Just loads of current obsessions

Nothing screamed.

Nothing bled.

Nothing died.

That was why you had first started coming. Baking had always kept your mind busy, but never still. It was numbers and structure, precision. Weights, percentages, temperatures, chemistry.

A constant series of calculations. Cooking asked less of your head and more of your senses. Taste this. Smell that. Stir until it feels right. Add a little more. Let it simmer. In cooking, you could disappear for a while.

You tied your apron behind your back, tucking a loose strand of hair away as the first of the evening students drifted in. The chalkboard by the door read:

French Cooking for Beginners: Week Three
Mother Sauces, Knife Skills, Tart Tatin

Your idea of heaven. Some cooking. Some baking. Best of both worlds.

You were setting your notebook down when the door opened again and someone entered the kitchen.

He did not look like a man arriving for recreational mother sauces.

His hair was all salt & pepper curls. Not overly tall but thick. Visibly strong in a way that gave him more height than he actually had. Broad-shouldered. Bow legged. White t-shirt tight around his chest and shoulders. The kind of posture that suggested he had spent years in rooms where standing wrong had consequences. His expression was calm, unreadable, bordering stern.

He was noticeably older than you. And devastatingly handsome. Your stomach flipped.

Now is not the time or the place to be thinking inappropriate thoughts about an inappropriately older man.

He carried a knife roll.

An expensive one, by the looks of it.

…To a beginners cooking class.

You bit back a smile.

He scanned the room once, taking in exits, counters, people. Then chose a station near the wall and set his things down with deliberate care.

Interesting.

He looked up.

Caught you watching.

You smiled politely.

He gave the smallest nod in return.

You nearly laughed. You had never seen someone so tense in a cooking class. Half of the students already had a glass of wine in their hands and yet he was surveying the rooms with the intensity of someone whose life was at risk.

“Welcome back, everyone!”

Chef Mireille swept in precisely on time, elegant as ever in her white jacket and red lipstick.

“Tonight we learn knife skills, mother sauces, and if you behave, dessert.”

A murmur of approval moved through the room.

“And because life is cruel,” she continued with a wink to the room, “we are rotating partners”

Groans. Laughter.

You straightened immediately.

Please let me get the stern one.

Something about him was drawing you in. You were known to talk too much, pry a little too far at the best of times. But his rough exterior did nothing to repel you. It only made you want to look more.

Mireille pointed around the room, assigning partners at random.

Then at you.

Then at him.

“You two.”

Perfect.

You crossed to his station, smiling warmly at him.

“Hi,” you said brightly. “This will be fun!”

He blinked once, a little taken aback by your optimism.

“I can’t promise anything will be edible when I’m done with it.” he responded, dryly though there was a glint of something in his eyes.

You laughed “That’s alright, I’m excellent in a crisis”

That got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was privy to a joke that you weren’t.

“I’m Jack,” he rasped, reaching a hand out to you.

You gave yours and grasped his hand with your own. It was calloused and so large it engulfed your own. You briefly wondered what they’d feel like on other parts of your body. But shut the thought down as fast as it came around.

“So,” you said cheerfully, “what made you sign up for this?” Your head tilted and you handed him his apron.

“It was… an aggressive recommendation.” he put, watching you as he put the apron on. Your mouth went dry seeing the veins in his arms, visible as he forcefully tied the knot.

“That sounds suspiciously vague.”

His lips pushed to the side like he was trying to hold back a smile.

“From who?”

“Friends. Colleagues. Therapist.”

Your eyes widened a little and you grinned. “An intervention?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t but they all think I need better hobbies and it was either this or pottery. Maybe that would’ve been the safer option” you saw him eyeing the fancy knife set he had brought with him.

You laughed softly.

He shook his head once, but there was the beginning of amusement there now.

“And you?” he asked.

“What made me sign up?”

He nodded.

“I’m work at a bakery” you said. “Thought it was time I learned to make things that don’t rely on sugar. Though Tart Tatin is safely in my comfort zone.”

“You bake professionally?”

“I do.”

“What kind?”

“Pastries, cakes, breads, anything involving butter and unnecessary effort.”

That earned the smallest real smile.

It was entirely worth the wait.

Chef Mireille clapped once for attention, waiting until the room quieted.

“Before we begin ruining perfectly good butter,” she said, “we talk about mother sauces.”

She lifted a wooden spoon like a pointer.

“In classical French cooking, the mother sauces are the foundations. The starting points. Learn them properly, and you can build a hundred other sauces from them. Learn them badly, and everything that follows tastes of regret.”

That got a laugh.

“There are five traditionally recognised mother sauces: béchamel, velouté, espagnole, tomato, and hollandaise.”

She moved down the line of ingredients as she spoke.

“Béchamel is milk thickened with roux. Simple, elegant. Velouté begins with stock and becomes lighter, silkier things. Espagnole is rich and brown and rewards patience. Tomato sauce, in the French sense, is deeper and more structured than many of you expect.”

Then she held up a bowl of cubed butter.

“And hollandaise,” she said, smiling faintly, “is where overconfident people go to be humbled.”

The room laughed again.

“And naturally, that is where we will begin. If you can master this sauce you can master them all. It is an emulsion. Fat and liquid persuaded to cooperate through technique, temperature, and attention. Too cold, it tightens. Too hot, it splits. Too rough, it breaks. Too timid, it never comes together.”

Her gaze swept the room.

“So, like many relationships.”

Even louder laughter this time.

Mireille set the bowl down.

“Tonight, we are learning what they teach: control of heat, patience, texture, and trust. If you can make a good sauce, you can cook. If you can rescue a broken sauce, you can really cook.”

She

“Now. Aprons on. Whisks ready. And if anyone curdles my hollandaise, at least do me the courtesy of telling me before I taste, hm?”

You divided the ingredients between you with the efficiency of someone who had done this enough times to know chaos always began with poor prep.

Jack read the recipe card once, then set it down like he intended to win on instinct alone.

He took the butter and put it on the stove, whilst you got to work whisking the eggs with white wine, a splash of cold water and a pinch of salt.

“So, Jack, what do you do when you’re not being mysteriously assigned hobbies?”

A brief pause as he stared down intently at the melting butter. As if, if he looked away for a second, it would all go wrong.

“Emergency medicine.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Really.”

“That must be intense.”

“Sometimes.”

You laughed.

“Sometimes?”

He glanced at you, then back at the butter.

“A lot of the time.” he admitted.

“II hope you don’t mind my questions. I’m just…. interested.” you said honestly. Because it was the truth. And you wanted to know more.

“In emergency medicine?”

“In you.”

That made him pause, spoon stalling in the pan.

You pretended not to notice.

Then he resumed stirring.

“ER now,” he said.

“Now?”

“I used to be a combat medic.”

Your whisk stopped.

“Well.”

He looked over.

“Well what?”

“That is significantly more interesting than baker.” You held out the eggs for him.

He huffed a laugh and poured the butter into the eggs, placing the bowl over a pan of simmering water.

“I mean… don’t get me wrong. I’m sure you’ve never had pastry collapse at six in the morning.”

“Comparable trauma?” he smirked, not turning to face you but you could see his eyes flicking towards you.

“Devastating.”

He laughed then.

Short. Real.

It changed his whole face.

You liked the sound of it immediately.

But the smell… wait? The smell?

Oh no.

Chef Mireille appeared at your shoulder with the uncanny timing of someone who could sense culinary incompetence from across the room.

She looked first at the pan.

Then at Jack.

Then back at the pan.

You craned your neck and got your first look as well. The hollandaise sat in the bowl in glossy yellow patches, butter pooling at the edges, curdled through the middle.

Mireille placed one hand on her hip.

“Well,” she said. “This poor sauce has suffered, it seems. The heat is far too high”

Jack’s brows raised in surprise and then dropped into a frown. You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself laughing.

Jack glanced down at the bowl. “In my defence,”

“Ah Ah. The heat,” Mireille cut in smoothly, “did not turn up by itself.”

A few people nearby laughed.

Then her eyes moved to you.

“And you,” she said, lifting one elegant brow.

Uh-oh. You swallowed the laughter you had been holding in.

“Were you paying attention?”

You straightened automatically.

“I was just,”

“She was helping,” Jack cut in.

Mireille ignored him with professional ease.

“You are usually one of my star pupils,” she told you, tone playfully stern. “Reliable. Focused. A woman I trust around butter.”

You pressed a hand to your chest. “Chef,”

“And yet tonight,” she continued, gesturing toward the bowl, “you have allowed this man to commit acts of impatience in my kitchen.”

Mireille pointed her spoon between the two of you.

“Start again. Lower heat. Slower hands. Less eye contact.”

Heat climbed your neck.

Now it was Jack who was holding back a laugh.

“We’re just cooking.”

“Mm,” Mireille said. “And I am twenty-five.”

She swept away before either of you could answer.

There was a beat of silence.

Then you turned and nudged Jack lightly in the ribs with your elbow.

“You’re dragging my reputation down.”

He looked at you, deadpan.

“Your reputation must be pretty fragile.”

You gasped softly.

“It was immaculate before you arrived.”

His mouth twitched and he absently rubbed the spot on his torso where your elbow had been.

“Then I’m glad I came.”

One more attempt, this time successful, at mastering the hollandaise, and it was time for the knife demonstration.

Your second batch had come together beautifully. Pale gold and glossy, thick enough to ribbon from the spoon. Chef Mireille had swept past, dipped a fingertip into it, and given a rare nod of approval before gliding on to terrorise another station.

You had tried not to look smug.

Jack had noticed anyway and shot you a subtle wink that made your heart skip.

Now the room gathered around the long central counter while Mireille demonstrated how to peel, core, and slice apples evenly for the Tart Tatin.

“Uniformity,” she said, lifting a wedge between two fingers, “is not about pleasing me, though naturally it does. It is about making sure everything cooks at the same rate. If one piece is too thick and one too thin, one burns while the other stews.”

She set the knife down.

“And grip matters. If you are fighting the knife, you have already lost”

She demonstrated once, swift and elegant, then sent everyone back to their stations with bowls of apples and the promise of shame for anyone who hacked them into rustic chunks and called it charm.

You returned to your counter with Jack beside you.

He picked up the knife immediately.

And held it completely wrong.

Not beginner wrong. Not nervous wrong.

Wrong in a way that suggested years of muscle memory.

His index finger ran high along the spine of the blade, thumb angled close, grip narrow and exact, as if he were about to make an incision rather than cut fruit.

You stared.

“That,” you said, pointing, “is not a kitchen grip.”

He glanced down at his hand.

“It cuts.”

“You’re holding it like a scalpel Doc.”

His mouth twitched.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, they’re just apples”

Your face dropped into a deadpan stare and you teased, “You’re not dragging my reputation through the mud anymore”

You stepped nearer before you could think better of it.

Up close, he was even more solid than he looked. Heat rolled off him in a quiet wave. He smelled so good. Clean soap, cotton, and something warmer beneath it. Cedar, maybe, or just him. The kind of smell that made you instinctively lean in before sense caught up.

You reached for his wrist.

His forearm tensed the second your fingers closed around it.

Strong. Dense. Warm.

The muscles shifted beneath your touch like restrained machinery.

“Relax,” you murmured.

“I am relaxed.”

“You’re so tense, didn’t you hear what Chef said about fighting the knife?”

That earned a low sound that might have been a laugh.

“Not like that,” You slid your hand down, nudging his thumb and forefinger into place at the base of the blade, “Like this”

“Pinch grip,” you said. “Here. Control comes from the blade, not strangling the handle.”

Your other hand covered the back of his briefly, guiding the angle lower.

He went very still.

So did you.

You became acutely aware of the breadth of his chest just behind your shoulder, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, the fact that if you leaned back half an inch you would feel all of him.

Your pulse gave an unhelpful kick.

“Then your guiding hand,” you said, voice thankfully steady, “makes a claw.”

You took his free hand and curled his fingertips inward around the apple.

“Protect the tips of your fingers, bend them in a little.”

“Bossy,” he murmured near your ear.

“People generally appreciate instruction involving sharp objects.”

“I don’t usually need any instruction around sharp objects.”

“Debatable.” You smiled, though with you in front of him like this you know he couldn’t see.

You released him and stepped back.

“There. Now slice.”

He brought the knife down through the apple in smooth, clean strokes. Even wedges. Neat spacing.

Quick learner.

Annoyingly attractive.

“Well?” he asked without looking up.

“Well what?”

“Tell me I’m talented.”

You laughed.

“I’ll tell you you’re teachable. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

That time he smiled properly.

It hit you with the force of a minor collision.

Warmth transformed him. Softened the stern lines of his face. Made him look less like a man carrying something heavy and more like one who had briefly remembered how to set it down.

You forgot what you were saying for a full second.

He noticed that too.

“Tart Tatin,” he said coyly. “Try to focus.”

You stared at him.

“Are you flirting with me over apples?”

“I don’t know,” he said, slicing another perfect wedge. “Is it working?”

You rolled your eyes, another smile forcing its way onto your face before you could stop it. You didn’t bother humouring him with a response, your expression told him enough already.

From there, working together became strangely symbiotic.

You caramelised the apples on the stove, he stabilised the pan handle without being asked.

He fetched ingredients before you reached for them.

You corrected seasoning. He corrected heat. And then overcorrected it.

Still learning. You bit back a laugh

“The heat was fine, just watch the timer” you said.

“They burn if ignored.”

“Where was that attitude when you killed our hollandaise?”

He glanced over.

“I was distracted then:

Your heart beat heavy against your chest.

“You’re not now?” you asked, eyes flicking up to his. He was watching you with a flirtatious intensity you hadn’t experience from anyone before. Maybe you’d just been flirting with the wrong people this whole time.

“I am” he said, voice rough and low, “I’m just motivated not to disappoint you twice in one night”

“Hmm, maybe too late for that Doc. Your tart crust is looking pretty thick.”

He looked down at it.

“It is not.”

“It’s wearing armour.”

“It needs structure.”

“It needs tenderness.” you arched a brow, daring him to argue further.

That look again.

Unadulterated attraction.

“You talk like that about all pastry?”

“Only the difficult ones.”

The timer for the apples went off then.

You both reached to take the pan off of the heat at the same time.

Your fingers brushed.

Neither of you moved for a beat too long.

Then he moved away, allowing you to take it.

“Slow reflexes, old man”

“I was letting you have it, kid”

“How noble.” you retorted, trying to ignore the flush of heat between your legs at the nickname he had given you.

As the tarts came out of the ovens, the room softened into that pleasant end-of-class warmth.

More wine appeared at nearby stations. Mireille floated by critiquing apple placements and praising crusts.

Jack stood beside you, leaning on the counter. You were starting to think he noticed how much you’d been looking at his arms and had decided to show them off for you.

Extremely annoyingly attractive.

“What kind of bakery?” he asked.

You glanced over, surprised.

“Umm it’s called Willow & Rye. Mostly pastries, custom cakes, bread. If I’m feeling particularly masochistic I’ll make macarons on weekends.”

He hummed, eyes never leaving yours.

“You own it?”

“I do, took over from my mom or took over from her mom. I basically grew up in that place.”

“You like it?”

No hesitation.

“I love it.”

He nodded once.

As though filing that away.

“And cooking?” he asked.

“What about it?”

“Why take a cooking class after baking all day?”

You laughed lightly, understanding the absurdity, “Well… it’s very different to baking. And I like learning things I’m not good at.”

“Why.”

“Because being bad at something humbles you.”

“You’re not bad at this.”

You laughed, “Thanks. But thats now. I was never a natural with cooking like I was with baking. It took time.”

His mouth twitched.

You added more quietly,

“And I find it peaceful. Even when the kitchen is chaotic I can still find the peace I need there.”

Something in his expression shifted then.

Small enough most people wouldn’t notice.

You did.

“Peaceful,” he repeated.

“Yeah.”

He pushed down off of the countertop and wrung his hands together, looking down at them.

“Maybe that’s why I’m here too.”

Warmth moved low in your stomach.

So naturally, you ruined the moment.

“I still wouldn’t trust you to do any of this alone”

He stared.

Then smiled slowly.

“I learn fast.”

“Do you?”

His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.

“I do.”

By the time the tart came out of the oven, golden and fragrant, the room had dissolved into happy chaos.

People packed leftovers. Chef Mireille kissed cheeks and assigned homework.

You stayed behind to wipe down your station, as always.

Jack stayed too.

Not helping, exactly.

Lingering.

“You can go, you don’t have to wait for me” you said.

“I know.”

He didn’t move.

You dried a pan, trying to reign in the heat you could feel spreading up your neck to your face.

He watched you with the same focus he gave everything else.

“You hungry?”

You glanced over at the half-eaten tart between you, raising a brow at him.

“Is that a joke?”

“Or thirsty, then.”

Not smooth.

Not practiced.

Just direct.

You liked that far more than smooth.

“I could use a drink,” you replied, a smile playing at the corner of your mouth.

The wine bar next door was narrow, warm, and softly lit.

You took a booth.

You ordered wine.

He ordered water, mentioning briefly that he was driving home when he saw the surprise on your face.

“Ah, here I was expecting whiskey” you said.

“Why is that?”

“It’s very on brand for gruff older man in need of hobbies.”

“You think I’m gruff.”

You bit your bottom lip, smiling and nodding before saying “Can I ask you a question?”

He gestured for you to go ahead.

“Now, don’t take this the wrong way because I think you look incredible in the apron but. Why do your friends feel the need to strong arm you into taking up a cooking class?”

He shook his head, amused before leaning forward, resting on his elbows.

“They think I have a habit of mistaking danger for recreation.”

You smiled faintly. “Do you?”

“Sometimes.”

He glanced down at the water glass, turning it once against the table.

“Before this, I was doing volunteer medic work with a SWAT unit.”

You blinked. “Wow,” nodding “That’s really brave”

His mouth twitched but he didn’t argue.

“Anyway, couple months back I caught a graze.”

Your smile faded.

“A bullet?”

“Technically.”

“Jack.”

“It barely touched me.”

You stared at him.

Mouth downturned, he drew a sharp breath through his nose, shrugging like it was no big deal.

“Apparently getting shot, however inefficiently, gave everyone around me opinions.”

You were quiet for a moment.

“And what do you think?”

That made him pause for a second.

“They’re probably just tired of waiting for the phone to ring. So. Cooking class”

He summed it up like it was nothing. Like he had just finished telling you about traffic.

Conversation unspooled easier after that.

He told you about his job, long shifts working nights. You laughed when he taught you the Nightcrawler chant that he does with his staff at the start of a shift to hype themselves up.

He told you about his friends who worried.

And he told you about his time in the service, a life built around reacting quickly. Losing his leg.

He didn’t overshare, but what he gave you was enough that you were able to build a picture of who he was, the life he lead. And you wanted more.

You told him about four a.m. starts at the bakery, kneading dough before sunrise, the violence of holiday cake orders.

You told him about pressures of keeping the third generation family business going.

And you told him about baking. Growing up. With your mom and grandmother. Food as a conduit for community. A way to gather close with everyone you love and share in something.

“You talk about food like religion,” he said.

“Oh please, in my family it was the next best thing.”

Eventually the wine bar closed down. Jack offered you a ride.

You wouldn’t have ever said yes to a ride from someone you had only known for a few short hours but… you didn’t want to say goodbye yet.

The walk to the car park was damp with recent rain.

Streetlights turned the pavement gold.

You stopped beside his car.

He opened the passenger door.

As you neared him, you hesitated.

“You’re not getting in?” his voice was low. You looked up at him, his eyes darting between yours and your lips. He swallowed and his adam’s apple bobbed.

You were suddenly very thirsty again.

“Not yet”

Streetlight caught in the silver at his temples. The night air was cool, but standing this close to him made it hard to notice.

He stepped closer and the air changed with him, into something electric.

“You got quiet,” he said.

“Just thinking.”

“Dangerous habit.”

A smile pulled at your mouth.

“I want you, Jack.”

He went still.

Not startled. Not offended.

Just still in that way controlled men did when faced with something uncontrollable.

His eyes searched your face like he was checking for hesitation, for uncertainty, for the chance that you didn’t mean it.

“You don’t know how difficult you’re making it for me” he said quietly.

Your brow furrowed, confused. Your hand reached out for his, trailing up his arms lightly.

“What’s difficult about this?”

His jaw tightened visibly.

“I’m older than you.”

You laughed a little.

“Yeah, Jack, I noticed.”

“That doesn’t concern you?.”

“It looks like it concerns you enough for both of us, apparently.”

That almost pulled a smile from him, but it faded before it fully formed.

You dropped your hand. “Look, if this isn’t-. If you don’t want this. I’m sorry if I got the wrong impression”

His hand came to your jaw then, rough palm warm against your skin, thumb resting lightly beneath your chin.

“No. I want you too, you don’t know how much. All night I’ve been thinking about it” he said, the words sounding dragged from somewhere deep. “That’s the problem.”

You leaned into his touch.

“Doesn’t sound like one to me.”

“No,” he said, one corner of his mouth tugging up, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “It sounds like the start of several.”

You smiled up at him innocently. Far from innocent.

He groaned, almost too quiet to hear but you did.

That did it.

You reached up, hands reaching for his curls and bringing his head towards your own.

He kissed you like he’d been restraining the urge for hours and resented the delay.

One hand came to your waist.

The other braced on the car above your shoulder.

Controlled. Strong. Deliberate.

You kissed him back harder.

He made a low sound in his throat.

You tugged him closer by the front of his shirt.

“Still think pottery was the better choice?” you murmured.

“No.”

“Good.”

He kissed you again.

Longer this time. His tongue pushing in against your own, teeth biting gently at your lip.

When you broke apart, breathless, you took him by the hand.

Closing the passenger door and opening the back door.

You looked at him, brow raised in a challenge.

He laughed and slid into the back, pulling you with him.

The windows fogged quickly.

Heat trapped in too small a space. City lights reduced to blur.

You learned several things, as you were straddled on Jacks lap with your dress hiked up above your hips.

Jack liked control until he trusted someone enough not to need it.

He was attentive in every sense of the word.

And all that contained stillness hid a startling amount of hunger.

You kissed until your lips were swollen. Chin rubbed raw against his silver stubble.

Hands explored through clothing first, hesitant nowhere but careful everywhere that mattered.

There was laughter between sharper moments.

Your forehead bumping the roof of the car.

His muttered complaint about leg room, wishing he’d had the fore thought to push the front seats forward.

You teasing him that tactical planning should’ve accounted for that.

But when the laughter subsided, all that was left in its place was the heat.

You lifted up on his lap and he reached down to align his cock to your soaking entrance. You hadn’t had a chance to see it but fuck did you feel it. You had a moment of panic, he was thicker than anyone you had been with before. And lets be honest… it had been a while.

He looked up at you, eyes darker than before.

“You still with me?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me if anything feels wrong.”

Something in your chest tightened at the care in it.

You nodded.

“Good girl, so wet for me” he said softly, voice roughened by want, feeling exactly how much you wanted him as the tip of his cock entered you.

The words went through you like a spark.

He held you closer to his chest, patient where another man might have rushed, giving you time to adjust, time to breathe, time to feel every inch of anticipation.

Your fingers tangled in his curls.

Your eyes squeezed shut.

“Take your time baby,” he murmured against your throat.

Your thighs were shaking with the strain of holding yourself up but Jack noticed. And before you knew it strong rough hands were holding you up, hovering you just on the tip while you got used to the stretch. The veins in his arms were more prominent than you had seen all night. Jack moaned as your pussy clenched around him from the sight.

“Good girl” he said, drawn out “We’re gonna go nice and slow yeah?” he lowered you ever so gradually lower and lower as his cock went deeper and deeper inside of you. You had never been so fucking full. It was overwhelming. So full you could cry.

When you finally settled, his cock fully seated inside of you, Jacks head fell back onto the head rest. Eyes closed and mouth slightly open in absolute bliss.

You kissed up his jaw, hands moving from his hair to his shoulders. Clutching desperately as you began to move.

That spurred Jack back into action, his hands moving to cup your ass, finding the rhythm you wanted to set and lifting you in time.

“Ohh good girl. You’re so wet for me aren’t you” he cooed, drawing out a wanton moan from you that had you realising you’d been holding yourself breath. He had made you forget how to fucking breathe.

Bracing his hands against the seat, he used the leverage to buck his hips up to meet you and you folded, head resting against his shoulder.

“Jack, feels so good” you whined pathetically.

“Yeah baby, let me take care of you” he murmured in your ear, words enunciated by grunts as he rutted his hips, “Do you feel how hard you made me? I’ve been thinking about this all night. Wanted you as soon as I fuckin’ saw you baby”

Your insides quivered around him and he knew you were close, you wanted to straighten back up and move on him again but you were so fucked out on his cock you felt like you couldn’t move. He didn’t seem to mind.

“Good girl, you’re getting close aren’t you?,” he moaned, a ragged breath leaving his chest, “You’re gonna make me cum too, your tight pussy is squeezing me so well baby”

Fuck. That did it.

Your legs started to tremble and his hands were already there, on your hips, grinding you down onto his length where you had lost the strength to do it yourself.

“There she is. I’ve got you, cum all over my cock baby”

He held you steady, worked you through it with the same patient certainty he seemed to bring to everything, like there had never been any question he would carry you when your body gave out.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and low. “Let go for me.”

And with his hands anchoring you, you did.

Your body hummed with pleasure and the sob that you had been holding in let out as your orgasm rode through you.

You mumbled something indecipherable, unable to get the words out.

“Talk to me” Jack said, voice raspy and breathing fast, “What do you want baby?”

“Please Jack” you sobbed “I need you- inside me. Please”

His eyes closed again and his fingers dug into your flesh at your words.

“You want me to finish inside you?”

You nodded, head still resting on his shoulder, body complete mush.

“Say it.” he bit out. Demanding and assertive.

“I want you” you whimpered.

“Not what I meant,” His hips bucked up hard and you gasped for air, “Say. It”

“Cum inside me Jack. I need it. Please” you repeated that last word, over and over, blabbering and completely cock drunk.

Jack groaned and you could feel his cock twitching inside of you, filling you with his seed, overflowing and seeping back out.

What a fucking mess.

You leaned against his shoulder, you couldn’t say for how long, catching your breath.

Jack held you, long after his cock had gone soft, still buried deep in the warmth of you. His hands stroked your hair, down your back. Repetitively over and over. He pressed kisses into your temple and whispered how good you were.

You had never felt safer.

After a long time, you got up. Jack helped you dress which you were glad for. He had fucked any strength you had left out of you.

He drove you home, hand holding yours the whole time, rubbing soothing circles into your palm.

When he pulled up outside your building, neither of you moved immediately.

Then, direct as ever,

“I’ll make you dinner sometime.”

You laughed sleepily before you could stop yourself.

His brow lifted.

“I’ve seen your skills, Jack.”

“They improved significantly tonight.”

“Still.”

He leaned towards you, hand coming up to grasp your chin gently.

“You saying no?”

“I’m saying if we eat anything edible, I’m probably the one cooking.”

He smiled, nodding.

“You can cook. I’ll sous chef”

You grinned up at him, knowing you probably looked completely love sick.

“Deal” you said.

He walked you to your door, making sure you had stepped over the threshold before asking,

“Next Thursday?” he asked.

“The class?”

“The dinner.”

You pretended to consider.

“Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether you practice your knife grip”

He laughed.

Warm and rough. Pulling you back towards him slowly.

“I will practice.”

He stroked your hair and tilted your head back towards him, kissing you deeply.

There was something … off about the Codys.

For one, they owed you fucking money.

Secondly, they were just…different. They didn't trust easily. They were known for stealing, lying, screwing people over. But they were also immensely private. That part you understood.

Most packs kept their closed doors, kept to their old grudges, their places at the table no outsider was ever going to sit. But the Codys were different even then. Their house always felt locked up tight, even when the gates were open, even when they'd throw huge summer parties.

And ever since two years ago when your father had introduced you, the Codys never gave in. You thought it was because your dad was an asshole, plain and simple. Because he was. And he'd gotten killed because of it.

But there was something else too. Something more curious. They often kept people out like it wasn’t only money they were protecting, careful and uneasy of any outsiders that sniffed too close.

Usually, you understood. But today, it pissed you off.

Because whatever rotten blood pact they had between them as a family, as a pack—it didn't mean they got to keep your cut of the money.

It was why, even though your body was screaming in a noxious, thrumming pain and your pulse was pounding through your head, and your gums felt itchy even as you chewed your wad of bubble gum, and your skin was too warm, and your thighs pressed together tightly in the driver’s seat—you were heading to the house anyway.

The gum had long become tough between your teeth, sugar and artificial strawberry turned flat, but you kept chewing because your jaw needed something to do or else the chattering of your teeth would drive you crazy.

Your cycle thrashed behind your ribcage, a wet and burning omega begging for something or someone , but still early enough where your head was on your shoulders and you could push it down.

Your back felt sweaty against the driver's seat of the Jeep, and you could feel the humiliating slick gathering, could feel the awful little pulse of it between your legs. Every part of your body seemed desperate to make that your problem instead of the dead-father, missing-money, Cody-family problem you were trying very hard to focus on.

But still, you were determined to get to the house.

Because fuck 'em. That's why.

Your dad had given them a job, had found the armored truck, had even gotten the head of security to sign off early for his son's birthday, leaving the coast completely clear for them to take it without being seen.

But he died. On the job.

So technically, the money was yours now.

Next of kin— all that.

The streets up from The Strand were always annoying, which only made your ire grow— flames licking up from your belly into your chest, fueling you as the pad of your foot stepped harder on the gas pedal of your open Jeep. The cooler air did help, if only a little. The breeze off the ocean cut through the hot early summer sun and cooled the sweat at your temples for one brief second before your body burned through it again.

Your Jeep took every climb and sharp turn easily, though it jostled you so hard it sometimes forced a moan from your throat. You did your best to bite the sound off behind your teeth as your thighs clamped together and the worn seam of your shorts dragged exactly where you needed it to—no, no you did not need. You did not. Though, at one point, stopped at a red light with one hand tight on the wheel and the other pressed hard against your lower stomach, you did have half a mind to shove your hand down your shorts right there just to take the edge off.

But you couldn’t. You weren’t quite at that point of humiliation yet, though the fact that there was a yet at all made your mouth twist around the wad of gum. You'd deal with it later. With your toys and your medication just like every other year of this hell.

Eventually you were pulling up to the wide gated house with your brows pulled together and a deep frown.

The gate opened for you without much question.

Huh. Wonder if they were expecting you.

Good. Maybe then they'd have your money ready and waiting, too.

You pulled the car into the driveway, only one Cody there waiting for you—the youngest, J. Smurf's grandson who'd had a lot to say about the family business ever since she passed away. Rest in hell, the mad woman.

You studied him long before cutting the engine completely. His tee shirt stuck to him from sweat and early summer heat, brows set, that usual glare typical of his face, though today it had your teeth clenching around your gum.

"Could smell you from a block away." J called as you hopped out of the seat, "what do you want?"

The dig only made your lip curl up, your teeth bared before you could stop yourself. Josh Cody was a beta, which surprised you, to say the least. Smurf made it her mission to raise alpha men, though you were never sure if it made any difference. Nature versus nurture, who could be sure. She’d barely known him most of his life, and maybe that was why he’d ended up almost normal. He had a normal designation, no biological need for territory or scent or reproduction. No physical need for it like the rest. His body would stay his own.

"Nice to see you too." you snarked. "Haven't seen you around much."

"Yeah, well" he said flatly. "Dead grandma, and all."

You clicked your teeth, "Aw, you seem really cut up about it."

The two of you glared at one another for a long moment. The sun was beating against your face now, your own scent climbing up around you in a way you could almost taste, sweet and cloying and too much. It made you want to crawl out of your skin, made you want to show your teeth at this asshole. Worse, it made you want hands on you so badly that your stomach cramped with it, and then the shame of that made your anger snap back into place even harder.

"Listen, I'm just here to collect my dad's cut. That's it. Then I'll be out of your—"

But then, the back gate was opening, and two of the Cody sons came walking out.

Oh, fuck.

You suddenly realized how much of a mistake this was. Coming here right before your cycle. J was probably right, you thought—that you stunk to high hell—your belly twisting on itself in instinctual glee while your brain still had enough hold on you to know that it was fear too. Three grown alphas lived here, two unmated. Their bodies coming toward you with the sun at their backs making your omega hindbrain—stupid little traitor that she was— lift its head and whine.

J's glare flitted around as they all formed a sort of half circle around you.

Craig came out first, tall and loose-limbed, his hair messy, his chest bare, tattoos showing against his skin. His smell invaded you, uninvited, unmated— smokey with the grain of beer, a heady press of alpha that made your nose want to scrunch.

Deran was beside him in a faded tank, his thick blond mustache pulling down around his mouth, shoulders already lifted with irritation. He smelled like salt water, malt and liquor cutting through the clean surf of him.

"It was my dad's job." you said, trying to force the ire in your voice as your heart began to pound harder in your ears, looking back at J, "and because you jackasses got him killed, the cut goes to me. His daughter."

"Your dad was an idiot who got himself killed." Deran cut in with a hard glare.

"Yeah, Deran?" you snapped, looking over to him. You only half saw Craig and J fidget in your periphery as you stepped into the mated alpha's space, "I think that maybe it's that mommy isn't here anymore to tell you how to actually do a job. Maybe you really are all brawn, no brain after all."

You heard snarls coming from around you, the men bristling at your sharp tongue as their rough, low voices scraped over air. It made you jump, it made your stupid omega brain want to keen and show your belly, but you refused even as sweat began to bead your brow. You needed to get your money and get the hell out of here as your heat blazed in your belly and down between your legs where slick was beginning to pool.

“We don’t owe you shit.” Craig growled from beside you. But you didn’t even hear him. Deran was glaring down at you, his shoulders shaking, his entire body vibrating with fury.

As he was the only one mated to his omega, Adrian, he posed less of a threat. Maybe that's why you pushed it even harder.

“What’s the problem, D?” you said, ignoring Craig. “Being the baby brother make it easy for the others to stand up for you?"

"You should go."

You heard his voice from your right, enough to make you look over to him as he walked up from the garage. Pope—Andrew. Dark, curly hair, broad shoulders under a black t-shirt. That tense way he carried himself. Not pissed like Deran, but ready. He smelled like rain and gunmetal, like fresh air through an open truck window with the leather seats warmed by the sun. But underneath all of that was salt and sweat and a mouthwatering alpha scent. You pulled it greedily into your lungs before you caught yourself.

On his neck were three nearly healed slash marks, as if an animal had fought him. His eyes—his pretty hazel eyes—were on you, his head tilted, pupils blown a little wider than normal.

You swallowed thickly before speaking again, hoping your voice would still sound steady.

"I think I'm owed some money, Andrew."

"God, you omegas really are so fucking stupid." Deran's laughed, and when you looked back at him, he had a mocking smile twitching his beard, "You come waltzing up here, just a little bitch in heat—"

The slap of your palm meeting his face cracked loudly between you.

Everyone was silent.

But Deran—

His eyes were changing almost immediately, blue blowing out wide—his body no longer only vibrating, but shuddering violently. His shoulders rose into his neck, his eyes focused on you with a newfound fury as his lips peeled back from his teeth. For a second, you thought it was just anger, that he was holding himself from hitting you back.

Then his jaw popped. A wet, terrible crack sounded under the skin, and Deran sucked in a breath that seemed too large for his chest.

“Fuck—” J muttered from behind you, and you felt his hand on the cup of your shoulder, pulling you away.

“Here we go—” Craig said with an eye roll that did nothing to hide the way his body had gone tense, “Deran, c’mon, chill, man—don’t be stupid—”

Pope was in front of Deran in an instant, pushing him back.

All the anger, the ire, the attitude you’d just had was fading quickly.

Because Deran was…was changing.

Pope barked over his shoulder, "Get her outta here, J!"

The youngest's hands came up to both of your shoulders now, pulling you back, but you wouldn’t budge. You watched as Pope pushed his brother through the back gates, the bones in Deran’s face shifting under his skin, his body curling up on itself but still getting bigger and bigger. Large, heavy huffs of breath that didn’t sound like him or his voice were heaving from him as his eyes stayed locked on you.

His hands hit the ground first, fingers spread against the concrete, and then the fingers were wrong too—stretching into dark claws that scraped against the patio with a sound that made your teeth hurt. His tank tore across the back. The muscles along his spine jumped in hard ridges beneath his skin, and then fur began to push through, thick and yellowed auburn, spreading over his shoulders and down his arms.

You shoved out of J’s hold as the back gate nearly swung shut, and you pushed through it. Call it instinct, call it the thanatos death drive, call it the worst timing in the world for your body to mistake danger for want—but you had to see.

Deran Cody was no longer between his brother's arms.

Instead, there was a creature. Sand blonde and thick coated with long snout with teeth that dripped with saliva as he snarled. But even as he watched you, you recognized the blue of his eyes. But he was terrifying. He looked close enough to a wolf and yet wrong enough that every other part of you went cold. The fur along his spine stood high. His lips dragged back over teeth that looked made for cracking bone. His ears were pinned flat to his skull, and every breath came out of him in a thick, wet huff that stirred the loose leaves near the pool drain.

He was beginning to thrash around, pushing at his brothers with a heavy shoulder. Enough to knock them off balance. The moment Craig’s head hit the concrete of the poolside, his body started to vibrate too.

“Craaaiiigggg—” Pope called out in warning. He glanced back at the gate, his brows narrowing at you. “You have a death wish, omega? Get. Out!”

His last words hit you differently. One moment, you were staring at Deran's figure as it began to lope towards you, but then as you heard Pope's voice go low and heavy, your eyes found him, your body trying to answer before your brain could. Your knees went soft, your feet beginning to move out towards the driveway again, but—but you couldn't.

Because Deran was already lunging for you.

And behind him, Craig's body was rearranging itself into a black mass of inky fur with bright, terrifying blue eyes to match. His back bowed and his jaw opened on a shout that broke apart into a snarl. Black fur burst over his arms and chest, glossy under the beating sun, and his hands slapped against the concrete, claws skidding before they caught. He was snarling and his back was arched like a cats as he fully morphed into the wolf— longer than Deran, darker, his ribs moving hard beneath all that fur.

You barely noticed sandy blonde wolf's jaw around your ankle before you were being pulled to the ground, dragged against the concrete hard enough to scrape against your back. Your arms flew out, pushing against him as he hauled on top of you, snapping at you. Though your blood surged with fear, there was something worse, too. Something old as time and instinct. That traitorous omega sung for him to take you like this. She loved the chase, the fight of it, even if you were scared for your life.

Your thighs opened instead of kicking him away, heat twisting low and stupid while your brain screamed at you to move, to fight, to get out from under him. He was mated. Adrian’s. That should have meant something to the dumb animal part of you, but it didn’t. It only knew alpha. It only knew the heat of his body, even if he was trying to eat you alive.

The shame of that burned almost as badly as the concrete against your skin.

Because the fever burned worse now, your heat in full effect, making you weaker and unable to hold him back. You cried out as your mind began to slip, the rubber band between who you were and whatever lived inside your body stretching thin. The panic and pain got tangled very quickly with want—slick gathering hotter and thicker between your thighs, humiliation only making it worse as the concrete bit into your skin and saliva dripped from his mouth.

You still forced your fingers to dig into his neck just to keep those gleaming teeth from the sensitive flesh of your face, your nails sinking into the thick ruff at his throat while your heel scraped against the ground, trying to find leverage, trying to remember how to kick.

But then, a wash of mottled gray and brown shoved Deran off of you, knocking him sideways so hard it felt like a train being derailed. You sucked in a breath so fast, leaning up, one hand flying to your chest while the other stayed braced on the concrete beneath you.

In front of you was the most insane thing you think you'd ever seen before.

Wolves, fighting with their teeth, a mess of fur and snarls.

Three True Alphas.

It was a rarity, an abomination.

A fairytale.

Everyone knew the stories—before designations and medical forms and dating apps and certifications. True Alphas—the wolf. The most base, most pure animal version of your kind. Something that had been hunted down in the beginning, tested on, killed, regulated. Too dangerous, too hungry, too close to animal for laws to control. So they became bedtime stories, then horror stories, then nothing at all. An extinct bloodline cut out of the world.

And yet…there were three here, now. In front of you.

Deran and Pope were still snapping at one another by the pool, the eldest on top, seemingly winning against the younger, more brutish alpha. Deran fought with fury, all teeth and shoulder and claws scraping hard against the concrete, but Pope knew how to fight. He drove Deran down with his weight, jaws locked around the thick fur at his neck until Deran cried out and bit at Pope’s legs, twisting under him with a violence that made your stomach turn.

You couldn’t watch.

But your eyes wouldn't look away, either.

No wonder you hadn’t been able to hold off your heat. Even now, your brain was turning molten, your core burning hot as arousal gathered steady between your thighs—you remembered the stories. That True Alphas had something innate inside of them, something old and animal, something omegas were made to answer whether they wanted to or not. And to have three of them around you at once, to have one so close in his truest form only moments before, on top of you with his teeth bared and his breath hot against your skin—it had shoved you into full-blown heat so fast you had no time to stop it.

Your stomach began to churn on itself, cramps threading your blood tight and your veins constricting. You had to leave, you had to go home, that last shred of humanity said. Go home to your toys and your medication. You thought of the cold tile floor of your bathroom. Your perfectly made bed with the pillows just right.

The pain was becoming unbearable in your stomach, your vision pulsing black at the edges. You closed your eyes, squeezing them shut through another bad wave of cramping.

When your eyes opened again to the smell of salt and old beer, you saw Craig standing over you, black fur and blue eyes, his body blocking out a hard slice of sun. Pope and Deran were still by the pool, panting heavily as Pope held Deran under him, thick growls still eminating from both of them. But Craig was pawing closer and closer, his claws clicking against the patio, his nose lifting. Licking his jaws. Black nose twitching and inhaling greedily.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You keened, though nerves flushed a new wave of unease through you. He was so big, so long and lean and terrifying, all black fur and sharp angles and bright blue eyes fixed too tightly on you. His smell wasn’t right though. Too salty, too stale, old beer and smoke caught under the alpha of him, clinging to the top of your mouth wrong.

Your body still noticed him because your body was stupid now, because alpha was alpha when the heat got bad enough, but you had half a mind to know he wasn't for you.

“C-Craig—” you croaked, shaking your head, holding your hand out to try and make him stop in his path. You backed up until your shoulder blades hit the splintering wall of the makeshift bar beside the pool. “No, Craig—”

His head dipped, understanding, though he slowly brought his nose to your open palm, wet and rubbery as he breathed in deeply. His tongue, like sandpaper, licked at your hand. You sighed in relief, even as your belly cramped harder in need. Your head fell back against the bar, neck baring, eyes fluttering shut as he licked at your hand again, between your fingers, his teeth grazing the tip of your forefinger in a careful little nip. It felt so good, just the smallest touch of wet tongue, even if just for the moment.

Your core tightened, hips twitching, searching for more, your back arching a little as his coarse tongue licked carefully at the sensitive web of skin between each finger. You couldn't help the little helpless moans that fell from your lips, and Craig’s tongue pressed heavier with each sound, dragging slower over your palm, between your fingers, across the tender inside of your wrist. But when you mewled and keened, it wasn't for Craig. Or Deran. Or even for J—who stood at the back door, watching.

"An—Andy, please—"

Craig's teeth bit down hard suddenly on the meat of your palm.

You yelped, pulling your hand away, eyes flying open. Your skin felt too hot, your vision bleary and wet at the edges as your feet scrambled against the patio, trying to push yourself farther from the wolf in front of you. His eyes had gone harder now, bright blue and fixed on you, the skin over his muzzle wrinkling into a little snarl from the way you must’ve moaned his older brother’s name.

And soon you heard the crack of a thick growl coming from beside him.

The mottled gray wolf was coming back over to you, his head low, shoulders rolling under all that gray-brown fur. His snarl tore through the air at the same time Craig’s did when he noticed him, both sounds ripping over the pool deck, but neither of them lunged. They only stood there with teeth bared and breathing hard while the space between them and you seemed to shrink.

Across the pool deck, you saw the autumn blonde wolf limping away, Deran, tossing hard glares over his shoulder as he went.

You dropped your hand, your body trembling where you sat. A molten heap of nothing now, only want and need and burning. Your brain felt like mush as you looked at the two wolves, both still showing their teeth, until Pope moved forward and crowded your space, standing across your legs.

His fur of his belly tickled the tops of your knees, and you brought your face into his shoulder without thought, inhaling deeply. Yes, yes. He smelled so good. Gunpowder and rain, leather and sweat, and something you hadn’t noticed before, something clean in the thick of his fur. Almost like… pine. You inhaled so deeply it stuttered in your chest, your stomach pulling tight, your legs heavy beneath you. Your body was so strung out with need that the smell of him felt like the first thing that made sense, and you whined against his fur as the vibration of his growl faded under your cheek.

He turned his head toward you, letting you stay buried in his shoulder, his nose pressing carefully at your leg.

“I’m sorry,” you whined, your fingers curling into the fur at his side. “I didn’t mean—for all this—Andrew, I feel—you feel so warm, I—”

He was moving before you could finish, pushing his head under your arm to lift you up. Your arm looped around his oversized body, fingers digging into the thick fur over his shoulder blades as he helped you through the yard and toward the house. You heard the back gate clink shut behind you, the other two alphas slinking off across the pool deck. As you passed J’s hardened glare, you could barely make out his form through your hooded eyes, but Pope growled softly at him anyway, low and annoyed.

He guided you through until you were in the furthest corner of the house, your steps uneven beside the click-clacking of his claws as you made your way into his bedroom.

You blearily took in your surroundings: there was no laundry on the floor, no open drawers, nothing left out of place except a watch on the nightstand and a pocketknife set beside it, both placed perfectly straight. The room was dim, blinds half shut, every bit of it perfectly done. The bed had been made tight before you were shoved onto it, blanket pulled flat, pillows stacked square against the headboard.

But it smelled so good—like him. You rubbed your face into the pillow as he let you walk to the bed, and there was that pine smell— his detergent, then, you realized—mixing with the intoxicating scent of rain and leather again.

Your stomach cramped as the worst of your heat rolled through you, arms wrapping around your middle as you cried out.

You could vaguely hear Pope whining somewhere in the room—a low, thick sound that began to morph more human, breaking and heaving until it was a man’s breath, a man’s pain. When you opened your eyes again, he was there. Just Pope. Two-legged and naked as the day he was born, crouched on the floor by the door with his hands braced against the hardwood.

Scratches cut across his chest and arms, new claw marks fresh on his neck where Deran had caught him, red and raised beside the older scars you had seen before. Sweat ran down his temples, his shoulders shook. His freckled back arched over the floor as another wave of the turn moved through him, muscles jumping beneath his skin, bones threatening in pops and shifts.

He groaned through his teeth, head bowed, as if trying to hold onto this form with everything he had.

“D-don’t be scared,” he managed to whisper, though his voice was so rough, it was merely a scrape of sound. “I’m not gonna—” He sucked in a breath, eyes squeezing shut. “You can stay here until—until it passes, or until you can call somebody. I’m not gonna touch you. I’m not gonna—fuck, no, no, no—”

His back arched harder, bones rippling under his skin, and for one terrible second his jaw looked wrong—his shoulders rising, hands blanched into fists the floor. He cried out again as you watched his claws beginning to protrude from his knuckles.

But then he dragged in another breath through his nose, shuddered all over, and forced himself back down. Human, even if only barely. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor in front of him.

“Andrew,” you cried, your voice cracking, “I need you—”

You cut yourself off with another whine, your knees were pulling tight to your chest, teeth biting into your own arm as another wave of crippling, cramping pain pulled through you. You hated this part. Usually you prepared. Medication first, toys charged, towels and blankets laid out around the cold tile of your bathroom. You usually made sure to have your water and herbal elixir by the tub, phone plugged in on the counter playing something soothing. You had a whole system for surviving what your body did to you every cycle.

But now you were in an unfamiliar bed, in an unfamiliar room, with a True Alpha on the floor trying very hard not to turn back into the wolf at the sound of your voice begging for him.

And fuck, your body sang for him like nothing you had ever felt before. A deeper heat than you'd ever felt, something ancient and searing opening in you. It moved through your belly and down your legs, slick coating your thighs, staining your shorts. Your mind was slipping from you, you knew that well now, hardly your own, lost in pain—but mostly into need and want. So, so much want.

Every now and then you'd feel the chill of the fever as your skin went clammy and hot again, each breath dragging more of that rich scent from him into your lungs.

“Please,” you whimpered, fingers twisting in your own shirt. “Please, it hurts.”

"Don't—" Pope croaked from the floor. "I won't do that to you."

“I neeeeeeed it,” you cried, rocking yourself against the mattress. “Please, I promise, I promise I want you. I’ve always wanted you.”

Tears began pouring down your cheeks—from the pain, the want, the need to make him understand. You writhed in his sheets, body twisting toward him because he was right there, almost close enough to touch, close enough to smell, and still not close enough to stop the awful cramping pull inside you.

Why wouldn't he come to you? The little, desperate omega in you wondered. Had you done something wrong?

Yes, you thought. All wrong, all teeth and nasty temper.

You remembered the driveway, the way you’d snapped at them, teeth bared, shoulders squared, all that ugly anger spilling out of you before you could stop it. You shouldn’t have come in so mean. You shouldn’t have slapped Deran. Maybe that's why Pope didn't want you, after all. Because what kind of omega were you? Not the normal, sweet, docile little things that put on their doe eyes for their alpha. You'd never been that kind of person, never wanted to beg a man for anything, least of all a stupid, ego driven, territorial alpha.

But that wasn't Pope. You knew that. You'd known it for a very, very long time. So, you tried. Tried to be docile now, knew the one way to get under the animal's skin.

"Please, alpha—"

"Stop—" he growled.

"Please, please, alpha—"

"No." it was a deep growl, as if he'd finally caught his breath, using that low, heavy voice that only his kind were privileged to have.

“Yes,” you retorted, voice breaking into a whine. “I swear, Pope. I promise I’ve wanted you. I came here today hoping you would be here—Andy, I swear it.”

His head snapped up to you.

Oh, oh his eyes were so pretty. His full attention on you felt like being bathed in a pretty sunlight, those hazel eyes, those pretty dark curls. You softened only a little, eager, opening your body a little.

You nodded fervently, tears dripping down your temple and onto the pillowcase beneath. “I swear it. My dad—he was an alcoholic, an asshole. He only got you that job because he thought he could steal from you. I hated him. Hated him, Andy. But I knew…I knew you might still be here. So I came over, pretending I wanted the money. But I knew my heat was coming. I knew it was close, and I still came. I’m so sorry—”

He was next to the bed so fast, you gasped.

His hand came to the crown of your head, pushing back the sweaty hair there. The touch was so careful, but it felt so good, your breath shakily exhaling from you.

“You’re okay,” he said roughly. “You’re okay, don’t be sorry."

God, his touch was like a salve. Just his hand in your hair made your eyes flutter, made the pain in your belly loosen for one breath before it came back worse.

Pope swallowed, watching you now with something pained and soft in his face.

“This was a dumb idea,” he murmured, his thumb dragging over your hairline. “Coming over here when you knew better. Didn’t you know better, little omega?”

You nodded again, silent, your eyes searching his face. So many scratches. Fresh red marks along his neck, his shoulder, his ribs. Marks that were there because of you, because of the mess your body had pulled all of them into.

"You smell so good, Andy—"

“We can't do this today,” he said, voice still low. “You're in heat, you'll say anything."

You shook your head quickly, reaching for him, your hand going to his neck before either of you could think better of it. He hissed when your fingers slipped into the curls at his nape, your wrist turning just right so that the soft gland there pressed against the one behind his ear. You hadn’t meant to do it. You only wanted to touch him so badly.

But the contact made you moan anyway, your scent and his folding together between you.

His head fell back on his neck, mouth parting at the feeling, his chest pulling in one deep breath after another. “Fuck,” he breathed.

You keened at the sound, whining for him, trying to use your hold on him to drag him closer. He came willingly, but not all the way. Not enough. His mouth stayed open as he breathed you in from your jaw, down the column of your exposed throat, to your shoulder, and then back up to the tender, spongy gland behind your ear. "You smell so good too."

Your eyes went wide when his tongue dipped out to lick at the mark there, the moan you made slipping out of you obscene and helpless. Your legs opened before you could stop them, docile suddenly, open, wanting, your body begging for him in a way that would have made your whole face burn if you weren't so deep into heat.

You heard him whispering, "Yeah…yeah…" he inhaled, exhaled, licking lightly as your scent flooded the room even stronger, "That's it, good omega."

His voice was warping between man and other, his breath deepening.

"Andy, please, it hurts."

He growled a little, his name on your lips just enough to push him over the edge. You could smell how strong his rut was hitting now, with you in his own bed, legs open and slick shining along your bare skin.

“If you want to keep any of these clothes,” he said, voice rough, “take them off. Now.”

You squirmed where you sat, hands feeling heavy, the air thick around you as you tried to move. Your body felt slow and clumsy with need, every thought narrowed down to him, his mouth, his hands, the heat of him hovering so close and still not close enough.

“Tell me it’s not just this,” he panted, his voice catching back into himself for a moment. “Tell me you want me. Not just because of this.”

“Andy, I’ve wanted you for so, so long,” you whined, trying and failing to push down your shorts with one hand, the other still hooked around his neck. He pulled back so he was looking down at your face. His eyes were blown black, barely any hazel to be seen. For a moment, he was as scary as he was as the wolf—intimidating, serious, the gleam of animal in his gaze.

"Tell me." he ordered.

While you still squirmed, his hand came down to cover yours, stopping your movement entirely. You whined and thrashed a little, impatient. But all he had to do was 'tsk his tongue against his teeth and you laid still.

"Back when—" you inhaled, trying to get your mind to form words, coherent memories, but your heat was so strong now that all you cared about was the fact he was here, and he was very naked, and he was looking at you. Looking at you like that. "Andyyyy pleaseeee…"

“Be a good girl and tell me, omega.”

You pouted, breathing hard through your nose. “When I met J—”

“—That was two years ago.” he said, brows furrowed a little.

You nodded quickly.

“I think about you every time,” you admitted, voice breaking around the words. “Every time I’m stuck dealing with this —this bullshit by myself. M-my toys, when I have to do it alone—”

His face shifted. “You don’t have anyone to help?” he asked, and there was something so genuinely concerned in his voice that it made your chest hurt through the fever.

You shook your head.

His expression softened, the hard animal edge easing back just enough for Pope to look like Pope again. “Okay,” he said, quieter. “Okay, I understand.”

“S’been so long,” you whispered, fingers curling weakly against his neck. “All I do is think about you.”

"Okay," he repeated, "I'm gonna help, it's okay,"

Your heart soared at his words, your legs falling wider, your neck craning to give him access before you could think to be embarrassed. You were helpless to the instinct of your kind now, making yourself soft and open and desperate for him. But you were desperate. You were deep in the haze of want, too far gone to care how needy you looked in his bed, how quickly you answered the smallest kindness from his mouth.

“Ohhh, please,” you breathed, fingers tightening in his hair. “Please, please, please.”

He leaned down then, and though you thought you were feverish before, the first press of his lips nearly broke you. Heat blazed between you like kindled fire. It was not gentle in the way you expected. It was careful, yes, because he was Pope and because he was still fighting himself with every breath, but it was eager too. His chapped mouth pushed against yours, hot and a little clumsy at first, and both of you moaned into the contact.

His shoulders, tense for so long, dropped with one heavy exhale. His breath fanned over your face as the hand holding yours rose to your jaw, fingers spreading to keep you close.

You opened your mouth easily when his tongue pressed forward, and whatever restraint had been left between you began to fray. Your hands pulled at him, his mouth moved harder over yours. He was still kneeling at the side of the bed, but then he shifted, pressing into the mattress, his weight dipping as he hovered over your open body.

He finally pushed your shorts down for you, panties following after, ruined and wet against your skin. He didn't take his mouth from yours until he had to, until your shirt caught at your neck and he pulled back only to drag it over your head. You suddenly realized you could feel him. Hot, pulsing, thick against your thigh, making you undulate where you laid.

"Oh, oh, Andrew—I need, I need it now."

"Sh, sh, sh," he cooed, still kissing you.

You whined and mewled for him, your hands eager now, too eager, needing more of him than his mouth and his weight and the hot press of his skin.

You reached between the two of you, and the growl that came from his throat had your lips detaching from his, your neck craning to the side before you could think better of it. Submission, easy, immediate and instinctual—your body offering it up at the first scary sound from him.

But he felt so good in your hand. Smooth and hot, pulsing against your palm, velvet soft skin over all the thick weight of his cock. Your hand moved up and down gently at first, almost reverent despite the fever, until your fingers brushed something fuller at the base, thicker skin beginning to swell there.

"Is that—?" you whispered.

He nodded, kissing your face like he couldn’t make himself stop, his mouth dragging over your cheek, your temple, the corner of your lips while he hissed and sighed and moaned at your touch. “My knot.”

"Oh," you murmured, blearily blinking.

His face pushed yours to the side, stubble scraping against your skin as he kissed your shoulder and down your neck. You felt the sound he made before you heard it, a low, vibrating groan pressed into your throat as your hand tightened and your wrist twisted, tugging him closer.

“I—” he tried, breath breaking. “I have to tell you—I might—ohhhh, fuck—”

You swept your thumb over the tip of him, thick beads of arousal coating the head, and your whole body clenched at the feel of it. You wanted a taste. You wanted him in your mouth, inside you, against you, anywhere he would let you have him. Anything. You would do anything right now.

“Listen,” he snapped, a rough growl tearing through the word as he pulled his face away from your neck.

You paused, startled, your hand still wrapped around him.

His face changed immediately. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, both hands coming to your hair as he leaned fully over you, his thumbs pressing carefully at your scalp. “I’m sorry, little one. Don’t be scared. I didn’t mean to—shit, I’m trying to tell you something.”

You nodded quickly, eyes wet, both of you burning hot where your skin touched.

“You need to know,” he said, forcing each word out slowly. “If I lose it, if my rut gets too strong, I might change back. I don’t want to. I’m holding it —him—down, but I could—”

“Okay,” you whispered, barely listening as you guided him lower, finally bringing him against the slick folds of your aching cunt.

Your eyes nearly rolled back from the pressure alone, from the hot drag of him through all that gathered slick. He sighed into a long groan, his hips jerking, pressing harder, before he caught himself, one hand tightening in your hair while the other braced beside your head.

“You don’t understand,” he gritted through his teeth. "I could hurt you—"

“It’s okay, Andy,” you breathed, trying to soothe him even as your hips lifted against him, grinding your hips against him, lathering his cock with your arousal. “It’s okay. You don’t scare me.”

He paused, eyes searching yours, hazel swallowed up entirely by the black of rut. His hand moved through your hair again, harder now, almost restless.

"Okay." he finally whispered, kissing you once again.

At first, it was all tongue and hunger in your mouth, the sounds he made almost too much to hear when your body was already wound so tight. You sang for him too, squirming beneath him, needing and needy, your hands catching at his shoulders, his neck, anywhere you could hold. You whined and shifted as his kisses moved from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, licking into the dips of your throat and clavicle.

He kissed your breasts, giving each one a moment of attention before going lower. His mouth dragged down the soft rise of your belly, warm against your skin, then lower still until his breath fanned over your mound. You gasped when his lips touched the top of your hip, already about to whine over the loss of his body against yours.

But then your brain suddenly went white hot as his tongue flattened over your cunt and licked a long stripe from entrance to clit. Your back bowed in on itself, an arch so clean off the bed, your fingers catching for any relief. One in his hair, one on the bed. You moaned loudly, your hips undulating for more. His hands came up quickly, around your thighs, holding you down and open as he did nothing but eat.

The sounds he made filled your ears—rough, animal growls, whimpering moans, the obscene sounds of his tongue against your slick pussy. Slurping, licking, huffing breaths against you like he needed it too. It was too much. Your hips tightened, spine tingling, and it wasn’t long before your jaw opened, unhinging to let out a yelp of pleasure as your orgasm crested and broke.

It wasn't enough, but it brought small relief. You felt your body clench down around the need for more, your breath hissing through your teeth as he continued to lick through your orgasm. His tongue had been the gentle press of something human at first—warm, careful and gentle—but then it dragged rougher, closer to sandpaper, and your whole body jolted beneath him until it returned to the human softness.

He held onto your firmly, and you only just saw the prick of blood on your thighs where his claws were starting to protrude again. When you looked down at him, his brows were threaded so tight, his form not quite turned but the signs were there—his claws, his teeth sharpening when they nibbled on your clit.

When he rose from between your legs, panting, his hands were greedy as they pawed roughly at you, "How was that, sweet little omega? Feel better, hm?"

You thrashed and shook your head because yes, and no, and not enough. But you let him manhandle you until you were on your belly, your ass lifted a little, pushing back into him before he even had to ask.

"Mmmm…" he hummed, his face buring into the back of your head, inhaling, "Fuck, you're so good. What a good girl. Tasted so fucking good."

His hand dragged down your spine, stopping at your hip, holding you still while he breathed hard behind you. You could feel him close, hot and heavy against your skin, his body shaking with the effort of waiting.

“Gonna let me take you, baby?”

“Yes, alpha,” you murmured, voice thick and warbled.

He hummed, content, his hands rough on you, squeezing until you whined into the pillow. But you didn't want him to stop, you hoped he'd never stop. He felt so warm, his smell enveloping you as he laid across your back.

"Down." he ordered. His voice was so thick now, that human and not-so-human growl sitting behind every syllable, and it made you shiver all the way down. You listened. Of course you listened, blood thrumming hard with the feeling of the tip of his cock right at your entrance, gliding through the slick there.

You laid fully down on the bed, wiggling beneath him, trying to push back, but he laid down over you, face into your neck, lips at your ear. His breath hot and thick around the shell as he said, "Settle down."

Instinct had you whining, your eyes rolling, desperately pushing your hips back and then—

And then you were nothing.

His cock pushed into you, and your brain went flat line. Your cunt, so wet and wanting, let him in without fuss, your body opening around him like it had been waiting for exactly this. The stretch, the warmth of his thick cock. Your toys never felt like this. They never made you feel this full, this fevered, this sick relief in your hips and stomach and spine. They never made your body go quiet for one stunned second, all that pain finally given something to hold onto.

"Ohhhhhh, Andy—" you moaned, eyes rolling back.

"Yeah," he breathed, and you could hear how his teeth bared around the word, the vibrating groan that followed as he pushed completely into you, hips meeting yours, balls resting gently against your clit.

He wrapped his arms around you tightly, pulling you into him until you weren't entirely sure where you started and he began. Your chin rested in the crook of his arm, head turned just enough to feel his breath in your ear, to hear the rough scrape of him changing between man and animal as he began fucking you in earnest.

His moans in your ear were no less obscene, no less desperate, than the rhythm of his hips jolting you into the mattress while his mouth stayed at your neck, open and panting. The bed creaked under you, his and your moans harmonizing with the slap of skin that filled the room.

“Good girl,” he whimpered. “Good girl, take my cock. Doing so good, little omega. Fuck.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you moaned, because you had no other words.

Your brain was slack, your mouth parted, drool pooling a little onto his arm where he held you tight. He made a low and pleased sound, his arm tightening under your chin so you could feel the tendon and his muscles flex with every thrust.

"Gonna take such good care of you," he promised through a groan, "Mine, mine now. All mine."

Your heart sang for him, your ass pushing back harder into his lap.

"Yes, Andy, please, please—"

He was whispering into your ear, words broken by his breath, by his teeth, by the animal pressing closer under his skin as he completely gave into his rut. My little pussy. My omega. Gonna keep you. Mine, mine, mine. Each one sank into you worse than the last, until your body answered all of them, slick coating him and you and the bed, your hips jerking back to meet every hard swing of his.

You cried out sharply when his angle changed, his cock pushing deeper, striking something that made your hands claw at the sheets. The headboard knocked into the wall with loud slams of wood.

You felt his teeth press at the back of your neck, the wet heat of his mouth right over the gland behind your ear.

“Oh, please,” you cried, one hand reaching back for his hair. “Please bite me—”

"Sh, sh—no—" he growled, only pressing the flat front of his teeth to the gland instead. Your blood still sang for it as you kicked your feet with petulance. The need to be taken, mated, kept, moved through you so fast it made your throat close. You wanted the bite. You wanted the hurt. You wanted whatever came after it.

“Please!" you sobbed.

“Shut up, little omega,” he growled, voice thick against your neck. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

You whined and kicked your feet even as he fucked you harder, his hips swinging in a desperate rhythm now, rougher with every breath. His fingers dug into your skin where he held you, and you felt the sharp prick of claws again that were not quite the stubby human nails anymore.

“You’re gonna take my knot just like you take my cock,” he said, the words pressed right into your ear. “Like a good girl. Do you understand?”

You nodded against his arm, sobbing around the movement.

“Say it.”

“I understand,” you cried. “I understand, alpha.”

“Mine,” he grunted. “Mine, mine, mine.”

“Yours, Andrew. Yours, I promise—please, please take me. Knot me.”

As his moans grew louder, you suddenly realized the shaking of the bed wasn’t only from the saw of his hips, or the stutter of your own heart in your ribs.

Pope was trembling all over.

Heat blazed off his skin worse now, his body burning against your back. His teeth were still bared along your neck, but sharper this time, the points catching when he dragged his mouth over your gland. His tongue dipped out, rougher than before, no longer the soft press of something fully human, and the scrape of it made you gasp so hard your whole body went limp around him, fully giving in.

You gasped as you heard his breath thicken and change, huffed through a mouth that did not feel shaped the same. His arm around you tightened, restricting your air so that you saw sparks in your eyes, his voice deep and not completely his own as he said, one last time: "Mine."

He came with one hard thrust, so rough it had you pushed deep into the mattress, and you felt too many things at once.

His cock swelled deep inside you, the pressure blooming as his knot caught and locked, stretching you around him until your mouth fell open in a silent cry. Warm ropes of spend filled you, one pulse after another, and your body seized around it, cunt clenching hard as your own pleasure tore through you all over again.

And then something wet pressed against your ear.

Your eyes went wide, spine locking as his breath huffed over the side of your face. His jaw was wrong around your neck, longer, rougher, the shape of him changing where he stayed folded over you. Your slackened brain keened for it anyway. Your body knew him. Man or wolf or whatever terrible place between, it knew him.

A wet, rough press of a nose to your ear. And a snout latching around your neck.

The bite came harder than you were expecting, different from what the other omegas had told you about. They told you it was as simple as teeth to the side of the neck, pain for a few seconds, then warmth, then the bond settling into place.

But this was not that.

This—this was entirely different. You were like a pup in the maw of his jaw, held down, taken, given everything. Held by the same teeth that could have torn through skin if he forgot himself for even one second. His jaw locked around your neck entirely, teeth on both sides, tongue licking long stripes as the gland burst for him.

He growled around your neck, panting hot against your skin as he came down from the high of his orgasm, each sound rolling through you from the bite to the knot locked deep inside. You felt, but couldn't see, the half change. Claws and teeth and snout, but not completely changed.

Pheromones, hormones, scent and sound and heat all burst white behind your eyes as his teeth sank in, flooding every part of you at once. You cried out, pulsing around his cock where he was locked inside you, your hand fisting in his hair as the bite burned and soothed in the same breath.

His deep, baritone growls rolled through your back, through your ribs, through the place where his body held yours pinned and full. They soothed you into stillness better than any words could have. You thought you could feel what he was saying anyway, even as the wolf.

Don’t be scared. Take what I give. Don’t be scared. You’re home now. You’re right where you belong.

It wasn’t until a little while later that Pope’s body was completely his own again. He had talked you through one more orgasm around his knot— voice rough at your ear, promising it would feel good, that it would help, and it did. It took over you slower that time, pulling the pain loose by inches until you were half asleep beneath him, cheek pressed into the sheets while he coaxed and cooed, telling you he knew best, telling you to breathe, telling you he had you.

By the time he pulled his spent, went cock from you, you barely had the strength to whine. He soothed you through that too, one hand spread over your hip, mouth moving along your shoulder in soft, messy kisses until the empty ache settled into something quieter.

Your breaths were even and in sync, chests rising and falling together. Your spine felt embedded in his chest where he stayed over you, his weight warm across your back, his mouth never stopping its little kisses and licks after the intensity of the True Bite. The sharpest part of it had passed, but the mark still throbbed under your skin, hot and alive with every beat of your pulse.

Your blood felt like it went through you, through him, and back to you. A circuit. A loop, always flowing. Your scents had mixed beyond telling now, salt and sweat and sex lingering in the sheets, rain and gunmetal pressed into your skin, your own heat softened just for now.

When his knot finally settled, he still didn’t move far. He only laid beside you instead of on top, pulling you in close as your body crawled toward him.

He took you again, like that. Side by side, facing him, your leg hitched over his hip and his hands holding you close. This time, it was slower. His rut was more controlled, though just as hungry, and face to face it felt even more intimate. More impossible to hide from. You could see every flicker of the change moving through him when his restraint broke—the dark pull of his eyes, the sharpening of his teeth, the way his breath came rough through a mouth that did not always stay shaped like a man’s.

But it didn’t scare you. You hadn’t lied about that.

The wolf was there, right behind his face, but so was Pope. Andrew. With his same careful hands, his certainty in the way he knew he could take care of you. And this time, you soothed him through it, your hands petting at his face gently when his muscles jumped, your fingers tracing over the long snout and through his curls. Even when his body changed, even when the shape of him moved closer to the stories than anything human, your omega brain did not see the thing from childhood warnings anymore. It saw him. Your alpha. Yours.

The second time he knotted you, there in his lap, your face buried in his neck, you breathed him in until your lungs ached with it. Pheromones, sweat, heat, the deep pull of the bond still settling between you. His hands clenched at the flesh of your backside, his body trembling beneath yours, and you turned your mouth to the gland behind his ear.

Your teeth were flat and nothing like his, but still—when you bit down hard, Pope froze beneath you.

His mouth parted in shock as his head tilted back. A whimper slipped through him that felt like it wrapped itself around your heart, constricting.

And then, as his head dropped forward, you felt change take this time, his body shifting under your hands, under your thighs, until your mouth was full of fur and your fingers were buried in the thick ruff at his neck.

When you opened your eyes, he was the wolf.

A Rorschach of gray and brown and shadow, massive beside you, warm enough to steam the air between your bodies. Not quite like the wolves in zoos. Not quite like the monsters from the stories, either. His head was too broad, his shoulders too heavy, his eyes too knowing when they found yours. He whined low in his chest, almost the same sound you had made for him, and you answered without meaning to.

The two of you stayed tangled there, breathing hard, the bond pulsing between your marks. There was no place else for you, nor for him. Not ever.

"I think that maybe it's that mommy isn't here anymore to tell you how to actually do a job. Maybe you really are all brawn, no brain after all." — oh-oh... scary stuff.

The slap of your palm meeting his face cracked loudly between you. — girrrrl, are you insane???

"An—Andy, please—" [...] And soon you heard the crack of a thick growl coming from beside him. — Ugh... Popey looooves when you call him that.

“You can stay here until—until it passes, or until you can call somebody. I’m not gonna touch you. ” — oh you weren't lying. Pope *is* the consent king. And i'm eating it up

“Tell me it’s not just this,” he panted, his voice catching back into himself for a moment. “Tell me you want me. Not just because of this.”—awww my sweet sweet puppy wants to be loved for real. Awww my heart.

God damn, him changing just a little as he was between her legs, his tongue getting rougher 🥵🥵🥵 i'm dead here.

He pays rent two days early, every month, without fail. He wipes down the counter after he cooks, because apparently, in Jack’s mind, you could be an M3 and have the time to cook (Oh, fuck off, is your main and consistent thought every time he sets a plate of actual food in front of you at breakfast and dinner). He rewinds the VHS before returning it, and he even agrees to 4am study sessions when you are doubting yourself with the tracheobronchial tree structure.

The only problem with Jack Abbot is…he does not bend. For anyone.

It’s a mistake people make about him at the hospital. They assume that because he listens more than he talks and doesn’t talk the loudest in the room, he must be easygoing. They’re all wrong because in ‘easygoing’, there’s the word easy. And Jack is many things – observant, funny, annoyingly competent - but easy is not one of them. Right now, for instance, he’s being impossible.

Sprawled at the dining table, legs stretched out, hair still damp from the shower and curling at the nape of his neck and a gray shirt clinging enough to make you look away, Jack is in the middle of Sabiston Textbook of Surgery, annotating it.

You pause in the doorway for a second, watching him read before clearing your throat.

“Jack.”

He doesn’t even look up. “No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet!”

“Don’t need to,” he replies, flipping a page. “If it’s prefaced with my name in that tone, the answer is no.”

You step closer and place your hand flat over the open page of Sabiston, earning a mildly annoyed look from him.

“I just need a small, tiny favor.”

“No.”

“Please at least listen to me!” you implore.

One corner of his mouth lifts, and there it is, that smirk that you want to either punch or kiss “You want to switch our trauma shifts tomorrow.”

You hesitate just long enough for him to catch him, his eyebrow lifting slowly. “Why do you need it?”

“I…” you exhale, a little embarrassed. “I haven’t completed my procedure log. I’m missing one intubation and I really need it to pass the rotation.”

“One intubation,” he repeats, a little judgy, closing the book with his pen marking the page. “Haven’t you been on three different procedures already?”

“I know,” you snap, heat creeping up your neck. “I know. But Meyers took the first one because he is an asshole who can’t stop himself from playing mister Know-it-all, the second one went to Patel because he hadn’t logged one either, and the third…”

“You froze.”

I hate you for remembering this, I hate that you noticed, I hate how right you are, you thought.

“It was just…one second.”

“In trauma,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and hands folding behind his head, “one second is the difference between life and death.”

You glare at him. “Jack…I am missing one intubation. Just one. If I don’t log it, Reyes will tank my evaluation, and I’m not repeating this rotation, I physically cannot handle doing another six weeks of this while pretending I don’t care when he calls me ‘sweetheart’ in front of the interns like I’m a pretty accessory instead of a med student. So yes. I want your trauma shift cause I need it. You can’t even fathom the depth of my despair right now.”

“Oh, I think I have a pretty vivid imagination,” he replies.

“I’ll do the dishes for a month.”

He snorts.

“I’m serious!”

“You can’t be trusted with my plates.”

“I will pay for your coffee for a month,” you add quickly, stepping forward and leaning into his space.

He keeps shaking his head, so, in a moment of pure madness, and lacking better ideas, you just say: “I’ll go down on you.”

That gets his attention. “You…You’re not going to go down on me.”

“I’m sorry, which part of ‘despair’ don’t you understand with your so-called vivid imagination?”

He frowns, with that tiny crease between his brows that you want to kiss as much as his smirk, his throat moving as he swallows. “You’d actually…do that?” he asks carefully.

You hadn’t expected that answer and for a moment, the weight of what you just offered settles in. The apartment suddenly feels too quiet, and you become acutely aware of the fact that you are standing very close to Jack, that his hair is still damp and you want to run your hands through those curls, and the way the lamplight catches in his hazel eyes and turns them warmer, almost golden.

The fact is…you like Jack. You’ve liked him for the past few months, and quite frankly, being his roommate has not helped with your massive crush problem.

You shrug, forcing your voice into something light and easy. “Yeah. I’m okay with it. If you are, I mean.”

His fingers flex against the edge of Sabiston, not looking away from you and saying quietly. “So, um…we do this and you get my shift?”

“A privilege for another,” you clarify, voice steady even if your pulse is sabotaging you. “You help me log the intubation and I… return the generosity.”

He nods once, and to your quiet, personal satisfaction, a faint blush creeps across his freckled cheeks, like a tell he can’t suppress. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay,” he says again, quieter.

You reach for the back of his chair, gently turning him toward you, your faces now inches to each other. “How about now Jack? Or are you too busy studying…let me guess: the saphenous vein?” you murmur, with a teasing smile.

“It was the VSD actually,” he breathes, his gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before snapping back up. “But…yeah. Now is fine.”

You drop to your knees, his knees parting quickly, confirming your personal theory: it has been a long time for him. Probably as long as it’s been for you. Third year is not exactly fertile ground to start having relationships: no time, no personal life, no sleep and not to mention that you have never seen him bring anyone back here. Not once. He’s never acted on any nurses’ or classmates’ flirtations. The apartment has always been just the two of you.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants, pulling it down as he lifts his hips. “I’m not entirely sure that I haven’t passed out on the table and this is all just a hallucination,” he continues, a groan escaping his mouth when you let your palm graze over his half hard cock, eyelids shutting completely the moment you wrap your hand properly around him.

“I don’t know…” you joke as you start moving, enjoying the view of Mr. Perfect Grades keeping his hands diligently on his legs and pressing his teeth on his lips. “You look very awake to me.”

You wet your lips lightly, running your tongue over them as his gaze finds yours. You’ve always loved that part: the control, deciding when and how it happens, to go slower or faster, feeling someone react under your hands and mouth, but still…you’re a little nervous. It’s been a while and you hope you haven’t lost it in…oh my god a year ago now? Yeah, it was definitely a year.

Either way, you don’t give yourself more time to think about it before dipping your head to take him in.

Multiple things come up to your mind: first, he’s not the kind of guy to put his hands on your hair to get you to move faster or deeper – which you appreciate - second, he’s vocal, muttering your name and profanities each time you manage to fit him entirely in your mouth - you still don’t know how you do that, the guy is huge - and third, you are officially on your knees, blowing your roommate, crush and student rival.

Once he’s done, you stand back up, knees numb and wiping the back of your hand over your lips, both struggling to catch your breaths.

“6am. For tomorrow. But get there at 5.30,” Jack says, closing his eyes briefly before putting his pants back on. “And you better do this intubation.”

──────────

Two weeks later, he’s the one standing in the living room.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up from your notes. “No.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, dropping onto the couch beside you. “Please.”

“No,” you repeat, turning a page calmly even though the corner of your mouth is threatening to betray you. There’s something so satisfying about denying Jack Abbot anything.

He drags a hand through his hair, mussed from the shift at the hospital, and puts his hand on yours (don’t freeze over that, it’s stupid anyway). “It’s just one procedure.”

You raise an eyebrow, finally looking at him. “Doctor Abbot missing something on his log?”

“No,” he starts before hesitating, his pride wrestling with the request, “it’s about the thoracostomy. Reyes is letting one M3 take lead tomorrow and I need someone to cover triage so I can stay in trauma long enough to be picked.”

You let your gaze drag slowly over him, pretending to think. “No.”

“You’re enjoying this,” he sighed, his hand still clasps around yours.

“Oh, immensely.”

“Please. I’ll make it up to you.”

You snort softly and close your notebook, setting it aside before turning fully toward him, your knees brushing his. “How, doc?”

“I’ll go down on you.”

“What?” you ask slowly.

He shrugs, trying for casual, one hand still loosely wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing absently over your knuckles. “One privilege for another. That’s…that’s our thing, right?”

“Um…yeah. You really want to do this thoracostomy?”

His lips pull into that maddening kissable half-smile that you love more than anything, the one he gets in the ER whenever he answers correctly to one of the residents’ questions. “I really want to do it and erase Meyers’ smile once and for all. So, what do you say?”

“Okay,” you reply, parting your legs (oh yes, Jack, you’re gonna have to kneel for this one, no way I’m passing on an occasion to let you do everything) “but be quick, I still have to read the biological markers of…”

The words don’t get out of your mouth when he kneels in front of you, pulling off your pajama short and underwear, the leather of the couch making you feel hotter than you were already.

“I’ll be very quick and thorough, I promise,” he replies, amused – probably because you were now completely silent – before working his tongue on you.

And wow, you have received plenty of good cunnilinguses in your life, even if it’s been some time, but this one…is miles from the rest. You can recognize it happily… Jack has some wicked knowledge of the human anatomy and how to get you there in a few minutes.

“You better be fucking great for this thoracostomy, Doctor Abbot,” you say as you’re try to catch your breath, Jack picking up your notes, ready for a new study session (you don’t comment over the fact that he doesn’t go rinse his mouth or put distance between you and just…drags his thumb across his lower lip and then licks it clean).

“You know me,” he replies with a smug smile that makes you roll your eyes.

And yes, you know. The next day proves it. You’re buried in triage when you hear from your resident, the Doctor Robinavitch – a young, tall man, barely a few years older than you who keeps trying his best to be half your friend, half your boss – that Jack had been an example of calm and solid, earning a fist bump from both Reyes and Robinavitch.

You nod slowly, pretending you don’t feel the faint flare of something warm under your ribs, travelling down your body. Pride. You are so proud of him, and you want to reply to the resident, of course he was solid, of course he didn’t choke, this man is great and kind and…actually is also a great giver, but you don’t need to know that.

You catch sight of him later in the hallway, walking toward you with a protein bar in hand, a little smile on his face. And that smile, Jesus, all warm and bright and unguarded…it’s definitely a second privilege he doesn’t need to know about.

──────────

Four days after, you get behind on your charting.

Because you’d rather slit your wrist than stay late in the ER with Reyes breathing into the back of your skull, you make another deal with Jack.

“If you stay up with me until it’s done,” you murmur to Jack in the CT-Scan room, “I’ll give you a very nice orgasm.”

He checks to his left and right. “Define ‘very nice’”.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Hey, I’m the guy who’s gonna stay to help you, so be a little more grateful.”

You salute him with your pen. “Aye aye doc.”

Late that night, steam fogs the bathroom mirror, the water running hot. He’s already under the spray when you step into the doorway, taking off your clothes (after all there’s almost nothing he hasn’t seen already). You step closer before putting your hand on him, his palms ending up on the tiled wall behind you and muttering a “Jesus fucking Christ.” at the combined feeling of the water cascading on his body and your movements who only grows faster, making him come in a few minutes, your name on his lips.

“You know…it’s stupid to waste the water,” he murmurs after a while.

“Oh, really.”

“I mean, we’re two broke med students, it’s cost-effective. And we’re already in here anyway.”

Surely you can’t disagree with this idea.

Efficiency, after all, is very important in medicine.

──────────

“Hey kid.”

You look up, the Doctor Robinavitch standing there with that expression – the one who wants to gossip but tries to refrain himself from it.

“Um,” you say cautiously, pen lingering over the chart. “What?”

He glances down the hall then back at you. You follow his gaze automatically.

Jack is at the nurses’ board, talking to one of them, arms crossed and sleeves rolled up. He laughs at something, shaking his head. You look away, glancing back at the resident, who’s already staring at you, leaning over the table just enough to meet your eye level.

“…What?” you repeat, sharper now.

“How long?”

You blink. “How long what?”

“Whatever that is,” he replies, gesturing vaguely between you and the air.

You scoff lightly, going back to writing your charting. “There is no ‘that’, Doctor Robinavitch.”

He sighs deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Listen kid, you realize the entire staff has a betting pool, right?”

Your pen freezes mid-word. “On what?”

He just stares at you until you break (my god how you hate when he does that, condolences to all the future doctors who’ll get him as an attending).

“We’re not together. It’s…it’s not like that,” you try to explain weakly instead of saying we’re just roommates who are the type to perform oral sex to get what we want, no big deal there. oh, and now we take showers together every night to save the planet, not to…give the other a freebie.

His smile widens. “Oh, so there is a ‘that’.”

You look back at the nurses’ station. Jack is still there, but now he’s looking directly at you, an eyebrow raised with a small, knowing smile – like he can feel that your mind is turned to this morning and the two orgasms he gave you before going to work.

You can’t help but smile back at him.

Robinavitch follows the silent exchange, then looks back at you with open disbelief. “That,” he says slowly, “right there, is definitely a thing.”

Before you can gather your words to get a more convincing denial, a monitor alarms from down the hall.

“Go, kid. And try not to share lovey-dovey looks over the patient.”

You shove his shoulder as you pass him, heat rising in your cheeks.

“I hate you, Robinavitch.”

“I know that’s not true!” he calls after you.

Annoyingly…he’s right. You don’t hate him.

And there is a thing.

──────────

It happens after the code blue.

You and Jack are walking home in silence, refusing to mention how, when you had stepped into the patient’s room, he had handed you the laryngoscope without hesitation – you, not himself – like there has been no other option in his mind.

Your hands brush every few steps, neither of you pulling away.

By the time you reach the apartment, your body feels heavy, exhausted, dumping your bag on the hallway floor and ripping of your jacket as you go straight to the bathroom.

The light is too bright. It exposes everything: the smudged mascara under your eyes, the dark circles who can’t be hidden well by the foundation, the way your eyes are reddened by your need to cry.

You grip the edge of the sink and stare at yourself, murmuring “You did well, don’t worry. The woman is alive. The baby is alive. You did well.”

The door opens quietly behind you.

“If you’re about to tell me I did great, don’t.” you mutter, voice flat, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror. If you look at him, you might crack.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, you feel him step into your space, listening to him opening the cabinet and the rustle of cotton pads. He reaches around you, close enough that his arm brushes you before gently turning you by the shoulder so you’re facing him instead of your – miserable, pathetic – reflection.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

His face is close to yours – barely four inches away. Close enough that you can see the freckles across his nose. Enough that you could close that distance with the smallest tilt forward and drown your thoughts in something easier than this ache sitting in your chest.

The cotton pad is cool against your skin. He wipes slowly beneath your eye, careful, his thumb steadying your jaw. “Can you do me a favor?” he asks quietly.

“I’m not in the mood tonight,” you reply automatically.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “No, not like that. Not…” he exhales, dragging the pad gently across your cheek, “not everything is about having sex.”

“I wouldn’t call exactly what we’re doing ‘having sex’,” you say, sharper than you intend.

He stills and for a fraction of a second, something flickers across his face in between surprise and hurt. “Oh. Um…Okay.”

His throat bobs as he switches to a clean pad, focusing on your eyes.

Eyes closed, you try to explain yourself better, words coming out before you can filter them. “That’s not what I meant,” you murmur. “I just…I don’t want this tonight and I don’t want this to be another thing that happens because we almost lost someone. We…we can’t keep doing this.”

Fuck, you don’t even know what this is anymore.

You feel him getting even closer – so close that his breath brushes your lips when he exhales. He finishes wiping up your face. “Can you…” he starts, voice lower now, uncertain like you’ve never heard from him, “can you let me just be here? With you?”

You open your eyes slowly, now seeing everything: the faint traces of tears at the corner of his eyes, the way his curls have fallen messily over his forehead from running his hand through them too much. He looks younger like this.

“I’m sorry Jack. I didn’t mean to make it sound like…like what we do doesn’t matter. I just…” your voice breaks, “I don’t want it to be the only reason we touch.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “It’s not.”

You study him, skeptical.

“Fine,” he admits quietly. “It started that way because we’re two massive idiots who don’t know how to say what we want without turning it into…a mess. But it’s not why I continued doing that.”

He sets the cotton pad down in the sink and brings both hands to your face now, his palms feeling warm against your cheeks.

“I don’t want this to be about that. I…I want to be the person you come home with after something like tonight. Not just the guy you’re giving blowjobs to who turns out to be your roommate.”

“Great blowjobs, you mean. Wonderful. Fantastic,” you reply, trying to smile a little.

“Yes, sure. All of the above and more,” he nods, matching your grin with that crooked, infuriatingly gorgeous one before leaning in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you want to. He waits until you give the smallest eager nod before his mouth brushes yours.

Oh. Oh. Okay. You should have started here weeks ago.

The kiss is nothing like the moments you’ve shared before. It’s unhurried and soft, his lips moving against yours like he’s learning a part of you he doesn’t know.

And God, he’s a good kisser too – good doctor, good giver, does this man know how to be bad at something?

He tilts his head slightly, deepening it and learning to read every small reaction: when you sigh softly against his mouth, he runs his tongue against yours, when your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, he pulls you closer.

Out of breath, he rests his forehead against yours, noses brushing.

“I like you, okay? I like you when you study until four in the morning. I like you when you are right about a diagnosis and high five me. I like you when you’re scared. And stubborn. And exhausted,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’re my person. In the ER, here, everywhere.”

You swallow. “My god, how didn’t you get with, like…all the girls of the hospital?”

“Well, you see, I was a bit busy trying to get the attention of a certain woman,” he replies, chuckling.

“Oh, do I know her?”

“Hm. I’m not sure,” he murmurs, lips still close enough that your breath mingles. “She’s obstinate. Overworks herself and pretends she doesn’t need anyone. Terrible at dishes.”

You pinch his side. “Rude.”

“Oh, and she rolls her eyes when I’m right,” he continues. “Which is very often.”

“Unbelievable.”

“And,” he adds, softer, “she has this look she gives me every time there’s an alarm. Like she’s checking if I’m okay.”

You swallow. “Oh. Her.”

“Yeah.” His mouth curves, his nose brushing yours deliberately. “Her.”

You shake your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love that.”

You hesitate before nodding. “Yeah,” you admit. “I do love that.” I love you, I love you, I love you.

“Yeah?” he asks, a smile spreading across his face as his hand slides to the small of your back. “Good.”

You don’t give him time to get smug about it before kissing him again, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer until there’s no space left between you. His breath catches against your mouth, a surprised sound that makes you press him against the bathroom’s door.

Against his lips, still holding onto his shirt, you murmur, “Shower?”

“Shower.”