patient, and something about that, the specific quality of it, the fact that he was allowed to be done being patient when you had been managing your frustration for weeks —

"You know what, it doesn't matter," you said. "Include it. It's fine."

"Don't do that."

"Do what."

"Shut down and say it's fine when it's not fine." He closed his laptop halfway. "If you have a problem with the source, say it."

"I have a problem with a lot of things," you said, and it came out with an edge you hadn't entirely intended. "I have a problem with the fact that I have no idea how much of this grade I'm actually carrying."

The air in the room changed entirely. The low buzz of the overhead light was suddenly very audible.

Dean went very still. "What does that mean."

It means I've been doing this alone my whole life and I don't know how to stop assuming I'm about to have to do it again. That was what it meant. That was not what came out.

"It means," you said, and your voice was measured in the way it got when you were saying something you couldn't take back, "that I don't actually know how you scored high enough on that exam to get paired with me."

Silence.

Dean looked at you. Something moved behind his eyes, not hurt exactly. The thing that came just before.

"Say what you mean," he said quietly.

And because you were frustrated and tired and the Harvard interview was in two weeks and you had been holding this assumption for long enough that it had started to feel like fact —

"I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA."

The silence that followed was a different kind entirely. Heavy and still, the kind that has a shape.

Dean sat back. He looked at you for a long moment with an expression you had never seen on him before — not the easy charm, not the careful attention, not the almost-smile. Something stripped of all of that, all the way down.

"I got a ninety-four on that exam," he said. "I got a ninety-four because I studied for it. I study for all of them." A pause. Each word placed with precision. "I know you think I'm here because of my last name or my hockey stats or whoever you've decided I'm sleeping with. I know that's easier than just —" he stopped. Exhaled slowly. "I've been doing the work. I've been here every session. I don't know what else you want from me."

You opened your mouth.

"And the TA," he said, " she has a girlfriend. So."

He opened his laptop again. The sound of it was very loud in the quiet room.

You looked at your screen. The cursor blinked in the document you had been sharing for two weeks, both your names in the top corner. You were acutely, uncomfortably aware of the specific kind of wrong you had just been.

Not about the source.

About him.

"Dean —"

"First amendment section," he said. Not cold. Not cruel. Just done. "Let's just finish."

You looked at him for a moment.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "Okay."

The Legally Blonde conversation felt like it had happened in a different library entirely.

Top two, he had said, and laughed, and looked at you like you were something worth looking at.

You stared at the cursor and said nothing else.

Neither did he.

session three

The third session was on a Tuesday.

You knew because Tuesdays you tutored until nine, which meant you had come straight from the library's second floor where you had spent an hour and a half walking a freshman through the commerce clause, and you were tired in the specific way of someone who had been performing competence for other people all day and had very little left over for themselves.

You had also been thinking about what you said for five days straight.

Not continuously. Like something that sits in the back of your mind and surfaces at inconvenient moments — in the shower, between tutoring sessions, at two in the morning when you should have been sleeping and instead were staring at the ceiling cataloguing every assumption you had ever made about Dean DiLaurentis and finding most of them wanting. I thought maybe you were sleeping with the TA. The words had a particular quality in retrospect, the quality of something that could not be unsaid, that existed now in the permanent record of things he knew about you.

You pushed open the door to the third floor reading room and told yourself you were fine.

Dean was already there.

Of course he was. He was always already there, with his laptop open and his notes spread out in the handwriting you had become, against your will, familiar with, slightly left-leaning, inconsistent spacing, somehow completely legible. He looked up when you came in. The room smelled like old paper and the particular warmth of a space that had been occupied for a while, and the overhead light buzzed its familiar note.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said back.

You sat down. Not beside him, you took the chair across the table, the one you had started in, back when the table felt like a neutral territory that required a border. You pulled out your laptop and opened the shared document and did not look at him.

He did not comment on the seating arrangement.

That was somehow worse than if he had.

You worked. The session had the functional efficiency of two people who were both too professional to let personal things affect the work, which meant the work was fine and everything around it was not. He passed you sources without commentary. You flagged edits without explanation. The back and forth that had become almost conversational — the small arguments, the digressions, the way he said okay when you made a point he couldn't refute — was gone.

The overhead light buzzed. Someone turned a page three tables over.

Around the forty-minute mark he said, "the due process section needs another source."

"I know," you said. "I'm looking."

"I found one this morning. Sent it to your email."

"I haven't checked yet."

"It's good."

"Okay."

Silence.

You checked your email. The source was good. You added it to the document without saying so and heard, very faintly, the sound of him exhaling.

An hour passed like that.

You had just pulled up a new case brief when Dean leaned back in his chair and said, to no one in particular, "I don't actually care about the TA."

You looked up.

He was looking at the ceiling, not at you, with the expression of someone who had decided to say a thing and was committed to the delivery. "I just want you to know that. In case it was still sitting there."

Outside the library window, the campus was dark and wet with recent rain, the paths lit amber under the streetlights.

"It was sitting there," you admitted.

"Yeah." He brought his gaze down to his notes. "I figured."

"Dean —"

"You don't have to." He said it simply, without edge. "I'm fine. I just didn't want it to be weird for the rest of the semester."

"It's already a little weird," you said.

"I know."

Another silence — but this one had more air in it, the quality of a silence that had been cleared rather than accumulated.

"I'm going to apologize properly," you said. "I just haven't figured out how yet."

Dean was quiet for a moment. Then, very carefully, not quite a smile: "Does it involve food."

You said nothing.

"It does," he said. "Okay."

"Back to work," you said.

"Back to work."

You heard her before you saw her.

The click of heels on library floor that had nothing to do with studying, moving with the purposeful energy of someone who had a destination and knew exactly what they wanted when they got there. You didn't look up. You were in the middle of a paragraph and you had a system and you were not going to lose your place.

The heels stopped at your table.

"Hey." Not directed at you. You turned a page. "I've been looking for you."

"Hey." Dean's voice, easy and careful. "Didn't know you were on campus today."

"I wasn't. Now I am." A pause with a specific texture. "Come outside for like five minutes."

"I can't right now, we're working."

We. You noted the word and kept reading.

"Five minutes," she said again. "It's not a big deal."

"I know it's not. I just can't right now."

You turned another page. The paragraph was about tort law and you had read the same sentence three times and retained nothing.

"Dean —"

"Seriously." His voice was still easy but there was something underneath it now, something with weight. "I'll text you later, okay?"

A silence. The kind that meant she was deciding something.

"Who even is she?" The question was directed at you. You looked up for the first time, because that was directed at you, and you had opinions about being spoken about in the third person by someone standing four feet away.

The girl was pretty in the specific, polished way of someone who had never had to try very hard at it. She was looking at you with an expression that was more curious than hostile, which somehow made it worse.

"His project partner," you said pleasantly. "We have a deadline."

"It's literally five minutes —"

"We're aware of how long five minutes is," you said, in the tone you had been practicing for courtrooms. "He said he'll text you. The reading room is a shared space and we're trying to work, so." You smiled. "Thank you."

The girl looked at you. Looked at Dean. Looked back at you with an expression that had shifted into something more speculative, something that said she understood more than you had intended to reveal.

Then she left.

The heels clicked back across the library floor and faded, and the room settled back into its particular silence, and you looked back at your notes with the focused energy of someone who had not just done what they had just done.

From across the table, nothing.

You turned a page.

More nothing.

You looked up.

Dean was looking at his notes with the carefully neutral expression of someone using every available resource not to smile.

"What," you said.

"Nothing."

"Say whatever you're going to say."

"I'm not going to say anything."

"Dean."

"I'm just —" He pressed his mouth closed. The not-smile was winning. "Thank you for your help."

"I didn't do it for you," you said immediately. "She was interrupting. It was annoying."

"Completely understandable."

"I would have done the same for anyone."

"Of course."

"It had nothing to do with —" You stopped. "We have three more pages to get through."

"We do," Dean agreed, in the voice of someone being very, very agreeable.

You looked back at your notes.

I would have done the same for anyone.

You were a pre-law student. You were supposed to be good at arguments.

That one had convinced neither of you.

You packed up at nine-fifteen, later than planned, and Dean walked out with you the way he had started doing without either of you deciding he would.

"She's no one," Dean said, when the elevator arrived. Not defensive. Just offered.

You stepped inside. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

"I know." The doors closed. "I wanted to anyway."

You looked at the floor number climbing. He looked straight ahead. The elevator was small and you were standing close , his arm against yours, the cedar smell of him in the enclosed space, and something about the cleared air of the session, the I'm going to apologize properly, the we he had said without thinking, settled between you like something that had decided to stay.

The doors opened.

"Wednesday," you said.

"Wednesday," he confirmed.

You walked out into the night and did not look back.

You were going to need a very good cake.

session four

It was week four of the project, and Dean had gone back to sitting beside you, in the most inconspicuous way possible.

It had been gradual and deniable at every individual step. First the chair had been angled slightly toward yours. Then it had migrated. Now your thighs brushed every time either of you shifted, and you were acutely, unhelpfully aware of the warmth of his forearm against yours, the cedar-and-cold-air smell of him that you had catalogued in the first session and had been trying unsuccessfully to un-catalogue since.

Things had been a little strange since the fight.

The fight you had caused. With assumptions you had made. About a TA who, it turned out, had a girlfriend.

You had settled, eventually, on cake — specifically the lemon cake Elisa had made that morning, wrapped in foil and sitting on the table between your laptops like a small citrus-scented olive branch, which Dean had looked at when you arrived and had not yet commented on.

You had not told him it was Elisa's. You were not going to examine why.

"So," you started.

Dean looked up from his laptop.

"I would like to apologize."

He held your gaze for a moment. Something in his expression shifted — careful, like he was deciding how much to give you. "It's okay."

"It really isn't, Dean." You turned to face him, which was a tactical error because it meant you were now very close to him, close enough that you could see the dark blue of his eyes in the library light, and the soft fabric of the cardigan where your knee was almost touching his. "I made assumptions. I think the worst of people sometimes and I let it get ahead of me. You've been doing the work. I knew that and I said it anyway. That wasn't fair."

Dean looked at you for a long moment.

"It's truly okay," he said quiet and uncomplicated, completely without performance. "I get it. I know what it looks like from the outside."

"That doesn't make it okay."

"No," he said. "But it makes it understandable."

You looked at him. He looked back at you. The study room was very quiet, the overhead light doing its particular low buzz, the air carrying old paper and coffee and the warm-wool smell of his cardigan.

"The cake is Elisa's," you said, because you needed to say something. "My roommate. She made it this morning and I brought it."

Dean's mouth curved. "You brought me a peace offering."

"I brought us a snack."

"A lemon cake wrapped in foil."

"We've been here three hours."

"That," he said, "is the most you thing I've ever heard." He reached over and broke off a piece without ceremony, and you watched his hands doing it those careful, deliberate and huge hands of his, and felt something tighten somewhere that you immediately filed under irrelevant.

"Good?" you asked.

"Really good." He looked at you with the quiet expression, the one that sat closer to the surface. "Tell Elisa thank you."

"Tell her yourself," you said, and then realized what that implied, and looked back at your laptop.

Dean didn't say anything.

But he didn't look away.

You worked. The tension in the room had changed quality, no longer the awkward residue of an unresolved argument, something else now, something that had been building for four weeks and was running out of places to go. You were aware of him the way you had been aware of him since that first session, the warmth of his arm against yours, the sound of his breathing in the quiet room, the way he tucked the pen behind his ear when he was reading something carefully.

You were looking at your screen. You were not reading anything on it.

He shifted beside you. His knee pressed against yours under the table, not accidentally, not with the absent quality of the foot under the table in session one, but deliberately, with the specific patience of someone making a point without words.

You looked at your screen.

His knee stayed where it was.

Fine, you thought. Fine.

You did not move away.

Another twenty minutes passed like that, both of you working, neither of you acknowledging the point of contact, the room very warm and very quiet. And then Dean reached over, not for a case brief this time, his hand finding yours on the table, covering it, not grabbing, just resting there. Still. Like a question asked very quietly.

You looked down at his hand on yours.

You looked up at him.

He was already looking at you and he didn't say anything, didn't push, just held your gaze with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while and had decided to stop waiting quietly.

You turned your hand over under his.

Something shifted in his face. Not the smile, something more careful than that, something that meant more.

Then his hand came up slowly, fingers brushing your jaw, turning your face toward his unhurried, giving you every opportunity to move.

You didn't move.

His eyes met yours — a question, patient and certain — and you answered it by closing your eyes and leaning in, and then his mouth was on yours.

You had kissed people before.

This was categorically different.

It started soft and then didn't stay that way. His hand slid into your hair and yours found the front of his cardigan — soft wool under your fingers, the solid warmth of him underneath — and when his tongue met yours you made a sound you were going to spend considerable time not thinking about.

The kiss was unhurried. Calculated in the best possible way. Dean kissed you like he had all the time in the world, and when air became a necessary concern he pulled back smiling, pressed a soft peck to your lips, and began a slow trail of kisses along your jaw and down your neck.

His mouth was warm on your neck, lips dragging slow enough to make your breath catch, and his hand slid down your thigh with a deliberate patience that made it very clear he was in no hurry whatsoever.

You pulled his hair and got a low, rough sound against your skin in return, and then his hand found your waist and pulled, dragging you onto his lap until you were straddling him and there was no distance left to negotiate.

You could feel exactly what four weeks of thighs brushing and careful silences had done to him.

Dean — you heard yourself saying. Dean, Dean —

Your hands had found their way under his shirt, palms flat against his stomach, and when you dragged your nails lightly down his skin he smiled against your mouth and rolled his hips up into yours with a slow, pointed pressure that dissolved whatever thought you'd been forming completely.

A loud, deliberate cough came from the doorway.

Mrs. Miller, the night librarian, stood in the entrance with the expression of a woman who had seen too much and was being paid nowhere near enough.

You scrambled back. Dean straightened. A beat of absolute silence.

"We're leaving," you said, with as much dignity as the situation permitted. "We're so sorry, Mrs. Miller."

Mrs. Miller said nothing. She held the door open with the energy of someone who had made peace with humanity's worst impulses but did not have to enjoy them.

You gathered your things in record time. Dean had the audacity to look almost completely composed, which was deeply unfair given the state of his hair, which was your fault. You looked away.

Outside in the hallway you made it three steps before he said:

"So."

"Don't."

"I was just going to —"

"I know what you were going to say."

A pause. Then, with great personal restraint: "Okay."

You made it to the elevator before you looked at him. He was already looking at you.

"The cake was really good," he said.

"Shut up, Dean."

He laughed. The elevator doors closed. You stood in the small lit space of it with your shoulders touching and said nothing else the whole way down.

You were both smiling though.

session five

The fifth session was on a Wednesday.

You had been avoiding him since the awkward encounter with Mrs. Miller.

Not obviously, you were too disciplined for obvious. You had shown up to every class, done every piece of work, responded to every text within a reasonable time. You had simply pulled back the parts of yourself that had started, over four weeks of thighs brushing and functional silences and one extremely ill-advised study room incident, to lean toward him without permission.

You were good at pulling back. You had been doing it your whole life.

The third floor smelled like old paper and the warmth of a space occupied all day, the radiator ticking in the corner, the last of the evening light grey through the windows. Dean was already at the table. He looked up when you came in. You sat across from him, the original position, the border re-established, and he looked at it and then looked at his laptop and said nothing.

You worked.

The project was almost finished. This was the last session, a conclusion, a bibliography built jointly over five weeks, your color-coded tabs and his margin notes. It was good work. You were going to get an A on this project.

You were also going to have no reason to sit in this library with Dean DiLaurentis after next week.

You were not examining that.

"We need to talk about the conclusion," Dean said, around the hour mark.

"I know. I drafted something last night, it's in the doc."

He found it. Read it. Was quiet for long enough that you looked up.

"It's good," he said.

"I know."

Another silence. He wasn't reading anymore.

"Are you going to keep doing this," he said, "or."

"Doing what."

"You know what."

"Dean —"

"Because I can." Simply, without heat. "If that's what you want, I can pretend that kiss didn't happen and we finish the project and that's it. I'm not going to make it weird." A pause. "Weirder."

You said nothing. Outside the window the campus was dark and wet, the paths amber-lit below.

"But I'd like to know," he said, "so I can stop waiting for you to tell me."

The library was very quiet. The radiator ticked. The overhead light buzzed.

"It's not that simple," you said finally.

"Okay." He waited.

"I have the Harvard interview in four days. I have a GPA I cannot let slip. I cannot afford to be distracted by —" you stopped.

"By me," he said.

"By anything."

He was quiet. "That's fair."

"And you don't —" you stopped. Started over. "You don't do this. Whatever this would be. I've heard enough to know that's not something you do. Rollercoaster ride or something like that."

Dean looked at you then. Fully, the way he didn't always let himself — all the way, no management.

"What have you heard," he said.

"Dean."

"No. Specifically."

You met his gaze. "That you don't do relationships. That it's always casual. That you're consistent about that."

He held your gaze.

"That was true," he said. "For a long time that was true."

"And now?"

He looked at you like the answer was obvious and he was simply waiting for you to arrive at it, with the patience of someone who had been waiting for a while.

You looked back at your laptop. Your chest felt tight. You had spent five weeks building a careful wall and he had just put his hand flat against it and pushed, gently, without drama, without raising his voice.

The same way he had put his hand over yours on the table.

Just resting there. Like a question asked very quietly.

"Four more pages," you said.

Dean was quiet for a beat.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

You both looked at your screens.

You finished the project.

Professor Whitaker announced the grades on a Thursday morning.

You were in your seat when she read them out.

A plus.

You looked up. Dean was already looking at you from the sixth row, and the smile on his face was the quiet one, the one you had catalogued in week two and had been trying not to think about since. It crossed the room and landed somewhere specific.

You gathered your things after class with the focused efficiency of someone with somewhere to be, and you almost made it to the door.

"Hey." He fell into step beside you in the hallway, easy and unhurried, bringing with him the cedar smell. "A plus."

"A plus," you confirmed.

"Told you the Marbury placement was better in section three."

"That was my idea."

"I agreed with it enthusiastically."

"You said yeah, okay and went back to your laptop."

"Enthusiastically," he repeated.

You stopped walking. The hallway moved around you, students flowing past, and Dean stopped too, and you were standing in the middle of it looking at him.

You had done it. You had actually done it. Four years of work and one extremely stressful semester and a project partner you had spent the first two weeks convinced was going to ruin everything, and you had gotten an A plus and the Harvard interview was tomorrow.

The knot in your stomach, which had lived there so long you had stopped noticing it, was gone.

Dean was looking at you with an expression that had gone soft in a way you weren't ready for.

You hugged him.

You weren't sure you had decided to. Your arms were around him and his were around you a half second later, one hand flat between your shoulder blades, and he was warm and solid and smelled so good, and you stayed there for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

The hallway moved around you. Neither of you moved.

When you pulled back he was still looking at you.

"Good luck tomorrow," he said quietly. "You don't need it. But good luck."

You nodded. Looked at him for one more second.

Then you walked away.

You made it to the end of the hallway before you thought —

oh.

oh no.

And kept walking anyway.

the wednesday after

The Wednesday after the interview, you were in the kitchen with Elisa when the doorbell rang.

Elisa looked at you. You looked at Elisa.

"Are you expecting someone?" she asked.

"No."

"Should I get it?"

"I'll get it," you said, in the tone of someone who had a feeling.

You opened the door.

Dean DiLaurentis was standing on your porch in a green cardigan — of course he was, he owned approximately nine of them — holding grocery store flowers and a DVD copy of Legally Blonde.

You stared at him.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi."

"I heard the interview went well."

"How did you hear that."

"Beau knows your roommate apparently."

You were going to have words with Elisa. "It went well," you confirmed.

"Good." He held out the flowers. The stems were slightly damp from the cold outside. "These are for you."

You took them. "And the DVD."

"Also for you."

"Dean." You looked at him. "I don't own a DVD player."

Something flickered in his expression, that almost-smile. "I know."

"So this is."

"A reason to invite me in," he said simply. "So we can watch it on your laptop. If you want."

"My laptop also doesn't have a DVD player."

He made a gesture as if to throw the DVD across the lawn, which made you laugh despite yourself.

You looked at him standing on your porch and thought about five weeks of sessions, the foot under the table, the arm reaching across you, the knee pressed deliberately against yours, the hand resting over yours on the table, quiet as a question.

"You drove here," you said, "with a DVD."

"I did."

"That's extremely old fashioned. You might as well stand under my window with a boombox playing George Michael."

"If that's what you want."

"Most people would have just texted."

"I'm not most people," he said, simply, without needing anyone to confirm it.

You stepped back from the door.

"Elisa made caesar salad," you said. "She's been waiting for an excuse to feed someone new."

Dean stepped inside. The warmth of the house closed around him.

"I love caesar salad," he said.

"I know you do," you said, closing the door. "It's very you. That and like, Steak Tartare."

"What's wrong with Steak Tartare?"

Elisa lasted forty-five minutes before she announced she was going to her boyfriend's and picked up her keys with the energy of someone who had orchestrated something and was not going to pretend otherwise. You did not look at Dean when she left. You heard the door close and the house settle into quiet and then it was just the two of you on the couch with the TV on and Elle Woods on the screen, his arm warm along the back of the cushion behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of it without it quite touching.

You had made it approximately eleven minutes into the film.

"I got in," you said, to the screen.

Dean went still.

"The interview —" you stopped. The room was very quiet. The lamp on the side table cast everything amber, warmer than the library had ever been. "They called this morning. I got in."

A beat of silence.

"Harvard," he said.

"Harvard," you confirmed.

Another beat, long enough that you turned to look at him. He was already looking at you.

"I knew you would," he said.

And then he kissed you.

It felt like something he had been waiting to do since the door opened, like Elisa leaving had simply removed the last obstacle between the moment and itself. His lips were on yours immediately, and Dean tasted like mint, and you found yourself wondering distantly if he had come here prepared for this, if this was always how tonight was supposed to end.

He didn't kiss like a careful person. His tongue was thorough and consuming and somewhere in the back of your mind you remembered that cliché about tongues fighting for dominance, that was what Dean was doing, except you found you had absolutely no desire to fight him for it. You would give him whatever he wanted.

Your hands found his shoulders. His found your waist, your thighs, and then settled, decisively, with intent, on your ass. An ass man, you noted, which tracked completely. He pulled you closer and you went willingly, swinging one leg over his knees until you were straddling him. He groaned in satisfaction, his hands pulling you flush against him, his hips rising to meet yours.

Air became a problem. You pulled back, opening your eyes, and found Dean with his eyes still closed, already searching for your mouth again. You gave him a small peck, then made a slow path of kisses from his mouth to his ear to his neck.

On his neck you bit him, lightly, experimentally, and the response was immediate. His hand came down on your ass in a sharp reflexive slap that startled a breathless laugh out of you. Through your skirt and his jeans you could feel exactly how much he was enjoying this, and you rolled your hips deliberately. The sound that came out of him made you stop entirely.

God. You wanted to hear that sound on repeat for the foreseeable future.

He seemed to resurface from wherever he had gone, and then he was standing, actually standing, with you in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his back.

"So," he started, eyes dropping to your mouth in a way that was frankly unfair. "Where's your bedroom?"

"Up the stairs, first door on the left," you answered against his neck, punctuating it with another bite.

"Stop teasing me or I'll drop you."

As a direct response you attempted to suck a mark into his neck. He fake-stumbled dramatically on the first step, which made you shriek and then immediately muffle it, and he laughed, low and warm and entirely too pleased with himself.

"I told you," he said.

You made it to your bedroom, and you silently praised the rare burst of energy that had led you to tidy it the night before. He dropped you onto the bed and you propped yourself up on your elbows and watched him pull off his cardigan and then the white shirt underneath.

You let out a slow whistle.

Hockey had been very, very good to him.

"Has anyone ever told you you're kind of annoying?" he said, dropping to his knees at the foot of the bed and pushing your legs open. His eyes went to your underwear. Something in his expression softened. "Cute underwear."

"Only this blond guy I'm sort of into," you said, focusing very hard on something other than what was about to happen. "And I wasn't planning on sleeping with anyone today, hence the polka dot Snoopy panties."

"No, I genuinely think they're cute," he said, and pressed a kiss to your clothed center that made your breath catch. "But they do have to go."

He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down, and then — you watched, incredulous — tucked them into the back pocket of his jeans.

"Absolutely not —"

"Focus," he said.

"You're so wet," Dean murmured, his gaze on you in a way that made you feel simultaneously embarrassed and triumphant. He kissed the inside of your knee, your inner thigh, everywhere except where you needed him. "All from just kissing?"

"Stop teasing," you whined.

"Not so funny anymore, is it."

"Please, Dean —"

"Please?" He looked up at you, and the expression on his face was criminal. "So you're telling me I spent weeks and months putting up with you being rude to me, when I could have had you this polite just by bending you over a table?"

The image that produced made you moan before you could stop yourself.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this," he said, voice low. "To taste you."

His tongue pressed flat against your center and you moaned so loudly you were immediately grateful Elisa had left. He explored you with single-minded thoroughness, his tongue parting you, learning you, the sounds filling the room obscenely, the wet heat of his mouth and your increasingly frantic responses.

When his mouth found your clit your hands flew to his hair, pulling, trying to bring him impossibly closer.

"You taste so fucking sweet," Dean said against you.

"Fuck — Dean —"

The feeling built and crested and his hand came down across your stomach to hold your hips in place as they jerked. Your thighs trembled. He felt the way you clenched around nothing and knew.

"Be a good girl and come for me."

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking — sudden and total.

"Dean — oh my god —"

He worked you through it, his tongue slowing gradually until he finally pulled back. When he stood you were completely wrecked, sprawled across the bed, unable to form a sentence, staring up at him. His chin was wet. He looked insufferably composed.

He removed his jeans and helped you out of your dress, then came down over you on the bed, his weight settling between your thighs. He kissed you slowly, his hands cradling your jaw with a tenderness that was almost absurd given what had just happened, sweet and careful and at complete odds with the rest of the evening.

You felt him against your thigh.

Oh. He was — yes.

"Breathe, honey."

It was annoying how well he could tell when you'd stopped.

Your hips rolled up against him instinctively, looking for him.

"I need you inside me, Dean —"

"So demanding," he said, cutting you off with a kiss. His hand slid down between you, pressing the length of him against your folds, and the sound you made was not dignified in the slightest. He tapped the head of his cock against you and you dug your nails into his back.

"Please — Dean — please, please —"

He finally gave you what you were asking for, positioning himself at your entrance. The thick head breached you slowly, stretching you out, and you tried to pull him deeper faster.

"Oh fuck —" you moaned as he bottomed out.

"God damn," he breathed. "You're so tight."

His hips pulled back and snapped forward and then he was properly fucking you, hard, deep, everything you had imagined during different library sessions. His mouth found your collarbone, your chest, and then he took one nipple between his lips and you arched off the bed.

"You really do have the most absurd —" he said against your skin.

"Do not finish that sentence —"

"— tits. I could spend all day here."

Your walls tightened around him as the second orgasm built.

"I'm gonna come —" you breathed.

"I know."

He moved back up to your mouth, kissing you as you fell apart, and at the last moment he pulled out, the warmth of him spilling across your stomach. He stood and disappeared into the bathroom, returning with a cloth to clean you up. He discarded it somewhere, then lay down beside you and pulled you against his chest without ceremony, your legs tangling together.

The room was quiet. The lamp was still on. Outside the window the November street was dark and still.

"So," you said finally, staring at the ceiling. "You really are an overachiever."

"Shut up, (Y/N)," Dean said, and kissed you.

You stayed like that for a while, his heartbeat under your cheek, the lamp casting everything amber, the particular quiet of a house when everyone who needed to leave has left.

You had spent four years not allowing yourself anything that wasn't useful. Not a detour, not a distraction, not a single afternoon that didn't have a purpose.

Dean DiLaurentis, you thought, had been the worst possible use of your time.

You pulled his arm tighter around you.

Now it wasn't that Jack Abbot didn’t have the means to fix this issue. For that, he was brutally aware. His rugged good looks and quarter of a million dollar salary alone should have gotten him at least a date. His main problem was that he didn’t try, not really. He never took days off, accruing over 60 days of PTO before Gloria forced him out of the hospital for a week to avoid litigation over labor laws. He was a workaholic, with no real desire for change in his life. Once again, words from his therapist.

Today was another session, his therapist scribbling down in the notebook as if her life depended on it. It was all mundane until she paused. “Have you ever considered going to a strip club?”

He paused, hands freezing on his thighs. “I’m sorry, what?”

He had heard her, quite clearly, actually. Too shocked to let the words absorb into his brain. She repeated herself slowly, “It’s a very common place for men your age to go. It’s legal, low risk. Get some ones and see if it brings you back to your glory days as a young cadet. At the very least, you’ll have a story to tell me next week.”

So here he was, sitting in the parking lot of the Pink Pony. He changed his outfit twice before leaving, two different variations of the same black t-shirt and jeans. He had over $1000 in various bills shoved haphazardly into his wallet and pockets. Too nervous to undertip, feeling like he had to overpay to apologize for being a pervy old man.

The parking lot was quiet for an unassuming Thursday night; he’d taken a few days off for the affair. If nothing went his way, at least he had time to sulk in his pity before walking back into work on Monday.

He walked in awkwardly, shifting his weight consciously to his prosthetic, attempting to walk normally despite the years-long shift in his hips. He felt like he was crawling out of his skin. Men sat in the corners, dollar bills lazily thrown as girls twirled around on the stages. Half-dressed waitresses carrying overpriced bottles waved at him as he slipped into the bar. He got a whisky on the rocks and slipped into his own corner. He sank into the worn velvet chair, his back to the wall and a small stage in front of him. Secluded enough, and he was able to see all the exits. Old habits die hard.

Meanwhile, you were lounging in the back room, silk robe over your shoulders, while you fumbled around with your curlers. Nursing a lukewarm Diet Coke while music blared from the main stages. You weren’t even supposed to work tonight, prompting you to take a shift for a friend who caught a nasty case of the flu. Getting a master's degree wasn’t cheap, so you were perfectly fine with the extra hours.

“Y/n,” A coworker yelled, “Can I borrow that green set of yours?”

You shrugged lazily, “Don’t care, just wash it and return it. S’in my locker.” You hummed, coating your lips in a little too much lip gloss, adding a little too much highlighter to your face. This was one of your favorite things about your job: sitting in an overpriced fur-lined chair surrounded by girls who only uplifted each other. It all started as a small gig in undergrad, just to make extra money. Years later, you were still here, settling into the night shift like it was your home away from him.

“Oh, bitch.” Your coworker Ani squealed, barreling into the dressing room like her heels were on fire. “Y/n.”

You twirled around, urging the frantic girl to spit her words out. “Ani, where’s the fire?”

“Hot ass old man in front of stage F, wouldn’t even look me in the eyes but slid $150 across the stage.” She giggled, sitting next to you, your shoulders brushing.

Ani was your oldest friend here, and one of your closest friends outside of work. She kept you on your toes, but you always looked out for each other.

“How old?” You pry, lips pursed.

“Old enough to be your father.” There was an evil glint in her eyes.

You let out an over-dramatic moan, “Oh, you know me so well.”

“Right?” She yelled, grabbing your shoulder to pull you to the curtain. Both of your heads poked out, your eyes immediately finding the man. His body language was stiff, clutching his sweating whisky like a lifeline. She wasn't wrong; he was hot. In a rugged, soldier way. Exactly the type of customer you loved. So what you had stereotypical daddy issues, didn’t everyone?

“Oh, Ani,” You sighed, “I could kiss you on the lips.”

She let out a giggle, clearly proud of herself. “Consider us even for you giving me the Russian last week.”

Then her hands were on your shoulders, pushing you back into the room. “Wear that sexy little black number, and the clear glitter heels.” She ordered, tossing your clothes, ordering you around.

The two of you fell into heaps of giggles, ignoring the side eyes of the other girls as she helped dress you. Too much makeup and very little clothing later, you were shining, ready to slip out there.

“You’re gonna kill that old man.” She hummed, bouncing one of your curls between her long nails. “Make me proud, mama.”

With a playful slap on your ass, you were off, slipping into the main area as if you belonged there. Which you did, it was years of working here and owning the stages. Your heels clicked loudly against the tiny stage, hair bouncing down your back with each dramatic sway of your hips.

One hand wrapped around the pole, casual as anything, like it was an extension of you rather than something to perform with. You circled it once, twice, dragging it out, letting the music sway your movements. Your gaze skimmed the room like you were choosing, like you were deciding who deserved your attention. As if he wasn’t your target already.

When your eyes did find him, you couldn’t help the ridiculous smirk that fell on your lips. His honey brown eyes were dark, locked on yours. With your free hand, you sent him a sultry wave before the lights dimmed. The colored spotlights hit your skin as you brought your legs up around the pole. Twisting and gliding around in your natural habitat. When your back hit the pole, hands up and gliding down it, you watched him watch you.

His watchful eyes are heavy with every shake of your body, every gentle caress of your own skin. You arched your back, letting the pole support your weight as your head tilted back, hair cascading over your shoulders, your chest fully on display. He let himself pretend for just a moment that this was for him and him only. He felt an unfamiliar feeling in his gut, a warmness growing there. A feeling he had longed forgotten, forcing itself through his body the longer he watched you.

You slid down the pole, landing on the cool floor in a split. The song is slowly coming to an end, allowing yourself to change the pace. You let yourself fall on your elbows, pulling yourself up so you were crawling across on your hands and knees. This time, you made sure to keep eye contact with the man, stalking him as prey. Hips rolling with each crawl. He lifted a hand, brandishing a handful of bills very respectfully on the corner of the stage. Once you were close, you grabbed the bills, holding them up in between your perfectly manicured nails.

“This for me?” You asked, a faux dumb look plastered on your face. Just to see him squirm in his chair, which he did.

He nodded slowly, adjusting himself. His body leaning forward, watered-down whisky long abandoned on the table. “More where that came from.” He spoke, voice gruff and quiet over the music.

“Really?” You put a hand on your chest, slipping the bills into the thin string of your top. “I’m honored, baby.”

He pretended his cock didn’t stir at your voice, and your eyes, and your tits that were practically spilling out of the lace number you had on. He cursed his therapist, he cursed his body, and secondly, he cursed you because he knew you had ruined him from the moment you walked out on stage. He was going to have to go back to therapy and tell her that he came in his pants at the first girl to give him attention.

Your legs swung off the platform, heels hitting the floor with practiced precision as you sauntered over to him.

“You got a name, ‘Mr. More where that came from?” You growled playfully, letting your hands fall on the armrests, your body above him tits mere inches away from his face. You held all the power in this interaction, and it had his palms sweaty.

“You can call me Jack.” He spoke, his own voice sounding foreign to him.

“Jack.” You purred, letting your body settle between his spread legs. “Can I have a seat?” You asked sweetly, pointing towards his very welcoming lap.

“F-fuck, yeah.” He stumbled, leaning back just enough for you to swing your legs over his. You were perched on his lap gently, barely putting any weight on him. The doctor in him took a beat to notice your core strength, the way you moved expertly against him.

“So Jack,” You hummed, content on letting your hands rest lazily on his shoulders. ”What do you do for work?”

“M’a doctor.” He managed to stumble out, making a small laugh escape your lips. He was sure you didn’t believe him; your whole job consisted of men lying to you. Everyone was a CEO, a doctor, a lawyer, anything to impress the pretty girl in front of them.

“Yeah?” You giggled, a small accent slipping out. “You know, doctor, I’ve been having a serious problem lately.”

With your perfectly glossed lips in a pout, and your voice purring in his ear, he would have done anything you said. “Hm?” Was all he could get out, still tongue-tied by the fact that you were on top of him.

“These tits,” You sighed, grabbing your chest with both of your hands, “Are just sooo heavy. I really need someone to help hold them.”

”Doctor’s orders, huh?” He couldn’t help but laugh.

You nodded, letting your hands fall to the sides of the chair again. “Don’t be shy, I don’t bite.”

“What if I do?” Jack said, his eyes surprising both you and himself. His confidence is growing, slowly but surely.

“I might like that.” You recovered coolly, slipping back into your persona. “Come on, you can touch.”

His hand moved up, twitching ever so slightly but never moving closer to you. He looked nervous, his eyes practically scouring the room as if someone would catch him somehow breaking the law. You noticed, because of course you did.

“Hey, we can slip into a private room if you want a dance-“ Before you could even finish, he was slipping a few more bills into the bottom string of your thong.

To your credit, you didn’t let the flicker of surprise show on your face, even as the bills slid against your skin and his voice settled low and certain in your ear. “I’d prefer that, sweetheart.”

You smiled at that, something pleased and almost fond tugging at the corner of your mouth before you caught it and smoothed it back into something more seductive. His lap missed your presence when you sat up, holding your hand out for him. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

He stood a second later, slower than you, but following all the same. His hand was in yours, ignoring all the stares as you guided him into the back rooms. You said something quietly to one of the girls before a thick curtain was opened, revealing a private area. There was a plush couch, a few chairs, and a pole in the middle. The music was quieter, the lights dimmer. There was a faint neon pink glow, making his eyes adjust for a few moments.

“Take a seat wherever you’re comfortable.” You smiled, closing the curtain behind you two. The floor-to-ceiling fabric seemed to dull more sound than he thought, the music almost barely audible. He sank into the middle of the couch, adjusting his legs awkwardly while you frolicked around the room.

“This your room?” He asked, a small bluetooth speaker crackling in the corner.

“On most days,” You smiled, smooth rock music echoing throughout the room now, “Hope this is okay, you don’t strike me as the EDM pop type.”

He shook his head, “No, I am not.”

He barely had time to settle before you were moving again, letting your hands grip the pole as you walked by.

“Few rules,” You pointed towards the sign on the wall, “At any point you want to stop, let me know, if there’s something you’d like to ask nicely and I’ll work with you, no touching new places without asking, and tip well.”

“Yes, m’am.” He gave you a mock salute, your hips swaying to the beat. You inched closer and closer until you were close enough to touch. He was still tense as ever, even as you all but crawled into his lap again. The only time he touched you was to slip a few more bills into your thong, this time while your ass was in his face.

You spun around after another song had ended, “New rule,” You hummed, “Relax.”

”I am relaxed.” He lied, his shoulders were so tense they were beginning to ache, and his cock was so hard he was worried he was going to pass out from all the blood rushing between his legs. It didn’t help that you kept ending up hovering above his lap. You hadn’t once looked at the tent in his pants, another occupational hazard he assumed.

“You’re a bad liar,” You pressed your palms against his shoulders, “Relax,” you murmured again, softer this time, your voice losing some of that performative edge.

There was a quiet huff of breath from him, something almost like a laugh, but it didn’t quite make it all the way out. Not when you started to move.

A slow roll of your hips, controlled and measured, more about the rhythm than anything else, your body finding the beat and settling into it like second nature. You didn’t drop onto him right away, didn’t give him that friction yet; you let the anticipation build, let him watch the way your body moved just inches from his, the way your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of the couch, bracketing him in without touching.

His hands still hovered awkwardly at his sides for a second, like he didn’t know where they belonged, like he was afraid of getting it wrong.

“Do you wanna touch me?” You ask softly, in that new gentle tone you had reserved for him.

“More than anything in the world.” He admitted.

You placed his hand at your waist, right where the curve dipped in, where he could feel the heat of your skin beneath the thin fabric. “You can touch. That’s kind of the point.”

His fingers flexed there, tentative at first, like he was expecting you to pull away. As if this were a dream he’d get rudely woken up from. Instead, you moved closer, finally letting your hips settle on his lap. Pressing directly down on the bulge in his pants. At the contact, his fingers squeezed tightly at the flesh, mostly out of instinct. His hands were large and rough. His touch had you arching against him slightly, a shit-eating grin on your lips.

His other hand joined the other side of your hip, steadying you on top of him. You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your chest brushed his, your face close to his now, close enough that he could see the detail in your makeup, the gloss on your lips, the way your eyes held his with a kind of quiet confidence that didn’t waver.

”There you go, doctor.” You whispered, that nickname sticking much to his chagrin. He doesn't know why he was lying to himself, not when you could feel each jump of his cock.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking between your body and your mouth like he couldn’t quite decide where to land, like he was trying to take in too much all at once and failing. The friction was enough to make the room feel hot, tension building between each perfected roll of your hips.

One specific roll had a curse leaving his mouth, “Fuck.” He grunted, his eyes falling shut.

Your stomach burned, his voice going directly between your thighs. “D-does this feel good?”

He nodded, not even able to get a word out. “Can I move?” He asked, more confident, his hands guiding up to your chest before you could even finish your nod.

”Please.” You breathed out, nearly moaning at the first squeeze of your tits in his palm. His thumb brushes against your hardened buds, squeezing them between his forefinger.

You feel the shift in him, his movements more sure, his face more relaxed. Between his cock heavy between your legs, and his rough hands, you nearly forget you’re the one in charge for a moment. You try not to think about what he looks like underneath his dark, tactile daywear, what he sounds like when he cums, how large his fingers would feel slipping inside of you, or his cock, heavy and thick.

It takes you a second to catch your breath, settling back into the reality of the situation. “Permission to say something uncouth?” He asks, the word choice making you smile dopey at him.

“Always.”

“You have the most gorgeous tits I’ve ever seen.” He said, palms still heavy over the fabric of your top. “How much to get this little top off?”

Fuck, you are so fucked. Because if he looked at you with those respectful brown eyes again, you’d probably fuck him right here if he asked with that much kindness dripping in his voice.

“All you had to do was ask,” You admitted, “Go ahead, take it off me.”

With ease, he slips the knot in the back open, throwing the strings across the room as if it personally offended him.

“Fuck, I was right.” His other hand came up, both hands squeezing your tits.

Your hips stilled momentarily, letting your head fall back, watching him through half-lidded eyes.

“You like what you see, doctor?” You pant, steadying your hips again. Letting the now damp spot on your bottom rub against his bulge again.

“You’re like a dream.” He sighed, moving his hands down your stomach back to your hips. Helping you grind against him, the pleasure makes his toes curl.

“You-“ he cuts himself off, breath catching, jaw tightening before he tries again, quieter this time. “You might need to slow down.”

“Yeah?” You tease, the delicious drag of your clit making your own breath heavy, “Why?”

“You know why.” He grunted, gripping your hips tighter, stilling you on top of him.

You slow down, “What if I wanted to make you cum?”

The words leaving your mouth made both of you tense; the song changing left an awkward beat of silence.

“I’m sorry,” You cringed, “Was that too much? You’re just really-“

“Really, what?” He smiled, amusement in his eyes.

You faltered, not liking how you lost control of the situation. “You know, my friend told me you were here,” you admitted, “Sexy older man, looks slightly traumatized. I’ve wanted to jump your bones from the moment I saw you.”

“She knows your type, huh?”

You nod, “And you doctor, are making me wanna break all my rules.”

“What are those rules?” He hummed, letting his palm spread, gripping your ass gently.

“Not wanting to fuck my clients,” You jutted your bottom lip out, “That’s a big one.”

“Don’t I feel special.” He grinned, his cock still twitching in his pants at the sight of you. “S’been a while for me sweetheart.”

You made a sound between a scoff and a laugh, waiting for him to make a joke. Instead he just kept his smile locked on you, his hands warming your flesh.

You click your tongue against your teeth, “Well, that can’t do.”

Before he can reply, you’re sliding down his body. Letting your knees fall to the floor, leaving you between his spread legs. His eyes flare, with something dark and dangerous. You rest your cheek on his upper thigh, your lips so close to the ever prominent bulge in his pants.

“This okay?” You asked sweetly, your hands coming up to grip his thighs.

“Y-yeah, god yeah,” He sighed, lips parting in disbelief, “Are you sure-“

You shush him letting your hand fall on his knee, and he flinches. His whole body twinging underneath your touch, as if he was just pulled harshly back into reality.

You pause, it very clearly doesn’t feel like a knee, but you keep your face blank, looking up at him through your lashes. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what you were touching; it was common, especially among soldiers. You’d know, considering your field of study.

“Did I hurt you?” You asked sweetly.

He shook his head, “I just, uh. I don’t have, there’s a- “

You pause, “I don’t care what happened, just wanna make sure I'm not hurting you. Would you like me to move my hand?”

“If you want to move it, I wouldn’t be offended.” He stutters, tensing up again.

You don’t move your hand; instead, you continue pulling his pants down with the other. “When was the last time you got your cock sucked, doctor?”

“If I said over 10 years, is that embarrassing?” He breathes out, his hands fisted by his sides.

“Not at all.” Your mouth is watering as his heavy cock slips out of his boxers. Just like you thought, he’s thick and large. “If you need me to stop, please tell me.”

“Y-yes, whatever you want.” He nearly whimpers.

You lean forward, wrapping your lips around his red tip. Swirling your tongue around it, before slowly bobbing your mouth around him. He tasted salty and warm as you moaned around him.

This was heaven; Jack had surely died and gone to heaven.

His cock twitched in your mouth with each bob, the small patch of salt and pepper hair tickling at your nose each time he prodded the back of your throat.

“Oh, hell.” He grunted, one of his hands coming to gently push your hair back from your face. Your eyes fluttered shut, your hands wrapping around the little bit you couldn’t fit in your mouth with each thrust. You ignored the tears threatening to leak from your eyes, your cheeks hollowing, your tongue pulling elicit sounds from the back of the older man's throat.

“Let me see those gorgeous eyes, yeah, eyes on me.” He cooed, his hand holding your hair in a makeshift ponytail.

You obliged, opening your watery eyes to look up at him. “Gonna let me fuck that mouth of yours?”

Jack had a filthy mouth, and with each low command he whispered to you, your thighs were rubbing together, attempting to get the smallest bit of relief. You nodded, relaxing your jaw around his thick cock. He braced himself, guiding your head up and down on his length slowly. Each thrust hits the back of your throat.

It was messy, the squelching sound of him fucking up into you nearly overpowered the slow speaker still playing in the corner of the room. The small moans and whimpers of praise that left his mouth were music to your ears.

“Breathe.” He ordered, noticing just how red your cheeks were getting from the intrusion. You ignored him, trying to breathe through your nose, continuing to flick your tongue against the bulging vein on his cock. He shivered at the feeling, but his concern outweighed it.

“Off,” He pulled at your hair, “Now.”

Your lips trailed up with a pop, a string of spit hanging off your wet lips connecting to his tip. Your makeup was a mess, eyes sparkling as you took a few heavy breaths.

“Sorry,” You breathed out, licking his tip once more. “This fucking cock. What a travesty, no one's been sucking it for the last 10 years.”

“You okay?” He asked, his fingers pressing against your carotid. No doubt checking your racing heart rate, making sure you weren’t about to have a coronary.

“M’ okay.” You mumbled, wrapping your lips around him again with a moan.

“Good girl.” He praised, gently pushing your head back down on him. With each wet, messy gargle of him fucking into your throat, he was willing himself not to cum. “You listen so well, don’t you?”

You nodded with him in your mouth, making his eyes roll back. You knew he was close, you could tell by how tight his balls were, or by the frantic pulling of your hair.

“F-fuck,” He cried out, his hips thrusting up into your throat causing you to gag around him, “I’m gonna cum. Gonna fucking cum.”

You didn’t stop your movements, moaning around him in response as you felt him twitch once before he cums directly down your throat.

His head is thrown back in the couch cushions, his muscles peaking through the too-tight t-shirt he wore with each heavy breath as he came down.

You slowly pulled your mouth off of him with a pop, using your thumb to pick up the little bit of cum that had dripped down your chin. His eyes were glazed, his lips wet and red from biting down on them.

“Open,” He demanded, moving his hand from your hair to your chin. He helped you relax your jaw, showing your tongue out to him showing him not a drop was wasted. “Fuck, you’re unreal.”

You were giggly, cockdrunk off that alone. You helped him pull his pants back up with gentle hands, slipping back into his lap as if you belonged there.

“How was your first blowjob in over a decade?” You teased, your legs outstretched on the couch cushions while you sat perched on his leg.

He pinched your bare leg lightly, “Little minx. You know exactly how dangerous that mouth is.”

You rolled your eyes playfully, ready to swing off his lap and prepare to part ways. Instead, he grabbed your hips, keeping you exactly where you were.

“Wait,” He whispered, “You can say no, but it’s very rude not to offer to make a lady cum. Especially after she just gave you the best blowjob of your life.”

You froze, brows flying up your forehead. “You wanna make, me? Cum?” You asked, as if it were such an unbelievable request.

He nodded casually, as if he was asking about the weather. “I didn’t even need the blowjob, don’t get me wrong I enjoyed it so fucking much, but I’d have just as much fun getting to taste your sweet little cunt. What an honor would it be to make you cum, over and over….”

Your chest flushes, legs nearly trembling at the words he was whispering in your ear. Where the fuck did this man come from?

His hand moved to your thigh, fingers tapping on the skin.

“Fuck,” Unable to keep the whine from escaping you, “Y-yeah. Touch me, please.”

That’s all Jack needed, gently positioning you facing away from him. Your back pressed against his chest, your legs spread against his.

His lips dragged gently against your neck, his breath hot with each word he spoke. “I knew these little panties would be soaked for me.” His fingertips trailed against the now-soaked fabric, pressing just enough to make you mewl against him.

“You’re so fucking hot, hard not to.” You panted.

He chuckled, pulling the fabric aside so he could glide his fingers against your wet folds. He moaned louder than you did at the contact, his rough fingertips finding your clit expertly.

“There you go,” He cooed, rubbing steady circles on the twitching bud. Your legs were all but trembling now, chest rising with each stroke.

After a while, you were aching, throbbing for more. “P-please-“ You begged, not even sure what you were begging for.

“Hmm?”

“Please, wanna feel you.” You cried, gasping in relief when his thick softy slipped into your entrance, with very little resistance.

“There you go, good girl using her words.” He praised, rewarding you with his fingers pressing deep inside of you. Reaching places your fingers couldn’t even think of touching.

He could feel the effect his words had on you, each gentle praise had you squeezing around him. Even as he slipped in another finger, stretching you out around him.

“Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He tutted, “Me in control?”

You nodded, eyes rolling into the back of your head. Those large fingers you spent the past hour imagining felt even better than you could have thought. He was so deep, his fingers curling with each rock of your hips.

“Knew it.” Was all he said, as his spare hand wrapped around your throat gently. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t even attempt to hold on. Just kept his hand there, forcing you into his hold.

You lost your ability to think, too lost in his strong hold as he curled and scissored his fingers inside you. “J-jack.”

“That’s my name, sweetheart.” He mocked playfully, his thumb moving to rub at your oversensitive clit. That’s all it took for you to come apart against him, crying out his name.

He didn’t stop, his hands continuing their movements.

“Too much,” You whined, your fingernails digging into his thigh as he kept going. The lewd sounds of his fingers slipping in and out of your soaked cunt had your head spinning.

“I don’t think so, I think you can take one more.”

You nearly laughed, delirious, “God, you’re so fucking hot.”

“So are you baby, being so good for me.” He sighed, “Perfect fucking pussy, and she wants to cum again for me? Doesn't she?”

You nodded frantically, feeling his fingers curl even deeper pressing against your sweetspot with each movement.

“You wanna cum again so bad, I can feel it.”

You hated how right he was, how your hips were jerking into him. You were already so close to cumming again, off his words alone.

“Right there,” You gasped, “Don’t stop.”

“Never,” He pressed a kiss to your neck, feeling your cunt suckle in his fingers greedily. You came wordlessly, nothing but pitiful moans leaving you. His hand was soaked, your release dripping down his palm as he stroked you through your second orgasm of the night.

You were breathless, panting miserably.

“Fuck.” You cried out, your head falling back into his shoulder. “I don’t think I’ve come that hard in years.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, sweetheart.” He hummed, gently slipping his fingers out of you.

“M’not lying.” You shake your head, "Would never lie to a man about that.”

“What losers have you been sleeping with?” He frowns. “A real man makes sure his girl cums at least twice before he even thinks about himself.”

A shiver runs down your spine as he continues, “I’d take good care of you, you know?”

You nearly moan, “Really?”

“Hm,” He nods, his palm spread wide on your bare thigh. “Would buy you whatever you want, make you cum so hard every night until you forget your name. You’d never have to entertain these losers here again.”

He’s not the first man to claim he can swoop in and be your knight and shining armor, but he is the first man to make you believe that he means it.

“What if we start with dinner?” You smile, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It was humorous that both of you had made each other cum, without even kissing. It was ridiculous, completely unorthodox, borderline unethical, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Not when his soft, honey brown eyes were looking at you like you hung the moon.

“I think I'd like that, sweetheart. Give me a chance to treat you right.” He smiled, smoothing down your hair with his free hand.

You exchanged numbers and even texted him first. Promising him again, this wasn’t something you normally did. You offered to walk him out, but he declined, pressing one last kiss to your lips, pretending not to see the very large stack of cash he slipped on your side table.

“I’ll be expecting your call.” He smirked before he slipped through the curtain.

“A text! Who calls anymore old man?” You teased, walking him slink down the hall. You waited for a beat, watching his bow-legged sway as he walked out the door.

It was only seconds later that a head popped out of the room across from yours, Ani’s eyes wide. “Bitch! What happened?”

“-Why did you stop-“ A man’s voice rang out behind her, only making her slam the curtain shut.

All you could do was squeal at your friend, pressing your hand to your beating chest.

“Your spacing’s off,” you say finally, voice calm but carrying easily over the noise. “You’re crowding the protein. Let it breathe. It’s the star of the show, the sauce is the supporting act.”

The woman startles, eyes snapping up to you, then immediately over your shoulder like she’s checking if she’s about to get in trouble.

“What,” he starts, turning sharply, already halfway into irritation, “did I just say about-”

His eyes land on you, a flicker of confusion on his face about the stranger who was relaxing against his station, as if she belonged there. 

“Who are you and why are you standing around like you own the place?” He asks gruffly, his hands leaning against the table now. His arm veins protruded as his body weight rested on the limbs. 

“The person who does own the place gave me a key,” You hold up the silver key between your fingers, “And I’m Y/n Y/l/n, the new sous-chef.” 

“The one from France?” he asks, stepping closer, wiping his hands on a towel but not breaking eye contact. 

You give a curt nod, a smirk still gracing your lips. It made it very hard for Jack not to stare at your pursed lips as he sized you up.

”Ah, yes,” Ellis chimes in, grinning as she leans against her station, clearly enjoying this far too much. It wasn’t often that many people gave Jack shit.  “The prodigal daughter back from studying abroad in France. Here to give this old guy a run for his money?”

”Old?” His voice echoed in the kitchen, making Ellis put her tattooed arms up. 

“Respectfully.” She whistled, holding her hand out for you to shake. 

Her grip was firm as she gave you her name, “Ellis Parker, Chef de Partie for the French girl.” 

You nearly flushed at her warm gaze, dropping her hand as she grabbed her plate, giving you and your new boss time to talk. 

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s see what Robby thought was worth importing.”

He holds his hand out in front of him, guiding you through the massive kitchen. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “You might like it.”

Something in his gaze darkens at that, interest threading through the challenge, but it’s gone just as fast as it appears. Your stuff is put up in a locker, while you throw an apron over your head. 

The tour is less formal than most restaurants you’ve worked in. That’s the first thing you’ve noticed, just how close-knit everyone seems to be. Which was a stark contrast to most other posh workplaces you’ve spent the last few years in. 

“Head of house, Frank Langdon with his assistant Mel King.” He points through the glass window into the dining room where the tall brunette was wildly explaining something to do with menus to the eager blonde. 

You’re on his heels as he walks, keeping up behind him like you were in a moving current. 

“Dana, house manager. She keeps this place running, don’t ever piss her off.” He grumbles, and you hear the blonde put the phone down to yell loudly at the man. 

“-I heard that!” 

“Anyways,” he continues, his shoulder pushing open another door for you two to glide through. “Santos and Garcia, our resident bartender and sommelier.” 

The younger girl is shoulder to shoulder with the older girl, polishing wine glasses with expert precision. You wave softly to them, trying your best to be polite while Jack is all but dragging you through the restaurant at lightning speed. 

You’re back in the kitchen, a guy is on his knees scrubbing at a spot on the floor while the other is rinsing the sink. 

“Whittaker, our busboy, and Ogilvie his assistant of sorts. I don’t really know what he does, he cleans.” Jack pauses watching the boy squint at him before you’re off in the kitchen again. 

The smell of sugar and vanilla hits your nose as you walk through the pastry kitchen. “Samira Mohan, our Pastry Chef. I don’t care what bullshit you saw in France, she’s better.” He boasts, and you barely catch a glance of the girl as she’s pulling another rack of pastries out of the oven. 

“There are some people I’m missing,” He huffs, “You met Ellis, then we have Shen and Crus our other chefs. We have our prep cooks Princess and Perlah, don’t tell them anything they gossip.” 

He lets out a short laugh as you’re suddenly right back where you started, “McKay and Javardi are our hosts, Joy and Emma are our veteran waitresses. We love them, Emma does our social media. So if she asks you to make a TikTok, you’ll do it because she’s too sweet to say no to.” 

“Understood,” You let out a breath, still trying your best to remember all of the names. 

”You met Robby and Heather, they’re hardly here since their daughter was born so that leaves me.” He smiles, rocking on his feet. “Jack Abbot.” 

“Nice to officially meet you,” You nearly laugh, sticking out your hand to shake his. You nearly shiver at the way his large warm hand encompasses yours. 

He switches in and out of Head Chef mode easily, immediately going into a deep explanation of how they work here. Their processes, what makes it work, and how under no circumstances are you to deviate from the plan. He was a stickler for order, that much was obvious, but you had to be in this line of work. 

“Did you memorize the menu?” 

“Of course.” You nod, thinking back to Robby shoving a binder in your hand upon hiring and telling you to study up. You didn’t think you’d actually be tested until Jack started throwing questions at you. 

“Miso cod,” he says. “What finishes it?”

“White miso glaze, reduced until it clings,” you answer without hesitation. “Caramelized under high heat, served over a bed of jasmine rice with a ginger-scallion emulsion and pickled shiitake for contrast.”

His eyes flick toward you briefly.

“Citrus?”

You don’t miss a beat. “Yuzu zest in the emulsion. Bright, but not overpowering.”

He hums, not quite approval, not quite dismissal.

“Filet.”

“Dry-aged,” you reply. “Pan-seared, basted in brown butter, garlic, and thyme. Rested properly. Served with pommes purée that’s more butter than potato and a red wine bordelaise reduced to almost syrup.”

“Temperature.”

“Mid-rare,” you scoff. “Obviously, anything higher is a crime.”

That earns the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

He stops suddenly at the pass, picking up a plate, holding it between you like a test you’re meant to fail. It’s still steaming, but there’s not much cooking happening besides prep. 

A smile quirks up at your lips, thinking of him preparing a dish just to quiz you on. You take the challenge. 

It’s a roasted chicken, split and pressed, the skin blistered and golden, glistening under a brush of jus. It sits over a bed of truffle-laced pommes anna, layered thin and crisp at the edges, soft and buttery at the center. There’s a swipe of charred leek purée, dark and smoky, and a scattering of pearl onions lacquered in something sweet and reduced.

He holds it out slightly toward you, pulling a fork out from his pocket.

“Roast chicken,” he says. “Walk me through it.”

You step in closer without hesitation, close enough that your shoulder nearly brushes his as you lean in.

“Air-dried for at least twenty-four hours,” you start, eyes scanning, picking it apart piece by piece. “High heat to render the skin, then finish slower so it stays juicy. Basted in butter, thyme, maybe a little garlic toward the end so it doesn’t burn.”

Your finger hovers just above the pommes anna, not touching, just tracing the shape with the fork. You bring it up to your lips, unaware of Jack’s sudden interest in the counter after your tongue swipes against it.

“Potatoes layered with clarified butter, pressed, cooked low and slow, then crisped. Truffle folded in at the end, not during, or it disappears.”

“Sauce,” he prompts.

“Chicken jus, mounted with butter,” you reply. “Reduced enough to coat the back of a spoon, not so much that it turns sticky.”

He nods once, then tilts the plate slightly.

“What doesn’t belong?”

You hum, twirling the fork around. 

You lean in just a little more, close enough now that if you shifted even an inch you’d touch him, your voice lowering without you meaning to. The fork stabs one of the pearl onions, you shove it into your mouth, and grimace a little. 

“They’re glazed in balsamic,” you say.

“And.”

“It’s too heavy,” you continue, straightening slightly, meeting his eyes again. “You’ve already got richness from the chicken, the butter, the potatoes. The balsamic makes it sweet and acidic in the wrong way. It pulls focus instead of balancing.”

He watches you carefully.

“Sweetness is bad?”

“Not if it’s intentional,” you counter. “But this isn’t. It’s competing, not complementing.”

Then you tilt your head just slightly, a hint of something playful slipping in.

“You’d be better off with something brighter. Maybe a preserved lemon glaze, or even a light cider reduction. Something that cuts through instead of sitting on top.”

He makes a noise of satisfaction, “Most people would’ve said the truffle,” he admits.

“The truffle isn’t overdone, it’s a good addition. If it’s in the budget, I’d put it on the menu, minus the onions.” You smiled crookedly. 

He’s trying to hide how impressed he is, as he shuffles around. “Well, try not to slow us down tonight.” 

“Oh, I don’t like it slow.” You purse your lips, “Don’t worry about me.” 

He has an amused look on his face, “You are gonna give me a run for my money huh?” 

You shrug, “Guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” 

And you don’t make him wait long.

Service hits like a wave and you step into it without hesitation, sliding onto his line as if you’ve always belonged there, like the rhythm of this kitchen is something your body already understands. This is where you belong, even when the tickets start stacking. Jack glides through the kitchen like he could do it blindfolded.

You match him without thinking, your hands moving before the words even fully land, reaching for pans, adjusting heat, finishing sauces before he even has the chance to bark out orders. 

“Two scallops, one duck, one filet,” he calls.

“Scallops walking,” you answer just as quickly, already flipping them, butter foaming, the edges caramelizing into that perfect golden crust. You tilt the pan, baste once, twice, then pull them at exactly the right second, sliding them onto the plate like it’s elementary. 

Jack tries not to stare, tries to focus on his own job but he finds the way you move mesmerizing. Even when you reach for the wrong item, still gaining your footing here, you’re majestic. 

“Duck?” he presses.

You’re already slicing it, the blade gliding clean through, juices held exactly where they should be. “Rested,” you say, fanning it out, dragging the cherry reduction into a sharper line, tightening the plating just enough to elevate it without losing its soul.

“You’re moving fast,” he mutters, more to himself than you.

You don’t look up. “I told you, I don’t like it slow.”

There’s something in the way you say it that makes him pause for half a second too long before snapping back into motion.

The longer the service goes, the clearer it becomes. You’re not just keeping up with him, you’re anticipating him. Adjusting before he asks, finishing thoughts he hasn’t spoken yet, stepping into the exact spaces he leaves open without ever colliding. It isn’t chaotic, it isn’t competitive in a loud way. You’re not working against him, you’re not showing out. It’s a dance. 

At one point your hands brush when you both reach for the same pan, and neither of you pulls back immediately. He lingers, and you let your fingers dance over his before pulling the pan out from him. 

When service is over, the place takes a deep breath. Jack pretends he can’t smell the sweat clinging to your neck, and the soft scent of your shampoo when you pass him. 

“Is every night like that?” You ask, your skin still vibrating from the adrenaline rush. successful service. 

“If we’re so lucky,” Shen smiles, patting you on the back, “You were on fire back there.” 

“Thank you.” You smiled, listening to their compliments while your eyes were on Jack. He gave you a simple nod of encouragement, before he leaned back down to scrub at the oven. You took that to heart, ignoring the weird flutter in your chest at his approval. 

You roll your shoulders back, trying to shake the adrenaline loose, but it’s still there, buzzing under your ribs, settling somewhere deeper instead of fading.

“Careful,” Ellis calls from across the line, flicking water from a rag in your direction. “You keep that up, you’re gonna make the rest of us look bad.”

“You already do that on your own,” you shoot back, not missing a beat.

A few laughs ripple through the room.

”Yeah,” She whistles, tossing you a sponge, “You’re right where you belong.” 

You move through cleanup as you worked here for years, not a single night, falling into rhythm beside them, trading small comments, quiet jokes, letting yourself settle into something that feels dangerously close to belonging already. 

Princess is already whispering something to Perlah that makes them both glance at you and grin, Dana’s voice carries faintly from the front, still managing something even this late, and Shen is already halfway to the espresso machine without needing to ask. He brings you a coffee in a shot glass, a wide smile on his face. “To surviving your first shift at The Pitt.”

By the end of your first week, the kitchen stops watching you like you’re a baby deer on new legs, and starts moving with you as if you’ve always been there. By the end of your second, they start trusting you. And by the end of your first month, there isn’t a single person on the line who doesn’t adjust when you step in, who doesn’t listen when you speak, who doesn’t look for you the same way they look for him when something matters.

Service becomes something electric between you and Jack.

You learn his tells, the slight shift in his posture when something is about to go wrong, the way his voice drops when he’s focused, the exact second he expects a plate to land in the pass. And he learns yours too, whether he wants to admit it or not. The way you move faster when you’re challenged, the way you don’t wait to be told, the way you fix things before they ever reach him. 

“Too much salt,” he mutters one night, barely glancing at a pan.

You’re already beside him, tasting, adjusting, adding a splash of stock and a knob of butter, bringing it back into balance like it was never off.

“Better,” you say, sliding it back.

He watches you for a second longer than necessary, before you’re already back at your station.

“You don’t miss,” he says.

“Neither do you,” you reply, and he pretends it doesn’t make his knuckles shake. He’s too old for a crush, he tells himself. But it doesn’t stop the way he looks at you with stars in his eyes every night. 

There’s a push and pull to it, something unspoken but constant. You challenge him in small ways, tightening a plate here, swapping an element there, offering suggestions that are just bold enough to make him pause but never reckless enough to break the integrity of what he’s built.

“Lose the microgreens,” you murmur one night, adjusting a dish before it goes out. “They’re filler.”

“They add color.”

“They add nothing,” you counter, meeting his eyes. “If you need color, fix the dish, not the garnish. Microgreens are shipped in by the pound to every wanna be Michelin star restaurant in the US. We don’t need it.”

He wants to argue, you can see it on his face. Then his brows furrow, and he watches the plate so intensely you’d almost believe it was speaking to him.

Then he pulls them off himself.

“Send it,” he says.

You don’t smile, but you feel the way your cheeks burn. 

You find your place in the quieter moments too.

Samira’s kitchen is the first space that feels different. Warmer, softer, but no less precise. The scent of caramelizing sugar wraps around you the second you step inside, vanilla and citrus layered over butter and heat. She hands you a spoon without looking.

“Try that.” She orders. 

You do. A dark chocolate crémeux, smooth and rich, finished with a hint of sea salt that lingers at the back of your tongue.

”Respectfully,” You start, the spoon still in your mouth, “I think I’d do anything you asked me to do if you keep making things like that.” 

She laughs, a loud one that comes from her throat. “Jack was right, I like you.” 

You don’t press on what she means, because the idea of Jack boasting about you makes something coil in your stomach. 

It’s easy to fall into rhythm with the staff. You’d bum a cigarette off of Santos after long nights, the two of you chain-smoking with Dana in the freezing Pittsburgh weather. Samira would sneak you pastries in exchange for tips you had picked up in France. You brought her in some cookbooks from your time there, and she nearly cried. The next day there’s a container waiting for you in the breakroom fridge, your name written across the lid in careful script. Chai tiramisu, layered perfectly, the spice warm and unexpected against the bitterness of espresso. 

Frank and Mel were a joy to be around, you sat with them one day learning the inner workings of the magic they create out front. Your first outing with the crew was one weekend Javardi had convinced all the girls, barring Dana who was always busy, to go out and get drinks one night. Despite the girl's only memo, Shen showed up an hour in and got so drunk that Ellis had to carry him two blocks home. 

Somewhere in all of it, you find your place.

Not just in the kitchen, not just on the line, but here, in the middle of this strange, chaotic, loyal little family that somehow makes space for you without question. 

That’s why, you think, the first time it cracks makes it hurt a little more than if this were any other job posting. 

The kitchen is running hot, faster than usual, the kind of night where everything is just slightly off and everyone feels it. Tickets pile, timing tightens, and Jack is sharper than usual, voice cutting a little cleaner, a little colder.

A braised short rib, rich and heavy, sitting over a parsnip purée with a red wine reduction that leans deep, almost too deep, into itself. It’s Jack Abbot on a plate, almost. 

You taste it as it comes up, quick, instinctive, and your brow pulls just slightly. It’s good, actually, it’s fantastic, but it’s missing something vital to him. 

A splash of sherry vinegar, just enough to lift it. A touch of orange zest, subtle, brightening the edges without changing the core. You swirl, taste again, and it opens up immediately, the richness balanced, the flavor sharper, more alive.

You plate it and send it without thinking. 

Jack catches it at the pass, because of course he does. 

“What is this,” he asks, not loud, but dangerous in how controlled it is. Everyone seems to tense, knowing exactly what the inflection in his voice means. 

You don’t hesitate. “Short rib.”

His eyes flick to yours, then back to the plate. He then narrows his eyes at the sauce you have sitting on your station.

“You changed the sauce.” 

It’s not a question, but you answer anyway. “Yes.”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he says, voice tightening, the edge finally showing. “You don’t touch my dishes without clearing them first.”

”It needed it,” you reply, your voice steadier than you feel.

“That’s not your call,” he snaps, sharper now. “You think because you worked in France and have all these fancy restaurants under your belt that you get to walk in here and rewrite my menu? You’ve been here a little over a month, don’t think you’re more important than you are because Robby wanted a new shiny chef to look good in the media.”

There it is. 

The version of him everyone else warned you about. The version of him you have yet to see. The one no one had seen since you arrived. Because, Robby thought you’d mellow him out. Inspire him again, lighten the kitchen up. 

For a second, the kitchen holds its breath. Waiting to see if you crumble, or if you start yelling back. 

If anything, something in you sharpens right back, your eyes catching the light in amusement. 

The anger simmering in his chest only burns hotter when he sees your plush lips fighting off a stupid grin. 

“Taste it,” you say simply.

He scoffs. “That’s not the point.”

“Then make it the point,” you counter, stepping closer, lowering your voice just enough that it’s not for everyone else anymore. “Because if you’re going to be mad, you should at least be right.” 

His warm eyes are dark, with something you can’t quite place. 

“You come into my kitchen, and say my dish needs fixing?” He scoffs, both of your faces inching towards each other. The chaos of service still bustles around you, but both of you tune it out. Too fixated on each other 

“I mean no offense,” You start, “But that dish was supposed to be you on a plate right? It was wrong, it needed a boost, a light in it if you will.” 

“Don’t try to sound like my therapist,” His voice raises, “The sauce was fine-“ 

“I never said it wasn’t.” You stressed, “I just made it better. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, won’t happen again Chef.”

His jaw tightens at that, like the words themselves are a physical thing he has to chew through. For a second it looks like he’s going to refuse just to prove a point, to keep the argument alive on principle alone.

But he doesn’t, because he’s a chef first. And much to his chagrin and anger, he trusts you.

Jack snatches the spoon from the pot with more force than necessary, then drags it through the sauce you changed. The motion is sharp, almost aggressive, and when he brings it to his mouth, the entire kitchen somehow gets even quieter.

“It’s good,” he says finally, his voice not coming out as flat as he’d like. 

Your lips curve before you can stop them.

“Chef,” you correct softly, just to press him a little more.

His eyes snap to yours immediately, the irritation running back up his broad shoulders. “It’s good, Chef.” 

Jack leans in just slightly, not enough to touch, but enough that the space between you stops feeling safe. His hand grabs your upper arm, to pull you closer or just as an excuse to touch you. He isn’t sure which one it is. 

“You pull something like that again,” he says quietly, voice rougher now, “and it will be your last day in my kitchen.”

”Yes, Chef.” You whisper to him, a little too close to his ear. Your warm breath on his neck makes him shiver, his fingers dropping the grip he had on you. 

It occurs to you in that moment, that this is foreplay. For both of you. 

Both of your chests are panting, eyes dark with something neither of you dared to name. This is what every challenge in this kitchen has been. You push him, he pushes back, and you enjoy the rush. 

He steps back like your presence burns, turning his attention back to the tickets that were piling up. 

“Back on the line,” he calls, voice louder now, reestablishing control, forcing the kitchen back into motion.

As the rhythm picks back up, Crus passes behind you and bumps your shoulder lightly with his elbow, a grin tugging at his mouth.

“You poked the beast,” he murmurs, shaking his head like he can’t decide if he’s impressed or terrified for you.

You glance at him, calm as ever. “He survived.”

Crus snorts under his breath. “Barely.”

Across the line, Jack doesn’t look back at you again for the rest of the service, but you know he feels it. The coil wound tight between the two of you. What was once just longing stares and brushes of skin, was now a pressure cooker ready to explode all over the kitchen he spent the last few decades building from the ground up.

After that night, nothing really goes back to how it was before.

It doesn’t get worse, not exactly, but it changes shape. The kitchen doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t lose its rhythm, but there’s something threaded through it now that wasn’t there before. A pressure. A quiet awareness that sits under every callout, every pass, every brush of shoulders in tight spaces. People feel it even if they don’t say it out loud, even if they pretend they don’t see it. 

Princess and Perlah catch it immediately, and it spreads all the way to the front of the house.  Frank catches it in the way Jack’s eyes flick toward the kitchen door whenever you’re not on the line. Mel notices it in how quickly the tickets start moving when you’re working beside him, like the pace shifts just slightly to match the two of you instead of the system. Dana, of course, clocks it immediately and says nothing, which somehow makes it worse.

Santos says it out back one night, smoke curling between her fingers as she watches you lean against the brick wall after service.

”What’s going on between you and Jack?” She asks. 

“What’s going on with you and Garcia?” You pirate back, dangling the cigarette between your lips. 

She ignores your comment, continuing on. 

“You two are going to burn this place down with the passion between you two,” she says mildly, like she’s commenting on the weather.

You just take a drag of your cigarette and exhale slowly.

“We just both love food, passion makes us run hot, s’all,” you reply.

She hums like he doesn’t believe you.

Inside, Jack doesn’t say anything either, but he starts noticing everything. The way you stand a little closer than necessary when you’re correcting a dish. The way your hand lingers for half a second too long when you pass him a pan. The way you don’t look away first anymore.

Someone texted Robby about it, because of course they did. He gets a call one morning, asking if he’s running off the new chef or if he’s trying to commit an HR violation. Jack hangs up before he gets the chance to start making jokes anymore. 

It’s a random Thursday when you slip through the back door like normal, a little earlier, and a lot more dolled up. Your makeup is done, hair is down, and you have on a sweater as compared to your normal work attire. Samira whistles playfully as she walks into the breakroom, complimenting you as you begin to talk between yourselves. 

Jack hears you but doesn’t look up right away.

“You’re early,” he says, voice low, still facing the stove.

“Emma needs a headshot of me for the website,” you reply, shrugging off your coat and hanging it without slowing down. “She said she likes to take them in front of the sign. I’m also filming a few videos with her.”

He hums in acknowledgment, but his attention stays on the braise for the beef, on the way the liquid moves when he tilts the pot slightly, checking consistency, tasting with a spoon without thinking. He looks up at you, and that’s when everything goes wrong. 

You look beautiful. You’ve always been beautiful, even bare-faced with a dirty bandana tied around your head, but this? This was different, it was seeing you in another light. The Y/n you were outside of these walls, outside of being the best chef he’d ever met. 

Jack shifts slightly closer to the burner, adjusting the heat under the pot mindlessly, and that’s when it happens. He pulls back immediately, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth before he even fully processes it. The side of his hand sizzles against the heat, and everyone’s heads turn. 

“You good, boss?” Crus asks, and you see Shen and Ellis falling into each other hiding their amusement. 

This is the first time in his career he had burned himself, and it suddenly feels like his world is falling apart in front of him. The clicking of your heels against the floor makes his brow furrow as he wraps his hand in a rag. 

“Jack,” you say, already moving.

He likes the way his name sounds coming from your lips. 

“I’m fine,” he answers automatically, but it’s too quick, too tight.

You don’t argue, just step in beside him, gently but firmly taking his wrist and turning it under the cooler sink before he can insist otherwise. The skin is already red, irritated, not serious but enough to sting, but enough to make him finally go quiet and let you work.

“I said I’m fine,” he mutters again, though softer now.

“And I didn’t ask,” you reply, adjusting the water slightly, your touch steady and unhurried as you check the burn properly.

You reach for ointment in the first aid kit without asking, careful as you apply it, your fingers light but precise as you wrap the gauze around his hand. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t interrupt, just stands there letting you take control. Something he normally doesn't let happen. 

“You distracted me,” he says after a beat, quieter now, like he’s admitting something he doesn’t fully like saying out loud.

You glance up at him briefly while tying off the bandage. 

“I wasn’t even doing anything,” you laugh.

That earns a faint exhale from him that almost, almost sounds like a laugh he’s holding back. “Exactly,” he replies.

There’s a pause then, as your head tilts to the side watching him carefully. “Is it the heels? Because I know they’re not kitchen standard, but I have an outfit change before service.” 

“It’s not the heels,” He breathes out, but then his eyes do rake down your body for a fleeting moment before he meets your eyes again, “Maybe it’s the heels.” 

You chuckle again, patting his now bandaged hand softly. “You’re all set to go.” 

“You must have been a doctor in another life,” He smiles, “I feel better already.” 

“Healing hands.” You wiggle your fingers at him playfully, taking a short step back. You go to turn away, but you pause leaning back into his space. “Be careful, I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself again watching me walk away.” 

With those words you’re off, spinning on your heel and walking into the dining room with an unnecessary added sway in your steps. 

“Jesus,” He grumbles, feeling a flush run up the back of his neck as he indeed did watch you walk away. Ignoring all the alarm bells that were ringing in his head, as he tried his best not to get hard in the middle of prep. 

He’s not subtle at all with the way his eyes keep finding yours that night. At one point there was no shame as he stood in front of the pass window, watching Emma direct you and pose while Joy stood there following Emma’s every polite command. 

“You are not slick brother.” Robby’s voice bellows through the kitchen.

Jack barely reacts, just exhales through his nose like he’s been caught doing something mildly inconvenient rather than completely transparent. He turns his head slightly, watching Robby step into the kitchen like he still owns part of the air in it.

“You’re here,” Jack says flatly. “Almost forgot you worked here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He takes the tease, hugging him gently. “I’m observant,” Robby adds, glancing past him straight to you, then back to Jack with a faint smirk. “And I’ve been hearing things.”

Jack’s jaw tightens just a fraction. “From who?”

“Little birdies,” Robby says casually, leaning against the edge of the pass like he’s got all the time in the world. “Mostly the kind that tells me my head chef’s been acting like he forgot how to breathe around his new sous chef.”

Jack scoffs, immediately turning back to the line like that’s the end of it. “People talk too much.”

“People always talk,” Robby replies, watching him carefully now. “What’s interesting is that I’ve been here two minutes and I already see it.”

Then, lighter, almost teasing, but not quite. “They’re saying she’s changed you.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away, just focuses a little too hard on the clock.

“She hasn’t changed anything,” he says finally.

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe him for a second. “Sure.”

Service pulls them both back in before anything else can be said, and the kitchen does what it always does, it swallows everything that isn’t immediately necessary. Orders fire, pans heat, voices cut across each other in practiced rhythm. You’re back on the line fully now, moving like you’ve always belonged there, correcting, plating, adjusting without hesitation, and Jack tries to stay locked in the way he always does.

But he keeps looking.

He catches himself doing it twice, maybe three times, eyes flicking up without permission, drawn to you like it’s reflex now. You’re leaning over a station explaining something to Ellis, hair slightly loosened from earlier, even as it’s pulled back, your expression focused and animated in a way that makes the whole room feel a fraction warmer. It annoys him more than it should that he notices how easily people orbit you now.

By the time service winds down, the kitchen is in that slow collapse, energy draining out of it in waves. The clatter softens, the urgency fades, and what’s left is exhaustion and the quiet satisfaction of getting through it.

Shen is already at the back counter when you finish cleaning your station, pulling shots of espresso with practiced ease, humming under his breath like he’s done this a thousand times and will do it a thousand more.

“You look like you need this,” he says, sliding a small glass toward you.

Ice cream first, espresso second, the classic affogato, simple and perfect in a way that feels like a reward for surviving the night.

You take it gratefully, leaning against the counter beside him.

“Saved my life,” you murmur after the first bite.

Shen shrugs like it’s nothing. “You say that every time.”

“Because it’s true every time.”

Across the room, Jack is wiping down his station, slower now, watching the kitchen settle back into itself. Or at least pretending to. His eyes flick toward you before he can stop them, landing on the two of you draped across the bar as you belong. The way your faded lipstick still clings to your lips that are wrapped around the spoon. 

Shen leaves before you do, bidding you a goodnight. No doubt stealing yet another glass bowl from the restaurant. You tell him not to eat and drive, and he flips you off as the door shuts behind him.

You finish your affogato and set the glass down, turning slightly like you feel Jack watching from behind you. 

“You two are close,” Jack says, voice level, neutral on the surface but just tight enough underneath to give it away.

It’s then you realise that you are the only two left. The lights are dim and the room smells of cleaning supplies and that slight metallic smell of polished stainless steel permeates through the air. 

“He’s a mess,” You comment, placing the bowl into the sink slowly. 

He makes a noise of agreement, tossing his rag around his neck. 

“Not as close as we are, chef,” you say lightly, almost teasing, but steady enough that it lands exactly where you intend it to. “Don’t worry, you’re still my favorite.” 

“Am I?” He asks, running his hand through his tousled salt and pepper curls. 

Your teeth bite down on your bottom lip, mischief in your eyes as the only thing that separated you two was the kitchen island. You lean your palms against the cold metal, leaning forward. 

“Of course you are.” 

He pretends he can’t see down your thin undershirt now, he finds his fingers itching to touch the exposed skin of your collarbones. 

“You’re my sous chef,” he says after a beat, like he needs to remind himself of something solid.

“Mm,” you murmur, stepping closer to the island, palms pressing lightly against the edge as you lean in more. “And?”

“And,” he repeats, but it comes out quieter than he intended, like the word itself has lost some of its authority.

You tilt your head, watching him carefully now, the teasing still there but softened by something more focused, more aware.

“White pinot goes best with cod,” you say casually, like you’re talking about nothing important at all.

His brow furrows slightly, thrown off for a second. “What?”

You shrug, eyes flicking briefly to his mouth before returning to his gaze like you didn’t just do that. “I thought we were just naming the obvious.”

His breath shifts slightly, like he’s trying to steady it without making it obvious, and he pushes off the counter, stepping closer without fully thinking about it until suddenly there isn’t really any space left between you and the island doesn’t feel like an obstacle anymore, just something your bodies are pressing against from opposite sides.

“That’s not,” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening as if he’s actively trying to regain control of the situation, of himself. “We can’t just-”

“Can’t just what,” you interrupt softly, not moving back, not giving him an inch. “Talk?”

His eyes drop for half a second, as they betray him before he can stop them, and when he realises just how close you both are. Even with the counter digging into both of your hips, it feels like there’s no space between you two at all. 

“You’re pushing it,” he says, but there’s no real force behind it anymore.

“I think you like it when I do,” you reply, and this time your voice drops with it, something slower threading through the words as you shift just slightly, your nose brushing against his. Your lips hovering over his warm skin, “Don’t you?”

He moves, nearly stumbling backwards as he does. Like your touch burned him just as bad as the burner did earlier. 

You follow him like it’s instinct, like the space he creates is just something you’re meant to fill. He doesn’t back up once, he just lets you step across from him 

“Listen, if I’m reading this wrong you can tell me.” You say softly, “I won’t be offended.”

His eyes flick to yours, sharp, guarded, but it’s slipping at the edges now.

“You’re not- fuck,” he replies, but it comes out lower than he intends, less certain than it should be. “That’s not it.”

You hum faintly, stepping just close enough that the air between you changes again, warmer, tighter, charged in a way that makes the quiet hum of the kitchen feel miles away. The towel around his neck catches your attention, and without asking, you reach for it.

He doesn’t stop you,if anything his body shivers anticipating your touch. 

Your fingers curl around the fabric, not pulling hard just enough to feel the tension in him as you draw him a fraction closer, enough that his breath shifts slightly when you do it. You pull his neck down to your height, meeting his eyes. 

“Then what is it?” You ask, that teasing jilt in your tone again. The same one you throw out during service that makes his cock twitch in his pants. 

His hand comes up, hesitates for half a second like he’s still trying to decide whether he should stop this or not, and then it settles at your waist, firm but controlled, pulling you just slightly closer until the space is gone between you two entirely. 

“You’re my sous chef,” He repeats, his mouth dry. “You work under me, it’s a- I don’t wanna- take advantage of you-“ 

“Jack,” You coo softly, “I’m a big girl, if anything I wish you’d take advantage of me-“ 

That’s all that it takes for that coil to snap. He leans forward, his hands pulling your hips flesh against his as your lips meet. 

It’s frantic, hot, and wet. Your lips are warm against his, teeth nearly gnashing together at the intensity of it. Before you know it, he’s pressing you against the edge of the counter, cornering you there. His hands on your hips grip tighter, before they lift you as if you weigh nothing. 

You plop down on the metal slab, your lips still chasing each other as his knee knocks your legs open wide for him. You oblige, pliant in his hands as yours are tugging against his curls. He pulls your shirt over your head as if it personally offended him, the fabric falling somewhere near the glasses. 

You nearly whine when his lips part from yours, but it’s soothed over with a moan when he kisses down your jawline to your neck.

”Tell me what you want.”

Your back arches, the ache between your legs growing stronger with each touch. 

“Just, f-fuck-“ You can barely get the words out when his canines bite down into your skin. 

“Do you like that?” He panted against your neck, his lips alternating between sucking and licking at the supple flesh. He moved down to your tits, kissing the exposed skin. 

“I want you to tell me how you want it,” He demanded, “Boss me around just like you do every fucking day in this kitchen. Tell me how to touch you, where you want my lips, how slow, how fast, how you like to be fucked..” 

Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head at his words, your hands gripping his biceps like a lifeline. 

“Get these pants off,” You manage to bark out, lifting your hips to give him space to pull your pants to your ankles. The thin fabric separating you from him was damp, a dark patch that had been there since the start of your verbal foreplay earlier during service. 

“You are so fucking beautiful.” He whispers, his eyes never once leaving yours even as his lips trail down your body. “I’ve thought that from the moment you walked in here, correcting my chefs like you owned the place.” 

“Yeah?” You panted out, watching his fingers slide your underwear to the side. 

“And this….” He breathed out, staring at your wet heat. He used his fingers to spread you open wider for him, a guttural moan leaving his lips. “This is gonna be the best fucking meal I’ve ever had. Isn’t it?” 

You can’t speak, you’re breathing too hard, anticipation making your skin crawl. But you see the glint in his eyes, the smirk on his face. 

“You’re so mouthy during service, what’s wrong? Hmm?” 

“Fuck,” You nearly whine, feeling his fingers ghost around everywhere but where you need him the most. “It is gonna be the last meal if you don’t do something-oh.” 

Your head falls back against the wall as soon as his tongue makes contact with your clit. It’s an experimental swipe through your folds, enough to have your fingernails digging into his arms. 

“I was right,” He moans into you, "Delicious." 

Jack Abbot was not lying when he said this would be the best meal he’d ever had, because the way his mouth was moving against you you’d think the man had never eaten in his life. It’s messy, his tongue teasing in and out of your aching hole in between frantic sucks of your clit into his mouth. 

You were moaning his name like a prayer, jutting your hips up into his nose without even meaning to. 

“Fingers,” You gasped out in need. 

“Yeah?” he hummed, slipping an arm between your legs so he could slip a finger inside of your soaking entrance. “You’re so wet, baby. What got you like this?” 

His finger stretches you out with a delicious burn, you’re already aching for more by the time he curls the digit just right. It’s like he can read your mind, slipping another deep inside. They’re so thick it takes you a moment, before you’re clenching around him. 

“You, just you.” Your hands are now gripping the side of the counter, watching him through half-lidded eyes. “Been thinking of those fingers of yours, every time you’d- oh my god- stick your fucking finger into a sauce. Sucking on it like you knew I was watching.” 

“Same way you’d suck on those spoons while looking at me,” He whispered, bringing his mouth back down to your throbbing clit. 

The sound was just as disgusting as it was the hottest thing you’ve ever heard in the world. With each loud squelch of his fingers prying you apart, he was moaning desperately into you. His cock was hard and straining against his slacks. 

“S’good,” You praised, shifting your hips a little in his hold, “A little faster, wait- right there- yes, yes,” 

He listened intently, waiting to hear that sharp intake of breath and to feel your legs tremble around his head. He wouldn’t admit how many nights he went home, fisting his cock in the shower imagining just how you’d sound when you came. How you’d taste, how you’d feel wrapped around him. 

You could feel your orgasm approaching, and it almost pissed you off how fast you were coming apart around him. No other man had made you feel this way, but with his tongue lapping against you and his fingers curling deep inside right against your g-spot you were cumming with a loud moan. 

“There it is,” His voice was slurred and muffled against you.

Your shoulders dropped back, back arching and legs trembling as he didn’t change his rhythm once. Your head fell back, mouth parted as his fingers slid through your folds drawing out your orgasm until you couldn’t take it anymore. 

His head was pulled back up by your fingers in his curls, your release was dripping down his chin. His eyes were sparkling as he looked up at you. 

He brings his fingers up to his mouth and licks them clean like he made a mess eating the most expensive chocolate in the world. Not a drop is wasted, and you’re already clenching around nothing. 

“Remember,” You start, still trying to catch your breath, “How you wanted me to tell you how I wanted to be fucked?” 

He nods eagerly, slowly rising back up to your eye level. 

“I told you I don’t like it slow.” 

He smirks, the crinkles by his eyes deepening as you pull him closer towards you by his belt loops. 

“Get this off-“

”Eager?” He teases, his boxers falling to the floor. 

“Fuck.” You almost laugh, watching his heavy cock fall between his legs. He was veiny, and his tip was red and leaking. 

”I don’t have any condoms-“ 

You cut him off, eyes still locked on the massive cock that was twitching with neglect. “I’m clean, and I have an IUD.” 

He’s about to ask you another question before you bring your hand down, wrapping gently around his length. He hisses at the touch, warning you to go slow. 

“Sorry, this is just- god the biggest cock I’ve ever seen.” 

His chest puffs in pride, watching your thumb swipe a bead of his pre-cum around his sensitive tip. He can barely take it, he needs to be inside of you so bad his legs are practically shaking. 

“Think you can take it?” He asks, grabbing your thighs to push them up on the counter, as he settles between them. 

“Yes, chef.” You say jokingly, but you feel the way he tenses you see the way his eyes darken. You tilt your head at him, while he’s lining up at your entrance. 

“You like that don’t you?” 

He’s silent, but huffs as he rubs his tip against your soaked slit. 

“You gonna fuck me?” You ask, “Please Chef-“ 

You’re barely able to finish your teasing when he slips inside of you slowly, a gasp gets lodged in your throat. His palm is heavy on your stomach, thumb rubbing small circles into your clit as he inches in. 

“You’re okay,” He cooed, “Bigggg stretch, almost in baby. You’re doing so fucking good. F-fitting like a glove, so wet for me.” 

You feel so full, almost impossibly full. Each time you think he’s done, he keeps pushing more into your greedy velvety walls. With one final roll of his hips, he bottoms out. His hips meet yours. 

“Fuck.” He moans, leaning his forehead against yours to kiss you gently. “Need. This. Off.”

Your bra is unclasped with one of his hands, and pushed to the side. His head lowers to catch a nipple into his mouth, he swirls his tongue around the bud before pulling off with a pop. 

“You okay, honey?” He asks softly, doing his best to keep you relaxed as your body adjusts to him. 

You nod lazily, the dull ache turning into searing pleasure after a minute of his tongue expertly sucking at every sensitive spot he could reach. 

The first thrust has you nearly crying out in bliss, his tip is nudging so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat. He’s slow at first, steady enough to make sure he’s not hurting you and that your cunt is still dripping around him. 

As soon as he feels your hips rocking against his, he braces his hands on your hips. 

“M’member what you said, baby? How you don’t like it slow?” 

Your jaw goes slack, the moment he thrusts harder, pulling his cock all the way out before slamming back in with fever. 

Then, he’s everywhere. His lips mouthing at your neck, his cock rearranging your guts, his thumb flicking your clit. It’s overwhelming, in the best way possible. 

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since you walked in here in those fucking heels,” He admitted in a gasp, already lost in the warm wet of your cunt wrapped around him. “Hell, since the first day I met you.”

It was one thing to have a massive cock, it was a completely other thing to know exactly how to use it. And god, did he know how to use it. 

All control you held onto slipped through your hands, cockdrunk already on him. 

The lewd sounds of skin slapping against skin echoed through the quiet kitchen, alongside the pathetic moans you couldn’t stop from slipping through your lips. 

“S’ fucking big.” 

“You’re taking it so well,” He praises, “Feels s’good doesn't it baby?”

The moment your nails scratch down his shoulders so hard he winces, he knows he’s angled his hips just right. “There it is,” he says, under his breath. “That’s the spot isn’t it?”

When you don’t answer in coherent words he speaks up again, “Come on, talk to me. Tell me that’s the spot baby.” 

“That’s the spot,” You cry out, “That’s the fucking spot, don’t stop. Keep fucking me.” 

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping,” He huffs, pulling the hem of his white t-shirt up his torso. The hem finds itself slotted in between his teeth, keeping it out of the way as he jackhammers into you. 

The sight of his salt and pepper hair, and his abs glistening with sweat is all it takes for the familiar feeling to creep up your spine. And he knows it too. 

“You’re gonna cum for me, chef.” He orders, and you feel your cunt pulse around him. “Gonna cum all over my cock.”

”Y-yes, chef.” You’re gone, eyes closed and hips thrusting upwards as he pushes you down with his palm on your stomach to keep you still.

“That’s it,” He grunted, “Give it to me- fuck use this fucking cock.” 

You came so hard your ears rang, pleasuring licking up your spine even hotter than before. You can feel yourself creaming around him, each thrust only making your high ride out that much longer.

“Shit- you’re squeezing me so fucking tight- I’m barely gonna last.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his hand cupping the back of your neck harshly while the other ran up and down your side, squeezing the flesh harshly. 

“W-wanna feel you cum.” You babbled, head lolling to the side, only being held up by his hand. “Fuck me full of your cum.”

”Yeah?” His brows squinted in concentration, keeping your eyes on you. “Watch me while I cum.” 

Tears are filling your waterline as he fucks into you so hard you’re worried the shelving units are going to fall off the walls. 

Drool is sliding down your chin by the time his hand wraps around your throat, as he groans your name loudly into your neck. 

His hips stutter as he comes, and you can feel him twitch and release inside of you. The ropes of sticky cum are warm, filling up your cervix with each twitch until you’ve milked him dry. 

“Holy fuck,” He pants, pulling your head into his sweaty chest as the two of you come down. 

You were both sticky and out of breath, bodies aching from the intensity of it. But still, your brows were furrowed, lost in thought before you spoke up. 

“Wait,” You pant softly, “Have we ever thought about putting a new pasta dish on the menu?” 

His brows furrowed, sweat still clung to his top lip. “What?” 

“I just started thinking of an herb roasted chicken mafaldine pesto pasta, with like sundried tomatoes and shallots,” You rambled, as if his cock still wasn’t seated deep inside of your cunt. “We could top it with parmesan and some lemon, freshly cracked black pepper.”

”You realize,” He shifted, “I’m literally still inside of you.” 

You rolled your eyes, he wasn’t wrong. His release was still dripping out of you, coating the inside of your thighs. “Yes, you should be proud your dick inspired such a wonderful dish from my brain.” 

It was then he realised he was more far gone than he had ever been before. 

He thinks he’s in love with you. 

All he could do was shake his head. 

That’s how you ended up staying there late into the night, both of you working to make your impromptu post orgasm dish a reality. 

“Hm, I still think it’s missing something.” He mused, looking at the freshly made pasta dough and steaming chicken that was thrown together on the tasting plates, and you nodded letting him hand-feed you yet another bite. 

“I think,” You swallowed, “You should take me home, and we can shower and you can fuck the missing ingredient out of my head. How does that sound?” 

The fork was dropped within seconds, practically grabbing your hand and pulling you out of the door. “But, wait we need to clean up-“

“Fuck them, I’m the boss.” He shrugs, and you find yourself in an endless fit of giggles. 

You sighed, swirling the straw in your half-finished gin and tonic, while around you, the bar hummed with the low buzz of travelers. You weren’t sure why your editor had pushed this assignment on you since your usual column had never been about love—it was about travel. You were the one readers turned to when their flight was canceled at 2 a.m, and they needed to know how to squeeze a meal voucher out of an airline that swore they didn’t owe them one. You wrote about the art of packing two weeks’ worth of outfits into a single carry‑on without looking like you’d slept in your clothes. You guided them through budget adventures, pointing out the best street food stalls in Bangkok or the cheapest train pass that could carry them across Europe. You loved writing about how to navigate a city where the language was unfamiliar, but the adventure was irresistible.

Which was why it felt so strange, almost laughable, that your editor had suddenly decided readers wanted your advice on love (with a travel spin) and how to navigate fucking cuffing season.

You tapped out another attempt:

Is Your Holiday Romance a Direct Flight to Love—or Just a Layover in Lust?

Better. Not perfect, but better.

Ironically, you were currently experiencing a delay yourself. It was the kind of endless waiting that made time feel heavy. When the announcement came—two hours delayed—a collective groan had rippled through the gate area.

Now, typing at the bar near the gate, you noticed him…the same man you’d seen earlier, leaning against the counter, his drink in hand. He was striking, the kind of presence that drew your eye without effort. You recognized him instantly as a fellow passenger on your flight to Pittsburgh. You remembered seeing him, sighing heavily and pinching the bridge of his nose as if the weight of the delay pressed down harder on him than anyone else.

For a moment, you thought about talking to him, but then your eyes caught the glint of a wedding ring. That small detail was enough to hold you back.

The handsome ones were always taken.

So, you kept your thoughts to yourself, sipping your drink and continuing to type. Suddenly, the atmosphere shifted. A commotion broke out a few seats away—someone had collapsed, and a panicked voice rang out: "Is there a doctor here?" The bar fell into stunned silence, until the man you’d been watching stood up. Without hesitation, he pulled out a badge, his voice steady as he identified himself as "Dr. Abbot" and in an instant, he was at the side of the fallen passenger.

He pressed two fingers against the man’s neck, checking for a pulse, then looked up suddenly.

"You," he barked.

You froze, glancing around, convinced he must be talking to someone else. But his eyes locked on yours.

"M-me?" you stuttered, pointing at yourself.

"Yes, you," he grunted, already shifting his focus back to the man. "I need you to hold down his arm. He’s seizing, and I can’t get a clear line.

Your heart hammered, nerves sparking, but you shut down your laptop, moved closer, and got on your knees. The man on the floor was convulsing, his body jerking uncontrollably. Dr. Abbot had already tilted the man’s head to keep the airway clear, but he needed another set of hands.

"Here," Dr. Abbot guided you quickly, placing your hands on the man’s forearm. "You sure you can handle that?"

You swallowed hard, palms slick with adrenaline, but you did as you were told. He leaned down close enough that his forehead almost met yours.

"Good, keep steady pressure," he instructed, his voice low but commanding. He slipped off his jacket, folded it, and slid it beneath the passenger’s head to cushion the impact of the convulsions. The man’s body jerked violently once more, but Dr. Abbot was already adjusting and loosening the collar of the man’s shirt.

A woman knelt on the other side of the man, her face pale with panic. Dr. Abbot glanced at her.

"Has he ever had a seizure before?" he asked.

She shook her head quickly. "No—never. I don’t—he’s never had anything like this."

Dr. Abbot leaned in close, his fingers pressing firmly against the man’s neck again, just beneath the jawline. His brow furrowed in concentration, shutting out the noise of the bar, even your own ragged breathing.

"There," he murmured, almost to himself. His eyes sharpened, catching the subtle thump against his touch. "I can hear it. The pulse is irregular, but it’s there."

Dr. Abbot glanced up sharply. "A glass of water—quickly," he called to the bartender.

As the bartender scrambled, Dr. Abbot reached into his bag and pulled out a small pouch. "Keep holding firm. He’s almost through it." he instructed you.

From the pouch, he produced a vial of lavender oil and a small packet of powdered magnesium. The bartender returned with the water, and Dr. Abbot tore the packet open, sprinkling a measured pinch into the glass before stirring briskly.

"Natural relaxants..." he explained to you.

He dabbed the lavender oil onto a cloth and held it near the man’s nose, speaking firmly: "Easy now. Breathe."

The convulsions began to slow, the violent jerks tapering into tremors. You felt the tension in the man’s arm ease beneath your grip. When the spasms subsided, Dr. Abbot guided the cup to the man’s lips, helping him take small, careful sips.

"Magnesium helps calm the nervous system," he murmured.

The passenger’s eyelids fluttered open, his gaze unfocused but present.

"You’re alright. You had a seizure, but it’s passed. Just stay still."

The woman who’d been traveling with the man let out a breath that sounded like it had been trapped in her chest for minutes. Dr. Abbot guided the man slowly onto his side, ensuring his breathing stayed even. After a minute, Dr. Abbot helped him sit upright.

"Easy," he said, steadying the man with a hand on his shoulder.

The man nodded faintly, whispering a shaky "thank you." Around you, the bar’s tension dissolved into murmurs of relief. A few travelers clapped softly, others smiled in gratitude. The woman surged forward in a sudden, instinctive motion and threw her arms around Dr. Abbot. You could tell instantly that the hug caught him off guard but then he managed a polite return of the embrace. A small, trembling sound escaped her before she finally pulled back, wiping at her eyes with the heel of her hand.

The woman turned to you next.

Her eyes were still glassy, her breath still uneven, but she reached out and grabbed your hands.

"Thank you," she said, voice thick with relief.

Dr. Abbot finally turned back to you, his eyes locking with yours again. This time softer, less commanding. Suddenly, you felt trapped in a gaze that had a fire licking up your spine.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. So, you did the only thing you could manage. You nodded. A small, awkward, probably-too-fast nod that felt embarrassingly insufficient for everything that had just happened. But your throat was tight, your thoughts scrambled, and you weren’t sure your voice would come out right if you tried to use it. You pretended to brush dust from your jeans, anything to avoid the truth flickering at the edges of your thoughts. Because you didn’t want to admit (even to yourself) that watching Dr. Abbot had done something to you.

Competence shouldn’t have been attractive. Not like that. Not in a moment like this.

But it was…

The passenger, now steady enough, managed to stand with Dr. Abbot’s help. He gave a faint smile and settled into a nearby chair, sipping water while the color slowly returned to his cheeks.

Your hands were still trembling when you slipped back onto your stool at the bar. The adrenaline hadn’t quite burned off, leaving your chest tight and your pulse erratic. You grabbed your glass and drained the rest of your gin and tonic in one long swallow, the sharp burn of alcohol grounding you in the moment.

"Another," you said, your voice hoarse.

The bartender gave you a look—and slid a fresh glass across the counter.

"On the house," he winked.

You managed a weak smile, wrapping your fingers around the cold glass. Before you could take a sip, you felt a gentle pressure on your shoulder. You turned, startled, and found yourself staring into Dr. Abbot’s eyes.

This guy wasn’t just handsome; he was the kind of man who made you forget what words were supposed to do. Up close, you could see the way his hazel eyes caught the light, flecks of gold sparking: they were steady, piercing, and far too beautiful. His biceps strained against the sleeves of his athletic long-sleeve shirt, fabric stretched tight like it was barely containing him. You couldn’t help but notice…exploding out of the shirt was the only way to describe it.

Normally, you didn’t fawn over men with grey hair. It was never your thing. But on him? Holy hell. It was devastating.

And then your gaze dropped again to his wedding ring.

The reminder hit you like a splash of cold water. Married. He was married.

Your thoughts snapped back into place, the attraction suddenly tangled with guilt. What the fuck are you thinking? you scolded yourself, forcing your eyes away from the ring, away from him, back to the drink in your hand.

"You alright?" he asked.

You let out a shaky laugh, more nerves than humor. "That was… crazy," you admitted, shaking your head.

He didn’t move away when you answered. Instead, he pulled out the stool beside you and sat down. The bar noise carried on around you with ice clinking in glasses, muffled announcements over the PA, but it all felt distant.

"You did well," he said.

You shook your head quickly, almost reflexively.

"I didn’t do anything," you muttered, staring down at your drink. You were the one who knew what to do. I was just… holding an arm."

"No. Don’t minimize it. If you hadn’t held him, he could’ve thrashed harder, bitten his tongue, or slammed his arm against the floor. People can break bones during a seizure. You kept him steady enough that I could focus on his airway and his pulse."

You blinked, the weight of his words sinking in.

"I didn’t realize…"

"That’s the point," Dr. Abbot said, leaning forward slightly. "Most people don’t. They panic, or they freeze. But you didn’t."

You swallowed hard, the adrenaline still lingering in your chest.

The bartender slid a napkin across the counter, but neither of you moved to take it. Dr. Abbot’s gaze stayed on you, unwavering, until you finally exhaled and nodded faintly.

"Okay," you said quietly. "Maybe I did something."

"You did," his lips curved into a sexy smile (it was just as blinding as it was contagious), though his eyes stayed serious. "And you should remember that."

You mustered a nod, now noticing the green in his eyes.

"So..." he said, voice casual now, almost conversational, while he raked his fingers through his luscious hair. "Is Pittsburgh home?"

You shook your head, realizing he had probably recognized you as one of the passengers on his same flight as well.

"No. I live in Brooklyn. I’m visiting—well, surprising—a friend of mine."

"Surprising?"

"Yeah," you said, a small laugh escaping. "She’s actually a doctor, too. A resident. Her schedule’s absolute shit, and it’s going to stay that way until the new year. But she’s off tomorrow, so I thought… why not spend the day with her?"

"You’re flying out from New York during the holidays… just to see your friend for a single day?" he cocked his head to his side, clearly intrigued.

You shrugged, suddenly aware of how impulsive it sounded when spoken aloud. "I guess so. She’s important to me. And sometimes one day is enough."

His expression shifted, surprise flickering into something more thoughtful. He studied you for a moment longer.

"That’s… rare," he said finally. "Most people wouldn’t bother. Especially not with holiday chaos stacked against them."

"Well, my best friend deserves it. I honestly don’t know how she does it."

"Does what?"

"The doctor thing," you waved your hand toward him. "You guys work all the time. It sounds exhausting."

"It is exhausting. But you get used to it. Or at least you pretend you do."

You nodded, then found yourself spilling more than you’d planned. Maybe it was the gin, maybe it was the adrenaline still humming in your veins, or maybe it was just the fact that he was a stranger, and it felt safe to let the words tumble out.

"My friend… when her mom died, she basically became the primary caretaker for her sister. And then she matched in Pittsburgh, and has had to hire a part-time aid to help cover things while she’s at the hospital. So, she’s either working or taking care of her sister. There’s never really a break for her."

"That’s a lot. For anyone," he said, brows furrowing over his perfect features when he looked at you with genuine concern.

"Yeah. She doesn’t complain, though. She just… keeps going."

"Sounds like she’s lucky to have you. Flying out here, even for one day, even just to remind her she’s not alone—that matters."

"I hope so. I don’t know. I just… wanted to show up. That’s all."

He exhaled, a sigh that seemed to carry more than just fatigue. His shoulders relaxed, and for a moment, he looked almost vulnerable.

"Sometimes showing up is everything."

Your fingers traced the condensation on your glass, a nervous habit you couldn’t quite stop. "What about you? Is Pittsburgh home?"

"Yeah. I guess Pittsburgh’s home," he said, giving you a small grunt.

"Why were you in New York then?"

He rested one arm on the bar. "A favor, actually. A friend of mine works at Mount Sinai. They had a patient with a complicated case, and he asked me to fly out last night to provide a consult this morning. There’s a chance the patient will need to finish their treatment back in Pittsburgh."

"Sounds like it made sense for you to come in then."

"That’s one way to put it," he chuckled, the sound low and warm. "But it’s worth it. The patient is important to me," His eyes caught yours, steady and deliberate. "And sometimes one day is enough."

The words landed with a weight you hadn’t expected. It took you a beat to realize he was throwing your own line back at you, and when you did, heat rushed to your cheeks—giddiness dripping from your limbs.

The loudspeaker crackled overhead, pulling you both out of the quiet bubble you’d been sitting in.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the gate agent’s voice rang out, weary but practiced, "we apologize again for the delay. Your aircraft has now arrived at the gate. Boarding will begin shortly."

Around you, the bar shifted, travelers straightening, gathering bags, finishing drinks with hurried gulps. The low hum of conversation turned into the shuffle of movement.

You glanced at Dr. Abbot, and he was already sliding his arm back into his jacket, his expression returning to something more professional. "Guess that’s our cue."

You stood too, tucking your laptop back into your bag.

"Yeah," you muttered, trying to hide your internal struggle with a smile. "Have a safe flight."

"You too," he said, before slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading toward the gate.

And then he was gone, moving toward the gate, and you watched him disappear into the crowd, realizing with a sudden pang that you two had never actually exchanged names. He knew nothing about you beyond fragments of conversation, and yet it felt like he’d seen more of you than most strangers ever did.

When boarding was finally called, you joined the line, inching forward with the rest of the passengers. As you scanned your boarding pass, you spotted him ahead since his zone called before yours.

Later, as you stepped onto the plane and made your way down the narrow aisle, you caught sight of him again. He was already seated, aisle seat, his bag tucked neatly beneath the chair. For a moment, his gaze lifted, catching yours as you passed. Your heart suddenly felt like it was thumping in your throat.

You offered a small, shy smile. He returned it with the faintest nod, then lowered his eyes back to the book in his hands.

And just like that, you kept walking, sliding into your own seat a few rows back.

Almost automatically, you pulled your laptop back out, the cursor blinking at you like it had earlier. The half-finished headline stared back, daring you to pick up where you’d left off.

You hesitated, glancing down the aisle where he sat, book in hand, already absorbed. Then you forced your focus back to the screen. Fingers hovered over the keys, and you began typing again.

Holiday romances are like flight delays—unexpected, inconvenient, and sometimes revealing more about us than we’d like. The question isn’t whether they’re real, but whether they last once the turbulence settles.

December 27th - Pittsburgh

When you knocked on Mel’s apartment door the day you landed in Pittsburgh, you hadn’t expected the reaction to hit so hard. The moment Mel opened it, her eyes widened, disbelief flashing across her face before it broke into something raw. Tears welled instantly, spilling down her cheeks as she pulled you into a hug so tight it nearly knocked the breath out of you. Her shoulders shook against yours, relief pouring out in waves, and you brushed at her damp cheeks with a soft laugh.

That night, you somehow convinced her to go out. The bar was quiet, unassuming, and she allowed herself one drink—her version of 'drunk.' Sure enough, after a single glass of wine, she was giggling, cheeks flushed, leaning against you like the weight of residency had finally lifted for a moment.

The next day, you two laughed a lot, the kind of laughter that came easy after months of exhaustion. Becca, her sister, also joined you, and the three of you spent the afternoon wandering, eating, talking about everything and nothing. At one point, Mel begged you to come back in a couple of days because her hospital was hosting a holiday party, and she wanted you there.

You promised, even though you knew you’d be driving to Cleveland for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Family obligations pulled you away, but you carved out the time. You spent the 24th and 25th wrapped in the familiar insanity of home, the 26th lingering with family, before packing up again.

Now, back in Pittsburgh, you stood in front of the mirror, tugging at the hem of a tight mauve dress, getting dressed up for the holiday party Mel had begged you not to miss. The city outside was cold, streets glittering with leftover Christmas lights.

You slipped on your coat and glanced at Mel as she adjusted her earrings in the hallway mirror. She gave you a quick grin, nerves and excitement tangled together, and you pulled out your phone to hail an Uber. The car arrived within minutes, headlights cutting through the frosty air as you both hurried down the steps, laughter puffing out in little clouds.

After a quick ride, you and Mel stepped into the Andy Warhol Museum. The space had been transformed for the holiday party with strings of twinkling fairy lights draped across the high ceilings, vintage film projections flickered softly on the walls, and a Christmas tree stood proudly in the corner, its ornaments shimmering in gold and crimson. Soft jazz music played in the background, mingling with the hum of conversation and laughter.

Mel introduced you to her colleagues first, her fellow residents, nurses, and some attending physicians. You shook hands, exchanging quick introductions.

Then Mel led you over to her mentor, Dr. Langdon—Frank.

He seemed approachable, if a little 'Ken doll' in appearance, as you’d joked to Mel earlier.

You liked him enough, and compared to the mentors Mel had slogged through at the VA so he felt like a step up. You could tell Frank was probably tough on her, in the way residency demanded, but it was clear he treated her with genuine regard.

"Ah, there you two are," Frank said, his eyes twinkling with recognition. Turning around, you and Mel pivoted to face two men who had just entered the room behind you. You heard Mel begin to speak, her voice friendly and a little excited, as she introduced you.

"These are my attending physicians—Dr. Robby and—"

But before she could finish, your eyes widened, recognition hitting you like a sudden jolt. "Dr. Abbot," you said, the name escaping before you could stop it.

Time seemed to freeze for a heartbeat as your gazes met. He was in a tux, the crisp black fabric framing in a way that made your mouth go dry. Dr. Abbot looked just as surprised to see you as you were to see him. 

Mel glanced between you, confusion knitting her brow, but you couldn’t look away. Big hazel eyes swept over you, lingering on your curves a little too long, the look deliberate and unhurried, before returning to your face. Your eyes were just as greedy as his and the weight of his stare sent a rush of heat through you, your pulse quickening in response.

Then, as if to break the tension, a faint smile tugged at his mouth. "Jack is fine."

Jack. The name echoed in your head.

And the way your name rolled off his tongue after he shook your hand sent a jolt of arousal right to the center of you.

Dr. Robby tilted his head, curiosity sparking, and asked how you knew each other. You explained (briefly and very factually) the situation at the airport, the collapsed passenger, the way Jack had stepped in. As you spoke, Mel stood there wide-eyed and not making a signal fucking sound.

It was the look of someone connecting dots, realizing this was the man you’d mentioned the other day—the 'hot guy' from the airport. Her gaze flicked between you and Jack, a silent seriously? My attending? What a small world? written across her face.

Turning his attention back to you, Dr. Robby’s smile widened.

"Are you a doctor too?"

"No," you chuckled softly, shaking your head. "I’m not. I’m a writer—I write a silly column," you replied. "Nothing too special. Nothing like what you guys do." You gave a modest shrug, a little self-deprecating.

Mel frowned while Jack’s brows shot up.

Before anyone could respond, a voice cut through the hum of conversation.

"Robby," Dana (the fabulous nurse you met earlier) called as she approached, she gave the group a quick smile before turning to Dr. Robby. "Gloria’s looking for you—something about a patient, Mr. Thomas Henderson. She said it couldn’t wait. It’s regarding his post-op cardiac case."

Dr. Robby groaned audibly, rolling his eyes.

"I swear to God, if this is related to patient satisfaction scores…" he muttered, half to himself, half to the group.

Dr. Langdon straightened beside him, nodding. "That’s our case," he said, glancing at Mel with a look of recognition. "We should go check in."

Mel gave you a quick squeeze on the arm, a silent be right back, before following Dr. Langdon and Dr. Robby across the room toward Gloria. Dana trailed after them.

And just like that, the circle dissolved, leaving you standing with Jack.

"Dr. King is the friend you’re visiting?"

It was always weird hearing people refer to Mel as 'Dr. King' … it sounded so adult.  

You nodded, the word catching in your throat before you could shape it into something more. "Yeah," you managed, but then your teeth found your lower lip, worry pressing in.

Fuck.

You had unknowingly shared something so intimate and private about Mel’s life with one of her fucking attendings.

Your teeth pressed harder into your lip, nerves spiking. What if he saw her differently now? What if he judged her, thought she was distracted, less capable? What if you’d just made things harder for her?

The thought made your chest tighten and you wanted to rewind, to take it all back, but the words were already out there, probably lodged in his memory.

Jack shifted slightly, adjusting his cuff, the silence stretching between you. Finally, he offered a small, polite smile.

"Looks like you stayed for more than one day," he said, his tone casual, almost forced—like he was trying to be nice, to fill the space with small talk. But the words only made you want to throw up. The guilt surged, sharp and immediate, and before you could stop yourself, you blurted out, "What I told you about Mel—I didn’t know who you were. I thought you were just… some guy I would never see again. I never would’ve said anything if I’d known." Your voice stumbled over itself, rushed and uneven, nerves spilling out in every syllable. "I shouldn’t have… I mean, it wasn’t my place. I don’t want her to be treated differently because of what I said."

Jack’s expression shifted as he caught the edge of your panic and slowly invaded your personal space just enough for you to smell his cologne.

"Hey," he said, calm but firm. "You don’t need to worry.  What you told me stays with me. I’d never repeat it, not to anyone. Besides, from what I’ve seen, she’s damn good at what she does—nothing you said changes that." Jack’s mouth curved faintly, almost like he was letting you in on a secret. "If anything," he added, "what you told me only makes me respect her more. She’s balancing more than most people could handle, and still showing up at the top of your game. That says a lot."

"It’s kind of crazy seeing you again," you admitted, heat creeping up your neck the moment the words left your mouth.

And suddenly you were rambling with words tumbling out faster than your brain could filter them.

"I mean—I know you live in Pittsburgh, obviously. But you and Mel working together—it’s just—"

You know that feeling on a roller coaster ride when just as you’re about to descend down a sharp hill? That’s how you fucking felt, so you made a helpless gesture, searching for the right word and failing spectacularly.

"—unexpected. In a… statistically improbable kind of way."

"Yeah," he said, letting out one of those noncommittal sounds men made. "It’s… pretty damn random."

A waiter appeared at your side, silver tray balanced effortlessly in his hand, offering you some champagne. You murmured a quiet 'thank you' as you took one, the bubbles fizzing gently against your lip as you sipped. Jack accepted a glass too.

"What kind of column do you write?" he asked.

"I write for Cosmopolitan. It’s nothing Pulitzer Prize–winning."

"Guess I’ll have to cancel my subscription then."

You giggled. "You have a subscription to a women’s lifestyle magazine?"

"Well, not me. My wife does."

The word wife hit you like a sudden drop, your smile faltering as your mind raced. There it is, you thought.

"Or… she did," you heard a crack in his voice. "She passed away a few years ago…" he cleared his throat, "and I never got around to cancelling it."

Your heart dropped into your toes at his reveal.

Fuck.

He was a widower.

You were unsure of what to say and assumed that Jack probably preferred it that way. Without the need for empty expressions of I’m sorry or that must have been hard from a fucking stranger. You knew he wasn’t asking for sympathy. He was simply stating a fact, as if that was all it needed to be. You forced yourself to breathe, to push past the heaviness that threatened to settle between you. Instead of letting silence swallow the moment, you tilted your head, a wry smile tugging at your lips.

"So, she’s the reason my rent’s been paid all these years. I wish I could give her a thank-you card."

The words weren’t meant to erase what he’d shared, only to acknowledge it without drowning it in pity.

Jack didn’t laugh outright. He didn’t seem like that kind of man. But his eyes shifted, the tension in them loosening, and the corner of his mouth tugged just enough to suggest the ghost of a smile. It was subtle... but you caught it.

He stared at you with those god damn eyes, and in that silence, you understood: he appreciated that you hadn’t tried to fill the space with platitudes. He lifted his glass in a brief, private salute, then let the moment pass.

"It’s a travel column," you finally said.

"I honestly didn’t know that Cosmo had a travel section," he said in this velvet timbre before taking a sip of his drink.

You swallowed thickly, trying to squash the way his voice made you tremble.

"You and me both. When I first interviewed for the job, I thought the magazine was all about sex positions and toys and kink."

Jack choked on his sip, lowering his glass and coughing into his fist, eyes wide for a beat before he recovered. You giggled, the sound light and a little breathless, and leaned forward, letting your fingers brush the rim of his glass. "Don’t act so scandalized," you teased, voice soft. "You're a doctor!"

His mouth twitched into a grin, making you huff out a relieved laugh, especially after seeing the apples of his cheeks dust in a shade of pink.

"Honestly, the sex stuff just gets the headlines. The rest is what keeps people reading. I like to think of my job as being a professional tourist with deadlines," you swirled the champagne in your glass, watching the bubbles rise. "Now it doesn’t require as much travel as it once did, which honestly, I’m thankful for. But…" A thought flickered in the back of your mind because you were getting older, the constant flights and jet lag not as glamorous as they once were.

You paused, the words catching.

"But?" Jack asked, voice gruff. 

"I’ve got a master’s in journalism. And sometimes I wonder if I should be reporting on… I don’t know, real stories. Not just writing a column telling you where to drink cocktails in Paris and where not to order sushi in Madrid."

Jack angled his head, eyes narrowing just slightly, as though he were about to cross‑examine you in court.

"What about the hotel stays?" he teased just enough to earn a roll of your eyes, "I thought travel writers lived for the luxury perks."

You snorted, unable to help yourself. "Luxury perks? Half the time, it’s me fighting with a broken coffee machine in my room. But you’re right, I also write hotel reviews, suggested itineraries, and general "I tried it" travel, from yours truly."

Jack studied you for a moment.

"Do you like writing your column?"

You stalled, thinking of the long flights, the endless airport security lines, and the nights you wrote half-delirious in hotel lobbies. The truth was sometimes your career was lonely, exhausting, and fucking chaotic. But even in the worst of it, you’d never stopped wanting to share with your readers about adventures worthy of their PTO and providing glimpses into new cultures and experiences that reminded them about how vast and varied the world could be.

"Uh… yeah," you hesitated, then nodded. "I love it."

Jack’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, before he gave you a simple shrug. "Then that’s what matters."

You chuckled at his evaluation.

The conversation shifted naturally, and Jack steered things in another direction, asking about how you knew Mel. You explained that she had been your next‑door neighbor growing up, younger than you, someone you’d always felt a quiet responsibility to look out for. Over time, that protectiveness had deepened into something more permanent—she became like family.

You learned he was an army veteran, sharing with you about dusty forward operating bases, long nights on watch, the small, sharp moments that stayed with him.

A medevac that came too late.

The way a sunrise could feel like a small mercy.

The camaraderie that made the worst days bearable.

It was the kind of back-and-forth that let strangers become familiar. You talked about everything. It sorta…felt like a first date. You found yourself laughing at his dry asides, pausing to listen when he grew quieter, offering details you didn’t usually give out. He would smirk with flirty eyes, and it made you feel dizzy inside. You couldn’t shake off the butterfly feeling in your stomach. You couldn’t help but study the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled or the way his dimples deepened in his cheeks.

Then… Mel came back not alone but with someone. Dr. Mohan.

And…she was fucking stunning.

Jack’s attention shifted the second she stepped into the circle, and you watched them orbit each other and felt suddenly very small. You watched them talk, their voices low, their smiles small but real, and a ridiculous thought flashed through your mind: Are they sleeping together? It was intrusive, uninvited, and yet it rooted itself before you could shove it away.

You told yourself it was ridiculous. You didn’t even live here. You’d probably never see him again after tonight. Still, a hot, stupid jealousy flared—sharp and embarrassing—because…because for a moment—God, for a stupid, fleeting moment—you’d let yourself believe he might have been flirting with you this evening.

"Idiot," you grumbled to yourself.

Mel glanced at the clock and groaned, saying she couldn’t believe how late it had gotten.

"Wanna head out?" you asked, already anticipating her answer.

"Yes," she said, but her face betrayed the contradiction. "Yes, but also no—because it means you’re leaving tomorrow."

Jack’s head lifted at the word leaving, his attention snapping back to you with a quiet, startling precision. His expression didn’t shift dramatically, but something in it tightened, a flicker of surprise or… disappointment? You couldn’t tell. You didn’t trust yourself to guess anymore.

"Tomorrow?" he asked, his eyes roaming your face freely, pink tongue coming out to wet his full bottom lip.

You nodded, trying to keep it casual, trying not to read into the way his gaze lingered on you. If you were being honest, his eyes bore into yours with an intensity that made your thighs clench.

"Back to Brooklyn, huh?" he exhaled through his nose.

"Yeah," you said, tucking your bottom lip between teeth to hold back your groan. "Back to reality."

Mel clapped her hands together, the universal signal that she was about to start her rounds of goodbyes. You could practically feel her energy shift, as she leaned in to hug Dr. Mohan first, murmuring something about how she’d text her later. Then she turned to Jack.

"I’ll see you tomorrow night."

She had a night shift with him.

He met your eyes for a beat, and you felt warm. You wondered if it was because of the way his eyes seemed to shine when he looked at you.

"It was nice seeing you again," he murmured, with that sex-on-legs voice of his.

Heat pooled through you.

You heard the politeness in it, the social lubricant of a line people use to close out conversations. You told yourself he was being courteous, that the words were the kind he could have said to anyone. Still, when the words landed, you were unable to stop the shy smile that tugged at your lips. You tried not to agree too eagerly like a fucking lunatic, and definitely failed miserably.

"Yeah," you said, shifting your feet. "It really was."

A smirk flickered on the ends of his lips.

December 30th – Manhattan

Your editor’s office was always too bright. Overhead fluorescents humming, the windows letting in the kind of cold December light that made everything look a little washed out. You sat across from his desk, hands folded over your notebook, pretending not to watch the way he skimmed your draft for the third time.

He didn’t speak for a while. He never did. He liked to make you sweat.

"Well," he said, tapping the printed pages with the back of his pen, "It’s not what I asked for."

"I know."

Finally, he leaned back, glasses sliding down his nose as he looked at you over the frames.

"This is good."

"Yeah?" You blinked.

"Yes," he confirmed, then added, "Different than your usual stuff. But I like it. I think your readers will like it too."

A slow warmth crept up your neck. You weren’t sure if it was pride or nerves.

He flipped the pages together, squared them against the desk, and slid them aside. "After a few edits, I think it will be ready to go to print for the January issue." Then he smirked. "You sure you don’t want to start writing about love and relationships? You’ve got a voice for it."

"No way," you said immediately, laughing. "Absolutely not."

"Shame. You’d be good at it."

You rolled your eyes, gathered your things, and stepped out into the hallway. As soon as the door clicked shut behind you, you pulled out your phone and opened Mel’s text, the one from earlier asking for that chicken recipe.

You typed back, Happy almost New Year. Love you. And then, without thinking, you hit the little paperclip icon and attached the recipe your mother had sent you.

Back in Pittsburgh, Mel finally checked her phone during a lull in the night shift, expecting the chicken recipe you’d promised. Instead, she saw a long attachment icon and a preview that definitely did not look like a list of ingredients.

She frowned, thumb hovering, then tapped it open.

Her eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed as she read further, and widened again when she realized exactly what she was looking at. By the time she reached the end of the article, she exhaled slowly and lifted her head, still processing what she’d just read.

Across the nurses’ station, Dr. Abbot was leaning over the counter, pen moving across a patient chart. Every so often, he’d pause, tap the pen against the clipboard, then jot something else down. He shifted to the computer next, typing in vitals. The soft glow of the monitor lit the edges of his face, catching the faint lines of fatigue around his eyes. He didn’t notice her staring. He was already flipping to the next chart, scanning it with a small frown of concentration, reaching for a fresh pen when the first one began to skip. He muttered something under his breath, shook his head, and kept going.

Mel’s phone felt suddenly heavy in her hand.

She looked down at the screen again. Then back at Dr. Abbot. Then down. Then back.

Dr. Abbot finally glanced up, sensing movement more than anything.

Mel snapped her eyes away, too quickly to be casual.

"Hey," he said, pen hovering above the chart, "how did Mr. Lawson do after surgery? Did he wake up okay?"

Mel jolted like he’d caught her doing something she absolutely shouldn’t be doing.

"What? Oh—uh—yes. I mean—yeah. He’s good. Stable. Totally fine."

"You sure?"

“Yep. Great. Perfect.” She cleared her throat, forcing her voice into something steady and professional. "So—uh—yeah. Surgery went well. The laparoscopic approach held up, no complications. His blood pressure stabilized once we got him into recovery, and he’s already responding to fluids."

"Good. That’s good to hear."

Mel looked at her phone again, her pulse ticking visibly at her throat.

Whatever she was thinking…whatever she was about to do…she hadn’t decided yet.

"Dr. King… you sure everything’s alright?" Dr. Abbot turned back to his chart, but only halfway.

She hesitated.

Then took a slow breath.

Then stepped closer.

"Dr. Abbot...I know what I’m about to do is completely unprofessional."

Dr. Abbot looked up. His face twisted, a frown deepening between his brows, and his concern sharpened.

Mel swallowed, eyes flicking down to her phone, then back up to him. "If you need to take me off your service after this?" She exhaled, a humorless little laugh. "Feel free."

Then Mel held out her phone.

Dr. Abbot took the phone from her slowly, like he wasn’t entirely sure what he was about to see but understood it mattered. His eyes dropped to the screen, and then his eyes moved over the title—and Mel watched the moment recognition hit him. His brows pulled together, not in confusion, but in a kind of startled focus when he saw your name.

DRAFT Jan 2026 Article: Here’s something I’ve never said in print before—and I’m already cringing because my parents read my column (hi Mom, hi Papa, please avert your eyes):

I’ve never had a one-night stand. I know. I travel for a living. I spend half my life in airports, hotels, and cities where no one knows my name. If anyone were likely to have a casual fling in a foreign place, it should be me.

But I’m just… not wired that way.

It’s hard for me to meet a stranger and immediately think, Oh yeah, let’s get naked. My brain doesn’t work like that. My heart definitely doesn’t.

When I date, I date seriously. Not in a is this my husband panic‑mode way, but in a I like being a girlfriend way. I love the small, everyday rituals that look boring on paper but feel like glue in real life: brushing our teeth side by side, sending each other photos of ridiculous things we see, debating whose turn it is to pick the movie, knowing exactly which snacks to grab for them at the grocery store. I like the comfort of shared routines, the quiet intimacy of folding laundry together, the easy joy of having someone to debrief the day with.

I like being the person who shows up. And I like being shown up for.

So why am I sharing this incredibly personal and perhaps mildly mortifying fact about myself? Well… partly because my editor asked me to. (He claims readers "love vulnerability," which is convenient for him because he’s not the one whose mother will be texting her about this later.)

But also because…I met someone recently.

And no, it wasn’t like that. Not even close. There was no dramatic kiss, no hotel keycard exchange, no cinematic moment where I suddenly became the kind of woman who has a wild holiday fling in a city she doesn’t live in.

It was just… nice.

Nice in a way I didn’t expect. Nice in a way that made me remember what it feels like to talk to someone and actually feel something. That tiny spark of warmth you can’t manufacture or plan for.

He was a stranger, technically. But talking to him didn’t feel strange. It felt easy. Comfortable.

And maybe that’s why I’m writing this. Not because I suddenly believe in fate or holiday magic or whatever nonsense Hallmark has been peddling for decades, but because sometimes a simple, human moment with someone unexpected can shake something inside you.

Not lust. Not infatuation. Just… possibility.

So, my advice this New Year? Just go for it.

Maybe that guy from work is interested. Maybe the stranger from that bar thinks you’re the most amazing person they’ve ever met. Maybe someone you talked to for five minutes is still thinking about you on their commute home. And look…if you feel a spark with someone at an airport or a holiday party or in line for that $7 overpriced latte: say hi, flirt a little, see what happens.

You know what… maybe even go have that one-night stand.

Also: be smart about it. My best friend is a doctor and would materialize mid‑sentence to remind you to use protection, get consent, and look after your health. She’d also happily hand you a chart of STD stats… because that’s her and she cares.

But the point is: Lean into the moment instead of talking yourself out of it.

Because here’s what I should have told that guy.

You’re a total catch. I think you’re smart, charming, and genuinely funny, and talking to you felt… really, really good. And yes—you’re extremely attractive, too.

I didn’t say any of that at the time. Not because it wasn’t true, but because the moment slipped past me while I was busy being practical… and maybe a little scared. Scared of misreading things. Scared of wanting something I couldn’t have. Scared of stepping into a connection I didn’t expect with someone who carries his past with a kind of quiet dignity that made me realize he once loved someone deeply.

Maybe this New Year, we all give ourselves permission to feel something…even if it’s small, even if it’s fleeting, even if it’s just a spark for a moment and then becomes a story we tell later.

So go for it. Say the thing. Take the chance.

And who knows? Maybe next time, with the next guy, I will too.

December 31st – Park Slope, Brooklyn

Your favorite coffee shop was already buzzing by the time you slipped inside and claimed your usual corner table by the window, the one with the slightly wobbly leg and the perfect view of the street

You weren’t working. But you were kind of working since you had already been assigned your February issue article. You toggled to another tab to scan your favorite vintage shop in Greenpoint, because tonight you were going to a New Year’s party in Tribeca. It was one of those loft spaces with exposed brick, overpriced champagne, and people who pretended not to care about midnight kisses even though everyone absolutely did.

Pulling your sweater tighter around your shoulders, you found a dress on their website that looked promising—and in stock. You would hop on the G after you finished your coffee to go to the vintage shop. Of course, you were trying to buy a dress today. You were halfway through convincing yourself that buying it on New Year’s Eve wasn’t irresponsible but festive, when a voice drifted over the low hum of the café.

A man’s voice. Familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten before your brain even caught up.

"Just go for it, huh?"

You froze.

Suddenly, the dress didn’t matter. The coffee shop didn’t matter. The entire city outside the window could’ve gone silent for all you noticed.

Because you knew that voice.

You looked up.

And there Jack was, his delicate five o'clock shadow peeking through.

He looked unfairly good for someone who’d just walked in from the cold. He somehow looked even better than the last time you saw him, a bad habit you were quickly learning that he had. A charcoal wool coat hung open over a navy sweater. It was soft, fitted, the kind that hinted at the shape of him without trying. His sleeves were pushed up just enough to show the strong lines of his forearms. His hair was slightly wind‑tousled, a few strands falling across his forehead in a way that made him look younger, warmer.

"D-Dr. Ab—bot," It came out as a stutter, and suddenly you were feeling sixteen again.

"Jack," he corrected. Confidence smoldered in his stare before his teeth came out in a blinding smile. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down like it was the most natural thing in the world. "I forgot to ask you something at the holiday party," he said, settling his hands on the table.

"W-what was that?"

"What are you doing tonight for New Year's Eve?"

"I—New Year’s?" you echoed, trying to play off how flustered you were, but the slight shake in your voice didn’t go unnoticed by Jack. You felt like your brain was still catching up to the sight of him, a light flush of red swept up his neck and along his cheeks from the cold.

"Yeah. It’s my day off. I’m here until tomorrow night."

"You… have a day off," you said slowly, "and you decided to spend it in New York?"

He leaned in just a little, elbows resting on the table, voice dropping into something softer—something that felt like it was meant only for you.

"Sometimes," he winked, "one day is enough."

The smile that spread across your face could not be contained.

“Can you tilt your head back a bit more?” Feyre asked, biting her lower lip, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration.

Heat rushed to my cheeks as I rested my head against Rhys’s bare chest. His skin was warm and firm beneath my cheek. 

I still don’t know how they convinced me to do this. I don’t know why I agreed so quickly.

Her gaze flicked from the canvas to us, and my hands started to sweat.

“Cass, move your hand higher,” she murmured, her brush pressing against the canvas in short strokes.

Cassian’s hand slowly slid up my inner thigh. His body pressed more firmly against one side of me, all heat and muscle.

“Az, put your hands on her knees.”

Azriel’s scarred hands moved to my knees as he knelt before me. His grip tightened just enough to make my breath hitch. 

I swallowed, eyes closing as I tried to calm my heart pounding in my chest. 

Why did I agree to this? 

Why did I say yes to sitting here, barely clothed, pressed between them?

Now here I was, pressed between three of the most handsome men in all of Prythian, dressed in nothing but sheer fabric, heart pounding, skin tingling, all because Feyre wanted to paint live models.

Cassian’s thumb grazed the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. Azriel’s hands gently pressed my knees apart. Rhys’s hands tightened on my shoulders.

The room grew brighter as the fireplace cracked. I felt warm, too warm, burning alive with the touch and smell of them. 

Feyre’s eyes lingered on the way my nipples peaked beneath the sheer fabric.

I could smell the arousal in the air, the unmistakable scent of desire. I felt Azriel inhale deeply as he scented the same thing I did.

“Rhys,” Feyre said, her voice trembling slightly. “Place your hands on her jaw. Keep her head tilted back.”

My head tilted back against his lower stomach, looking up into Rhys’s eyes as his hands cupped my jaw, my pulse pounding beneath his touch. 

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smirk as his thumb brushed along the line of my jaw.

He knew exactly what he was doing to me. I looked up at him, pleading. I couldn’t take this much longer.

I heard Feyre’s breath hitch as I looked up at her mate.

I shouldn’t be doing this.

I shouldn’t be feeling like this.

But her eyes darkened, her brush moved faster across the canvas, and I realised she was enjoying this. 

“God,” I whispered beneath my breath as Cassian’s hand slid even higher.

His fingertips traced the spot where my thigh met my hip. I watched Rhys’s smile widen before he nodded once, a silent command passed between the three men without words. 

I felt Azriel’s hands pressing my knees further apart, spreading me open before him.Rhys's hands stayed still, forcing me to keep eye contact with him. 

My lips parted, maybe to ask for something I shouldn’t, maybe to whimper something desperate and pathetic, instead his thumb brushed across my lower lip. 

My tongue darted out without thinking, licking his thumb, and my cheeks blushed a deep red.

His smirk turned into a grin, slow, predatory, satisfied. His thumb pressed past my lips, slipping into my mouth, and I looked up at him as I sucked and swirled my tongue over him. 

I could hear Feyre’s brush moving frantically across the canvas. 

I felt Azriel shift beneath me. Cassian’s hands helped me to the edge of the lounge chair.

I should have pulled away. I should have said something, done something, been stronger than the desire burning between my thighs.

Azriel pressed wet, hot kisses to the inside of my thigh. A soft whimper left my lips as my eyes fluttered shut, as Azriel’s mouth pressed higher.

Cassian pulled away the sheer fabric, his fingers finding my nipples. Pulling them just as Azriel’s mouth pressed fully against me, his tongue licking a long, slow line from my entrance to my clit.

I groaned as my lips parted, arching against Rhys. Rhys slid two fingers into my mouth, smiling as I squirmed.

Azriel’s tongue was relentless, circling my clit with precise strokes that made my vision blur.

Cassian’s fingers twisted and pinched my nipples before he soothed them with his mouth. His tongue was hot and wet as he grazed my nipples with his teeth.

I heard Feyre let out a gentle sigh, the sound of her brush strokes filling the room between my moans and the sound of Azriel’s soft grunts as his tongue tasted me. 

Rhys’s fingers finally left my mouth, covered in my saliva. The palm of his hand tapped against my cheek.

“Good girl,” he whispered, his voice low.

My head fell forward, finally able to see the two men whose mouths were devouring me. 

Cassian’s mouth was attached to one breast, his hand massaging the other. 

I groaned, my eyes flickering to Feyre as she watched me.

Her brush was still clutched in her hand, though her chest heaved with rapid breaths, and her gaze, fixed on Azriel’s face buried between my thighs. 

Rhys moved behind her, his hands sliding slowly up the sides of her body before squeezing her breasts through her shirt.

He whispered something in her ear, her cheeks flushing pink as she leaned back into him.

I opened my mouth to speak, to say something, anything, but Azriel chose that moment to slide a single finger inside me.

The sound that tore from my throat was raw.

He immediately found the spot that made stars explode behind my eyes. His mouth closed around my clit, sucking gently as his finger moved in a slow, devastating rhythm that had me begging.

“Please,” I gasped, my voice cracking on the word. “Please, I need—”

Cassian’s teeth grazed my nipple as Azriel added a second finger, stretching me.

My moan echoed through the room as I clenched around his fingers, desperate for more. 

“Look at how pretty she is,” Rhys murmured in Feyre’s ear, his fingers tugging at her clothes.

Cassian left hot kisses from my breasts to my mouth, his mouth claiming mine in a rough kiss.

His fingers continued to pinch my nipples as I whimpered against his mouth, my body trembling between the two men.

“Look at you,” Cassian whispered, his lips trailing from my jaw to my throat. “Making a mess all over Azriel’s face.”

My cheeks flushed red, but I couldn't deny it as the wet sounds of Azriel’s fingers inside me filled the room.

I glanced over at Feyre, Rhys’s hands squeezed her breasts, pinching and twisting her nipples between his fingers. She arched into his touch, her paintbrush discarded on the floor.

Azriel’s fingers curled deeper inside me, Cassian’s teeth marked my throat, as Feyre’s moans began to fill the room. 

I looked over at her. Rhys’s hand was between her thighs.

I came before I could stop it, my pussy clenching around Azriel’s fingers as Cassian swallowed my cries, his tongue down my throat. 

Azriel slowly withdrew his fingers as he and Cassian guided me onto my hands and knees on the rug. 

I felt the head of Azriel’s cock press against my entrance, while Cassian knelt before me, his cock hard, glistening with pre-cum. 

“Open,” he commanded, his voice low and rough.

I obeyed, taking him into my mouth. Forcing my throat open around him, I gagged as he pressed deeper. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes as I tried to breathe through my nose.

“That’s a good girl,” Cassian said, his hand tangling in my hair and forcing his cock deeper. “Take all of it.”

He held me there, my nose pressed against the base of his cock.

Azriel filled me in a single thrust.

I moaned around Cassian. The vibration made his grip tighten in my hair.

I turned my head as much as I could with Cassian’s cock in my mouth, watching Rhys lift Feyre onto a table, her legs wrapped around his waist as he stood between her thighs. His cock was already pressing into her. 

Cassian thrust into my mouth as I watched Rhys pull all the way out of Feyre, the head of his cock glistening with her arousal, before thrusting deep within her again.

Azriel mirrored his movement, withdrawing until only his tip remained inside me before slamming back in.

I moaned around Cassian in unison with Feyre’s cries. Azriel’s cock hit that spot inside me that had me trembling. Cassian filled my mouth, as my saliva dripped down my chin.

“Such a pretty mouth,” Cassian groaned, his hips thrusting faster. “Made to be fucked.”

Azriel’s hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, his thrusts becoming harder and harder.

Each impact drove me forward onto Cassian’s cock, forcing him deeper into my throat.

Feyre’s moans grew louder and more desperate as Rhys maintained a relentless pace.

Azriel’s hand found my clit, rubbing tight circles that made my thighs shake. I whimpered around Cassian, the sound vibrating through his cock.

“That’s it,” Cassian groaned.

Feyre cried out, her body going taut as her orgasm crashed over her. 

Azriel’s thrusts become erratic, his fingers pressing harder on my clit. Cassian’s grip in my hair tighten painfull.

I came undone, my entire body shaking as pleasure crashed through me. My pussy tightened on Azriel’s cock, as he groaned behind me. 

I felt him pulse inside me, his release filling me.

Before I could take a breath, Azriel flipped me onto my back, and Cassian settled between my thighs.

He buried himself inside me, and the sound that tore from me was a scream and a sob. 

Cassian’s cock pushed Azriel’s cum deeper, forcing it further into my body with each brutal thrust of his hips. 

“Fuck,” Cassian groaned, as my head rolled from side to side.

Each thrust forced my breasts to bounce, my hands clawing uselessly at the carpet. The pleasure was painful, almost violent, bordering on too much.

I watched as Rhys helped Feyre to her feet, his hands steadying her as she swayed.

“Let me taste him, please,” I whimpered, the words leaving my mouth before I could stop them. 

Cassian’s laugh was dark and breathless. He slipped his arm beneath my knee, lifting my leg higher, angling his hips to go deeper.

The new position had tears fall from my eyes, my back arching off the floor as he hit something inside me that made stars burst behind my eyes.

Feyre straddled either side of my head. Her thighs trembled as she lowered herself; her pussy hovered just above my mouth.

“Go on,” Cassian murmured. “Taste her. Taste him.”

My tongue licked a long, slow line from her dripping hole to her clit. I groaned into her, my hands reaching up to wrap around her waist, pulling her down onto my mouth.

She was shaking as my tongue pressed deeper, licking every drop of Rhys’s release.

“God,” Feyre moaned, her hips rolling against my face. “Please. Please don’t stop.”

Cassian’s fingers found my clit, pressing down in tight circles as he fucked me. I whimpered into Feyre’s pussy, the vibrations making her cry out above me.

My tongue traced every fold to her clit, flicking it with the tip of my tongue. Her breath came in short, desperate gasps, and I could feel her body tensing. 

“I’m, oh god, I’m going to—”

She pressed herself harder against my mouth, and I felt her release flood my mouth and chin. I followed her, my walls clenching down around Cassian’s cock. 

I felt him pulse inside me, his own cum adding to the mess inside me. 

We stayed like that for a moment, me beneath him, Feyre still trembling above my face. 

Cassian withdrew from me slowly, the sensation making me whimper as I felt their cum leak from my body. 

Feyre didn’t climb off me as I expected. Instead, she bent forward, her hands reaching for the back of my thighs, and I felt her warm breath against my sensitive pussy.

My pussy was swollen and aching, still pulsing from my orgasm, and the feeling of her tongue was too much, overstimulating me. 

“Feyre, I can’t, it’s too—” I gasped. 

She didn’t stop. Her tongue pressed into my entrance, tasting every drop of cum that dripped from my body.

I came fast and hard, my face burying into her soaking pussy as my body arched. 

The scream that tore from my throat was muffled by her pussy, my hips grinding against her mouth.

Her tongue continued its torture until I lay beneath her, whimpering and broken, coated in her release and Rhys’s, my body trembling.

Finally, she climbed off me, collapsing beside me. My hand reached for hers, our fingers intertwining as my eyes met the others. 

Azriel sat with his back against the lounge chair, his face still glistening with my wetness, his cock hard in his hand. 

Cassian sat beside me, his chest rising and falling heavy, his own hand working his cock in lazy pumps. 

Rhys leaned against the table, his eyes watching us, hungry and predatory. 

My breath hitched as I watched three men stroking themselves, knowing that the night was far from over.

Day 20 | Kinktober Masterlist | Day 22

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