Sunflower Girl

03:49 PM

Everything is fine, you keep telling yourself.

Your soon-to-be ex-husband is flying in from Denmark to finalize the divorce—and even after two years of exhaustive paperwork and mediations and court proceedings, you still don’t know how to feel about this. His visit to Chicago is meant to be a consolation prize for your six-year-old son Alfie, whose only facetime with his dad lately is through… well, FaceTime. But, given how extraordinarily difficult he’s being—fussing over his breakfast, stalling shower time by a record of 48 minutes, refusing to wear anything you picked out for him… you have an inkling that he might be a little nervous to see his father.

And to make matters worse, it’s raining cats and dogs outside, which delays Luca by two hours now and actively threatens the zoo outing he has planned out for him and Alfie.

So… despite the shitstorm that is happening in your apartment and out, you keep telling yourself that everything is fine.

Because it is. Your home is tidy enough, with all the toys and the mess tucked away in their little cubbies. Your son is dressed up enough; he’s finally put on his pants and shirt, although you missed a button and he won’t let you fix it. The storm is outside, and you’re safely sheltered in. And your relationship with your ex is civil enough, so you feel…

Fine enough.

But the doorman buzzes in, and you can definitely tell the awkwardness in his voice. “Afternoon, Ma’am. I have your husband— I mean, Chef Luca— I mean Mr. Bailey—”

You sigh, not having the energy to let this go on. “Yeah, yeah. Send him up.”

Alfie looks up from his coloring book and practically jumps out of the couch. “My tummy hurts, I’m gonna make a doodie!”

“No running!” You remind him just a second too late, watching him dash over to the bathroom and slamming the door closed. He has a nervous stomach just like you, and as you feel the icky twist in your gut… you can’t help but empathize with his antics today. You would be fucking shit up too, if you only could.

There’s a knock at the door, and you brace yourself as if you’re about to let the storm itself in (although, quite frankly, you probably are). Your hand feels clammy, and you have to wipe it off on your dress before you unlock the door and turn the knob.

“Hey.”

If the storm was a person, you wouldn’t have associated it with the man standing before you. So tall and broad and sturdy. With boyish features and dark blond locks like gentle daylight. It feels like a reach to imagine the seven years of your relationship with him was, indeed, an epic fucking hurricane.

Still. 

You can’t help that you miss him.

“Come on in.” You step aside, not really meeting his gaze.

He murmurs a small thanks and apology, a staple combination in Luca’s British vernacular, as he squeezes in through the door with his duffel bag and suitcase.

“I thought you’d dropped these off at your hotel before you came here.”

“I know. I was going to, but…” he puts down his bags close to the jacket closet, like he always does, “But I got held up for ages and traffic was awful and I didn’t want Alfie to wait even longer, so…”

“Right.” You nod absently. “Well. He’s in the bathroom, should be out in a second, so… have a seat. Do you want anything to drink?”

“Um, water’s fine.” He takes his seat on the dining table.

You’re not sure which one is more jarring; the sheer familiarity of this, or the fact that it isn’t anymore. The two of you just hovering in the home you used to share, courteous but distant.

Luca looks around the place, and notices all the differences right away. You kept the glass dining table and two of the chairs, but changed the corner seating into a plush dining bench against the kitchen island. He recognizes Alfie’s favorite stuffed bunny on the couch, although the throw pillows were new. But he takes one look at the wall… and his heart drops.

Gone are any traces of him in the snapshots of your life. The pictures are all of you and Alfie—eating ice cream in the park, grinning and showing his first lost tooth, dressed up on Halloween… He really shouldn’t be surprised or disappointed to find the wedding portrait gone, or the vacation selfie in Italy four years ago. But it hurts quite a bit to find a generic flower portrait replacing the picture of him kissing you on the forehead while Alfie, laying on your chest, merely hours after his birth.

“Yeah, I…” you clear your throat as you hand him the glass of water, “…did some redecorating.”

“It looks good.” He manages a stiff nod, taking a hesitant swig of water.

“You look…” good, you want to say. Because he is. He’s got that tan and the haircut that reminds you of when you first met him years ago. But you can’t say that. So you settle with, “You look well.”

He meets your eyes, really meets your eyes for the first time, and you try to convince yourself the little flutter you feel inside is just your nervous stomach. But he smiles, soft and earnest. “So do you.”

You turn back and open the fridge, welcoming the cold air and how it cools down the burning warmth on your cheeks. Trying not to freak out and decide what you’re getting, so you don’t look like an idiot. Your hand grabs a can of ginger ale, and you sigh in relief.

“How’s Alfie doing in school?”

“He’s doing alright. He’s enjoying his art classes. Math is still a struggle, but Ms. Rashad says his reading is quite advanced for his age.” You relax a little bit into the conversation. The topic of your son resets you a little bit into a somewhat common ground as co-parents. Plain and simple.

“Definitely takes after you. My dyslexic ass could never.”

You smile at that. Small jokes are still there, always a good sign.

“And the, uh…” he lowers his voice, “the anxiety?”

“Comes and goes. He’s been complaining about a stomach ache all day.” You glance towards the bathroom.

He frowns in concern. “Should we go check on him?”

“Sure…” You walk together with Luca following suit, tentatively knocking at the door. “Alfie? Hey bub, how’s your doodie?” It sounds silly, but you find it helps to ask open questions instead of showing your worries outright.

A flush from inside. “There’s no doodie,” he hollers. His voice is murmured from the barrier, and then the running tap water.

You catch the unease in Luca’s features, and you feel a little bad for him. It wouldn’t feel great that your own son is nervous to see you after many months apart. “You wanna come out, then? Your dad’s here.” You try to sound cheerful and upbeat, hoping it’ll hype them both up.

The two-second gap never felt so long. But the door opens, and there he is, standing meekly against the frame. Staring up at you and then at Luca.

Luca’s heart nearly stops as those big doe eyes stare up at him, a spitting image of you. The same softness. The same spark of stubbornness.

The same vulnerable look.

“Hey, bub.”

“Hi.”

“Can I get a hug?”

There’s a brief pause, before he steps forward and throws his arms around his father’s middle. Luca grunts softly, a little surprised by the sheer force Alfie is hugging him, his heart swelling three times over.

“Oh my God, look at you!” He ruffles the boy’s dark hair and kneels down to level with him. His cherubic face is small cupped in his large hand, but not as small as Luca remembered it. “You’re so tall now!”

“Of course. I’m 3 feet and 8 inches tall now. Right, Mommy?” He proudly announces, getting the exact height completely memorized.

“That’s right,” you confirm with a grin. 

Luca gasps, a smile blooming on his face. “What?”

Alfie nods. “I’m gonna be as tall as you.”

“No! Don’t grow up so fast!” He playfully cries out.

“Why?”

“Because I won’t get to do this anymore!” Luca seizes his boy into his arms and sweeps him off of his bunny-socked feet, sending Alfie into a fit of hysterical giggles.

The sight makes you chuckle, but the feeling could bring Luca to happy tears. He’s been gone for so long, he’s afraid he’d forget how it feels to hold his son in his arms again. Or worse, that his son would find his presence alien.

But he’s here now. With you and the son you share. Attacking Alfie in tickles and noisy kisses, and letting the boy climb him like monkey bars. And it calms his anxious heart a bit as he reminds himself, everything’s fine. 

And as things fall back into place, thunder crashes outside, as if sobering all of you back into reality. Alfie shirks into himself, climbing off of his father’s back. You want to reach out for him so badly, but at the same time, not wanting to interrupt his bonding time with his dad.

“It’s okay, bub. It’s just thunderclap,” Luca soothes emphatically over the sudden silence, bringing Alfie back down to his feet. He smooths his son’s hair gently, comfortingly. “I got you, I got you…”

“Do animals even come out in the rain?” Alfie is back to his withdrawn self, mumbling his words and avoiding Luca’s gaze.

“Some animals actually love playing in the rain,” you chime in helpfully.

Luca keeps his tone cheerful and bright. “Yeah, and you can wear your raincoat and your wellies and I’ll even let you jump in puddles—”

“I don’t wanna do that! I wanna stay home!” He whines, voice raising a little.

“It’s your dad’s time—”

“No!”

“Alfie.” Your tone is firmer now, as he struggles out of his father’s arms and runs to his favorite corner of the couch in the living room, holding his stuffed bunny tight. 

But Alfie’s got a point. This is not the kind of rain where you can take a leisurely stroll in. No, this is the kind where you stay huddled inside and hope it doesn’t flood the streets. Luca takes a thoughtful look at Alfie who is sulking and shrinking from the sound of thunder, at the window completely obscured from rain, and then at you… offering an apologetic smile.

So much for quality time with his son. 

Luca’s heart sinks a little. He sighs in defeat. “Maybe we should just wait it out…”

“Are you sure? I mean, you flew 9 hours to see him—“

“And I don’t want him to be pissed at me the whole time we’re hanging out,” he reasons. “Besides, I don’t think any Uber would take our order at this time.”

It makes sense, you think. As much as you want this awkward little broken family dance to end, you know that staying in and waiting it out is the best option. Alfie would feel much more comfortable at home than in whatever hotel Luca is staying in. And maybe it’s your protective side talking, but if he ever gets fussy, you’d prefer to be around to deal with it.

“Alright, fine.”

“Yeah? Is that okay with you?”

You shrug. The truth is a little more complicated, but ultimately you settle with a simple, “yes.”

Alfie takes a quick glance at you and Luca emerging from the hallway (you have your mother’s side eye, Luca always said), before returning to fiddling his stuffed bunny’s ears (your father’s neutral look of disapproval, you would say). Like clockwork, Luca takes the seat next to Alfie, while you take the puffy stool in front of him.

“That wasn’t very nice of you to raise your voice at me and your dad like that. I get that you’re nervous about the weather—a bit startled, too— but still. We don’t raise our voices in this household.”

Alfie looks at you and Luca. “I’m sorry.”

Luca nods in acknowledgement. “I’m sorry for being late, buddy.” He gingerly reaches out to touch the boy’s hand. “You’re right, though. It might be best to stay in for a bit.” He motions at the rain hammering down on the window outside.

“I told you. I wanna stay at home.”

“I know. And we are for now. We can…” Luca scans around for something to do. His eyes fall on the coloring book and the open box of color pencils next to it. Bingo! “We can… color some drawings in that book?”

He pouts, not entirely sold on the idea but not outright refusing it either. 

“Or, hey, I got some new drawings on me. You can color them, too.” Luca takes off his hoodie and shows off the tattoos on his arms.

God, you forgot about the plethora of trashy tattoos adorning his skin. Even worse, you forgot how it highlights the defined curves of his biceps. Focus, for fuck’s sake! You avert your gaze towards the flower portrait on the wall. 

Alfie perks up a little. “This is my old drawing.” His tiny finger pokes at his forearm, on a tattoo of a stick figure climbing up the stairs. “You still have it?”

“Of course. It’s there forever. I’ll always have it.” Luca finds himself choking up at that simple admission. A little token of childhood of his ever-growing love. “Go on, get your crayons.”

Alfie looks at you as if seeking permission, and it makes you want to laugh that he shares the same animated eyebrows as his father. 

“Go ahead, bub,” you usher him off lightly, and as soon as he’s out of sight, nods at your ex. “Good save.”

Luca half-smiles. “Thanks. You should chill out. Read a book, take a nap or something. I got him.”

“What, are you trying to kick me out?”

“No, I just—”

Your smile breaks out. “I’m kidding! Go hang out with Alf. I got a Zoom meeting in a few minutes anyway.”

He sighs in relief, chuckling lightly. “You almost got me there…”

You briefly pat his shoulder and for an even briefer moment, his hand is atop yours. The big ‘A’ tattoo on the back of his hand—your son’s initial in a bold Gothic letter— serves as a reminder of what’s past; a whirlwind romance, the wild days of being a family of a merry band of misfits…

Misfits. That’s the biggest takeaway here, you suppose. Your pieces don’t quite fit right. Not without little Alfie gluing you together. 

With a final squeeze on Luca’s shoulder, you make your way to your bedroom, making space for Luca’s puzzle pieces to fit with Alfie’s because they don’t fit yours anymore.

***

05:04 PM

By the time your Zoom meeting ends, the pelting rain outside is louder and the chatter inside is nearly inaudible. It feels nice for about ten seconds… until you remember that you have a six-year-old at home and long bouts of silence can be quite… well, suspicious. You pad out into the hallway to check on him.

“Let’s see. You wanna do the sunflower next? What do you think, my love?”

Oh right. For a moment, you forgot that the thirty-year-old other parent is here with him.

Luca has his t-shirt sleeves hiked all the way up, biceps in full display as Alfie colors in a tattoo on the back part of his upper arm. The boy’s tongue sticks out and his eyebrows furrow in focus. It seems like a delicate operation between them, so you linger out of sight for just a while longer.

“Why do you like sunflowers, Dad?”

The two of you have always supported his inquisitive mind, and he missed these kinds of questions most of all. Even if the answers can be a little complicated. “Because of your mum, actually.”

“You like it because Mommy likes it?” Alfie’s little nose crinkles.

Luca chuckles in amusement, sensing the judgment in his son’s tone. Damn you guys for teaching Alfie not to get carried away by trends. “Well… when your mum and I first met, it was winter in Chicago and it’s pretty bleak and gloomy and freezing. But, your mum had a little sunflower by the window—just like that one.” He glances at the little potted sunflower on the windowsill. “She said it’s a reminder to let the sun shine in. I thought it was adorable. We started doing that everywhere we lived and… I don’t know, it reminds me of home.”

“Do you have a sunflower by your window, Dad?”

His heart catches as he realizes the answer. “No, I don’t…”

“Why? You don’t miss home?”

There’s a sharp pang of hurt in hearing that innocent query. The apartment in Copenhagen, as nice as it is, has never been much of a home for Luca. He would get up before the sun is up and return from work late at night—lather, rinse and repeat. On his days off, he would either go on a morning run and spend much of his time outside, or sleep til noon and live on instant ramen and takeout. There’s no time for a sunflower by the window. No room. He made sure of that.

He doesn’t deserve one after leaving his wife and son for fucking Noma. 

Luca swallows back the lump in his throat, although the slight waver in his voice gives him away. “I got my sunflower right here, bub. My little piece of home.” He taps on his arm softly as his son finishes up. 

Alfie hums, pleased with how the tattoo looks, now filled in with yellow and black and brown crayons. “I think this is my favorite one.”

“Yeah? Not the tabasco?” Luca grins, looking down at his forearm—specifically at the mostly accurate red and green of the hot sauce bottle.

“No…” Alfie taps his chin with his finger thoughtfully. “This one is prettier.”

Luca maneuvers around to look at the sunflower tattoo a little better. “You’re right, it is much prettier. Maybe I should get the colors in permanently, huh?”

The boy’s face lights up. “Can you?”

“Yeah. I think I will. Nice job, my little tattoo artist.” Luca pulls him into a bear hug and kisses the top of Alfie’s head. 

You can’t help but chuckle, glad to see them bonding again, lost in your thoughts for a moment.

“Mommy! Dad says I can be a tattoo artist!” Alfie snaps you out of your reverie.

“Is that right?” Your eyebrows shoot up, struggling to maintain a neutral expression while staring at Luca like with all due respect, what the fuck?

He raises his hands in surrender. “I just said he’s my little tattoo artist, that’s all.”

“I colored in all of Dad’s tattoos! Look!” Alfie tugs at his dad’s arm, beaming as he shows off his work.

You step forward, studying the results of the tattoo makeover. Every single tattoo is colored in; some accurately, like the sunflower and tabasco, while others (like the purple fish and chips and blue scotch bonnet)… not so much. You don’t know which one’s more amusing; your son’s artistic style, or your ex’s bashful look as he models the art works on his arms. 

“Looks great, bub. Well done!” You ruffle Alfie’s hair, enjoying his improved mood.

“Can I watch Bluey now?”

You purse your lips comically. “I don’t know, bub. Why don’t you look at your checklist on the fridge and see if you can?”

Alfie bounds past you, towards the fridge, and reads the checklist out loud to himself. “Have you… brushed your teeth? Yes. Brushed your hair? Yes…” He flattens his wavy locks with the palm of his hand, continues reading with a lower murmur. “Mommy, I did everything except tidy up my room and play outside for 30 minutes!”

“Okay. Obviously we can’t play outside, so… why don’t you just go clean your room and I’ll let you watch Bluey for a bit?”

Alfie gamely nods and goes into his bedroom, his bunny socks muting his footsteps against the hardwood floor.

Meanwhile, it takes you an extra beat to realize how close you’re standing with Luca without your child between you. He rolls down the sleeves of his black t-shirt sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. 

“Your meeting went okay?”

“It’s alright.” You look at literally anything but the man in front of you, ultimately stopping at your potted sunflower by the windowsill. “That storm out there, on the other hand…”

“Yeah…”

You take an inconspicuous look at the hallway, making sure your son is out of earshot. “Weather reports say it might last a few more hours.”

Luca huffs, trying not to stress out about the possibility of street floods. Of all the things he missed, American thunderstorms are not one of them. Still, this shitty weather has granted him some time with his son, at his former home… with his former spouse. And God, does he miss this more than he dreads the weather…

“Want me to make you guys dinner?” He offers earnestly.

You pull back, returning to your normal volume. “Oh. No, you don’t have to—”

“I don’t mind. Really. Might as well, right?”

You hear heavy footsteps from the bedroom and Alfie hollers from the hallway. “I’m all done!”

“Don’t forget your crayons!”

Alfie promptly makes a beeline towards his leftover mess. “Heard, Mommy.” He hurriedly puts his crayons back in the box and rushes into his room to put it away. Returning mere moments later with a newfound spring in his steps. “I’m done for real! Now can I please watch Bluey now?”

“I can cook while he gets his screen time.”

The two boys look at you with their best puppy eyes, and it’s the most disarming thing you’ve seen in a while—and the resemblance between them only makes things worse. You playfully roll your eyes in relent. “Alright, alright. Go ahead. Watch your TV and make your dinner.”

There’s a quiet little yesss from Alfie as Luca low-fives him before they scatter, one to the living room and the other to the kitchen. For a moment, you feel like you were transported back in time. For the first time in over two years, you’re caught between cartoon sounds from the TV and the kitchen alive again. All was well in the household. 

“Is he still a picky eater?” Luca mouths the last two words inaudibly.

You raise your eyebrows in confirmation. “All he wants to eat is chicken nuggies.”

“I can do chicken nuggies,” he shrugs easily, rummaging through the freezer and takes out a pack of chicken breasts. “Or some version of that.”

Upon overhearing the key word, Alfie’s head all but whips toward Luca. “We’re having chicken nuggies for dinner?”

“Er, kind of.”

“Can I help?” He perks up from the back of the couch, excitement bubbling over.

Luca smiles apologetically. “Maybe later, my love. Daddy’s gonna be using a big knife…” he says as he checks the blade closely, swiping it with his thumb. “…which is dull, by the way. When was the last time you sharpened this?”

“I… have no idea.” You frown. You don’t even remember sharpening any knives… ever. Meanwhile, Luca simply rummages through the kitchen drawer, which makes you ask, “What are you doing?”

“I’m sharpening it,” he states matter-of-factly, already setting up a makeshift sharpening station which… what?

“Didn’t even know we had that,” you murmur plainly as you watch him work. Taking out a block of whetstone from the drawer (where did that even come from?) and running it under the sink. Laying out a kitchen rag and the stone on top of it.

He chuckles a little, scraping the blade against the stone at an angle, firmly but carefully. “Can’t leave you good Santoku knives without the proper sharpening tools, right?”

“You never taught me how to do it, though.”

“Yes, I have.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“What are you talking about? Back in Chicago, I—”

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God, that was one time forever ago! And you never let me sharpen the knives. You literally always do it.”

He pauses, grinning bashfully. “Fair…”

For the umpteenth time that day, Luca’s heart catches—this time from hearing you laugh. Your warm voice rings so pleasantly in his ears, and the way your face lights up… he almost forgets there’s a storm outside, because he’s got a lovely summer day right here in front of him.

And honestly, what is beautiful sunny Copenhagen compared to this warmth of the two people he loves the most?

“Alright, alright. You want a refresher? Come here.”

You gingerly take the place next to him, arms crossed so as to not invade his space. Neither of you say anything when your shoulders brush against each other. It’s brief, painstakingly so, but eerily familiar. You wouldn’t admit that you want to stay pressed against him a little longer, but… you do.

“Okay, so. You see this bit right here?” His finger runs up the line where the blade flattens into the edge. “Rest the knife on the stone on this angle, start from the heel—near the handle— and just… bring it in,” he demonstrates the inward sliding motion—short and precise and repetitive, “and work your way up to the tip.”

You silently watch him work for a moment, handling the knife. Firm and steady, but not harsh. On the contrary, it’s almost… delicate. You’ve seen many chefs work in your lifetime, but no one is as composed or stoic (or handsome, but that is beside the point) as Luca. It’s quite fascinating. 

“And you do this on both sides, right?” You vaguely recall.

“Good memory.” He nods appreciatively. “Some people like to do each side one at a time, back and forth, but I like to do one side, get that burr forming…”

“What’s a burr, sir?”

Luca chuckles at your little Hamilton reference. “So when you work on this side, you’ll feel a nice little rough bit forming on the other side like this.” He slides his thumb from the knife’s spine to the edge and carefully guides your hand through the motion. “Feel that?“

Yes. That should be an easy enough answer, because yes, you do feel the rough edge of the excess metal on the blade. But it’s a bit hard to focus on that when you’re more fixated on the rough calluses of his fingertips instead…

In theory, playing a knife with your almost ex-husband is as bad as a bad idea can get. In practice, though… Having your hand in his again, feeling him so close to you, smelling his perfume…

“That’s the burr. Once you get it on one side, you can switch over to the other side and balance it out.” His voice is lower now. Softer. “And you just… do it over and over again until you’ve worked off the burr and have a smooth and sharp blade.”

Luca switches the knife to your other hand and stands behind you, hoping to God you can’t feel his pounding heart as his chest presses against your back. Gently guiding you through the sharpening motion—the firm, steady, angled scraping of the blade towards you. You swear to God, every pull brings him just a tad closer.

“So you basically have to break the knife a little to fix it?” 

“That’s basically it, yeah.”

The storm feels miles away. His hands are still curled against yours. His chest flush against your back. His body heat emanates from within him and shrouds you like your favorite cardigan.

“Listen, I—”

“Thanks… for the refresher.” And with that, you put the knife down on the kitchen rag and pull away.

It takes him an extra second to snap out of it and step back to make way for you as you retreat back into your bedroom. “Yeah, yeah. No problem.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck your fucking life to hell.

***

Meeting Luca feels like kismet. It’s straight out of Hollywood, like a perfectly planned script that the two of you are performing. The way you two bump into each other at a grocery store, both reaching for the last box of butter on that fateful October day, knuckles brushing.  

The moment your hands touch, you look up to find blue. Blue, blue, blue. Sparkling, beautiful, sapphire blue. Blue like the Pacific. Blue like the sky on your favorite day of the year.

Goddammit. 

Only you would get caught in a butter-buying match with someone this good-looking.

His blonde hair is windswept, twisting and curling in ways that feel intentionally effortless. He looks a little frazzled with how big his eyes are blown, but no less handsome. He’s tall, ridiculously so. And broad, so fucking broad and beefy that you can’t help the way your eyes trail over how his leather jacket stretches along his arms. He has a couple of tattoos on his hands but you don’t get the chance to decipher them before he opens his mouth. 

“Sorry, I’m not usually this rude, I swear,” he says and your brain completely short-circuits over his words with his delicious British accent. “I am in desperate need of this. It’s for a customer cake order and I’m missing a bit of buttercream.”

Now, you’re not one to care much about accents. However, you are also running on very limited sleep, your taste buds have gone numb from all the sugar you’ve been consuming, and the adrenaline from your boss’ last frantic email is still coursing through your veins. So sue you for being more vulnerable in that moment. 

Unfortunately for him, this is a fight you cannot back down from. You wince when you reply, “I’m also usually not this rude, but I also really, really need this for an article going out tomorrow on Halloween cookies. Otherwise, my boss will fire me.”

It’s a standoff. Neither of you releasing the box. Each of your fingers wrapped around one half of the carton. 

The man looks up to the ceiling for a second, either in frustration or in thought, you can’t tell. “How many sticks do you need?”

You do a quick mental math. “Two.”

“I also need two. How about we split the box instead of arguing over who gets it?”

Oh, a problem solver. You feel tingling in your legs. 

“That… is perfect.”

The two of you make a beeline for the self-checkout, and you’re already pulling out your corporate card before he can swipe his own. He seems conflicted by it, immediately reaching into his wallet to pull out a couple of bills.

You stop him with a hand on his. “Don’t worry about it. Let capitalism pay for this. I need it for work so I can expense it.”

His brows — strong, sharp brows — furrow, blue eyes softening in concern. “Are you sure? I really don’t mind. It’s only right.”

“No, please. It’s nothing big. I do have to run though, so…” You pick up the box and rip it open, handing him two of the sticks. “Thanks for the quick thinking, I probably would’ve been standing there for an hour trying to figure out how to clone that box.” 

His lips tug up at the corners. “No, thank you. For the butter. Appreciate it.” 

“No problem, good luck with your buttercream!” 

And you think that would be the last you would see of the blonde British boy who bought some butter. It’s a blip in the grand, boring scheme of your life. However, you would be lying if you said you didn’t think about him in the days that followed. He looks familiar, but you can’t quite put a finger on it. 

The last thing you expect is to run into him again. 

The beginning of November comes with the rush of Thanksgiving recipes that you have to test with your team. This means you have transitioned from being covered in flour and sugar and chocolate, to grease and butter and fats. You’re convinced you’ve lost your fingerprints with how much oil is coating your fingers. You will certainly not be checking your weight anytime soon because god knows how much mac and cheese you’ve inhaled the last couple of days. 

You’re working on a new recipe for Cajun turkey wings when you realize you left the one bottle of sauce on your desk, so you make a mad dash back to your cubicle to grab it.

It is worth noting that you are in the safe space of your workplace. Mind you, there was never any risk of running into any hot guys; the cute ones in the office are a no-go to avoid any HR violations. You’re in a constant state of disarray from oven heat, ingredient spillage, and an overall lack of effort to impress. 

A stained t-shirt, worn jeans, your frayed apron, and the myriad of sauces on your face and hands are practically uniform. 

As you rush back to the kitchen, your eyes glued to the label of your bottle, you end up knocking into something extremely hard and extremely big. So much so that you land firmly on your ass, bottle thankfully safely in your hands still. You would prefer to avoid another trip to the grocery store. 

“Are you okay?”

Oh. Oh no. When you look up, you see the same sight. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue eyes widened in surprise. Pleasant surprise. There’s a hint of mirth dancing in his eyes when he reaches down with a hand extended to pull you to your feet.

“You— you’re here,” you announce rather dumbly. 

“I am,” he notes in amusement. “So are you.”

“What are you doing here? How are you in here?”

Blondie grins and you swear your heart beats louder and faster. You may have to do a quick check-in with a cardiologist after this. “I was here for an interview.” You echo the last two words in confusion. “They’re doing a piece on bakeries in the city.”

That makes you perk up. It makes sense since he was looking for butter for a customer order. “Oh! What bakery are you part of?”

“Luca’s.”

You light up at that revelation. “Oh my god, you guys have the best baguettes in town. That crisp exterior, soft interior, that perfect crunch when you just crush your fingers into it.” You’d be a little bit more embarrassed about how eagerly you’re describing this particular bread if it weren’t for the fact that you would take a bullet for said bread. “There’s also that amazing shiso dessert. Genius really. I never thought that would’ve worked. Wow, that’s— wow. You work for an amazing place. And sorry, here I am rambling on and I never even asked for your name.”

He stares at you in amusement before delivering the final blow. “Luca.”

Well shit. “That’s— that would make sense, yes. That’s your bakery and your name. A bakery named after you. The bakery that you own.”

Luca looks like he is actively trying hard not to laugh. “That’s correct.”

“Right, well, I should probably let you go before I embarrass myself any further.”

“No, please, continue to do so, I’m in no rush,” he teases. 

Heat spreads to the tips of your fingers as you squirm in humiliation, groaning. “If I ever think about speaking again, please remind me not to.”

This time, he does laugh and the sound is deep and delicious and wholly addictive. It’s like a sweet treat at the end of a very tough day — and you’ve had some very tough days recently. “I fear I may lose all sense of joy in life if you choose not to speak ever again.”

“You’re cute,” you say with a roll of your eyes, before it hits you. “Not in a flirty kind of way. Just that you’re acting cute. Again, not flirting.”

“Not flirting? Shame.”

Your lips part in surprise. Flames lick at your cheeks again as you have your foot in your mouth once more. Friendzoning the hot guy who runs one of the best bakeries — if not the best bakery — in town should be on top of your list of criminal offenses. 

“Shouldn’t you be going back to your award-winning bakery? Buns to make.” 

“Lots of buns to make,” he smiles. “I should probably return to ensure the place hasn’t burned down in my absence.”

“That’s probably important. Having an intact bakery so you could, you know, run a bakery.”

Luca appraises you with a humored gaze. “Before that, I did want to thank you again. For the butter. I’d love to take you to dinner sometime to show my appreciation.”

Suddenly, your tongue feels like a paperweight in your mouth and you can’t seem to move it even an inch to form a word. It sounds like he’s asking you out, but that couldn’t be. He’s probably just a really friendly guy; maybe it’s that British charm seeping through to make it sound more provocative than it actually is.

Or maybe you’re just delusional. 

“No, no. Please, don’t even stress about it. It was a small thing and I’m glad it worked out.”

Luca tilts his head, hand raising to his jaw as he strokes it thoughtfully. The scruff on his face looks more delectable than it needs to be. “Alright, then what do you say if I ask you to dinner because I want to take you to dinner? No gratitude involved, just pure selfishness.”

Now, you’re really tongue-tied. 

“Oh, uhm, well, I suppose that would be nice?”

Your face morphs to a cringe. Luca chuckles low, “Are you sure? You don’t seem very certain.”

“No, it’ll be fun.”

His lips twitch again. “How about you give me your number and I will set up some time for us?” He pulls out his phone and extends it in your directions. 

You look down at your fingers covered in stains. Luca, appearing to notice your dilemma, solves your problem once again. “How about you read your number out to me and I can add it in?”

So you prattle off the digits slowly, ensuring that each number is correct as you give them to him. With the current state of your mind, you wouldn’t be surprised if you just started counting one to ten. You watch the numbers appear on the screen and then he adds your name on top. 

You freeze. “I— how do you know my name?” Could his friendliness be fake? What if he’s actually a stalker? What if his British accent isn’t even real? 

As an answer, Luca’s gaze drops to your apron. Your apron where your name is embroidered. Stitched in big, bold letters. 

Way to embarrass yourself for the hundredth time today. 

“Well, that would make a lot of sense,” you mutter.

“I hate to keep you longer,” he pauses then smiles, “that’s a lie. I’d keep you as long as possible if I could. Unfortunately, I believe your duty calls.”

Your duty calls? Oh shit. You whirl around to find your coworker waving you over from the kitchen. Your turkey wings! “I need to get back to it but it was nice seeing you again!” You’re already halfway down when Luca calls out that he’ll text you.

–

The way down is easy. Falling for Luca makes it feel like you’re skydiving out of a plane with a functioning parachute and a very attractive man attached to your back telling you that he’s got you covered.

He texts when he says he will. He calls you after he drops you off at your door. He asks you about your day and means it when he says he wants to hear more. He laughs at your terrible jokes and proceeds to make even worse ones himself, so much so that you’re giggling to a point that the table next to you shushes you. He defends you against said table and then whisks you away to a less uppity place to save your date night.

The conversation flows easily even without alcohol as a lubricant. You’re intoxicated on his presence, his smile, the sound of his voice, the charming lilt of his laughter. Your cheeks are aching by the end of the evening with your lips still stretched in a punch-drunk grin.

And when you break your not-on-a-first-date rule, you find it all too easy to drag him into your apartment by the collar of his shirt and his lips glued to yours.

The days begin to blur together. Waking up with legs tangled together in your sheets. Breakfasts in your little nook where he whips up the most delicious pancakes with homemade strawberry syrup. Calls in the middle of the workday when you’re both waiting for your ovens to preheat. Texts with heart emojis that have your own heart jolting in your chest. Even midday pick-me-ups when he swings by your office to drop off special treats he has baked just for you, much to the envy of your colleagues who can’t help but tease you for this budding romance.

While you’ve had previous romantic entanglements, none of them have felt like this. So natural, so easy. It hasn’t been that long and yet you find yourself completely bewitched body, heart, and soul by this beautiful blonde man.

Gone is the stranger at the grocery store. Now, you spend some of your weekends picking produce at the vegetable aisle, dropping a variety of baking ingredients into your cart, and pulling together delicious recipes in your own comfortable kitchen.

The holiday season makes it challenging to see each other, but you know what they say — distance makes the heart grow fonder. There are weekends you don’t see Luca at all and even his weekday evenings can be surprisingly busy. It’s understandable since he is the owner of his own bakery. You give him some grace there; after all, it’s not his fault that you’re just so incredibly greedy when it comes to spending quality time with him.

One night, when the two of you are curled together on your couch, warm and full from the apple pie à la mode he threw together from scratch, you let a vulnerable confession slip from your lips.

“You might call me insane,” you start, staring down at your fingers twisted together, “but with everything that has happened so far — how we met, how we met again, and how easy everything has been, it almost feels like—”

“Fate, right?” He completes.

You draw away from him, looking into those cerulean eyes in surprise. “Fate, yeah,” you whisper. “It’s crazy. Tell me I’m crazy for thinking that.”

“Well, then, pot meet kettle.”

Luca makes things official with you on a dinner date that he planned and cooked in his kitchen. It almost seems silly to have to ask someone to be your official girlfriend when you’re adults like this, but when it is Luca who shows up with your favorite flowers, who cooks your favorite meals, who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars in the sky, the only answer you can give is yes.

So everything should be fine and dandy.

Should is the word of the day here.

Should indicates what is probable. Should is not a certainty.

Because just when you think that everything is peachy, life throws another curveball your way.

“So, you know how we were talking about how I might call you insane that one night” is how Luca decides to prompt the conversation. “You might call me insane next, but I need to tell you something.”

You were half distracted by the book on gastronomy in your hands when Luca chose to bring this up to you. He looks nervous, an unfamiliar expression on the usually confident man’s face. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him even worry before, so nervous takes it to a whole new level. Setting your book down, you turn to him with a frown.

“Alright, go on.”

You’re not entirely sure what to expect.

“I actually have two thumbs in my left foot.” (He doesn’t, you’ve seen it)

“My bakery is failing.” (You have seen his P&L sheet, so you seriously doubt this)

“I have been cheating on you.” (His phone doesn’t even have a passcode, he can never do this)

Luca is a lot of things, but a traitor and a liar aren’t even considerable options.

Well, if you don’t count a lie by omission.

Because then he says — “I have a son.”

Your brain understands the individual words, but the entirety of it combined and coming out of Luca’s mouth have the gears in your mind turning very slowly. The phrase feels foreign for someone you’ve been dating for nearly two months.

“A son,” you echo numbly.

“I was married before this. Very short stint. It was one of those college pregnancies. My ex and I, we got married because we thought it would be the right thing to do. We had our son — Jamie — and realized that we weren’t meant to be together, so we now have joint custody. It’s why I’m only available on alternating weekends and why my weekdays are so busy,” he admits almost shyly. “I didn’t mean to keep it from you, I promise.”

“I just—” you stop yourself, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Luca winces, his finger twitches on his lap like he wants to reach out to you, but he resists that temptation. “I never know how things will go. I don’t tend to mention my son until I know it’s getting serious, and I’ve never felt the need to bring him up.” His eyes flick up to meet yours. Sharp and warm. “Until now.”

You’re quiet, turning the information in your mind like you’re inspecting the cover of a book. This book that you’ve just started reading, barely scratching the surface of the first chapter. You want to keep flipping through the pages, devouring each word like it’s gospel. But this plot twist has you pausing.

“And I understand your hesitance, I did not mean to deceive you in any way. I’m just careful about my son and who I mention him to and who I introduce him to—”

“Introduce him?” You balk. The reaction is likely the incorrect one because you see the hurt settle on his expression. With your face crinkled, you internally scold yourself. “It’s not that I— I understand why you didn’t say anything. This is just… a lot all at once.”

Luca licks his lips. For the first time since you met him, he looks anxious and all you want to do is chase away that look with kisses. “I know. I apologize for putting you in a delicate situation. But I wanted you to know that I do really enjoy being with you; the reason why I’m bringing this up is that I see a future with you.” Your heart throbs painfully, fondly in your chest. “My son is the most important person in my life right now. You— you’re quickly becoming someone very important to me too — if not already. I figured it would be time for the two of you to meet. My two favorite people.”

He means well. You know he means well. But a son? You love children and you do think you are perhaps ready to start building a family. However, it’s far from what you’ve imagined and you’re not entirely sure that this is the picture you want to paint. While you’ve never discounted adoption, it’s a terrifying thought for you; it’s one thing to have a baby who grows to love you with time, it’s another to convince someone else’s child to love a stranger like you. 

But this is Luca we’re talking about. Luca whose heart is gentle and hand is firm. Luca who presses kisses onto the cuts on your fingertips whenever you slide your knife a little too far. Luca who calmly handles every crisis in and out of his bakery. Luca who you absolutely know would be the most devoted father, who raised a good kid just like him.

Luca who you love.

It’s a terrifying realization to have after mere months, but it’s a realization that feels right.

So, there is only one path forward from this point. “Okay,” you murmur, “I want to meet him.”

The way his face lights up the room is enough to know that you’ve made the right decision.

Unfortunately, it is clear upon first meeting that Jamie will not like you. Jamie looks like an almost replica of Luca, just smaller. His blonde hair flops over his blue-green eyes that peer up at you curiously.

Jamie takes one look at you, glances at Luca, realizes what is happening, and immediately storms upstairs to his room. Luca looks absolutely aghast, apologies spilling from his lips as he ushers you for the first time into his home. While you busy yourself with cataloging every inch of his living room, Luca goes to address Jamie.

The room looks lived-in but tidy. A few superhero action figures are strewn across the room, ones dressed in blue and red, others in silver and black. They lay on the floor like characters that have been abandoned in the middle of the scene. There’s a shelf to the side with cookbooks that you also own. Then there are the family pictures.

Ones of Luca and Jamie, Luca and his friends at his former restaurant, a few of Jamie through various stages of his life, and then there are the ones of Luca, Jamie, and an unknown woman, whom you presume is his mother. Luca’s ex. You’ve never seen her before, but she’s stunning. The kind of beauty that steals the breath from your lungs.

You can see why the two of them would be together. They look like they belong together. They look like they could have beautiful babies together — and they did.

Before you can think too hard about her and what it all means, Luca reappears by the doorway with a sheepish look. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over him. He’s usually not this stubborn.”

“Well, he does take after his father,” you tease, an attempt to lighten the air.

Luca smiles weakly, gratefully at you. “He’ll come around. I’m sure of it.”

Instead of dwelling, the two of you end up busying yourselves in the kitchen. You ask him what Jamie’s favorite dish is and, when he says lasagna, you get to work. It is one of your specialties after all. Even Luca is forced to admit that it may be better than the one he makes.

“Perks of testing every single lasagna recipe to ever exist,” you grin.

Luca prepares dessert instead: homemade chocolate ice cream with peanut butter, one final attempt to bribe Jamie to come out of his room. His favorite dinner and his favorite dessert.

It works — only because Jamie’s hunger beats out his obstinacy.

You’re wringing your fingers together under the dining table the entire time. Jamie sulks quietly, lips pinched together in distaste. He eases up a little when he sees lasagna on the table. His eyes brighten a smidgen when he takes the first bite of the meal. The frown on his face smooths into confusion. “This tastes different,” Jamie points out.

A sharp palate. Replica, you think to yourself.

“Do you like it?” Luca asks with a small smile.

“It’s better than the usual,” Jamie mutters under his breath before greedily shoveling another few spoonfuls into his mouth.

Luca’s eyes fly to you in relief. Your chest untangles slightly too, your lungs working again for the first time that night. However, the moment Luca mentions that you had made the dinner, Jamie pales again and pushes the plate away. Your heart sinks.

“Jamie,” Luca warns gently. “That’s not polite.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You were hungry a minute ago when you said that it’s better than how I usually make it.”

“Well, you didn’t make it.”

You have to bite back the curl of amusement on your lips when you see how frustrated Luca’s getting. This is probably unfamiliar territory for him. He has never introduced his son to anyone before. His son has always only known his mother and his father to be in his inner circle. You’re a stranger. Someone who he perceives to be “replacing” his mom. It’s not surprising that he’s acting this way.

Being a child of divorce and your parents having both remarried, you know exactly what it’s like. You empathize with him.

All you can do is squeeze Luca’s knee under the table, subtly shaking your head to urge him to let it go. You don’t say anything still, wary that a single syllable out of you would send the child screaming for the hills again.

“Alright, well, we have dessert,” Luca sighs, “that I made.”

The first meeting is as successful as it can be. Luca offers to drive you home and you insist that he stay with Jamie. Then he insists that you can also stay there.

You give him an incredulous look. “I’ve only just met your son. He already hates me—”

“He doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh, trust me. When I first met my mom’s new boyfriend, I loathed him. I’m not entirely offended, it’s a normal response. Give him time and let up on him. He’s a kid,” you smile, bumping your shoulders together. “I’ll see you another time, okay?”

Given this first introduction, it’s not unfounded that you are incredibly suspicious that the next time you meet Jamie, he tries to be friendly with you. It’s a complete 180 and you feel as if you’ve entered the Twilight Zone. You’ve seen the movies, you’ve watched The Parent Trap; before you know it, you might be the evil almost-stepmother waking up floating in the middle of a lake on a blow-up bed.

Luca — ever the optimist — finds this promising. You’re not about to rain on his parade so you play along with Jamie’s sudden change of heart.

However, it quickly becomes clear to you what his plan is. He is out to destroy you — or at least your reputation with Luca.

It starts off with a meal that Jamie had suggested. He tells you that he loves your lasagna and would love to try more of your cooking. You are both elated and nervous because children can be picky and this child is one you need to impress. So you spend your week plotting out this dinner, down to every last detail. You’re cooped up in Luca’s kitchen to prepare the meal after kicking said man out so you can do this yourself.

Jamie comes around as you’re mixing dessert and offers to help. You’re in a good mood because the preparation has gone well. So when he asks you if he can add in the sugar and do the mixing, you let him do so. You keep a close eye on him, of course — gentle, nothing that would be considered too overbearing.

Dinner goes exactly as planned. Jamie even enjoys your main courses, compliments you. For the first time, you feel like you’re actually making progress.

Then comes dessert.

“Bloody he—” Luca stops himself, gagging on the spoonful he just put into his mouth. You look at him in alarm then at your dessert. “Love, I—” he chokes again, “this is incredibly salty. And spicy. Are you trying a new spin on caramel pudding?”

You most certainly are not. Your eyes wander to Jamie, who did not touch his plate, knowing full well what he had done. With a smug smirk, he pushes away the dish in front of him.

Instead of pointing fingers and giving him the satisfaction of seeing you fail, you instead play along, “Ah, yes, something we’re potentially doing for the holiday collection. There’s supposed to be good balance with the salt and the sweet and the spice, but I may have overdone it.”

“Just a little bit,” Luca says with a wry smile, eyes watering. “It’s not a bad idea though. How about we work together to refine it? That way we’ll test the recipe again and we’ll have dessert.”

“That sounds perfect.”

With proper measurements and a little tweaking, the enhanced pudding recipe turns out to be a real hit. Luca even suggests doing a collaboration with you publishing the recipe and him selling it at his bakery for a limited time. Through it all, Jamie keeps the pout on his face as he licks his own bowl clean.

Of course, Jamie doesn’t give in. He’s much too stubborn for that, just like his hopeful father.

When you and Luca have a big date planned — a much coveted reservation at a restaurant the two of you have been meaning to try for a while, you’re slipping on the final touches of your jewelry by the door. Luca has cleaned up nicely too, wiping off all the flour and syrup stains from his face and swapping out his dirtied apron for a crisp shirt and trousers.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this dressed up since our first date,” you murmur as you fix his collar.

“I like to keep surprising you,” he grins right back. “The babysitter should be here soon, then we can head out.”

“I don’t need a babysitter, Dad, I’m seven,” Jamie chirps from the side, arms crossed over his chest. He’s giving you a stink-eye but it melts into mild irritation when Luca turns to him.

He ruffles his son’s hair affectionately. “Alright, kid, I trust you but I’ll trust you more with Kara here.”

Speak of the angel, Kara arrives shortly after, carrying the light and positivity of a thousand suns with her. 

It is only when the two of you are about to walk out the door that you hear it.

“Ow! Ow! Dad! It hurts!” 

Luca leaps into action, immediately whirling around to check on his son who is curled up on the floor. You’re quick to drop to your knees next to him, hands flying like you’re not quite sure what to do with them. Luca is immediately checking his temperature, his stomach, his limbs to diagnose the root of the pain.

“My stomach,” he whines, “it just hurts so bad.”

“Alright, bud, let’s get you to the hospital and get you checked up, yeah?”

“No!” The protest is swift, Jamie’s wide eyes suddenly alert. “I just— can you stay with me? I don’t really wanna be with a babysitter tonight.”

Luca’s eyes flick up to you in desperation and you immediately shake your head. “Let’s stay in tonight, make sure Jamie’s okay. I can make some porridge or something while you figure out the meds. Something easy for his stomach.”

“He hasn’t eaten anything all day, been stubborn about wanting fast food,” Luca winces. “That would be great, thank you.”

“I don’t like porridge,” Jamie scowls, much too aggressively for someone who is sick.

“Chicken soup, it’s his favorite when he’s sick. I have stock in the pantry and leftover chicken in the fridge,” Luca supplies then turns back to his son with a scalding look. “Though you shouldn’t be so picky when that’s what got you into this in the first place.”

Jamie has the decency to look sheepish.

The two of you work in tandem. With the babysitter cancelled and paid, and the reservation dealt with, you keep your hands tied up in the kitchen. Start with the mirepoix and a mix of garlic, onion, carrots, and celery before adding in ginger and turmeric for additional flavor and health benefits. With that, you also add in the broth, the chicken, and more seasoning. The delicious aroma floats around the kitchen, like a warm blanket on this cold winter day. 

For a bit of weight, you throw in couscous which will be easy on his stomach. Then you reduce the heat and let it simmer.

Luca left to pick up more medicine that he unfortunately does not have in the house. You pad upstairs to check on Jamie while the soup is on the stove, knocking on his door gently.

“Hey, Jamie, soup will be ready in a bit. Your dad’s just gone out to pick up medicine.”

“Whatever.”

Instead of being annoyed, you find yourself amused. He reminds you a lot of your younger self, angry and bitter at the prospect of a new family when you’re still holding onto your old one. You swallow your chuckle and instead say, “Alright. Let me know if you want anything else okay? Whatever you want, I can make it for you.”

“Fried chicken sandwich.”

A snort does make it out of your lips this time and you hope it didn’t carry through the door. “Unfortunately, that one is above my pay grade but I do make a mean fried chicken sandwich, so I’ll do that for you one day. When you’re feeling better.”

You hear an unintelligible grumble from the other side and figure the conversation is over. 

Luca returns shortly after and you plate up bowls of hearty chicken soup. Jamie gets dinner in bed, while Luca fusses around him. You wait with bated breath as Jamie lifts a spoonful into his mouth, tasting it quietly. You observe how his eyes light up, some of that color returning to his cheeks, before he looks up at you and his face completely sours.

It’s a complete change and, once again, you have to bite back your laugh as you anticipate his next words. “My mom’s is better.”

“Jamie!” Luca chides, shooting you another apologetic look. “What are you actually supposed to say?”

He is bitter when he ducks his head down and mumbles an apology and a thank you. 

Part of you has a very strong feeling that Jamie is pretending. It’s a terrible thing to assume of a child in need of help, but you’ve also used the same tactic on your mom before. Times may change, but the deviousness of children does not. 

Still, you can tell Jamie is a good kid. A good kid who just adores his parents and is incredibly protective of them. You can’t blame him entirely for acting up.

“It’s okay, you can tell me how your mom makes it and we can cook it together next time. Just how you like it. How about that?” 

Jamie only purses his lips and you don’t say anything when Jamie finishes his bowl and asks for another. And then a third.

—

Your first real, serious responsibility with Jamie is when Luca calls you in a breathless plea. 

“Sorry for asking you so last minute.” You can practically see his guilt-ridden face with the apology dripping in his tone. “The order for Blüdhaven’s mayor is a heavier lift than I thought and I still have to make the delivery. Zoe’s on a trip out of town. Would you mind helping me pick up Jamie? I’ll call the school ahead of time. He knows what to do at home so you just have to keep an eye on him. I’ll be home by dinnertime.”

Zoe being his ex. You being his last resort. 

This is how you find yourself in front of the elementary school, tapping your finger nervously on the wheel. Children are beginning to filter out and you take your final breath, one last one to build up enough courage to step out your car to wait with the other caretakers. 

You twist your fingers behind your back, keeping a close eye until you spot a familiar mop of dark blonde curls. You lift your hand in a small wave, the action is almost reluctant. He’s not your biggest fan and you don’t know how he feels about you picking him up. The last thing you want is to give him another reason to be upset with you. 

When Jamie’s gaze finally snags on you in the crowd, there’s a brief flicker of surprise before his expression flattens into a balanced combination of disappointment and irritation.

“Hey, Jamie,” you force out the friendliest smile you can muster, which apparently isn’t at all that friendly because Jamie still makes a face at you. “Your dad got caught up with work, so I’m here to take you home.”

“Whatever,” he mutters and starts stomping ahead of you. 

You guide him to your car and he immediately plants himself in the backseat, straps on his seatbelt, and glares out the window. 

Well, that’s the best reaction you can hope for. 

Your attempts at conversation are shot down at every turn, whether it’s by a whatever, a no, or blatantly ignoring you. 

It doesn’t get any better at home. Jamie slams his door shut and you’re left sitting downstairs, twiddling your thumbs. You try and make progress on the recipes you’ve been working on, making an entire to-do list for your holiday items that you need to start on tomorrow. 

When the clock chimes six and Luca still isn’t back (“so sorry, love, we’re down an oven”), you end up tiptoeing back upstairs. 

A light rap on Jamie’s door is met with silence. “Hey, Jamie, your dad’s gonna be late. I can make you dinner if you want. Anything you’re craving?”

There’s silence again and you wonder if the kid has snuck out and you’re going to be put in jail for child endangerment. So you knock again, but before your knuckles can meet the door a third time, it swings open and Jamie is pursing his lips at you.

He opens his mouth and his stomach growls. Loud. 

He pinks to the tips of his ears. “I could eat. You promised me a fried chicken sandwich last time.” 

This is progress. You brighten and confirm his allergies and restrictions. Luckily, Luca keeps his fridge well stocked so you have everything you need to whip the chicken up from scratch. Jamie sits quietly at the table, scribbling away while occasionally curiously peeking at you; he quickly ducks whenever you catch him watching and you smile to yourself. 

“What’re you working on?”

“None of your business.” The answer comes sharp and fast. You’re not fazed; instead you huff a small laugh to yourself. 

“Writing a love letter?” You try to tease. The way his entire face flushes red is answer enough. Your heart aches with how endearingly embarrassed he looks as he curls around the paper on the table. “That’s lovely, love letters are always nice to receive.”

Jamie is silent for a second, eyes darting around the room before they land back on you. “Are they really? Do people like them?”

“Sure. It may be old-fashioned in a world full of emails and texts but I remember how excited I was when I got love notes from my crushes when I was younger, even now.” 

“Does my dad write them for you?”

You’re not sure how to tread here. On one hand, it would be nice to share. On the other, you’re not sure if it’ll only upset him. However, you decide to opt for honesty.

“He leaves me little sticky notes sometimes — on tupperwares when he makes me food, on my fridge reminding me to drink enough water.”

“That’s a love note?” He deadpans in disbelief.

Your lips twitch into a smile. “Sometimes it’s nice to see little notes that remind you that they’re thinking of you, that they care about you.”

Jamie appears to ruminate on it for a second before his attention redirects to the page before him. His brows are puckered in thought, fingers absentmindedly tapping his pen.

“Tell me about them.” He looks up, eyes alert. “Your crush.”

He scowls but the blush remains. You wonder if his grumpiness comes from his mom or a younger version of Luca. “I don’t have a crush.”

The corners of your lips hook into another smile. “No?”

“I love her,” he says, voice so quiet that you nearly miss it. “She’s the coolest. She was the lead singer for our school’s band performance last week. She’s two years older than me and has a cool accent. Kind of like dad. She’s so pretty.” 

As if he realizes he has said too much, he promptly seals his lips shut as his face contorts into an expression of discomfort. 

You smile softly at him. “She sounds wonderful.” 

“She is,” he mutters, fidgeting with the paper on the table. “But she’s leaving. She’s moving away next week with her family. It’s sad, I guess.” His words leave his mouth with a feigned nonchalance only someone his age would have. “But she doesn’t even know I exist.”

Tilting your head, you regard him curiously. “Well, there is one way you could let her know.” Your gaze flicks down to the paper before him. “I think it would be sweet to give her a love letter. Something sentimental she can hold onto when she leaves.”

Jamie’s eyes flicker with light. Hope. “You think so?” He mumbles.

“I know so.”

His eyes skim the paper again, like he’s digesting your words and his own to bridge the gap. When his gaze briefly meets yours again, only for him to shift it quickly away with a stubborn press of his lips, you have a feeling there is a question that hangs on the tip of his tongue.

To give him a hand — and knowing full well that he won’t be asking you for any help, you offer, “You know, I’d love to take a look if you’re okay with it. Just because I love love letters. I like to think of myself as an expert in them too.”

A scoff lands on your ears. There’s no malice behind it, almost sounded in part amusement. “Alright, maybe I’ll give you a peek.”

You round the counter to join him at the dining table, sliding into the seat next to him. You’re encouraged by the fact that he doesn’t scooch his chair away from you, even if he does lean slightly further away. You look over what he has so far, which isn’t very much, but the words are endearing and honest. What he needs is just the boost of confidence to keep going, and maybe some suggestions for lines he could use.

As you compliment him for his work, he brightens. Eyes lighting up into baby blue gems. He listens attentively, brows furrowed in focus similar to how Luca looks in the kitchen. He scribbles more, checks in with you on if the phrases sound good. Eventually, he joins you by the stove as you’re preparing the buns and frying the chicken.

Sometimes, you forget how young Jamie is. He’s naturally curious with the inclination to learn more about what he doesn’t understand. Regardless of how he feels about you, you can feel him watching you closely, assessing you, picking you apart to piece you together into his own picture in his mind. He’s probably trying to understand you to understand what his father sees in you. It’s enthralling to see him try to resist smiling or blushing, see that stubbornness fight to stay in place when all he wants is to peek at whatever you’re doing.

He watches your hands move with rapt attention, the care you put into every act as you flip the sizzling chicken in the bubbling oil, how the color quickly darkens and changes, wet batter crisping up into a delicious outer layer that has him leaning closer and closer. You have to urge him to lean back a little and instead grab him a stool to better witness how the ingredients transform into a meal.

By the time Luca comes stumbling home with apologies echoing down the hall, you and Jamie are discussing how to tie off this love letter while your empty plates sit to the side, only crumbs left as evidence of dinner.

“I’m so sorry,” he says to both of you, quickly pressing a kiss to Jamie’s head, then yours. Of course, he notes with surprise that the two of you are sitting next to each other, appearing to be getting along swimmingly. “What’s going on here? What are you both working on?”

Your eyes fly over to Jamie at the same time he looks at you. He shares a private smile before looking at his dad. “Just some homework,” he lies smoothly, shuffling his pages together close to his chest. “You’re really late.”

“I know,” Luca grimaces, “there was a fiasco with one of the ovens. The mayor was incredibly patient thankfully but a last-minute order also came in from a good friend so I had to also prepare pies and cakes for an event he’s attending. Anyways, I hope this wasn’t too much trouble.”

That line he mainly directs at you. From the corner of your eye, you can see Jamie squirm. You only flash a reassuring smile at your boyfriend. “Don’t worry. I think we got a lot done. We have some leftover fried chicken if you want to make your own sandwich.”

“Yeah?” Luca brightens then turns to Jamie, “Good sandwich?”

“Wasn’t bad,” Jamie mumbles quietly, which is the biggest compliment he can bestow upon you at the moment.

The two of you share a look. Luca’s smile stretches wider just a fraction. “That’s good, I’m glad you’re both getting along now.”

Your flinch is swift. While you are making headway with Jamie, you also know his personality — which means you’re already expecting how tenaciously he will reject this notion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jamie spits out venomously, his answer clearly catching his father off guard while all you can do is sigh. He throws a glare your way for good measure, the withering look wavers momentarily before the walls slam back up. All the progress you’ve made today gone with the wind.

Then he’s hopping to his feet and stomping all the way back up to his room.

“I’ve completely butchered the situation, haven’t I?” Luca stares at you remorsefully, sliding into the seat next to you and tucking you close to him. His lips against your shoulder as he peers up at you with those god-honest blue eyes. Similar to the ones that had just looked at you with pure vitriol only seconds ago.

“Not entirely — at least, I hope not,” you try to comfort him. “He’s just a kid. A kid who’s seeing his dad go through something new. Give him some space and time. I never expected him to like me immediately; nobody does.”

“I did,” Luca murmurs sweetly, dragging his lips up to meet yours. “Love at first sight.”

Love. You try not to think too much about it. It’s not a phrase you’ve shared, not just yet. “You like seeing me freeze up by the single box of butter? Like being my knight in shining armor?”

“I’m just a man who met a lovely woman, both looking for the same thing and ended up finding something more.”

A giggle rises from your chest, light and airy. “You’re a damn cheeseball.”

“Yeah, but you like it.”

“Unfortunately, I do.”

Little did you know, Jamie is still eavesdropping right around the corner — listening to his dad fall in love all over again, but not with the woman he wants. 

–

You thought that you and Jamie had come to some form of truce after you helped him pour his heart onto pages for the love of his life. Unfortunately, children are fickle, and that includes their acceptance of you. This means that Jamie is still attempting to foil whatever plans Luca and you have put together; in this case, it’s the at-home dinner date the two of you have been plotting to test out new recipes and make yourselves a grand feast.

Jamie’s mom was supposed to pick him up and whisk him away for the evening, some children’s show that Jamie has been begging for her to take him to. However, when Zoe shows up at Luca’s door, she appears befuddled.

“Wait, what show? I thought we were all having dinner here.”

Her voice carries down the hall to the kitchen where you are tucked away. You didn’t think it was an appropriate time yet to meet her, even if you’ve met her son a handful of times. While you’re not one to shy away from your boyfriend’s ex-wife, you’re also not entirely prepared to meet her either.

Certainly not today when you’re covered in spills and stains.

When Luca returns to the kitchen, he has that contrite look on his face again and your stomach sinks. You’re trying your hardest not to be disappointed that your date has been changed again, but it’s difficult when it begins to interfere with your private time with Luca.

“I’m sorry, love,” Luca sighs, “it seems there is a mix-up. Zoe and Jamie will be joining us for dinner. Zoe has offered to take Jamie out for the evening but Jamie seems insistent on staying here to get a home-cooked meal.”

There is nothing else to say except— “Sure, we’ve made plenty anyway.”

That is how you end up at the dining table next to Luca, across from Jamie, and diagonal from Zoe. Zoe, who looks beautiful even in a casual tee and jeans. Zoe, who has these gorgeous eyes that are both sharp and kind. Zoe, who Jamie looks up to with adoration.

Zoe is an artist, another creative soul who spends her days painting masterpieces, moulding sculptures, carving statues, all of which end up in museums or some billionaire’s home. Her works in the industry are equivalent to Luca’s reputation in the baking world. Long story short, she is incredibly impressive and you can’t help that nip of envy in your chest.

It’s clear that the two have a lot of history. They move in tandem like they’ve learned each other’s rhythms, passing around spices they knew the other would want, ensuring that Jamie behaves well and eats all his vegetables. If you were anyone else, the sight would have been heart-warming. A picture perfect family.

You are the outsider, an intruder in this otherwise warm home. Zoe loops you into the conversation, Luca provides you context, but it’s becoming abundantly apparent that you are the odd one out. They speak of memories that you aren’t a part of, laughing fondly around tales you’ve never heard before. They’re spinning sugar and all you can taste in your mouth is bitterness.

There is this tear in your chest that you can’t seem to patch. You try to stitch it closed with the memories that you’ve made with Luca, the few moments of amicability with Jamie, but each word that leaves their mouth, each shared laugh, tugs the thread loose.

Your eyes are focused on the food in front of you, the half-eaten meal that loses all its flavor the moment your lips wrap around your fork. All the hard work you’ve dedicated to the meal feels fruitless in the grander scheme of things. You can’t even bring your gaze up to meet theirs, instead opting to quietly pick at your food.

At some point, Luca’s hand brushes against your back. A frown mars his pretty face and your gaze darts around the table to find Zoe also looking at you in concern and Jamie with an unreadable expression. You can feel the tears start to come, sitting on the edge like they’re waiting to tip off the cliff, but you quickly blink them away when Luca’s voice quietly cuts through the rattling in your ears.

“Are you okay, love?”

“Yeah, just not feeling so hot,” you force out a smile that you hope is convincing. Luca’s persistent sullen look says otherwise. “I might’ve just eaten too much,” you chuckle.

Luca’s lips twist in concern. “Do you want to lie down? I can get you some meds for indigestion.”

“No, please, don’t worry about me, I probably just need to let the food settle,” you grit out with a small curl of your lips.

“Are you sure?” Zoe’s voice is sweet. Thoughtful. Kind. You can see why Luca had fallen for her. “I’m sure I have something in my purse.”

You shake your head resolutely. “I promise, I’m fine. I do have work tomorrow though so I should get going. You all please continue. I have an early day.” Your chair scrapes back as you move rather abruptly, Luca’s confusion only deepens. You gather your bag quickly, tell Zoe it’s nice to meet you, tell Jamie it’s nice to see him again, and move towards the door.

Luca’s quick to stay close on your tail. His hand grasps your elbow before you can disappear into the night. “Listen, I’m so sorry about all this. I’ll make it up to you. Shall we do dinner tomorrow night? I’ll make your favorites.”

Your heart untightens, but only partially. The bitter twist lingers. “Stop stressing. Things happen. We can figure it out another time.” With that, you lean forward to kiss his cheek only for him to turn at the last second and catch your lips.

The kiss is deep, hungry, and knee-weakening. You almost forget that you’re standing on his front porch until he presses you against his doorframe. His fingers dig into your hips, keeping you firm. “Sure I can’t convince you to stay? Zoe can take Jamie to her place after this,” he whispers against your lips.

The offer is tempting. It would be too easy to say yes to him, to fall into his bed like you’ve done countless times before. However, with your heart still hanging on by a string, you know what you need is some distance to think things through, to compartmentalize.

“No, it’s okay. Go spend time with your family.”

The last sentence sounds bitter even to you, Luca doesn’t miss your tone and worry plagues his face again. “You’re part of it too, you know,” he says quietly.

You bite back the urge to deny, to tell him that he’s being ludicrous. What exists between the three of them is a family. You look like the homewrecker that bulldozed your way into this house, tearing down the carefully crafted houses into rubble. At least, that’s probably how Jamie sees you.

A cough to the side draws both your attention. Zoe catches both your gazes, eyes dropping to Jamie who stands by her briefly. A warning.

No PDA in front of the seven year-old. Noted.

You take a step away from Luca, further out onto the porch. He looks pained to see you distance yourself, but doesn’t reach for you again, knowing that he has to maintain some semblance of decency in front of his son. “I’ll see you all around. It was nice meeting you, Zoe.”

“You too,” she replies with a gentle smile.

Before you can change your mind, you slip into your car and drive into the night.

The final straw comes in the form of a conversation you have no part in. One that you probably weren’t supposed to hear but you suppose you’ve always been a glutton for punishment.

Another dinner in Luca’s home as an attempt to extend an olive branch to Jamie ends in pieces. Jamie still scowls at you. Luca still scolds him for his behavior. At some point, you do have to accept that perhaps you are the problem in this unsolvable equation.

When Jamie makes another comment about your cooking, Luca draws the line and sends him to his room. You grimace when you hear the door slam upstairs and Luca looking more irritated than usual.

“I’m sorry about him,” Luca sighs, “I promise he’s a good kid. He’s just incredibly stubborn.”

“It’s okay,” you say. You’re not sure that you mean it.

“No, it’s not. He should know better than to act up like this. I don’t know why he chooses to be so difficult.”

Your hand brushes his shoulder, stroking down his back. “You know why. It’s new territory for him. Let him have this. He probably feels like he’s losing his father to someone else. You just need to show him you’re not going anywhere.”

“I’m trying, I’m just not… pleased with how he’s dealing with this.”

“Talk to him. All he wants is for his dad to see his perspective. Make him understand that there are no sides, that you’re not choosing me over him. Or me over his mom.”

Luca smiles softly at you, lips brushing against your temple thoughtfully. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

Part of your request is selfish. Part of your desire for his reconciliation with his son is for your own benefit. Deep down, you know how important it is for Luca to have this connection with Jamie, because you had been in the exact same position once.

If they cannot see eye to eye, it is a sign that perhaps you and Luca should be reconsidering this relationship — for the sake of his own with his son.

As Luca moves up the stairs, you can’t help but let curiosity take over. You give it five minutes — five before you cave and make your way towards his room. That is when you hear the muffled voices carry through the closed door.

“She’s not mom! She will never be mom. I hate her.”

“Jamie! That’s enough. I understand you’re upset because this is a big change, but it doesn’t mean that you can behave this way. You need to apologize.”

“I don’t need to do anything. If mom were here, she would understand me.”

“Your mom would agree that the way you’ve been treating someone new, someone who has been nothing but kind to you, is completely unacceptable.”

“You’re the worst!”

“Jamie!”

This is a conversation you shouldn’t be listening to any longer, nor should you have been listening from the start. Your heart splinters at the hurt in Luca’s voice, the frustration and the agony. Luca has always been patient and kind, you’ve seen how he is with Jamie, even how he acts with his staff. This is probably the first and only time you’ve ever heard him raise his voice like this — and you’re the reason.

Jamie is a good kid. You know that. Luca knows that. The only reason he is acting up, the only reason this rift now exists between them, is you.

You are the why.

But you don’t want to be.

You’re an adult but Jamie is still going through his developmental phases, a critical time in his life when his parents are important variables in his growth. You don’t want to be the wall that stands between them. As a responsible adult, there is only one thing left to do.

It happens on a planned lunch date. One that you know won’t actually happen. You’ve been yanking your hair, nibbling on your nails, and wiping away your tears over it for days. The words have been formed on the tip of your tongue, rehearsed to a point where the syllables are numbing. You ball your fists in your pockets as you stand in front of the restaurant, having arrived thirty minutes early to calm yourself down; only problem is that arriving early has granted you time to sweat it out further, which has your mind reeling from thoughts and a billion what-if’s.

By the time Luca arrives, your mind is sufficiently a scrambled mess. You’ve turned your script over again in your head, picking out words and replacing them with others. He appears before you with a bright, sweet smile.

“Ready, love? I was thinking you would like the truffle omelette here.”

“Luca,” you interrupt, “can we talk real quick?”

A look passes over his eyes, one that says everything. He knows. You haven’t said a thing but you have a feeling he knows. His lips thin as he follows you to a quiet street corner, his hands stuffed deep into his coats as he looks at you warily.

“Listen—”

“No, I need to get this out. I’m sorry. I just—” you bite your tongue, wincing. “I can’t do this, Luca. I know we’re trying but I don’t think this will work out.”

Fissures crack open his expression. His smile wipes away into a downturn of his lips, eyes dimming. The lines in his face only deepen. “Please don’t do this.”

“It’s for the best, I promise—”

“It’s not,” Luca emphasizes, taking a step towards you. You back away from him and the look on his face is a slap to yours. “It’s not. You can’t tell me that. We’re good together, you know this. Things with Jamie— I know it hasn’t been easy, but I know we can work through it. Jamie is just— he’s a kid, like you said. He’ll come around. Maybe I could be firmer with him.”

Your carefully crafted lines fall apart at the seams as you look at his crestfallen face. Your eyes have to shift away to the wall to stop the tears from falling. If you come apart now, it’ll only weaken your resolve — and his.

“No. No, you don’t. He’s a good, Luca, I’m fully aware of that. He is a good kid who loves you, who only wants the best for you. He is your priority and I completely understand that because it’s how it should be. The last thing I want to do is come between you both. With how things are going, it’s clear that our relationship is a strain on yours. I think— I’m bowing out now, not because I don’t love you, but because I do. Because I care about the two of you. I’d rather you mend your relationship with him. If we keep going, there will always be resentment — on my part, on yours, and on Jamie’s. It’s not… healthy. I’m so sorry, but this is for the best. I promise.”

To that, Luca is quiet. His eyes are conflicted, because he knows you’re right. The disappointment is palpable, the hurt rolls off him in waves.

But with this, the acceptance on both your ends, you have the courage to move towards him. Your hand slides up his cheek, warm against his cold. “Thank you. For everything. The past few months have been a dream and I— it’s been a joy getting to know you and Jamie.”

His lips part, but the words don’t come. So you lean forward and press a final, firm kiss to the corner of his lips, quick enough that he doesn’t have the chance to turn and catch your lips.

And then you’re gone.

–

The days leading up to Christmas are usually filled with bated breaths and impatient anticipation. The office is teeming with life as everyone hurries to get their work done quickly to free up the holidays for themselves. The air is brimming with the kind of tension that makes you giddy, makes you excited about the season.

While it is still the case for your coworkers, you can’t say the same for yourself. It’s been a week since you last spoke to Luca, since you left him with an expression on his face that’s burned to the back of your mind. It has been a week of your finger itching to pull up your messages with him on your phone, a week of writing messages that you never send, a week of putting your phone down and burying yourself under the covers instead.

You’re listless at work and, while your closest friends at work notice, they try not to pry. Well, except one.

“You’ve been miserable all week,” Sydney points out, “I can’t have you be this depressed when Christmas rolls around. What plans do you have?”

Initially, you had spoken to Luca about Christmas and the plan was to spend the week between Christmas and New Year’s at his. Obviously, things have changed.

“No plans, I was thinking of getting a head start on recipes for next year. Valentine’s Day is going to be a pain,” you groan, dropping your forehead to your desk with a thud.

“Oh, absolutely not. I have a holiday gathering on Christmas Eve. I want you there. Dress up. We’re going to cook, eat, and drink. It’ll be fun.”

“You really don’t have to,” you say.

“This is not pity,” Sydney emphasizes, “I don’t think you should be alone and, for some unknown reason, I really do enjoy your company.”

Your head turns to peek up at her with a wry smile, which she matches. “Thanks.”

“So you really haven’t spoken to him since?” You roll your head on the desk multiple times again in a shake of your head. “Damn, do you think it was the right call though? He obviously really likes you.”

“Yeah, but I don’t want to be some witch that ruins his life. That ruins his son’s life. It’s for the best.”

Before Sydney can respond again, a knock on your cubicle draws both your attentions. “There’s, uh, someone for you at front desk.”

You raise your head slowly with a frown, eyes flying over to your schedule. “I don’t think I’m expecting anyone today. Are you sure they’re looking for me?”

“It’s a kid.”

Sydney and you look at each other briefly before you’re scuttling towards the front. To say you’re surprised to see Jamie there is an understatement. He’s bundled up in a thick coat, beanie pulled down low on his head where his blonde curls peek out. The tip of his nose is red with the cold, his mittened hand reaches up to swipe at his face. He blinks when he sees you.

“Jamie, what— what are you doing here? Isn’t it a school day? Aren’t you supposed to be at school? Did something happen?”

You find yourself looking him up and down, tracing over his frame to see if he is hurt in any way. He doesn’t say anything, merely presses his lips together.

Your stomach drops when you think of the alternative. If Jamie is here alone and he looks as worried as you’ve ever seen him then…

“Luca—” Your words choke up before you can get the rest of your question out. 

Sugar, the front desk receptionist, is clearly curious when she keeps throwing glances your way. You drop to a crouch in front of him and ask again, “Jamie, honey, did something happen? Should I call your dad?”

He finally responds with a shake of his head. Still, he says nothing.

“Is your dad okay?”

He nods.

That at least has you breathing out a sigh of relief. Because you don’t need the entire office to think you’ve suddenly kidnapped a child, you take Jamie to an empty testing kitchen, ushering him in with his little backpack. As the door clicks closed behind you, you watch as Jamie wanders into the large space.

His eyes skip over the myriad of cooking utensils, the gleaming pots and pans, the bottles of spices and sauces across the counters. He seems to marvel at the open room, hand reaching up to graze over the surfaces with quiet interest.

“This is where you work?”

You nearly get whiplash from how quickly you look up to see him, now across the room from you. A distance that feels like a chasm. “Yes,” you clear your throat. You’re not sure how to handle this situation. You should probably let Luca know that he’s here, in case he’s worried where his son has gone.

“Looks bigger than dad’s,” Jamie points out.

Wetting your lips nervously, you slowly inch towards him to close the gap. “Yeah, we do a lot of testing here so we have all sorts of things with a big team.”

Jamie is quiet again as he continues his exploration. He peeks into the fridge, the freezer, the cabinets. You follow him quietly and watch as he pauses in front of the mixture of pistachio paste and katafi. “What’s this?”

“You know those viral chocolates? We were making holiday versions of it. This one was leftover from our final peppermint batch.” He stares at it wordlessly. Your lips tug into a small smile. “Do you want to try?” 

Reaching for a spoon, you scoop up a little bit and hand it to him. He slides it into his mouth and you witness the way his face morphs between curiosity, surprise, a hint of delight, before it lands on feigned disinterest. Poorly feigned. 

“How does it taste?”

His lips pinch. “Alright.”

“Do you wanna try some other things we’ve been testing?” At that, Jamie can’t hide his excitement, 

With a variety of bowls and plates spread out, the two of you sit side by side tasting every single thing you can pull out of the fridge. For some, Jamie crinkles his nose, for others, he lights up like a Christmas tree. 

His excitement is contagious and you find yourself grinning whenever he enjoys a flavor. 

It is only when you begin to run out of things to test that Jamie quiets down again. He turns to you, eyes hardened with a determination that you’ve only seen against you. You steel yourself for Jamie to tell you to back off again.

“I need you to take dad back.”

You’re convinced you’re finally losing it, maybe it’s all the fumes and the smoke from cooking all this time. Because if you didn’t know any better, it almost sounded as if Jamie wanted for you and Luca to get back together. 

But that would be insanity, right?

“He’s sad. He’s miserable and sad. He misses you like crazy. He won’t stop stress baking and my pants can’t take any more of his croissants.” 

The thought of Luca putting his body through the wringer just so he doesn’t have to think of you tears open your heart. A jagged line straight through the middle. 

“Jamie—”

“You broke up because of me, didn’t you? I’m telling you now that I’m okay with the two of you dating. Just— can you just get back together?”

Your face twists into an involuntary flinch. “Honey, no — look, your dad and I have made this decision and it’s for the best, okay?”

“It’s clearly not,” Jamie scowls, “you’re both unhappy without each other. Do you not love each other?”

Love. It’s a complicated situation. Neither of you have labeled it as such, never said the word to the other, but the feeling that sits in the space between you cannot be called anything other than that. 

It’s not as if you don’t want to tell Jamie that you’re in love with his father; it is that it would hurt that the first time you admit that out loud would be to his son when you tell him that sometimes love isn’t enough. Not as an adult. Not when there are other things — other people — at stake.

“Relationships are a little more complicated than that,” you choose to say instead. “I care about your father a lot, Jamie. There are just… more things for us to think about, for us to discuss, but that’s between us. You don’t have to worry about it. Your dad will be fine, I promise.”

Jamie is about to interrupt again but you give him a stern look this time.

“Before we keep going, aren’t you supposed to be in school?” He at least has the decency to look sheepish. “Come on. I’m going to take you back.”

“Are you going to tell dad?” His feet shuffle slightly, guilt overtaking his expression. 

With a deep breath, you sigh. “We’ll see if your school finds out that you’ve left. If they notice, I have to tell your dad. If not, then… let’s keep this conversation between us, yeah?”

The drive to Jamie’s school is silent. Only when you pull up the curb does he finally speak again. “Are you really not going to call my dad?”

“Jamie, we’ll see what the school says—”

“No, I mean to get back together with him.”

Your limbs stiffen, your grip on the wheel tightening. “Your dad will be fine. It’s an adjustment period but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“Doubt it,” he mutters under his breath. 

Instead of addressing his comment, you nod your head towards the front door. “Go on. Also,” you wiggle your fingers in front of him, “give me your phone. I’m going to put my number in. I don’t want you to show up like that again, I don’t even know how you got to my office or how you found it, but it can be incredibly dangerous. If you want to speak to me, you’ll know how to reach me. I’ll pick up. Regardless of what happens with your dad. Okay?”

You punch in your number as Jamie nods. “Okay.”

“Alright. Now, go… study or something. Be good.”

A soft snort carries between you, and then he’s out the door. 

You breathe out a sigh of relief. Hopefully that’s the last of it for now. 

As you do so, Jamie has begun concocting a plan of his own. 

–

Sydney’s Christmas party is the very definition of a girl’s night. Free-flowing cocktails, decorations strung across her apartment, and her very best friends who treat you like one of their own. With the alcohol being generously passed around and giggles filling the bubbly atmosphere, you find yourself at ease for the first time in a while.

It has been a week since you last saw Jamie. He hasn’t said anything else so you’re hoping that he has let the matter slide — or that Luca is finally getting over you.

Somehow, you don’t know if that’s better.

You look down at your velvet red dress. The theme for tonight was festive and this was the most festive you could muster on short notice. It hugs you in all the right places and, for the first time in a while, you felt good dressing up. It’s the one highlight of the week now that the office is closed for the holidays. 

“At least you’re not sulking anymore,” Sydney teases, sliding onto the couch next to you. “Everything okay with the kid?”

“I hope so,” you grumble, “he gave me a scare. Since I haven’t heard from either of them, I’m going to assume that they’re fine.” 

“Have you given it more thought? What the kid said. About taking him back.”

Of course, you have. It’s impossible not to. When the son of the love of your life tells you that his father is in pieces after you walked away, you can’t simply brush it off — especially when said son is now telling you to take him back. His request has been tucked into every nook and cranny of your brain for days, occupying every single space of conscious thought.

After dropping Jamie at school and returning to the office, Sydney is quick to pepper you with questions. You let everything spill. She knows the gist of what happened, but not the extent. With the full breakdown, all she can say is what a clusterfuck.

She isn’t wrong.

It would be easy to give into Jamie’s request — to agree to speak to Luca again. However, it doesn’t change the crux of the issue, which is that Jamie isn’t your biggest fan. Even if he’s desperate for you to somehow fix his dad now, he may grow to resent you and Luca again in the future. That is not a risk you’re willing to take, particularly as you’ve already left Luca once.

“I don’t think I’m going to do it.” Your teeth catch your bottom lip. “It’s not going to change anything and I’m not sure I’ll survive a second breakup.”

“Or you may actually stay together forever this time,” Sydney tries with a bump of your shoulders.

“Wishful thinking. It would take a Christmas miracle—”

Your phone ringing on your lap has you pausing, lifting the device to find an unknown number calling. With a frown, you excuse yourself to answer the call.

“Good evening, ma’am. This is TSA.” TSA? “We currently have your son in custody.” Son? Custody?

Have you entered some multiverse dimension in which all of those words combined make any sense. “I, uhm, what is this exactly about?”

“Your son, Jamie.”

Jamie. Your heart plummets to the ground, stomach sinking cold and fast. “Jamie— what is he— what happened?”

“Can you please come as soon as possible to pick him up?”

“Sure. Is he okay? Is he hurt?”

“No, but he did injure several officers in the chase.”

Chase? Oh god. “I’ll be right there,” you breathe out, “can you please—” The line goes cold before you can say another word. Cursing to yourself, you’re hurrying back to the main room, catching Sydney by the arm. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

“We haven’t even done cake!”

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s just— Jamie is in custody at the airport and I don’t know what happened but I need to go get him.”

Her eyes widen immediately before she urges you to hurry. You hail a cab and your knee bounces the entire thirty-minute ride there. You contemplate calling Luca the entire time, wondering if Jamie had informed him too; you’re not even sure why Jamie had flagged you as his parent in the first place. If that’s the case, then perhaps he had done something that he doesn’t want Luca to know and you have been made an accomplice.

So you tuck away your phone. You can call him after you pick up Jamie and deal with… whatever this is.

When you finally leap out of the taxi, you navigate to whichever officer is willing to speak with you. Then they take you to one of the rooms where Jamie sits there on the table, his lips splitting into a huge grin when he sees you. This kid should not be smiling in his situation. Your eyes chide him silently, a plea to at least look apologetic. He doesn’t.

You move to his side, hands checking him all over for any signs of hurt. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“I got my letter to her.”

“Letter—” you freeze, “your love letter.”

“She was leaving today. I had to catch her but by the time I found out about her flight, it was really late. She was past security and she couldn’t hear me, so I just… had to run past them.”

“Jamie!” You gasp.

“Well, the truth is I’m in love and there is nothing I can do about it. But you can.”

As if on cue, Luca comes barging in, looking as frazzled as you had been. His eyes dart around the room — an apology to the officers, worry at Jamie, and then surprise with you. This Luca looks a little different from your Luca. His hair is slightly longer, curling around his ears. A mustache and short beard now cast shadows across his face. He still looks handsome, but certainly isn’t the Luca you’re used to.

His hand reaches up almost self-consciously, smoothing back some of his flyaways. He looks at you in what can only be deemed as embarrassment. For a moment, you think he’s about to say something to you when his mouth opens, but the officer interjects.

After sufficient scolding from security, and a potential threat to completely bar Jamie from air travel — which you talk down to a child in love by appealing to their romantic side, the three of you step out into the cool air outside the airport. The crowds are buzzing all around you, last-minute travelers catching flights to visit their loved ones for the holidays.

You nearly get knocked over in someone’s rush through the automatic doors. Luca’s hand shoots out to catch you by the elbow, steadying you. His touch burns even through the thick layer of your coat. It’s been a while but his hold still feels familiar.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“No need to thank me,” he whispers, eyes cautiously optimistic as he appraises you from head to toe. “You look—” he pauses, breath hitching, “—beautiful. I mean, you always do. I hope this hasn’t completely ruined your evening. Did you have something to attend to tonight?”

“Just something small,” you admit shyly, glancing down at your dress partially hidden underneath your jacket.

Luca seems to stop himself before he goes ahead with the question. “Were you on a date?” Your lips part, caught off guard. “You don’t have to tell me, of course, I was just—” he stops, unsure how he should address his curiosity, especially when jealousy stains his tone.

“Oh, no. It was my friend’s Christmas party. We just had a potluck at hers.”

“Syd?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah, well, that sounds nice.” He appears to breathe easier, relief flooding through his veins. His throat moves as he swallows thickly. His hair is unruly with the winter wind combing through it. His curls look untameable for the first time since you’ve known him.

He looks cute. Boyish.

“I can take you back there, if you want. I have my car.”

“Don’t worry about me,” you wave him off with a reassuring smile. “I can get a cab.”

“I’m more than happy to drive you.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” he insists — and it’s as if a dam breaks because then he’s standing right in front of you and your hands are now in his. “I miss you,” he whispers, “God, I miss you so much. It’s been— I know we hadn’t been together for very long but I love you. I’ve been in love with you. I wish I told you sooner, to let you know. To convince you to stay. I should’ve done more.”

“Luca,” you wince, your gaze flicking to Jamie to the side who still has a shit-eating grin on his face. “This isn’t the time and place.”

“If you’re worried about Jamie, trust me. If he has gone ahead and gotten you involved in this instead of his mother, that means he trusts you. It’s also all part of his masterplan, isn’t it?” Luca looks humored at his son who merely shrugs in response. “He’s seen how miserable I am without you. How terrible I am. Because now that I’ve had a taste of life with you, I don’t ever want to imagine or experience my life without you. So please, if you could give us a second chance, I’ll make it work.”

“Please just put both of us out of our misery,” Jamie chimes in this time.

A wet laugh escapes you and Luca’s hand slides up your face to cup your cheek. “You see, the kid knows better than both of us.”

“He has a great dad,” you smile back.

“So what do you say? Want to give us another go?”

You shift your eyes to Jamie who is looking up at you hopefully. You draw away from Luca to lean down and look at him. “Jamie, I don’t want you to feel pressured for this just because you think your dad is miserable. I’m— I don’t want to make your life harder. I promise you I have no hard feelings whatsoever. We don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, you do,” Jamie asserts. “It’s not… just for dad.” His voice is low, almost incoherent in the midst of the chaos in the airport. His head is ducked, gaze focused on his shoes. “I like having you around. Didn’t realize how much until you were gone. I’m sorry for everything I did. That wasn’t fair to you or dad.”

With a reassuring smile, you use your fingers to tip his chin up to look at you. “You don’t have to worry about that at all. I’ve been in your shoes, kid. I probably would’ve done worse.” His mouth flutters with the threat of a smile. “But if you’re okay with it, I’d like your permission to date your dad again. Maybe get him to stop baking so much. And maybe even buy you a new pair of pants.”

Jamie laughs. “That sounds like a plan.”

When Luca finally slants his lips over yours again, the air is knocked straight out of your lungs and yet, you feel your heart become whole once more. Luca chuckles against your lips before he draws away, keeping his hand around yours. 

His attention moves to his son. “As for you, never do anything like that ever again, you hear me? You could’ve gotten seriously hurt.”

“Well, the things we do for love, right, Dad? At least now you can stop stuffing your face with eclairs and stuff your face with your giiiiirlfriend instead.”

“Jamie!”

luca is kissing (taglist): @avengersfan25 @catclaw1 @pinksplace @natskisses + @lunexiax @toxicrelief @fancypeacepersona @shrekzwifey @kelbrave

It’s ridiculous at this point. You can’t avoid your home forever, nor should you. You just need to figure out what to say to Luca that doesn’t make you seem completely insane for not telling him all these years that you have a daughter. 

By the second week, you’re exhausted with this attempt. The calls have dwindled down and the texts are far enough apart that you think you’ve finally worn him down. But just like a lion waiting to jump on its prey, Luca catches you when you least expect it.

When you realize on Tuesday night that you’re out of work clothes for the week, you have to make a pit stop at home. Your car slows to a quiet roll in your neighborhood as your eyes look around, trying to spot Luca’s car. The vehicle isn’t in sight. Maybe it’s safe now. 

You hold your breath all the way to your door and only let out a sigh when you’re past the threshold. The house is quiet. Ever since your pregnancy, this place has been filled with constant noise. First, it was the nonstop screaming at the early hours of dawn, then it was the excited chattering the moment Amelia began to speak. It’s eerie without all the chaos. 

Making your way towards the stairs, you walk slowly but screech to a halt when you see two figures in your living room. What the fuck. 

“Bec?” You squint and the second person turns around, sending your heart straight through to the ground. “Luca?” You squeak a little quieter. 

“Told you she would be back at some point,” Rebecca smirks. 

“Thanks for letting me in,” Luca says, sounding doubtful still. The two have never met. He just blindly trusted a stranger who might’ve broken into your home. 

Rebecca gets up and approaches you, patting you on your shoulder. “Before you get upset, you two need to talk. I’m sorry for throwing you under the bus here but I think he genuinely cares about you and just wants an honest conversation.”

“Bec,” you hiss, “a little warning would’ve been nice.”

“I know, but this had to happen sooner or later. You can’t avoid him forever.”

You could try. 

“I’m just a phone call away if you need to chat, but honestly, he seems like a good guy. You’re in good hands.”

He is. You know he is. That’s why you can’t do this. Rebecca offers one last reassuring smile before she’s out the door, clicking it shut behind her. Silence bathes the room as Luca stares at you and you’re staring at the dead television screen. 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” Luca points out the obvious. “Why?”

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips. Suddenly, your throat feels scratchy, your mouth dry. “I didn’t know how to talk about it.”

Luca mulls over this before continuing. “Because you were worried about what I was going to say?”

“Yes. Or what you were going to make me explain to you.”

He rises to his feet, his movements abrupt enough to make you take a step back, ready to run again. Luca looks slightly hurt by that reflex, staying glued to his spot a mere few feet away from you. “If it helps, I can start.” 

You purse your lips and nod. 

“At the risk of sounding like a toxic man and making this about me, I was surprised, yes, that you have a daughter that you never told me about. All those years over the phone, you could’ve told me, but you didn’t. You don’t owe me anything, you don’t have to tell me anything – I understand that. I just… wish you did.” He takes a deep breath. “And it’s not that you lied, because technically you didn’t. I was a little hurt, if I’m honest. Actually, more than a little. What I don’t understand is that how— how do you still consider me your friend when you didn’t tell me this? When you couldn’t tell me this? When you couldn’t trust me with this big part of your life?

“At the end of the day, you shared what you were comfortable with and maybe you just weren’t comfortable enough with me to share the news.”

You sigh, rubbing your arms and gesturing for him to take a seat. You seat yourself next to him. There is enough distance between you that he can’t reach you. Luca would try to comfort you, reassure you that it’s okay, but him doing that may be the final straw that has you breaking down in tears. “It’s not that I wasn’t comfortable – technically. It just didn’t feel like the right time. You were off to do this big, beautiful thing and I didn’t want you to worry about me.”

“I’m always going to be worried about you. That comes with the territory of being a friend.”

“But I didn’t want you to,” you press.

“What if I wanted to? Isn’t that my choice to make?”

“I wanted you to focus on chasing those dreams because I loved to hear how well you’re doing, how it was all worth it to pick up your life to go there.”

Luca runs his hand through his hair. “It was — worth it for a while. At the end of the day, a restaurant is a restaurant.” 

“You were at the restaurant.” 

A bitter laugh bubbles up his throat. “Yeah so what? What’s the point in making it there if my best friend can’t even trust me?”

You wince and he immediately looks remorseful.

“I just— I wish you told me. I can’t turn back time and that’s fine. Now that I do know, I want to know if you’re comfortable sharing more with me. If you’re willing to trust me with it. And if you don’t trust me… or want anything to do with me really, that’s—” he pauses, breath hitching in his throat as he looks at you and swallows. “I’ll accept whatever your terms are. I care about you, I just want you to know that.”

There are no words that you can use to make up for all the lost time. You suffered in silence but you had people around you who held you up and carried you forward. Luca could’ve been one of those people but you chose for him. You chose to exclude him so his feelings are understandable. 

“Luca, it’s not that I don’t trust you,” you say softly, placing a hand on top of his. “I do. You’re one of my best friends, I hope you know that. Honestly, it was just such a tough time for me. My parents weren’t too happy but they came around. Obviously, Rebecca you’ve now met. She’s fucking fantastic, god knows I wouldn’t be here without her. But it was just so hard during that time. It’s a lot easier now. There are always ups and downs but it’s been good. Amelia’s been good. Great even.”

“Let me help you then. I’ve missed out on so much already with you. Amelia seems— she seems absolutely wonderful. I want to know more about her, about you.”

Laughing under your breath, you nod. “I can do that. What do you want to know?”

“We’ll start with how old she is.”

“She’s four.” He does the math in his mind and you can see the realization begin to sink in with how wide his eyes are and how his lips part.

You quickly blurt out, “She’s from someone else. I mean, it was after you left.” The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, but you can’t drop that bomb on him tonight. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

His shoulders sag slightly. There’s a look on his face you can’t comprehend but, before you can process it, he’s already continuing. 

“And the father, he—”

“He’s not around.” 

“What a proper git.”

You laugh again. “No, it’s not on him. I wanted to keep her. It was my call and it’s the best decision I’ve made.” 

“Must be a lot to do it yourself.”

“Takes two villages to raise this one. I’m not all alone. My parents help a lot and Rebecca is officially Amelia’s favorite aunt four years in the running.”

“No favorite uncle yet? Think I could campaign for that spot.”

You can only smile.

He returns it softly. “I’m happy to take part in this village. I’m not fully working right now and have plenty of time.”

“No, don’t even worry about it. I’ve managed so far.”

“Yes, but I’m offering you help. You’ve already done such a great job with her.”

You preen at the praise. “Thank you, but it’s everyone.” 

Then Luca looks at you like he’s memorizing the features on your face. The intensity of his gaze has you stiffening. But his voice is gentle when he says, “I always had a feeling you’d make a great mother someday if you chose to do it.” 

You blink at him in surprise. “What makes you say that?”

“You were constantly fussing over everyone. You were the one who made sure I ate enough and drank enough water. Don’t think I’d be alive today if it weren’t for you.”

“Now you’re just being dramatic.”

“No, really. I owe a lot to you, I hope you know that. Now that I’m back, I’m hoping I can make it up to you.” 

A snort of disbelief escapes you. “You have nothing to make up to me. I’m just glad to have you back, you know. It’s been a while since I’ve felt this much ego in the room.”

Luca leans over this time, laughing. The sound is deep, straight from his belly. It’s rich and it’s attractive. Even more so when you know you’re the reason for it. He’s close enough to you that you get a whiff of him – and he smells like home. 

Introducing Luca properly to Amelia isn’t too difficult. She knows him as your friend back from your restaurant days and he floods her with stories of how you were when you were young. 

“She was rebellious but also extremely responsible, a giant contradiction your mother.” 

“Cont— contra— what is that word?” Amelia tilts her head.

“Contradiction. It’s like when two things that don’t usually go together are paired together. Like someone being naughty and nice at the same time.”

She nods, letting out a small ‘ooh’, which draws a smile from Luca. 

With all his free time, he becomes a regular visitor. You don’t mind it in the least, especially when you know Luca can assist you in the kitchen. Usually, it would be you and four other taste testers just waiting for dinner. Now, you’re working side by side, moving around the space just like you used to. 

Luca quickly learns where everything in your kitchen is located – spices, utensils, plates, and cups. It comes easily to a man who’s lived and breathed in various ones for years. He navigates the space as naturally as you do. 

It’s even more helpful when work hits busy season. At quarter end, you’re constantly getting pulled into meetings and last-minute review sessions. 

When your phone rings in the middle of dinner prep, you groan. “I have to take this. Um, feel free to pause until I wrap up. We can finish it then.”

Luca only shoos you away from the kitchen. “Don’t worry, Amelia and I can handle it, right?”

Amelia nods excitedly. She’s been even more ecstatic recently with more people to torment. Luca’s height and build mean he’s been giving her piggyback rides whenever she wants and pushing her guilt-trip eyes to get him to give her more sweets under your nose. And since Luca is four years behind on kissing her ass, he folds like a cheap suit. 

At least it gives you some reassurance that Luca does well with Amelia.

Sometimes, when you look at the two of them, you wonder if this is what your life could’ve been. It could’ve been the two of you raising this beautiful, brainy little girl. He would’ve been right next to you at parent-teacher conferences, you shaking your head at some of her antics and he would just beam proudly. It could’ve been two, but instead Amelia only got one. 

But it’s all meaningless thinking. You don’t have any regrets. Amelia still turned out wonderful and now they’re building their relationship. He doesn’t need to know the truth. He doesn’t need to live with what-ifs that he doesn’t have control over – and that’s just the way you want it. 

You would rather he have this what-if rather than wonder if it was worth it to give up everything he loved for you. 

You push these thoughts away from your mind as you dive into this work fire drill. There’s been plenty of these lately. With you hunkered down with your laptop, Luca keeps Amelia company – and safe because that girl has been a little too curious about the stove lately. 

By the time you crawl out of your cave, you catch the delicious whiff of custard in the air. Your mouth immediately waters because you know exactly what’s baking in your oven. When you reenter the kitchen, the two of them are on the floor, staring at the lit-up oven. 

“This is – maybe was – your mom’s favorite. She wouldn’t ever order anything else. I used to make this for her after work whenever she was feeling tired. It would cheer her up.” You hear Luca share. 

It’s true. You remember the late nights after a long day of grunt work. The ingredients are always in the kitchen and the process simple enough that Luca would have them ready by the time you finish cleaning up the station. The two of you would sit side by side, spooning the sweet treat into your mouth as you chatted about the day. 

Amelia chimes in this time, “She’s still the same! We always get crème brûlée. I like cheesecake, so we always get two desserts.”

“Do you now? Well, I make a delicious berry cheesecake. I’ll have to make you one and bring it over.”

“We can make one together!” She jumps. “How about tomorrow?”

And this is where you step in. “Amelia, Luca might be busy. We can aim for a weekend, okay?”

Luca gets to his feet then, placing his hand on top of Amelia’s head. She leans into his touch. “I can do tomorrow, no problem. I’ll pick up the ingredients on the way here.”

“You really don’t have to. You’re already helping me tonight.”

“I want to. I can do tomorrow.” Luca grins down at Amelia. “Seems only fair since you’re getting your favorite dessert tonight that Amelia gets hers tomorrow.”

She lets out a cheer. You pin her with a look that does nothing to scare her. “Alright, but only if you get all your homework done. Are you all packed for tomorrow?”

“I’ll finish packing my bag now,” she smiles. “Thanks, Uncle Luca!” With one last hug around his legs, she’s dashing off to her room.

You shake your head, sighing. “You spoil her too much. Her dentist will have a field day on her next visit.”

“I’m not above bribing children with desserts. It’s what all those years in restaurants have culminated into,” Luca cheekily grins, completely unapologetic. 

Once the ramekins are out of the oven, Luca waits for Amelia to return before he layers the sugar on top and torches it. She watches in fascination and Luca even offers to help her try it. “Don’t do this without your mum around, promise me,” Luca says. The stern warning in his voice is appreciated. 

And attractive. 

Shit. You dismiss that assessment and turn your attention back to the two. Amelia is focusing intently on how the sugar browns as her small hands wrap around the tool, Luca’s own larger hands covering hers. If you had a camera, you’d capture this moment to remember. 

Three of you are huddled around the dining table with your respective bowls. Amelia does a dramatic first crack through the sugar, thrilled when she finds that it isn’t as thick as it usually is in restaurants. You stick a spoonful into your mouth and nearly melt on the spot. It’s the right creaminess with a sweetness that isn’t excessive. The brittle is crisp, falling apart at the touch of your spoon, but provides a balanced change in texture. The flavor is familiar, one that you’ve tasted time and time again in the Ever kitchen, but somehow it tastes even better. Luca’s perfected this recipe. 

This is the perfect crème brûlée.

“Good god.” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. “This is even better than I remember.”

“I’ve tweaked it a little bit since you last had it. I’m glad you like it.”

Luca offers to do the dishes while you tuck Amelia into bed, which you are grateful for. “Goodnight, Uncle Luca,” she yawns, rubbing her eyes as Luca bends down to accept her hug. 

“Goodnight, baby,” Luca smiles against her head. The term of endearment makes her smile curl just a tad bit bigger.

She waves sleepily before dragging her feet towards her room. You pull the blanket up to her chin. For once, she has no complaints about going to sleep at the designated time. The dessert must’ve done a number on her, not to mention running around with Luca all afternoon. 

“Night, sweetheart,” you mumble, kissing her on the forehead.

“Mommy?”

“Hm?”

“I like Uncle Luca.”

Your lips twitch, threatening to shift into a grin. “Yeah? He’s great, isn’t he?”

“You never talked about him before, but you’re friends. Why?”

You rub her forehead thoughtfully, smoothing out the small creases of her frown. “He wasn’t here. I didn’t think he was going to come back so I didn’t think you would ever get to know him.”

She hums thoughtfully as her eyelids begin to flutter. She’s resisting sleep as best she could but you cover her eyes and she doesn’t fight. “I’m glad he did,” she mumbles before her soft snores fill the room.

“Me too,” you whisper quietly to her. It’s a quiet admission, one you can only make in the safety of this room. 

You’ve lived years without him, but now that he’s back, you can’t imagine what it was like before he returned. It’s as if he had been here all along, integrated into every aspect of your life. He’s etched into every page of every chapter of your book. 

Luca is staring at a wine bottle in the living room when you find him next. He perks up, lips stretching wide. “She’s asleep?”

“Out cold. Thanks for wearing her out. Usually it takes me an hour to put her down.”

He chuckles. “My age is catching up to me. I already feel it in my back.”

“Sounds like you’ve been slacking on working out,” you tease, sliding into the space next to him. “Thinking of drinking?”

“My only responsibility tomorrow is making cheesecake for a four-year-old, so I think I’m good to suffer through a hangover.”

Smirking, you grab him a wine opener and let him do his thing. He expertly pours out two glasses and hands one to you. The cabernet is rich and delicious. The warmth of the alcohol immediately spreads through your systems and your muscles relax into the couch. Just what you needed. 

Somehow, your conversation strays to dating. 

Perhaps it’s the wine, or perhaps it’s you being soft from a day spent with both Luca and Amelia, but you find yourself being more truthful than you’d like.

“You haven’t gone a single date?”

You laugh and groan simultaneously, head thrown back to the couch. “Don’t say it like that. It’s hard to even think about mustering up the energy to get to know someone when you’re raising a kid.”

“I’m just surprised Rebecca never tried to trick you into going on one. She looks like the type to plot that behind your back.”

“Oh, trust me. She has. Except I had to bring Amelia along so my blind date made himself scarce when he saw his promised date show up with a child.”

Luca scoffs, “Sounds like she has terrible taste in men. For you at least.”

“Oh, yeah? Who would you set me up with then?”

The question catches him by surprise. His lips thin as his eyes dart away. The wine on your tongue suddenly tastes sour. “Don’t think I have any good mates to set you up with.”

“That’s unfortunate,” you grin, “though, I don’t think they would take too kindly to our friendship anyway. At the rate you’re going, I wouldn’t be surprised if Amelia accidentally calls you dad.”

You don’t realize the gravity of your words. They were said in jest. They were meant to be lighthearted. But the look on Luca’s face says otherwise. It’s a combination of shock and awe and bashfulness. 

“A-accidentally, you know,” you try to emphasize. 

“Would it be so bad though?” Luca murmurs quietly, his hand inching closer on the back of the couch towards you. His fingers ghost your bare shoulder, decorated only by the thin strap of your dress. “For her to call me that.”

Your heart beats so hard in your chest, it feels like it’s going to spill out. No words could even come to mind in that moment, not when Luca’s touching you. Not when he’s leaning closer. Especially not when you feel the softness of his lips against yours. 

He tastes saccharine sweet, the gentle kind like a candy that soothes your aching throat. You barely hear him shift towards you until the pillow next to you dips. Then his hand is wrapping around the back of your neck and pulling you closer. His fingers climb to bury in your hair as he lets out a small moan against your lips. His touch, his smell, everything about him overwhelms your senses. 

The Luca you knew before was a little clumsy, a little hesitant. But the man before you today is confident. He’s sure of his movements as his teeth catch your bottom lip, drawing a whimper from your throat. His tongue swipes over the bite before he presses in. 

Luca’s large hands then slide down to your hips to pull you on top of him, trapping his legs in between yours. Your arms wind around his neck to pull him even closer until your bodies are pressed flush together. Your breasts push against his firm chest as his thick arms circle your body, holding you tight. 

You only part to gasp in a little bit of air before he’s slanting his lips over yours again. “You’re fucking gorgeous,” Luca mutters as he begins moving his mouth along your jaw and down your neck. His lips are hot against your sensitive skin, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses that have you shivering. With only your panties and his jeans separating the two of you, you could feel the strain of his erection growing against your core. 

“God, you taste so good. Missed kissing you like this,” he mumbles as he makes his way back to your lips, keeping his mouth on your skin the entire time. 

“Luca, please,” you whine, hands tentatively playing with the hem of his shirt. You sneak your fingers up his abdomen, feeling the solid torso underneath. Your palms stretch over the planes of his abs, toned and firm. 

“When’s the last time, love? Tell me.”

“I don’t know, years,” you mutter. It’s been years. The last time was… 

It’s as if the glass between your past and present cracks. The splinters cut through the haze as you realize where you are. Your daughter is in the next room, sound asleep, while you’re out here on the lap of her father, who doesn’t even know he’s—

You’re quick to scramble off him with your rattling heart, standing away from the couch with your fingers pressed against your lips. They still tingle from where Luca’s kissed you. You can still taste him on your tongue. The shame settles in swift and heavy in the pit of your stomach. 

With his frazzled hair and shirt slightly bunched up, Luca looks at you in confusion. The fog in his eyes is slowly dissipating. “What's wrong?”

“Shit, Luca. I can’t. I can’t do this. I—”

He bounds to his feet and approaches you slowly, hands sliding up your arms to take hold of your shoulders. He pulls you in for a hug when you don’t protest. This feels safe. You feel protected. But you know it’s all a mirage. Temporary. 

“Hey, deep breaths, sweetheart. Tell me what you’re thinking about. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” you swallow, “my daughter’s right there for god’s sake. I’m a terrible mother.”

“No, you’re not. She’s asleep. She’s fine.”

You jerk back, extracting yourself from him. “What if she walked out and saw us? Oh god, how would I explain that to her?”

“Okay, I understand. But she didn’t. You’re fine. If she did, we would’ve sat her down and talked to her.”

“And what would I say? What could I even say to make it better?”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t.” The word is sharp. Hard enough to actually have Luca stop in his tracks. “Amelia is everything to me. Everything I do is for her. I shouldn’t have— this was a mistake.”

A mask of hurt settles on his face. “Don’t say that. You can’t tell me you don’t feel it too.”

“It doesn’t matter what I feel. I’m all she has, Luca. I can’t have anyone leave her. You’re— she already likes you too much. And if you leave again, I don’t know what I would tell her.”

Luca frowns, stepping towards you. “I’m not leaving. I told you I’m here for a while.”

“A while is not forever, Luca,” you whisper. “You’re still out there pursuing this big dream of becoming a chef. You’ve worked in some of the greatest places in the world. This home – it’s so small and it’s nothing compared to what you’ve built out there.”

“Don’t say that. You’ve created such a wonderful home. The only thing that gets me up in the morning these days is coming here, coming to you and Amelia. You don’t know how much this place means to me.”

For now. This place means something for now. The same way Ever meant something then. The same way you may have mattered in the past. But things are different now – you’re different now. It’s no longer just you. You’re not on your own anymore, and you’re not going to saddle him with your choices. You’re not going to have Amelia suffer from your choices. Not when he still has so much to offer the world. Not when he’s likely to leave again for the next big thing. 

It’s one thing to long for something you’ve never had. It’s another to lose something you’ve always wished for – after you’ve had it.

“I can’t do this,” you shake your head. “I’m sorry. It’s complicated.”

“Why is it complicated? Help me understand. What can I do to uncomplicate it?”

Your breath is shaky as you inhale. “There’s nothing you can do.”

His eyes slide shut as he swallows thickly, his arms falling limp by his side. “So what now then? Are you going to cut me out of your life again?”

“I never cut you out of my life.”

“You practically did. I saw how distant you were during those calls, how you could barely even look at me. For a while, I thought I had done something wrong – if leaving had been a mistake. Now I understand why and there’s no fault on anyone’s side. But now I’m also here. I’m here with you and I want to stay here – if you’ll let me.”

And you know it’s too late now. You should’ve thought through the consequences to the end. Amelia has grown fond of Luca. She’s attached to him. You can’t possibly be the person to strip her of that happiness. 

“I want you to stay. For Amelia,” you clarify. The light in his eyes flickers, dimming slightly. “I don’t think I’m ready for… whatever this is, Luca. When you decide to leave again, chase the next thing, I already have to prepare Amelia for that.”

“You don’t know if I’m going to leave again,” he murmurs quietly.

“I think the risk itself is enough,” you say with a sympathetic smile. He understands, it’s clear from the way he looks at you. He’s conflicted, his fingers itching to reach out to you again and go back to minutes ago when he was wrapped around you. But he also understands why you’re concerned. 

So he nods. “Yeah, that makes sense. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“Please do not apologize,” you laugh, “I enjoyed it – while it lasted. Plus it makes me feel pathetic when you pity me.”

“I definitely do not pity you. Pretty sure I’m pitying myself for messing it up with someone as wonderful as you.”

Your lips twitch, breath huffing in a laugh. “You’re cheesy when you’re drunk." A beat of silence before you say, "You should stay tonight. It’s late and you’ve had too much to drink. I’ll get you some clothes.” The reluctant look on Luca’s face means that he has a question and you already have a feeling what it is. “It’s not… they’re your clothes. You left a few things here last time.”

“Right, thanks.”

When you leave Luca to sleep last night, you drag your feet to your room with a heavy heart. 

You’ve lost him once. You don’t think you can survive a second time.

Things are as they should be after. The dynamic between you and Luca returns, Amelia is none the wiser. However, you note that there is slightly more tension in the air now. It’s in the way he chances glances at you, sneaking peeks whenever he thinks you’re not looking. You do the same to him, your eyes trailing over the way his arms move when he’s working in the kitchen. 

It’s easier since Luca started staging at The Bear. It’s a temporary opportunity – he’s not even sure how much longer the restaurant will be around, judging by what their funder said. But he likes the team and the menu, so he’s taking it one day at a time. 

Amelia isn’t too pleased that her time with Uncle Luca is reduced. He apologizes profusely for only being able to come around on Sundays when the restaurant is closed. There are some days that he comes over at night, tired down to his bones, but he still puts on a smile for her. Most of the time, Amelia is fast asleep, but he leaves traces of himself behind for her – a slice of leftover pie, a cheesecake, and even a new stuffed animal in the shape of a cheesecake. She hugs that one to sleep every night now. 

Your parents swoop in. They’ve been wondering why you haven’t been bringing Amelia around as much. 

“Had a little help,” you only say. Your dad doesn’t think much of it but your mom has always been the more observant one. 

“What kind of help?” She prompts.

“A friend.”

“That’s not Rebecca?”

You shrug. “Sure.”

“Are you seeing someone?”

“Mom! No,” you sputter, heat crawling up your neck as you focus on stirring the soup for dinner. 

“Then why are you being so coy about it?” She teases, poking your side. “You have no problem talking about any of your other friends, but here you are – getting all fussy when I ask you such simple questions.”

The warmth only grows and you duck your head, lest she realize how hard you’re blushing. “He’s an old friend. Back from my cooking days.”

“Oh? I didn’t realize you still spoke to any of them.”

Chewing on your bottom lip, you shake your head. “I don’t. He’s – he was gone for a while. He was in Copenhagen and now he’s back.”

“That’s nice. I’m happy you have someone else supporting her.” 

“Me too.”

“So is this the Uncle Luca that Amelia won’t stop talking about? Pretty sure your dad’s upset that he’s no longer her favorite man.”

You laugh, switching off the stove and calling the rest into the dining room to eat. “Yes, I’m surprised she’s already talking about him.”

“We call her too, you know. I’m a little worried about her teeth based on how many desserts he’s bringing her.”

“He’s trying not to spoil her too much, but that comes with the territory of being a pastry chef. He’s very good, though. I almost forgot how good he is.”

“That good, huh?”

The implication in her words is not lost on you. “Dinner’s ready.”

Dinner is lively. Amelia spends all that time catching them up on things they’ve missed, which really isn’t a lot. Your parents adore Amelia and would spend hours listening to her talk on the phone. However, with every mention of Luca, you could feel irritation rising in your dad. Jealousy is foreign territory to him.

In the middle of dinner, your phone rings and you step away from the table. It’s Luca. 

“Hey, I stopped by the house, but you weren’t here.”

“Oh, yes. We’re at my parents’ today.”

“Got it.”

“Did you need something?”

“No, no. Marcus and I were experimenting with a new cheesecake recipe so I wanted to bring some samples by before I headed home. I could drop it off at your parents’ if you’d like.”

Your eyes fly to your family at the table. While your dad’s attention is still focused on Amelia, your mom’s curious eyes are trained on you. “Um, no, it’s okay. Don’t worry about it. You can keep it.”

“It’s no problem at all. Let me know the address?”

You confirm with him and send the address over. Luca does live closer to your parents than he does you, so it works out that he can drop it off on his way home. When you return to the table, your mom doesn’t press for answers. She just takes another spoonful of her soup.

However, when the doorbell rings, she’s the first one on her feet – as if she anticipated this all along. You’re a second too late to intercept when your mom is at the door, greeting Luca who – even after a full day in the kitchen – still looks delicious. He smells delicious too. 

“You must be Luca,” your mom immediately says.

Great. Now he’s going to think that you’ve been talking about him. His gaze shifts to you in question. “Amelia,” you say to clarify. “She’s been raving about your company. I think she’s breaking my dad’s heart.”

His laugh is delightful. Your mom seems to think so too when she smiles a little wider. “I am Luca. It’s wonderful to meet you.” He extends his hand, holding a full cheesecake in the other. You’ll only admit to yourself how sexy it is that he holds these massive pastries like they weigh nothing. 

“Why don’t you come in? We’re having dinner right now.”

Luca – knowing full well you eat dinner at seven on the dot – sends you a questioning look at the fact that you’re having dinner at ten. A time in which Amelia should be in bed too. You shrug, “My parents eat late and Amelia takes every opportunity to not sleep when she’s not supposed to. It’s Friday anyway.”

He only nods. “I don’t want to intrude and—”

“You wouldn’t be intruding. Come on in.”

You grasp your mom’s arm. “Luca’s just being polite. He’s exhausted and he’s still working tomorrow. Pastry starts very early over there.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” your mom relents. “We must have you over for dinner next time then.”

“That would be lovely, thank you for the invitation. I’m here to drop off dessert.”

“What a sweet boy. It’s been a while since my daughter has brought anyone around. In fact, I think this is the first time.”

You groan as Luca pinks. “Mom, please don’t start. Luca, please ignore her.”

“A woman can still dream, you know,” your mom grins. 

Before either of you can respond, Amelia is barreling down the hallway and throwing herself around Luca’s legs. You’re quick to take hold of the dessert so that he can bend down to embrace her. “Uncle Luca, I didn’t know you were coming! Are you hungry? Mommy made chicken noodle soup.”

“Did she? That sounds delicious.”

“You smell really good.”

“I was baking your favorite dessert.”

Amelia looks up at the platter in your hand. “Cheesecake! Thank you, Uncle Luca.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. I can’t stay for dinner but I’ll come by on Sunday and we can learn how to make bread. How does that sound?”

“With cheese?”

“Lots of cheese. I’ll bring at least three kinds.”

Amelia hums in excitement and eagerly agrees. Your dad stands behind my mom, eyeing Luca with suspicion. And envy. Luca only smiles politely at him and introduces himself. It doesn’t appear to appease him, but it’s a start. 

“Anyways, I’ll let you folks get back to it. Hope you enjoy dinner.” Luca says to the group who say their own farewells. He turns to you, gaze softening a fraction. The edges of the emerald chipping away. “See you Sunday?”

You smile, “Sunday.”

As you’re putting away dishes with your dad that night, he keeps throwing looks your way. He wants your attention and you have a feeling of what he’s going to ask, so you would rather avoid this conversation altogether. 

“So,” he starts and the sigh that leaves you is involuntary. “Luca then?”

“What about him?”

“He seems nice.”

“He is.” 

Your dad is silent for only a moment before he delivers words that have you choking on air. “Honey, you know your sex life is none—”

“Nope, oh god, no. We are not talking about this.”

“I just want to make sure you’re being safe. You already have Amelia and we do want more grandkids but maybe once you’re fully prepared.”

You’re practically wheezing, closing your hands around your ears. “I don’t want to hear this from you, Dad. I’m an adult. I’m good. I know about the birds and the bees.”

“Oh, dear,” your mom’s voice interrupts as she bumps her husband by the hip. “Go do the final tuck-in for Amelia. I can finish up here.”

Your dad opens his mouth to protest but the look your mom sears him with has him scampering out of the kitchen. 

“Your dad means well.”

“I’m aware, he just needs to work on his delivery. There are probably better ways to say don’t get knocked up a second time.”

Your mom laughs as she closes the dishwasher. “I don’t think your dad or I would mind another grandchild. We’re only saying to be responsible about it. We can see you’re fully capable of raising children on your own but it doesn’t hurt to have an extra pair of hands. Especially when they come attached to a tall, British man who already adores Amelia as much as you do.”

“Mother,” you say in exasperation. Only your parents could make baby-making sound so unsexy. 

“And I know you wouldn’t tell us who Amelia’s father is but… I can’t help but see the resemblance.”

You wet your lips, your eyes going everywhere except to meet your mom’s. “Pure coincidence.”

“Does he know?”

“Mom.”

“Does he? Because he doesn’t seem like the type to up and abandon his daughter.”

Sighing, you shake your head. “No, he doesn’t. I’d like to keep it that way.” Your mom tilts her head in question. “It’s complicated, but he was headed to Copenhagen for work. It was a big opportunity. If I told him I was pregnant, he would’ve stayed.”

Your mom hums in understanding. She doesn’t confirm whether or not what you had done was a mistake. Instead, she only kisses you on the forehead. “You’re too good a kid, you know that.” 

“Think that’s mostly from dad.”

She laughs and flicks your cheek. “I take it back. Go get some sleep. Before the ogre gets you.”

“I’m not five anymore, Mom.”

“You always are in my eyes, honey. Goodnight.”

All good things must come to an end. Or so they say. 

When you hit rock bottom back then, you had been drowning in your own misery. Looking at your pregnancy test all those years ago felt like your entire life was crumbling down around you. The castle you had built cracking from the inside. 

While your parents came around at some point, it was Rebecca who really held your hand through it all. She was the one who held your hair back in the bathroom time and time again. She let you bawl through the emotional rollercoasters on her shoulder. She stood by you as you explained to your parents why they should support you. She was your rock. 

But the best thing about her is that she keeps you grounded. She’s never afraid to be honest, to push you out of your comfort zone. There are a lot of things that you’re scared about but it’s a lot easier with your best friend by your side. 

And you know that sometimes you take her for granted. It’s hard to spend time with your friend Rebecca instead of Aunt Rebecca with Amelia. Of course, you love it when the two are together and obviously Rebecca would take a bullet for Amelia, but it’s different when it’s just the two of you. 

Nights like this one – Amelia at your parents and it’s you and her on the couch with tubs of ice cream and Hugh Grant on television attempting to murder these two girls –  are rare to come by. Hugh Grant is nothing compared to the story Rebecca is telling in great detail about her most recent client. As a PR director, she works with the coolest people. Celebrities, influencers, huge corporations. Everyone wants a piece. You always listen to her in awe.

“So what happened when you told this A-list actress no?”

Rebecca rolls her eyes. “The tantrum that she threw. At least one glass furniture broke in my office that day. We have it all on camera. If I were a terrible person, I’d threaten to sell it to TMZ.”

“Jesus, the diva. This is why you can’t trust anyone these days.”

“Well, not just anyone,” Rebecca says with a pointed look. 

You know what she’s getting at. That’s the first comment she makes on the topic that night. She’s baiting you into giving her more intel. There are occasions where Rebecca and Luca overlap but for some reason, they really haven’t seen each other much since that first night when she forced you to talk to him. 

When you don’t bite, she’s on to her next story. 

“I can’t believe you didn’t say yes,” you tell her in disappointment. “You could’ve been dating a billionaire. We could’ve shared the perks.”

Rebecca snorts, “No amount of money could’ve convinced me to date that man. He’s all bark and no bite. Actually, I did hear a rumor that he bites people.”

“For a billion dollars, I might let him. Just introduce us,” you giggle, bumping her shoulder.

Rebecca laughs, “Unfortunately, you’re taken.”

A blush surfaces on your neck. “I am not.”

She gives you a look as she digs her spoon deep into the half-finished pint of Neapolitan. “Who are you kidding? You’re basically dating.” 

Well… “I might’ve forgotten to tell you something,” you start, wincing when she cocks an eyebrow in question. “We made out the other day.”

“What? When?”

“Um, he was here and I had put Amelia into bed. This was before he started staging.”

A gasp slips past her pink lips. “You’re telling me this now? So what happened? What do you mean you’re still not taken? Was he not as good as you remembered?”

No, he was better. You groan, dropping your own tub onto the table before you inhale the entire thing to distract yourself from the pain that persistently tugs at your heart. “I told him we shouldn’t.”

“What? Why would you do that?”

“Look, I don’t know how long he’s going to stick around. When he leaves, I have to pick up the pieces with Amelia. I can’t also be dealing with being heartbroken a second time.” 

Rebecca inhales deeply. You know that look. She’s trying to be patient with you. This is the look she gives you whenever you do something she disapproves of – which, considering you’re a coward, is a lot of times. 

“Let me get this straight. You have this gorgeous man with a hot, posh accent who’s wooing you and who wants to be with you and your daughter? Oh, and he’s also the father. And you’re saying no? The math isn’t mathing, babe.”

You sigh. “It’s not that easy. What if one day he finds out that he’s the father and I didn’t tell him all this time?”

“Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”

“I don’t want him to hate me for keeping something so big from him.”

“So instead, you would rather have him have nothing to do with you?”

“We can stay friends.”

“News flash, you guys aren’t friends. He was in your home practically every day. If he weren’t working, he would’ve likely already moved in here. Amelia is so fond of him. I wouldn’t be surprised if she called him dad at some point.”

“Fuck, that’s what I said.”

“Yeah, fuck. Don’t be an idiot. Luca is fantastic. He’s great with Amelia and your parents. Why would you not want him?” 

“Because I would just hold him back.”

Rebecca turns her entire body to face you now. “Hon, you know I love you. But you’ve got to stop playing this martyr. It’s frankly getting ridiculous. Stop using him as an excuse to avoid doing things you’re scared of doing. It’s okay to admit that you’re worried about getting your heart broken again. It’s okay to admit that you’re terrified of this big, beautiful thing you could have. But you can’t live in a world of what-ifs forever.”

It’s a harsh truth that burns. She’s right. For years, it’s been easy to blame what had happened for your forgotten dreams. But it had ultimately been your choice – to have Amelia, to lie to Luca, and to rely solely on yourself. With Amelia growing up, you know that you have the opportunity to turn things around. You could go back to pursuing your dreams of being a chef. You could go out and date again. You could do things for you. 

“I love you so much. You’ve given your everything to Amelia. You’ve made her your everything. Maybe it’s time to give yourself that grace as well.” 

With Luca, you know that you can never move forward until you tell him the truth. It’s going to be a secret that hangs over your heads. For any future with him – or to potentially even lose it forever, you have to finally share who he is to Amelia. 

A big part of you is hopeful – that he would be thrilled to find out and that he would welcome it with open arms. The next hurdle would be telling Amelia, but you’re hoping that’s something you can wait a little longer to overcome. 

However, a small part of you – the one that Rebecca points out – is still living that fearful what-if scenario. What if he gets upset and leaves? What if he never comes back? 

And the answer to those is another question: what’s the worst that can happen?

He decides that he doesn’t want this and moves on. So you yourself would also learn to move on. You would tell yourself down the line that you dodged a bullet. You’ve raised Amelia for four years, you can do it for the rest of your life without the support of a man. 

So you rip off the band-aid. 

On Sunday, after a long day of sun and desserts, Amelia is finally out cold. She had actually fallen asleep in Luca’s arms in front of the TV and he carried her to bed before rejoining you on the couch. For someone who hates being told to go to sleep, she’s been falling asleep on her own more so recently. It’s a nice change. 

Now to the situation at hand. It’s now or never. 

“We need to talk,” you start nervously. Your palms are clammy and you can feel sweat collecting in your hairline at the thought of this conversation. Luca probably noticed that you’ve been slightly distracted all day, but you didn’t want to wait too long. The fear that your fear will come back is too big. 

“Sounds serious,” Luca says, shifting his body so his arm is draped on the back of the sofa and he is turned to you entirely. All his attention on you. 

“I’m going to tell you something and I just need you to keep an open mind and try not to hate me at the end of this.”

His eyes go soft again, like they always do when he’s with you. It makes you hope even a little that things will turn out fine. “I could never hate you.”

A strained laugh escapes your lips. “Don’t speak too soon.”

“Tell me,” he urges. 

It’s his quiet confidence in you that finally has you spilling everything. Starting from the moment you found out, to your decision to keep it from him, and to today. How you never meant for him to find out. 

Then Luca is on his feet and your biggest fear may have materialized. He’s going to leave. 

But he only paces the length of the room, brows furrowed in deep thought. He’s not looking at you but your eyes are stuck on him, tracing his every movement, following him in case he disappears. 

“So she’s mine” is what he opts to start with.

“In the technical, genetic sense, yes.”

“Why—” he seems to be stuck in this loop of disbelief. His words keep getting caught in his throat and he ends up looking puzzled on how to even address the situation. You’re surprised – but grateful – that he’s more confused than upset. Or at least he appears to be. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want to be a regret. Not to you.” 

Your answer only appears to confuse him more. “Why— why would you think that you’d be a regret?”

“Luca, you’re so talented. You’re meant to do great big things out there. I’ve seen how you work, the passion and heart you put into every single one of your dishes. With a baby – I couldn’t imagine what that life would be like for you. I know you. You would’ve given up Copenhagen, you would’ve stayed.”

“Of course, I would have.”

“And I didn’t want you to!” You exclaim, your fingers pushing through your hair. “Copenhagen was your everything. If I told you about the baby, you would’ve left your dream – and what then? What if you resent me for the rest of your life because of my choice?” 

Luca shakes his head. “I told you I could never resent you.”

You smile weakly at him. “You don’t know that.” 

“You’re my best friend,” Luca says softly. “I would’ve been there for you, no questions asked. Any restaurant can be the greatest in the world. But you – there’s only one of you and I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.” 

“That’s just stupid,” you mutter dumbly through your tears. 

Luca laughs and reaches up with both hands to dry your eyes. “It’s not stupid. It’s the truth. You’re so important to me. I don’t know if you know that. You were the reason why I stayed at Ever as long as I did. Your faith in me was what kept me in Copenhagen. Noma was hard, even harder knowing the shit pay I was getting. But every time I talked to you about it, you would light up – and all I could think about was how I should stay so I could keep telling stories that make you smile.”

The confession has your mind reeling, your heart lodging in your throat. “I didn’t know that. You just – you looked so happy to be there.”

He offers a small smile. “It got better.”

“I’m glad it did because it would’ve been ridiculous if you only stayed to tell me stories.” 

With a shrug, he easily says, “I would’ve. For you.” 

A quietness falls between the two of you. Two revelations. This isn’t how you expected the evening to go, yet you don’t mind it in the least. 

It’s Luca who breaks the silence first. He looks hesitant at first but decides to ask anyway, “Can I ask you something?” You nod. “Her last name—”

“It’s mine,” you blurt out. “I mean, it felt more natural. Since it was just going to be me and her.” 

A flicker of hurt crosses his eyes, a look so brief that you nearly miss it. It’s unmistakable. He looks away before you can see it, but you did. “Makes sense,” he murmurs under his breath. 

“Luca, I don’t— I need to be clear that I’m not expecting anything from you. I made this decision on my own. It’s not your responsibility.”

“She’s my daughter,” he says, a sharpness to his words that you didn’t expect. Your surprise must be clear on your face because he quickly softens. “I’m not trying to step on your toes. When I came back to Chicago, I wasn’t expecting this. I mean, I certainly was not expecting you to have a child. But I also wasn’t expecting her to be mine.”

You’re not sure what to say to that. Your fingers are laced together on top of the table and you pick at the dry skin on your thumb to distract yourself from your heart threatening to hurtle out of your chest. You try to keep your voice steady as you speak. “I know this comes as a surprise. I just want to reassure you that she’s my daughter first and foremost. She’s my responsibility. I don’t want you to think that you have to do anything.”

“That’s frankly the most absurd thing I’ve heard you say all night.”

You immediately look up, your eyes finding his with confusion written all over them.

“The fact that you think I wouldn’t want to do anything. She’s— she’s perfect, sweetheart. You raised her to be strong, smart. She has all the best parts of you and thank god none of me,” he chuckles. “Even if I were here, I don’t think I could’ve done what you did. And for that I’m grateful to you.”

Honest. Raw. Genuine. Your throat feels like sandpaper now, the words lost somewhere in the abyss. 

“About Noma, I don’t even know where to start.”

“I still don’t fully understand why you left. You said it got better. That was your dream.”

“It was,” he says softly, “I had reached it. But it didn’t feel… right. There was something always missing and I couldn’t put my finger on it.”

Nodding slowly, you take your time to digest his words. That had been his entire life. When the two of you were at Ever, all he ever talked about was making it at Noma. It’s every chef’s dream. And he had achieved it. 

“Until now.”

This is the second time you whip up in surprise. “What are you saying?”

“I missed you,” he says, almost a whisper. He says it like a secret. A secret he is sharing for the first time with you. “Gods, I missed you so much. Copenhagen was beautiful. I had a wonderful time but the whole time I was there, all I could think about was— it was being here with you. How we probably could’ve built an equally or even more beautiful life in Chicago. Or I imagined what it would be like for you to be there with me – the two of us cooking and baking like the old days. Sneaking around and eating desserts at the worst hours. Just talking.” 

“Luca…”

“And I’m not expecting you to reciprocate my feelings. I know you were worried about me leaving but I hope I’ve made it clear that I’m not going anywhere. I want to be here with you and with Amelia. I’ve already missed out on four years with her, I have a lot to make up for. But I’ve lost that same number of years with you. You’ve spent so long taking care of others. I want to be here now, I want to take care of you.” 

“I can’t possibly ask you—”

Luca shakes his head. “I want to be very clear. You’re not asking, I am.” 

“But Copenhagen and the restaurants there. You have a life there.”

“I could have a life here too. A better one. The one I want.” Luca inches closer, one of his hands stroking your hair as the other wraps around yours. There’s a comfort to his touch, one that you’ve so desperately missed. “I can work anywhere in the world. I’m constantly learning from every restaurant I’ve worked in. Chicago has some of the best food spots in the world, and even better people who run them. There’s no shortage of that. But in the world, there is only one you and one Amelia, and I’d love it if you granted me the opportunity to be in your lives.”

You swallow thickly. This is exactly what you feared would happen. But here he is — asking this of you as if you hadn’t taken away that option from him to begin with. Here he is telling you that he is choosing this. He wants this with you and with Amelia. 

“Of course you can,” you choke out, laughing lightly through the tears. 

“Oh, love, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

“Happy tears, I promise.” You smile at him and squeeze his fingers reassuringly. “As for what you said, I missed you too. So much. I don’t even think I realized how much until you came back. And, while I do want something with you, I want to take baby steps. I want to make sure Amelia is okay with all this first.”

“Definitely. I want her to be comfortable with me – being her father but also being around. Once I get her blessing, that’s when I’ll really start to court you.”

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “Court me?”

“Court you,” he grins devilishly.

Your cheeks are beginning to hurt from how much you’re smiling, but you can’t help it. It’s so easy with him. “Thank you for understanding, Luca.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I might just be the worst influence on our daughter.”

The word our makes your heart jump. Our daughter.

You chuckle. “Pretty sure the menace in her comes from my side.”

“You’d be surprised.”

With a deep breath, you sigh and look at him. This gorgeous, beautiful man is all heart. A heart that belongs to you. “Amelia already loves you, being a bad influence might make her love you even more. My dad is already quite disappointed that he’s no longer the favorite man in her life.”

Luca grins unapologetically. “As unfortunate as that is for your father, I am thrilled to hear that. You have no idea. Though, that just means that I also have to win over your parents. I don’t know how pleased they are that I wasn’t around for the first years.”

“I’ll make sure they understand that it wasn’t your fault—”

“I still should’ve known.”

You pin him with a look. “You couldn’t have known. I did everything possible to hide it from you. It’s not on you. They know that to a certain extent. Plus, judging from my mom’s encouraging comments, I don’t think you’ll have to work too hard.”

“Well, still, I hope I don’t disappoint.” 

His fake modesty – which actually is not fake at all because he’s just that humble – is irritatingly sweet. “Luca, you are 6’2” of pure muscle and soft heart. You’ve worked in the coolest places in the world. You’ve been there for Amelia since you found out about her – even when you didn’t know you were the father. You have nothing to be worried about.”

“If you say so,” he smirks and scoots even closer. Your knees are touching and his eyes drop to your lips. “I know you said we’ll go slow but – would you mind if I kissed you every once in a while? No pressure again. Feel free to say no—”

So you do the second brave thing you’ve done today – you lean over and press your lips against his. It’s slow and sweet, sparks compared to the fireworks that one night. Still, you enjoy it all the same. He’s surprised only momentarily before he returns the attention. 

When you finally separate, he leans his forehead against yours. You whisper, “I could really get used to this.”

Grinning, he gives you another peck. “Can’t say I’ll have any complaints about that.”

luca is cooking for (taglist): @alexfms97 @capitanostella @eg-dr3amer3 @zulema222 @cloudroomblog @nhloversblog @lilacspider @letmebe0k @messi-jessi603 @imagineslendk @lucycarlisleswife @torubug @tinkcantwrite @marroonwitch @blubra @milescrypt

Every expletive you could think of leaves your lips. It shouldn’t be a big deal. It’s been four years since you saw him last. Four years since he left Chicago and never looked back. Maybe he’s only here for a few days. What’s a few days of hiding the biggest secret of your life from a very observant man who cares way too much about you?

“Shit,” you groan as you stare at the blinking line where your reply should be.

“Shit.”

The echo has you jerking up. Amelia stands in the doorway, grinning cheekily up at you.

“You can’t say that word. It’s a bad word.”

“But you said it.”

“Yes, but I’m an adult.”

“So just because you’re older, you can say it but I can’t? That’s not fair. Kids can do anything adults can too.” Her r’s aren’t even fully formed yet so her challenge just sounds endearing. You have a smart kid. Too smart. 

Sighing, you scoop her up, which earns you giggles. She knows she’s won the battle. “Maybe when kids start paying taxes, we’ll talk. Ask me again in a few years. I don’t want you getting in trouble with Miss Glinda.” 

Amelia grins down at you with those big green eyes. An exact replica of her father’s. She also picked up a lot of his kindness and patience, his tenacity. Thank goodness, because if she picked up any of those from you, you don’t think she would have made any friends. God knows your stubbornness has gotten you into more messes than your parents would like.

Said father is the man whose text you still haven’t responded to. Whose text led you to curse in front of your daughter. Your daughter who said father has zero awareness of.

This is going to be fantastic.

When you tuck Amelia back into bed, she peers up at you curiously. Sometimes, it’s like staring right at Luca. Her inquisitive eyes. The ones that could see right through you.

“Why were you saying a bad word, Mommy?” 

You tug the blanket up to her chin as she sinks back into the mattress. “Sometimes, when I feel really strongly about something, I say a bad word. It’s not really a bad thing, but it might not be a good thing either. It’s just when I feel so emotional that I have to use a word that you’re not supposed to use.”

Amelia quietly considers this. You can see the gears turning in her head. “So was it a good thing or a bad thing that made you say it?”

Honestly, you’re still not sure. While you’re more than thrilled at the idea of reconnecting with a good friend and a former co-worker, his arrival in Chicago means that your current situation – in other words, you having a daughter – complicates things. For the duration of time that he is here in the city, you have to figure out how to ensure he never finds out about Amelia. It would be difficult to explain. Even harder now that she’s four. 

Plus, it’s not like you have to. He has a life of his own in Copenhagen now, working for the best of the best. He hasn’t been back in Chicago since he left and he likely will leave again to never return. He doesn’t need to know about her. You’ve been just fine on your own. 

“A little bit of both,” you smile. “Now, sleep. This is the second time I’m putting you to bed. If I reach a third time, the ogre underneath your bed is going to wake up and eat you.”

She frowns, “There’s no ogre under my bed. You told me this last year.”

Curse your good parenting. “It’s the ogre’s other friend.”

Amelia offers you a sympathetic smile. It’s a sad day when your daughter begins to pity you and your weak attempt to be stern. “Okay. Goodnight.”

“Sleep tight.”

God knows you won’t be doing that tonight.

–

Perhaps the situation merits some context. For starters, Amelia is your four-year-old. She’s bright and optimistic, but she’s also quick and snappy. She’s the type to challenge teachers at school as evidenced by the number of times she – and you – have been summoned to the principal’s office due to a teacher’s bruised ego. However, she’s a good student and she makes friends. She’s never been too much of a handful. 

Raising her has been relatively easy, particularly with the help of your parents and Rebecca, your other and current best friend, who adore her. 

When you had gotten pregnant, your parents were unsurprisingly upset. They weren’t happy that their only child was knocked up without the father around. No matter how many times they asked who it was, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell them. You dodged the question multiple times, claiming that the father had nothing to do with the baby because it was your call. 

It wasn’t Luca’s responsibility. He didn’t know. 

Still, Amelia has been winning hearts left and right since the day she was born. With her bright green eyes and mischievous nature, she quickly captured your parents’ love. 

With regards to Luca, she does ask about it from time to time. The father she never knew. 

It isn’t as if you and Luca ended on bad terms; you clearly didn’t given that you still consider him one of your closest friends. Close friends with a massive secret between you. 

It was just – there was nothing between you to begin with. 

A drunken one-night stand. That’s all it was. The two of you were tight at Ever, the entire staff knew that. He had been the one to pull you out of your cold shell, introduce you to the rest, and ensured you fit in with the group. Ever wouldn’t have been the same without him. 

So after a particularly tough day and a particularly long night of downing two bottles of wine, it happened. The next morning is something your wine-addled brain had really thought about. 

“Last night…” he starts.

“I know,” you clear your throat, covering your naked chest with your duvet. The last thing you want is to lose your friendship with him. No matter how much you love this man. “We don’t have to— I mean, I get it. We had both been drinking.”

Luca nods slowly. “Yeah, of course.” He’s still shirtless from waist up as far as you could see. His broad shoulders even more prominent in the daylight. Golden skin through and through. You can see why your brain thought it was a good idea last night. 

You’re not blind. You’ve always known your best friend is attractive. You’ve seen the looks some of the servers give him, and even the customers when he takes the occasional step out of the kitchen and into the limelight.

But you can’t lose him. Not to this.

You look up at him. “We’re good right?”

“We’re good.”

And the two of you never spoke of it again. A couple of weeks later, Luca hears that he received the opportunity to stage at Noma. No chef would pass that up. So within a week, he packs his bag and, with tearful goodbyes to the rest of the Ever crew, he is on a flight to Denmark. What was supposed to be a two-month stint turned into four then a full-time gig. Before long, he was bouncing around every fine dining establishment in Copenhagen and making a name for himself as a pastry chef. He eventually returned to Noma to take over pastry work there. 

A week after his departure, you land with your face in your toilet to hurl your guts out. Then came the nausea and the odd food cravings. Working at Ever became unbearable with the mix of smells and your constant fatigue. When all the symptoms finally sink in, you decide to take a pregnancy test.

Lo and behold, two pink lines.

The shock electrocutes you. You’re slumped against your bathroom dresser when Rebecca finds you the first time, panicking since you weren’t exactly moving. Or breathing. It took a lot of crying and ginger ale (no more wine for you) on the floor before she managed to help you move to the bed where you proceeded to repeat the cycle. 

Telling your parents was the easy part. Getting through the pregnancy was rough. Late nights of being sore all over, the constant trips to the bathroom, fielding concerned calls from your parents. 

Some of the worst parts were Luca reaching out. Between calling you at times most convenient for you (he would be up until dawn trying to call you) and sending you check-in texts, you were consumed with guilt. You constantly skipped his calls, claiming you were too busy even as you stared at his name lighting up your phone in the quiet of your room. You told people at Ever that you were leaving to pursue another career path. When your body started to change, you took video calls with him with only the top half of your face visible. 

You never told him. You knew what he would’ve done. He would’ve given up his dream and, knowing him, he wouldn’t have even resented you for it. He would have taken responsibility. But that’s not what you wanted for him. Luca was – is – meant to do great things. 

His career so far is proof of it. 

So you sucked it up. You had the chance to get rid of this unborn, nameless, faceless baby, but it didn’t feel right. You could feel her growing inside you and, once you had that first ultrasound with your mom by your side, it was decided. You were keeping her. 

Amelia came in wailing, kicking, and screaming at three in the morning. 

The greatest gift you could ever imagine. 

She’s been the lighthouse of your life ever since. She is the reason you get up in the morning. 

That’s the gist of it. Now, here you are at the age of thirty, staring at your phone dreading typing a mere response. 

You look down at yourself. Despite the frumpy clothes being all you find comfortable these days outside of work, you don’t look that much different than you did before, so you could definitely pass as a woman who has never gone through pregnancy. You can do this. One meeting. Then he’ll be back on a plane and gone again for good. No big. 

You: Coffee? I could do weekdays afternoon

Luca: Sounds good. I’ll lock in a time with you closer to the date. Looking forward to seeing you again :) 

The urge to bang your head against a wall grows stronger by the moment. 

Two weeks to prepare for his visit. Two weeks to come up with a believable story for how your life has been going for the past four years as if you never had your beautiful, smart, amazing daughter. You could do that. 

Your only concern is whether you’re able to lie to Luca. He’s always been good at making an honest woman out of you. Keeping the truth from him when he’s thousands of miles from you is easy. But when you’re looking into those earnest green eyes, your integrity and skills will be tested.

This will be fun. 

The café is busy particularly this time of day. You’ve got office workers making their late afternoon coffee runs, tourists popping in for a midday snack, and regulars trying to shoulder past people to get through to the exit. You manage to put in your order – and his, hoping it’s still the same – and snag a seat in the back corner of the shop. Work is relatively slow today so you called in a half day, which your manager only waves off unconcerned. It also works out because you can pick up Amelia right after this.

You can’t help the way your fingers wring together fearfully. It’s a nervous tic. Your espresso sits steaming across from Luca’s mocha latte. You could use the extra dose of caffeine to get through this conversation.

Hey, how’s it going? What’s new with you? Me? Nothing much, just raising the daughter I’ve been keeping from you and I’m working in a boring office now. How’s the life of your dreams? 

A groan escapes your lips. You need to stop throwing this pathetic pity party for yourself. Now that Amelia is four, there’s really no excuse. You could go back to the kitchen and chase that lifelong dream again. There’s nothing stopping you. Your parents are fully retired and would be more than happy to take her off your hands on long days. 

But you’re not entirely sure you’re ready. You’re much older than when you left. The stamina of these new and rising chefs is stronger than yours. Then again, you’ve been through hell and back with Amelia’s toddler years – god knows you barely got any sleep and became an expert on multi-tasking. 

With Amelia, you also don’t know if being a chef is even your dream anymore. You still cook at home, it gives you a chance to experiment and be creative. There’s no one breathing down your neck on how to properly prepare a plate – aside from your mom who makes sure Amelia gets her main food groups every day. 

It’s not as if you spite him for it. It’s not his fault. You just need to hold yourself accountable for your decisions. That includes having your wonderful daughter and keeping her a secret from her father. 

The sound of your name rolling off his tongue is all too familiar. It’s almost like a caress. A ghost of a touch. You resist the shiver that snakes up your spine and look up to see him. 

Fuck.

All those video calls did not do him justice. It’s been a couple of days since he landed in Chicago and clearly vacation suits him. There is a slight dusting of stubble along his jaw and his hair is a little unruly, far from the poised and elegant styling he usually has in the kitchen. He looks older. Better. You didn’t think it was possible for Luca to grow more into himself but he proves you wrong. 

“Luca.” You stand, bumping into the table slightly. Curse your lack of cool. 

The smile that spreads across his face is blinding. Familiar. Warm. “God, it’s so good to see you,” he says first, voice dripping with honey. He wraps you in a tight hug. It’s been a while since you’ve been this close to him, since you’ve been able to smell his cologne mixed with that unceasing scent of pastries. “You look… wow. You look amazing.”

“Now you’re just being mean,” you laugh. “Look at you. All grown up. You weren’t scrawny the last time I saw you, but I didn’t think you’d be so… big?”

Something flickers across his eyes, but it’s gone the moment you blink. “Well, all that dough kneading had to go somewhere. Thankfully, that means I don’t really have to hit the gym as much.”

“Life isn’t fair,” you tease. “What are you doing back in Chicago? I thought someone would have to drag you here kicking and screaming.”

While Chicago had been home for Luca for a while, you knew it wasn’t entirely easy. There is a lot of history in the city that he wants to let go, people he chooses to eschew if he can. 

Luca looks a little confused by your question. “Ever is closing. Funeral dinner is tomorrow.”

It’s been years since you’ve been involved in the restaurant scene in the city. Admittedly, it’s too painful to be reminded of the past that had once been your dream. So you nod slowly. “Right, of course.”

“Are you not going?”

You hadn’t been invited, which also isn’t surprising. You weren’t a star like Luca or Carmy. You had been a line cook at the time and blended into the other chefs doing menial work in the kitchen. “No, I don’t really talk to anyone there anymore.”

“Oh, where are you working now? You’ve never told me that actually.”

You’re still not entirely sure how you managed to do it but, in the four years since he left, you did not tell him how you pivoted from cooking to an office job. It was more stable, better pay, and the hours were better. God bless company-sponsored healthcare. It was more conducive to raising a child. 

“I work a finance role now. Boutique tech firm in the city.”

If anyone else knew Luca as well as you did, they would see the metaphorical jaw drop. “What? Since when?”

“Two, three years.” Four. 

He doesn’t miss a beat. “You mean since I left? What happened? Why did you switch?”

The lump in your throat refuses to go down. “I couldn’t handle the hours anymore. I wanted to get home at a good time, make more money.” It isn’t a lie per se. You just had bigger responsibilities that had you prioritizing reality over idealism. 

Luca leans back, seeming to appraise you carefully. There are certainly more lines on your face now, weariness clinging to your skin. While life hasn’t been too tough on you, it hasn’t been particularly kind either. 

“I didn’t know that,” he mutters, “why didn’t you tell me?”

Your lips quirk up in a small smile. “I didn’t want you to worry. Knowing you, you’d be on the first flight back here to drag me back into a kitchen.”

A charming snort escapes him. You didn’t know snorts could be charming until him. God, it’s stupid how fast your heart still races with him. “You’re not wrong. I just never thought this would happen. I heard that you left Ever but since you didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to touch on a sore subject.”

“Not too sore, I promise. It’s been good. I like it. It’s straightforward and nobody’s constantly yelling at me. There is functioning air conditioning instead of constantly sweating by grills,” you grin. 

“That’s definitely appealing.” 

“Enough about me. Tell me all about Copenhagen.”

And that gets Luca going. While you’ve heard bits and pieces on your short calls with him, it’s another thing entirely to have him narrate this live in front of you. His hands gesture wildly to describe the chaos of the kitchens he’s been in. He swipes through photographs of menu items he worked on recently. Each piece is more impressive than the next. You truly understand how much he’s grown then. How talented he is. 

Somehow, his being here and all these stories reassure you in your decision not to tell him about your pregnancy. This is Luca’s dream. This is what he is meant to do. 

“So when are you heading back? Seems like you have a lot in the works,” you ask as you take a sip of your now-cold coffee. 

“I’m actually here for a few months.”

Your blood runs cold. If this were a movie, you would do a spit-take. “W-why are you here for a few months? What about Noma? Are you taking a sabbatical? Do they even let you take sabbaticals?”

“I left.”

He says it so simply. Like a thing he does so casually. Leaving Noma of all places – arguably the best restaurant in the world and every chef’s dream. His dream. “You’re going to have to elaborate here. What do you mean you left?”

Luca takes a deep breath and looks at you. Really looks at you. He looks contemplative, his arms crossed over his chest. “I’ve learned a lot there but I think I’m ready to move on.”

One doesn’t just move on. “So what’s your plan now? Are you starting your own place?”

“Someday. I still want to learn. There are a lot of great places here that I can bring my experience to. I’ve started asking around.”

Fuck. Here. “So you’re staying in Chicago?” Your voice comes out as a squeak.

“Yeah,” he smiles. “I’m excited. I mean, there’s a lot I have to do still. I have to find a place to live. And my sister…”

Luca’s relationship with his sister is rocky at best. With his parents divorced – not amicably at that, the two barely interacted. Even when the two were living in the same city, Luca buried himself in his pursuit of becoming a chef. You hear slices of her from him, but you know it’s a painful topic, so you don’t try to push. 

“I’m trying to rebuild the relationship there. It’s going to take a while.”

“Right, yeah. I’m glad to hear. I’m sure it’s not easy so I’m proud of you for taking that step.”

“Right,” he clears his throat, eyes dropping to his hand on the table where he fiddles with his napkin. “And you’re here.”

His eyes flick back up to you. Sharp green. Your breath hitches in your throat. 

Fuck. 

You cannot do this. All that hope that you’ve quashed from your years knowing him, it’s coming back up. It’s engulfing you in this warm, tingly feeling that should definitely not be there. The you that he knows, she’s gone. She has changed so much that you can’t even see her in your reflection anymore. 

So no, you can’t start this with Luca. Not when he doesn’t know you. Not anymore, at least. “So Ever funeral, are you excited to see everyone again?”

A brief look of disappointment blankets his features for a moment and you refuse to succumb to the urge to smooth out the creases on his face. “Yes, Carm’s going to be there too so I’m excited to see him. All the greats, of course. Chef Terry is still a legend.”

You hadn’t even thought about Carmy Berzatto in years. The man terrified you back at Ever, and he still terrifies you today. Last you heard, he started his own place. He’s always been intense, so you can imagine that he runs that place with an iron fist. 

“Have you been to his new spot, The Bear?”

“No, I haven’t.” You haven’t been anywhere fancy in a while. It’s been a mix of Chuck E. Cheese’s, Cheesecake Factory, and anywhere that has mozzarella sticks. Amelia is a big fan of cheese, apparently. 

“We should go,” Luca beams. “I’d love to take you there.”

On a date? You cannot even begin to hope that’s what he meant. Again, you deflect. “What kind of cuisine is it?”

Luca doesn’t miss that attempt, but smartly chooses not to address it. “Contemporary American, I suppose, but you can imagine the Italian and French influences just given where Carmy has been.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Yeah, shall we go maybe next week? I’m seeing Carm and his CDC Sydney tomorrow, I can ask them for a reservation spot. I heard it’s tough to get. What time works for you?”

Luca is moving incredibly fast for someone who just arrived, and who plans to be there for a long time. 

“We don’t have to rush it,” you laugh awkwardly, “you’re going to be here for a while right?”

“Yes, but I have a feeling you’ll try and get out of this dinner with me if I didn’t get you to agree today,” he says, his voice tinged with humor, but the arrow still sticks painfully in you.

He isn’t wrong. You probably would use work as an excuse, despite talking about the better hours. But you have other responsibilities like picking up Amelia from school, feeding her dinner, and making sure she does her homework: 

None of which he knows about.

“Weekdays can be a bit tricky with my schedule.”

“The weekend perhaps? How about Saturday?”

Amelia has French lessons in the morning (her request, not yours) and then Rebecca is coming over so the three of you can do a quick painting session. Rebecca is insistent on nurturing her artistic skills from an early age. 

The Bear is only open for dinner service which you can’t escape without Amelia asking questions; the girl is too smart for her own good and you haven’t been out with plans that she doesn’t know about. Ever. 

The dating scene changes a little for single moms. You haven’t been on a date in a very long time. It’s tough to get into a committed relationship with a child when you've just completed your twenties. 

“Let me think about it?”

He studies you for a moment. “Are you seeing anyone?”

You make the mistake of taking a swig of your coffee when you cough, sputtering embarrassingly. Luca flails before offering you a napkin. 

“Sorry, shite, I didn’t mean to—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” you wheeze, “it just caught me off guard.” 

“Sorry,” he repeats awkwardly, “is that a bad question to ask?”

You shake your head, urging your skyrocketing heart rate to let up. “No, um, it’s fine. I’m not— I’m not seeing anyone.” 

“Right, cool.”

The faint pink painted on his cheeks is noticeable but it’s better not to comment. 

“I’m not either,” he adds, “seeing anyone, that is.” 

You fight the amused smile on your lips. He’s already scratching his cheek, a nervous habit that he hasn’t lost. “Cool.” 

“Cool,” Luca echoes in a chuckle.

For a minute, the two of you sit there in silence. All those years apart seem to evaporate, vanishing into the crowd. The comfort that you’ve always felt around him sinks into your bones. 

“I should get back to work, can’t have my boss thinking I’ve disappeared on her.” 

“Right, of course. No rest for the weary.” Luca smiles. When the two of you are outside, Luca turns to you and immediately pulls you in for another embrace. “It was really good seeing you.”

It’s too easy to burrow your face into his broad chest. That nostalgic ache persists inside your heart. You don’t feel like you’re thirty. You’re twenty-two again in that kitchen, standing next to Luca. Both of you are young and carefree. The aroma of freshly baked goods that clings onto his skin and the sweat that dots his brows. 

But when a car honks in the distance, reality settles back into your gut. 

“You too,” is all you can muster. “See you around.”

By the look on Rebecca’s face, you can’t exactly pinpoint what emotion she’s feeling. It started off with surprise and then confusion and more surprise. “So he’s just back now?”

“Uh-huh,” you say from your spot in the kitchen as you’re preparing dinner. Mushroom risotto, one of Amelia’s favorites. This one is a labor of love but it’s always rewarding when you see the look on her face when it’s plated in front of her. 

Thankfully, she had fallen asleep right after she and Rebecca spent the afternoon playing a game of water tag in the backyard so now it’s just you and Rebecca in the kitchen as you recount The Meeting with Luca. 

Rebecca pops another olive into her mouth. “So are you going to hook up with him again?”

“Bec!” You gasp. “Absolutely not.”

“Clearly he was good enough the first time to give you a child.”

An exasperated sigh of disbelief leaves your lips, which only amuses her more than anything. “I will not be hooking up with him again. It was one time. We’re friends now.”

“Honey, friends don’t fuck.”

“Friends can fuck once.”

“If you finish twice in one night, does that count as once still?”

You wave a hand in front of her. “I’m not debating the technicality of this. Point is, I’ve seen him once and I will not be seeing him again.”

“Why not? He’s clearly interested. He asked you if you were single.”

“So?”

“And then he tells you – unprompted – that he’s single too.”

“I get it, maybe he’s interested. But I’m not.”

Even your words sound unconvincing in your ears.

“I’m—” fuck. “—not. I’m not. Anyways, I didn’t make plans and I hope he doesn’t follow up—”

As if on cue, your phone begins vibrating on the table. Both your eyes drop to it as Luca’s face and name pop up on screen. Rebecca’s lips twitch into a smirk. “Superpowers. Good in bed and reading minds.”

“I’m not going to deal with that.”

“You have to.” 

“I won’t.”

“Are you five? Why are you avoiding him? You claim he’s your best friend – which I take full offense to by the way – but you can’t even talk to him.”

Groaning, you stare at the device still circling the surface of your counter. “I don’t want to risk him meeting Amelia, especially if he’s going to be here a while.”

“He’s definitely going to meet her eventually. It’s a matter of when. Are you never going to invite him over?”

“What possible reason would I have to invite him over?” Rebecca opens her mouth and you quickly interject, “Don’t answer that.”

Her gaze falls back to the device, then flicks up to you, then back to the device. Before you can stop her, she’s swiping to pick up the call and putting it on speaker. You want to slap the proud grin off her face. 

“Hey, hope I’m not interrupting anything.” Luca’s gravelly voice carries over the speakers. 

“No, no. Just making dinner,” you respond, ignoring the way Rebecca keeps mouthing at you about his British accent. 

“What’s on the menu?”

“Mushroom risotto,” you say as you look over the boiling pan again. 

“I remember that one. One of my favorites of yours.” You can practically hear his smile. Your heart skips a little too fast at the thought. “If you’re willing, I’d love to have that again sometime.”

Rebecca mutes it quickly just to say, “Fucking Jesus, he wants in your pants again.” Then unmutes. 

With a glare her way, you direct your attention back to Luca. “Yes, maybe.” Noncommittal. Safe. 

“Listen, I was with Carm and Syd at Ever and they invited us to come for dinner at The Bear. Wondering what your schedule looks like next week and if you’d be interested.” 

“Oh, I don’t know, it’s a little— oh fuck.”

“You okay?”

You shoot Rebecca a dirty look after she launched a fucking olive at your head. “Yeah, fine, sorry.”

“Go,” she whispers. 

“Um, I’m not sure about my schedule next week.”

“I can be flexible. I know you said weekdays are a little tough but what about after work? Thursday night?”

Fuck. If Luca is one thing, he’s persistent. And he knows how your bad tendency to avoid things you’re scared of – which in this case is dinner with him, so he’s not letting this one go. “It’s a school night so I’m not sure.”

He chuckles. The sound reverberates straight through your core. “And you can’t go out on school nights, can you?”

Crap. His voice is like a siren’s, luring you in to confess your secrets. The way he says it too – Jesus, the delivery of that question has sparks blowing up inside you. More importantly, you almost let it slip that school nights are usually a no-go because you need to get Amelia ready for the next day. “Still have to work the next day,” you laugh awkwardly.

“Friday then?”

“Friday is better…”

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a moment. You know he’s still there but he’s in deep thought. This happens sometimes. You’ve grown attuned to notice these moments even without seeing his face on the call. 

“I just want to say there’s no pressure. If you’re not interested, please feel free to say no. I don’t want to force you to spend time with me if you don’t want to. You’ve got your own life, I completely understand. I apologize, I don’t want to overstep my boundaries.”

Fuck. Of course, he would be a complete gentleman in this situation. It’s not that you don’t want to. Everything is just complicated. Pushing aside those worrying thoughts, you say, “No, I’d love to. Sorry. I just have a lot on my plate right now so I don’t want to make plans I can’t commit to.”

“Do it,” Rebecca mouths. For someone who’s supposed to be a fly on the wall, she is oddly intrusive. “I’ll take Amelia.” You hesitate for a second and she gives you another look before she mutes the call again. “Honey, do it. You deserve to do something nice for yourself okay. And if it’s a nice dinner with a hot British chef, then so be it.”

Sighing, you unmute the call and talk to Luca again. “Friday works. I’ll be coming from work.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“No, you don’t have to—”

“I insist. Text me the address. I’ll book for 7:30 to be safe.”

“Alright, sounds good,” you reply weakly. 

“See you then.”

When the line goes cold, you look up to find Rebecca with a shit-eating grin on her face. “I’m so proud of you,” she exhales dreamily. “It’s like seeing a teenage daughter grow up and plan her first date.”

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes and turn back to the stove. Your cheeks are flushed with warmth. 

This is a date. Luca probably considers this a date. Right? It would be embarrassing if he didn’t and you did. Maybe he’s just being nice and taking out an old friend to a restaurant he has been meaning to try. 

“I can hear you spiraling,” Rebecca singsongs. 

“Why did you let me say yes?”

It is then that Rebecca physically gets up, rounds the counter, and grabs hold of both your arms. “I need to shake some sense into you. You are still a person. You are allowed to go out and have fun. There are people around you who can help you with Amelia. You’re not alone.”

“I know this,” you grumble under your breath.

“But I think sometimes you need a good reminder of it. You’ll have fun at dinner, I just know it. You spent so long pushing away that part of you because you think you’ll never have it again, but – you know what – I think you can. You’ve always loved food and cooking. I can see it in the meals you make for Amelia. Maybe it’s just time for you to go out and explore again.”

Smiling softly, you always knew that Rebecca was your better half. She took you under her wing in college, stood up for you, and gave you the confidence to pursue your dreams. You had graduated with a degree in finance but worried for your life when you had to tell your parents that you were going to be a chef instead. She stood by you through it all. 

“Thanks, Bec.”

“Where would you be without me?”

With a laugh, you nudge her away as you turn off the fire. Right on time, Amelia wanders into the room, rubbing her eyes tiredly. “Hungry.”

Classic. She truly is your daughter. 

When seven rolls around, you’ve already spent the last thirty minutes fretting over your hair and the state of your makeup. The office has cleared out for the day, but you spent the last working hour playing catch-up. It’s been a busy week for Amelia at Pre-K – who knew they could have so much homework even before reaching kindergarten?

You smooth out the wrinkles on your pale blue dress – work appropriate with the blazer, and chic dinner fit without. Since Amelia, you’ve foregone wearing heels, opting instead for flats or sneakers since you’re constantly on your feet. But you pull out your white, open-toed pumps from your closet for this dinner.

Yes, you can readily admit that you are at least trying to look nice for this dinner non-date. 

When you told Amelia earlier this week that you had plans on Friday night to go out for dinner and that she would be staying home with Rebecca, she didn’t blink twice. She only asked what Aunt Rebecca had planned. When she saw you this morning dressed up with a little more blush on your cheeks, she didn’t question it. Instead, she just smiled quietly and complimented you on your dress. 

You can’t believe you’re at a stage where she is making space for you. You nearly get teary just thinking about how quickly she’s growing up. 

A black sedan pulls up in front of you and Luca is immediately out the door. You’re so used to seeing him in t-shirts, aprons, and sweatshirts that you forgot how delectable he can look when he cleans up. His blonde hair is neatly coiffed and he’s shaved his face clean. You find yourself almost missing that rugged stubble on his face. His navy shirt is freshly pressed with sleeves rolled up close to his elbows to reveal all his tattoos. 

God, he looks good. Too good. Tempting even.

“You look fantastic,” Luca beats you to the punch, leaning forward to kiss you on the cheek. His eyes peruse you shamelessly, dragging from the tip of your toes to the top of your head. 

It’s a European thing, you remind yourself. “You do too. Almost didn’t recognize you out of your stained tees.”

His mouth curls into a smirk. “Believe it or not, I do have clean laundry these days.” He swings open the door for you and offers a hand to help you slide inside. 

Once the two of you are settled in, Luca pulls up the restaurant on the navigation system. He fills the silence with small talk, asking you how your day went and how work is going. 

When you finally arrive at The Bear, Luca drops you off at the front and goes to park around the corner. Ever the gentleman. Stepping inside, you’re immediately impressed by how elegant the entire place is. It’s neat with that fine dining touch, but there’s a certain coziness in the air that makes it more welcoming. Luca joins you shortly after, stating his name for the reservation.

A tall man dressed sharply in a black suit comes up and greets Luca first. “Glad you could make it!”

“Thanks for having me,” Luca beams back. He introduces the two of you quickly and you learn that his name is Richie and he is Carmy’s cousin.

“Not real cousin but his brother was my best friend,” Richie corrects easily. “Let me take you to your table.”

The service is impeccable and the ambiance even more so. You’re marveling at how polished everything is. The window strip into the kitchen gives a sneak peek into the work behind the scenes, but your focus is on the main dining room. Beautiful booths against the wall, tables spaced just enough apart. You can’t imagine that this place had been a casual fast food joint just months ago. They’ve truly outdone themselves with the transformation. 

“Impressive bunch,” Luca notes your expression. “Not to mention it’s most of their first time working in fine dining. While there have been some inconsistent reviews, the menu is generally delicious overall.”

“Yeah, I don’t recognize it anymore. I remember visiting this shop back then and it was holding on to its last hinges. Now look at this place.” 

The tasting menu is even more stunning. The bread is crisp on the outside, fluffy and warm on the inside, paired perfectly well with the option of freshly made butter. Appetizers were light, perfect to get you warmed up for the series of main courses. Desserts – don’t even get you started on the desserts. You’re pretty sure you let out an inappropriate moan at some point. 

Your diet these past few years has consisted of whatever is microwavable, preparable with hot water, or whichever dish Amelia is craving. So you’ve had your fair share of ramen, mac and cheese (Amelia’s three-year-old phase), and lunchables (ongoing, on-and-off phase). 

It’s been a while since you’ve had a proper sit-down meal at a fancy restaurant. It’s hard to believe that you used to work in these kitchens. You used to be the person creating these meals. While your parents and Amelia let you take your own spin with the dishes you prepare for them, most of the time you’re too exhausted to do anything experimental and stick to what you know – and have in your cupboards. 

It’s nice to enjoy this kind of meal again. 

You and Luca discuss dinner throughout, talking about the flavor profiles and the potential inspirations, the influences of each dish. Each item was made meticulously with careful thought placed into the flavor. It didn’t feel extremely polished, but that just meant there’s still a lot of heart that went into it. 

“That was just… wow.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth,” Luca chuckles as he wipes with a napkin. “I was already expecting to be blown away but that was out of this world. As expected from Carmy. And Syd.”

Richie comes back around and the two of you gush over how wonderful everything is. “Great to hear it, team. Love the enthusiasm. Carmy and Syd have some time right now by the way, if you wanted to go say hi.”

“That would be perfect. Let me just close out and not walk out on my tab.”

“I can definitely get you that.”

When the bill arrives, Luca is quick to swipe it off the table. “Luc—”

Luca immediately shakes his head, dropping his card on top of the receipt and hands it back to the waiter. “My treat. For putting up with me all these years.”

A frown forms on your face as you watch his hands fold on top of the table. “What are you talking about? Don’t be ridiculous. We’ll split. It’s an expensive dinner.”

“Let me do this one thing for you, love,” Luca says. “I wanted to try this place and I invited you so it’s only fair that I cover the bill.”

“Luca, that’s not— come on. I’ll send you the money. This isn’t a—” you bite your tongue, stopping yourself before you can say the word date. 

He catches on anyway, lips tugging into a smile. “If I told you this is a date, would you let me pay for it then?”

Warmth creeps up your cheeks again as you wring your fingers on the napkin on your lap. 

“Folks, are we ready to meet the chefs?” Richie returns, clapping his hands together. 

“Yes, we are.” Luca answers. He’s giving you yet another out. Still the gentleman, he offers a hand to help you to your feet. 

Richie leads you towards the kitchen door, drawing curious eyes from surrounding guests over this special treatment you’re getting. When you step in, your senses are immediately overwhelmed. 

The kitchen is alive. Not just loud. Alive. A symphony of sizzles rises from the skillets as flames dance around the pans, blues and oranges glowing bright. Metal against metal as hot pans hit the stovetop, the scraping of spatulas against the surface. Another chef yells corner as they appear carrying trays of baked meringues. The chef at expo is reading out orders from her list, her voice slicing steady and clear across the cacophony of sounds. 

The light overhead is cold and clinical, sharp fluorescents that bleach the space in blue. But the kitchen burns bright. The heat in this room is significantly higher than the carefully controlled temperature of the dining room. 

It’s nostalgic. It reminds you of all those years working alongside Luca. Your fingers wrapped around a cool piping bag, swirling icing on top of tarts. The aroma of pastries baking — golden crusts, caramelized sugars, berries roasting – was consistent in the air. There is a quiet in the chaos. Controlled chaos. 

A comfort that you’ve longed for. Your kitchen isn’t the same. The people aren’t the same, but there’s a beauty in the newness. In the challenge. 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts when Richie yells, “Yo! Cousin! Chef Syd! Luca’s here.” The brunette woman at expo give him a warning look, which withers him only slightly. 

There is a chorus of greetings when people spot Luca. Clearly he’s a fan favorite. When you turn to look at him, he’s already looking back at you. A gentleness to his gaze that catches you off guard. 

Before you can attempt to decipher that look, two chefs make their way over to you. One you recognize as Carmy. His intensity is palpable, obvious. If there’s anyone who could put these chefs on edge, it would be him. The other woman is calmer. A friendly face but an equally controlled presence. The two make a terrifying pair. 

Carmy’s eyeing you with interest, eyes flicking between you and Luca. “I’ve met you before,” he says simply. 

You laugh and Luca rubs his face. “Mate, you guys worked together.”

“We did?” He asks the same time Syd asks, “You did?”

“Yeah, she was my second for pastry.” 

“Fuck, I’m sorry,” Syd laughs, crossing her arms over her chest. Carmy still looks completely befuddled, but also distracted by the stream of activity going on behind him. He mutters to give him a second as he deals with the searing steak. “I mean Luca’s great but forgive Carmy, he’s not best at… remembering anything. Or math. Or picking up the phone.”

“Alright, alright, I get it,” Carm calls out, hands still moving quickly and efficiently to turn the steak and then quickly plate it for service. You can’t help but marvel at how speedy he is. He’s always been good but he’s only gotten better. It’s terrifying knowledge. “Hands!” Then he’s back in front of the two of you. 

“No, it’s fine. I wasn’t there for very long—”

Luca chuckles. “You were there for at least two years. You definitely overlapped for a while.”

“Shit, sorry, I’m just bad with – well, like Syd said – most things. But yeah, good to meet you again.”

“You too, the food was delicious. As expected,” you shrug with a smile. “Out of this world.” Luca smiles quietly at the echo of his words.  

“Thanks, it took a while to get the menu to this place,” Syd nods. 

Carmy’s still looking at the two of you. “This is a mess, though. Don’t let us ruin your date.” You see Syd elbow him, leaving him with another look of confusion. 

Before you can correct him, Luca is already responding, “No, this is great, mate. I’ve missed the Chicago food scene a lot. Ever was clean, but this feels very lively.”

“Yeah, it’s been great. Budget’s fucking fucked but it’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Luca looks at him in concern but the two chefs wave him off. “Well, I don’t want to interrupt too long. I’m just going to say hi to Marcus and head out.” A hand settles on the small of your back and suddenly you’re being directed towards the back corner of the kitchen where a man who is even taller than Luca stands (you note that there are many tall men in this establishment), his hands working away at these delicate little desserts. 

“Luca, my man,” the man who you assume to be Marcus grins wide, dapping Luca. You’re more bewildered that Luca knows how to dap than anything. “Heard you were on this side of the pond.”

“Yeah, for a little bit actually.”

“Nice,” he nods slow then looks at you. “Marcus.”

You introduce yourself too and add, “Desserts were perfection by the way. Sundae was inspired, love the olive oil.”

“Thank you. I have to give this man right here his flowers. Learned a lot from my time there.”

Luca laughs, scratching his cheek. “No, it was all you, man. Echoing that desserts were superb.”

“Thanks, man. I actually wanted to run some ideas by you if you’ve got time.”

“Time is all I have.”

Marcus grins. “Perfect, I’ll text you.” He turns to you. “Good to meet you. Never thought Luca would have time for a girlfriend.”

This time, you do jump in. Perhaps a little too fast. “I’m not his girlfriend,” you blurt out, “I’m a… friend.”

Marcus’ gaze darts between Luca and you. Shame sinks quickly into you. The defensiveness in your voice was maybe unnecessary. You can’t see Luca’s face but you can feel his hand shift slightly away from your body. The lack of touch leaves you feeling a little cold in the warm kitchen. “Right, my bad. Anyway, good seeing you both.”

“You too, talk soon,” Luca says. 

With a flurry of goodbyes, the two of you are finally out of the restaurant, standing in the slightly brisk evening air. A wind whips by, leaving you shivering slightly. “Are you cold?” Luca asks. “You can wait inside and I’ll pull the car around.”

“No, don’t worry. I’ll just grab an Uber from here.”

“Nonsense, I have a car. I’m happy to drop you off at home.”

“Luca, you’ve done more than enough. Dinner was wonderful. I can get myself home.”

Luca hesitates, gaze drifting into the street. 

“There’s no meaning behind it. I really just don’t want to trouble you any more than I already have.”

“You could never trouble me,” he says. It’s almost a promise. You blame the heat on your cheeks on the touch of wind outside. “It’ll make me feel better knowing that you’re getting home safely.”

You don’t think he would drop this. Not to mention, it would save you the money on a long drive back home. Finally, you nod in agreement and he tells you to stay put as he grabs the car. 

On the ride home, you quickly shoot a text to Rebecca.

You: Luca’s dropping me off. Can you make sure Amelia’s in bed? Thanks :)

“So you liked dinner?”

You snort, “That’s an understatement. I don’t think I’ve had a meal like that in a long time.”

“I’m surprised. You’ve always been the first to try new restaurants, especially ones by reputable chefs. As intense as Carmy is, he is a fantastic chef. So is Syd, she’s brilliant.”

A weak smile settles on your face as you turn to look out the window. The sparse traffic blurs before you in streaks of red. “Just haven’t had the time, I suppose.”

Luca clears his throat and your glance flies back to him. His grip is tight on the steering wheel, his neck flushed pink. “Well, if you’re interested in exploring more places, I have a lot of catching up to do. We could go together?”

You’ve never been able to tell him no. Not when you want it for yourself as well. “That sounds nice.”

When you get to your home, Luca pulls up along the curb. Just as you’re about to thank him again, he’s already stepping out to get your door. Fuck. “Thank you,” you whisper, slipping your hand into his for the nth time that night. You’re getting used to the feeling. “Thank you again for dinner. I had a great time.”

“Me too,” he smiles. “Hopefully the first of many.”

“I’ll get the bill next time.”

Luca shrugs. “We’ll see.”

When he makes no move to leave, you tilt your head. “Shouldn’t you get going? It’s late.”

“Let me walk you to your door.”

Your heart drops to the ground. You haven’t gotten a response yet from Rebecca which is hopefully a good thing. Maybe they’re both fast asleep, it wouldn’t be the first time. The energy-exerting activities work as well on Rebecca as it does on Amelia. 

“You really don’t have to.”

“I insist. It’s the Brit side of me. I want to make sure you get in okay.”

All you can do is nod and walk up the pathway to your door. Your knees feel a little weak. If it’s the nerves or the proximity to Luca, especially since his hand has returned to your lower back, you’re not entirely sure. 

When you reach for your keys, Luca shoves his hands into his pants pockets. His hair is a touch mussed up now, a strand falling attractively across his forehead. He’s looking at you with that calm gaze, one that has your body all too aware of his presence. 

“You look beautiful tonight.”

“Pretty sure you already said I looked fantastic earlier, beautiful feels like a downgrade.”

Luca laughs, the sound low and familiar. Your chest warms as you look at him. 

“Thanks again, I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m just grateful you agreed to go with me.”

“We’re friends, Luca. We can hang out.”

He hums, stroking his chin thoughtfully. Something about the act has your heart rate picking up. “Didn’t seem like you really wanted to.”

“It’s just been a while since I’ve been… out.”

“Well, if you’re not opposed, then I’d be honored to take you out again.”

Oh boy. This is venturing into dangerous territory. 

“I should head in,” you say, teeth catching your bottom lip before you can say something stupid like would you like to come in? 

However, before Luca can respond, the front door swings open and you hear—

“Mommy!” 

Shit.

Amelia stands in the doorway in her purple unicorn pajamas. She’s looking up at you with bright eyes but then her curious gaze wanders over to the blonde man in front of you. 

Double shit. 

Her hair isn’t an exact replica of Luca’s, but the eyes are unmistakable. All three of you seem to freeze in time. 

Amelia is staring at Luca, Luca is staring at Amelia, and you’re trying to figure out how to dig yourself out of this hole. First things first, you crouch down to Amelia’s height. “Baby, why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Aunt Rebecca fell asleep but I wasn’t tired yet.”

You purse your lips. “Let’s get you inside, it’s chilly out.”

“Who’s that?” Amelia peeks around you to look at Luca again. 

The thought of even looking at him right now is terrifying. “He is my friend.”

“You’re not going to introduce me?” Amelia asks, eyes widening. You know exactly what she’s doing. Manipulative. The guilt-trip, puppy-dog eyes. 

So you grit your teeth and plaster on a smile as you straighten back up and turn to Luca. He’s still rooted to your porch, mouth pressed into a thin line and his brows puckered in confusion. “Luca, this is Amelia. Amelia, Luca.”

“Hi, Uncle Luca.”

Polite, you taught her well. 

It is then that Luca seems to snap out of it, clearing his throat awkwardly as he crouches to her level. He sticks out a hand, which she immediately accepts. “Hi, Amelia. It’s very nice to meet you. Though, it seems like it’s way past your bedtime.”

Amelia disregards his comment and instead responds with “You have a cool accent. Where are you from?”

“I grew up in London but I’ve lived here in Chicago and also spent the last few years in Copenhagen. In Denmark.”

“That’s so cool, I’ve never been,” Amelia beams, eyes sparkling in delight. 

“Well, if you ever decide to go, I could take you around.”

“Do you live there now?”

His eyes snap up to you briefly, the movement surprising you, before they return to the little girl before him. “No, I’m moving back here to Chicago.”

“Why?”

Luca is quiet as he pulls together his words. “Because there are a lot of people I care about here.”

“Is my mommy one of them?”

The lump in your throat has only grown. The word mommy usually warms your heart but you can feel it stuttering instead. Your mind is running awry, wondering if he’s connected the dots yet, what answers you should give him if he asks. He doesn’t need to know, you remind yourself. He’ll be here a few months and then he’ll be gone again – and you and Amelia can go back to the life you’ve always lived. Just the two of you. 

“Yes, your mum is definitely one of them,” Luca softly says, “Speaking of, she’s very sleepy. Maybe it’s best that you tuck her in for the night.”

Amelia giggles, “That’s a great idea. She always tucks me in so it’s my turn.”

“Mhmm, then you can go to sleep knowing your mum’s tucked away safely in bed.” Luca reaches out to ruffle her hair, which pleases her as she preens to the touch. His eyes widen for a second before they melt again and he strokes her head. “Have a good night, Amelia.”

Amelia remains by the door when he finally turns to you. There’s a storm clouding his usually bright eyes as he looks at you. You’re not even sure what words are caught on the tip of your tongue, but they never come out. 

“Have a good night, love,” Luca murmurs and leans forward to press a kiss on your cheek. Your eyes slide shut. God, you’ve missed this intimacy with someone. Nothing could compare to his touch. The loneliness that has ebbed and flowed over the years seeps back into your lungs. 

But your heart is still rattled by what just happened. You can barely move, let alone respond. 

Then he’s gone, the roar of his engine echoing down the quiet street as he drives away. 

Your mind is numb as you prepare Amelia for bed. She’s chattering about how nice Luca seems to be and how she’s excited to see you making friends again. The only thing you can offer her is a weak smile as you press a kiss to her temple. She slides under the covers and is out cold in minutes. You leave her room quietly to drape a blanket over Rebecca, who’s sleeping on the couch. 

Only then do you head to your own room, weary from a long day.

The last thing you see before sleep pulls you under is your phone lighting up.

Luca: We need to talk.

The others notice.

Peter, who’s maybe too emotionally intelligent for his own good. Bob, who tries so hard to pretend he’s not a romantic when everyone knows he absolutely is. Johnny, who has never once in his life known how to mind his own business.

You love them all. Deeply. Stupidly. Even when they’re being absolute fools about it.

It starts one evening when you’re all curled up in the living room, feet tucked under legs, everyone half-watching some sci-fi film Peter insists is ‘underrated’. Joaquin is beside you, of course, legs tangled with yours, arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers occasionally brushing your neck. Casual. Torturous.

At one point, you reach for the popcorn, and he shifts automatically, lifting the bowl for you like it’s second nature. Your fingers brush. You look up at the same time.

He smiles. You smile back, heart screaming.

Across the room, Peter makes a noise. Something soft, strangled.

Johnny leans across him with a whisper that’s about as subtle as a sledgehammer. “I’m this close to locking them in a closet.”

Peter groans. “No.”

“It’s the only way. They’re both so oblivious, man,” Johnny says.

Bob, half-asleep on the armchair, mutters, “Please let me sleep through your crimes.”

They don’t. The next morning, things start to get suspicious.

First comes Peter’s idea. He approaches you in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea like it’s a peace offering.

“You know,” he starts, too casually, “Joaquin was saying the other day that he’s never been to that gallery you like.”

You pause, spoon hovering over your cereal. “Okay?”

Peter leans on the counter. “I just think it’s weird. I mean, you two like the same stuff. You should go. Together. Like a, um,” he stops himself, thinking. “Friendly outing.”

You narrow your eyes. “A date?”

“No,” he lies. “Obviously not. Unless you want it to be.”

“I don’t.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Peter hums, unconvinced. He walks out sipping his tea, suspiciously smug.

Next is Johnny’s turn. He ropes you into helping him ‘reorganise’ the hallway storage cupboard, which is weird because Johnny has never organised a single thing in his life. He waits until you’re wedged between a Hoover and a box labelled ‘Peter’s scientific failures’, before he says, “So, you and Joaquin.”

You freeze. “What about us?”

Johnny shrugs, pulling out a bag of mismatched socks. “Just saying. You’d make a hot couple.”

You snort. “That’s your angle?”

“I’ve got others.”

“Please don’t.”

He smirks. “Come on. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”

You try to sound unaffected. “He’s like that with everyone.”

“No,” Johnny says. “He’s not.”

Then, there’s Bob. Bob doesn’t say anything for days. He just watches. Quiet. Observant. A little too perceptive for someone who’s meant to be the chill one.

Then one afternoon, you walk into the kitchen to find him baking. This isn’t strange, Bob stress-bakes like most people breathe, but the cookies are heart-shaped.

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Bob shrugs. “Felt romantic.”

You grab one. “What are you even stressed about?”

He levels you with a look. “You.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You and Joaquin. The emotional tension is unbearable.”

“He’s just my best friend.”

“You’re in love with him.”

You stare at the cookie in your hand like it betrayed you.

Bob sighs. “Just ask him out.”

You shove the heart-shaped cookie in your mouth. Cowardice never tasted so sweet.

To their credit, the three of them try not to be pushy. Their version of not being pushy includes sabotaging seating arrangements, getting ‘called away’ during partner tasks so you’re paired with Joaquin, and casually mentioning your taste in music right before Joaquin offers to share his headphones on long drives.

You know what they’re doing. The worst part is that Joaquin doesn’t. He just smiles, oblivious. Offers you his jacket when you’re cold. Rests his chin on your shoulder when you’re on your phone. Makes you playlists titled things like if we danced at 2am.

Every interaction feels like a secret love letter he doesn’t realise he’s writing. You’re going to combust.

It all comes to a head one rainy afternoon in September.

You’re sprawled on the floor with Joaquin, building the world’s worst IKEA shelf. He’s got one knee on the instructions, and you’re trying not to laugh as he swears under his breath while holding three different screws that definitely don’t match.

Across the room, Peter, Johnny, and Bob watch with the quiet intensity of matchmaking vultures.

Joaquin leans over to grab a screwdriver. His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn’t move away. You feel your heart trip.

He looks up. “You okay?”

You nod.

He studies your face, expression softening. “You look tired.”

“Didn’t sleep much.”

His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently under your eye. “You should rest more.”

You freeze.

Across the room, Johnny mouths something wild. Peter slaps a hand over his mouth. Bob whispers, “For the love of God, do something.”

You open your mouth.

Then Joaquin says, “You’re my favourite person, you know?”

You swear the world goes quiet.

Your chest tightens. “You don’t mean that.”

He frowns. “Of course I do.”

“I mean, like, you say that kind of thing to everyone.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t.”

Your mouth goes dry. Joaquin still looking at you like you hung the moon. You look away. He doesn’t push. He never does.

Later, you’re in the kitchen again, hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate that you’re not drinking.

Peter walks in. Stops when he sees you.

“Did he say something?” he asks, carefully.

You shake your head.

“Then what happened?”

“I panicked.”

Peter sighs. “He’s not going to stop waiting for you. But you’ve got to stop pretending you don’t want it.”

You whisper, “What if he doesn’t mean it like that?”

Peter smiles, gentle. “He does.”

The next day, Joaquin finds you on the roof.

You don’t hear him approach. His voice is quiet when he says, “Hey.”

You don’t turn around.

He sits beside you, knees brushing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You shrug. “I’m not.”

“You are. I didn’t mean to make things weird,” Joaquin says.

“They’re not weird,” you lie.

He lets out a breath. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

You do. He’s close. Too close. His voice softens. “You know I meant it, right? About you being my favourite person.”

You nod, slow.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time you stole my hoodie.”

You blink. “You knew I stole it?”

He laughs. “I literally watched you take it.”

Your heart thuds in your chest.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I just needed you to know.”

You stare at him. Then you kiss him. It’s soft. Quiet. Like every moment that led to it. Like coming home.

Downstairs, Peter wins the bet. Johnny swears loudly. Bob pretends he didn’t cry. You and Joaquin walk in holding hands. No one says anything. You’re smiling too hard to care.

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Real heartbreak occurs quietly. It chips at you slowly; small cracks at first until you can no longer ignore the gaping wound in your chest. The missing center behind your ribcage. By the time you realize what has happened, the hole is too big to fill. The chasm impossible to bridge. They don’t tell you that it sneaks up on you, the curl of a cold-blooded snake around your neck that restricts your ability to breathe, to function. It hisses in your ear, a gentle whisper that only gets louder when the puncture isn’t tended to. 

Before you know it, the serpent has bared its teeth and sunk its poison into you. 

You didn’t think you would experience heartbreak with Dick Grayson. The man is loyal, loving. He anticipates your needs before you can even determine what’s missing. Raised to be observant and thoughtful, Dick is a fierce protector of those he cares about. You happen to be lucky enough to be one of them. 

You’ve seen how he is with his family, his friends, the people that he chooses to protect with his body, mind, and soul. There is not a thing he wouldn’t do to keep those he cherishes safe, even if it means sacrificing himself. 

Because of all this, Dick has to juggle one too many priorities. Not only are they things he already planned on doing, but he also has to account for the emergencies that crop up from time to time. Given that this is Blüdhaven, time to time means all the time. 

You’re used to it. Coming in second, that is. 

Your relationship with Dick is relatively new. Your dates aren’t life or death. So when he has to up and leave in the middle of dinner, it’s something you’ve grown accustomed to. The moment his phone vibrates on the table, you set your expectations. 

The first vibration, he ignores. 

The second one, his eyes flick down to his device before he refocuses on you.

Third time’s the charm. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly after you finish recounting your day. “Let me just check and make sure it isn’t anything urgent.”

But you already know the answer to that. It’s always urgent. It’s the city. You can’t blame him for it. Corruption is the norm in Blüdhaven; it bleeds through every crack and corner. From the police commissioner to the mayor, to the elites. Dick is ambitious, he thinks he can rid the city completely of its decrepit moral compass. 

The flicker of guilt that passes through his baby blues is the first sign. Then comes the sour curl of his lips when he realizes that he can’t disregard the threat alert from Oracle. Then comes the sympathetic look when he finally turns back to you. 

It’s that look that you can’t stand. That’s the one that always gets to you. Because you don’t want him to pity you. 

So you plaster a smile onto your lips and nod. “Go. The city needs you.”

Apologies automatically fall from his lips as he places a chaste kiss on your forehead, presses his credit card into your hands, and takes off. His dinner sits cold on the pristine white tablecloth. 

And you wonder if there will ever come a time when Blüdhaven will no longer need Nightwing. Or Dick Grayson. 

Maybe then you’ll have a chance at coming first. 

In his defense — and perhaps it comes from months of making excuses first for him as a friend and then as a lover, he does try. He tries to make time for you, slipping you into the little gaps he has in between investigations, philanthropic work, and patrols. It’s how you met him in the first place. 

Your job at the community center allowed you some governmental access which you used to help him take down a few bad apples in the mayor’s office. Small-time fry. But then he started doing more work for the people, building affordable housing and programming to help the city’s children, and you started seeing more of this elusive Dick Grayson. 

At first, you had been starstruck. The man is renowned all throughout the city — a savior to the good, a menace to the bad. The more time you spend with him, the more you learn about the Dick that he doesn’t show to the outside world. 

It’s the man who is weary down to the bone, cutting off one evil head only for two more to grow. It’s the man who bears the city’s burdens on his shoulders, carrying the weight of a million expectations with the limited resources that he has. It’s the man who slinks back into your arms after a long day and curls himself around you like it’s the only place he is meant to be. 

Falling in love with Dick had been all too easy. It’s like taking a nosedive off a cliff, knowing you’ll land in a wide-open ocean with a life jacket. 

When you find out that he also spends his nights as the masked hero Nightwing, he had been wary of how you would react. It’s ridiculous to think that you would feel anything other than pride when you see him in full gear for the first time. 

For some reason, Dick feels… further once you learn this fact. He already felt unattainable before —untouchable — as this generous, intelligent billionaire, heir to the famous Wayne family. Now that you know he is also a crime-fighting superhero, you feel those buried feelings of insecurity rise to the surface. The creeping voices clawing into your skin to question how you could ever be an adequate partner for him. 

How could you — someone so normal, so average — compare to the living legend Dick Grayson?

Of course, once the Nightwing gates are open, you also see the people he surrounds himself with. Martians. Kryptonians. Shapeshifters. Trained assassins. And Barbara Gordon — how do you even begin to describe Barbara Gordon?

Between Kori and Barbara, you were convinced that Dick had a thing for redheads. Dick reassured you that he really didn’t have a particular preference. No, no preference in terms of hair, but you can clearly see the pattern — all of his exes are skillful. Powerful. Hot.  

Gorgeous in a way that takes your breath away. Not only that, they’re fierce and bold and intelligent. They are out there saving the world day in and day out, whether it’s through ultraviolet energy projections or hacking into the most secure servers on the planet. 

That monster inside of you peeks around the corner with its talons out, ready to pierce through your fragile heart once more. You hate yourself for even thinking this way. It’s part of his job, these are his friends. You should feel lucky that you were even introduced to them. 

But that feeling has taken root and consumed your heart. Insufficient. Inadequate. Incapable. Who are you compared to all this greatness? 

It’s why you keep your head down, why you keep your mouth shut even as the fissures begin to appear in your heart. You disregard them, brush them off as a temporary blip in your confidence. You tell yourself that you’re lucky Dick’s even giving you the time of day. You can’t be another burden for him to bear. You should be making his life easier. 

So when he apologizes, you wave off his concern and tell him to go out there and save the world, Boy Wonder, because that’s what he does. The world comes first. You come second. It’s how it’s always been. It’s how it should be. 

The deeper you try to bury these feelings, these insecurities, the greater the cuts you slice inside your heart. You’re carving it out slowly, an excruciating process as you try to preserve what’s left of your emotions. 

Dick makes it up to you each time with flowers, with butterfly kisses, with the gentle touch of his hand. He promises you that next time will be better. He keeps his word. A few dates over the course of a few weeks, uninterrupted time, undivided attention. You’re on cloud nine by the time he drops you off at the doorstep, lingering for a fraction longer, enough time for you to invite him in to stay. 

He does. Every time. 

There are nights he returns to your side in uniform. His suit ripped, blood coating his skin crimson. These are times you’re reminded that he’s mortal. Human. You’re reminded that you could so easily lose him in all the work that he does. 

Nothing makes you feel more powerless than knowing that all you can do is help him tend to the aftermath. Your hands shake when you dab the antiseptic, when you wipe off all the red, when you wrap up the gauze around his body. 

You’re different from Barbara who guides him, who serves as his eyes and ears, and maps him a solution and exit each time. You’re different from Kori who fights alongside him with powers that he doesn’t have. You’re different from Bruce, Jason, Tim, and Damian, who know him in such intimate ways, moving in sync as he works through the city. 

You are someone watching from the sidelines. A character that could be so easily removed from his story, and nobody would blink twice. 

The thought pains you, but you suck it up and deal with it anyway. It’s easy to let these thoughts go when Dick murmurs saccharine sweet phrases into your neck. It’s easy to forget your place when he marks constellations across your body when he feels like having your company. 

You didn’t think it could get worse. You can only help. Right?

But you’re proven wrong the one time you’re all gathered at the Wayne Mansion. It’s a family dinner. The mood is light, the drinks are flowing, the food is delicious. Laughter ripples through the table and, for once, you aren’t overthinking your place at the table. 

That is, until an alarm sounds and everyone is immediately on high alert. They all seem to know what to do, whipping into action quickly while you sit there frozen. 

Dick gears up and then stiffens when he remembers you still at the dinner table, watching them all in awe and surprise. He looks at Alfred who is also preparing to help with the potential invasion of the mansion, then looks at you. “Stay here, okay? I’ll come get you when it’s safe.”

You open your mouth, ready to offer your assistance, but stop when you look around the room. How can you possibly even think about helping these heroes? They are the heroes of the story. You are the damsel in distress. 

“Okay,” is all you manage to say.

True to his word, Dick returns a few hours later. You’re right where he left you. He looks relieved to see you untouched, immediately coming up to you to inspect you. “Are you okay?”

Even when the worst is happening, his concern is on you. You’re adding more weight to his already hefty load. 

“I’m okay,” you reassure him. “Is everyone else okay?”

He softens and nods. “Yeah, they’re okay. Let’s get you home, yeah?” 

Dick’s kisses should’ve chased away those worries as they always have, but the feeling persists. It’s an itch you can’t scratch. An invisible scar you can’t heal. The feeling festers and grows, sprawling into this ugly hopelessness inside of you. 

It doesn’t disappear when Dick picks you up from work the next day, chattering on about the programs he is hoping to stand up with the help of the new mayor. 

It doesn’t disappear when the two of you run into Barbara outside of his apartment, telling him that there’s work to be done with Blockbuster.

It doesn’t disappear when Dick shoots you an apologetic look, asking for a rain check on your movie night — even when he’s already carrying the bags of popcorn and treats. 

The more you think about it, the more you consider where you stand with Dick. He’s already so busy with everything else. The last thing you want to be is another item on his checklist, another to-do to cross off. He already has enough on his plate, you don’t want to make it harder for him by adding another thing for him to complete. 

So you do what you thought was best. 

“I don’t think this is working out, Dick.”

Dick’s gaze falters, a shudder in his confidence. “What— why would you say that?”

“You’re very busy. You have a lot of things going on. I don’t think a relationship is a good idea right now.” Not for you, you add in your mind. This is for Dick, you remind yourself. This is to help him, the only way you know how. 

He’s quiet, lips pinched together as he frowns. The two of you were supposed to get lunch together, but you thought it best to sever it clean before the two of you sit down for what would likely be an awkward meal. So here you two are, standing in front of a restaurant. People mill about, barely paying you any mind. Some pause to look at Dick in admiration, but he is only looking at you. 

“Is this what you want?” His voice is lower when he asks this. 

No. But, of course, you don’t say that. 

“Yes. I think this is what’s best.”

A part of you wants him to resist, wants him to fight for you. That selfish part of you begs him to beg you to stay, to tell you that he wants this as much as you do. That he cares about you as much as you do him. 

But the responsible voice inside of you wants him to agree and walk away. 

Luckily – or not, he agrees with the latter. So the two of you hug and part ways. You walk away with shoulders held high and the tears streaming down your face. You don’t let him see it. You never want him to see it. 

And that’s the day you walked away from Dick Grayson.

It may be dramatic to say that there is your life before Dick and a life after him. You never thought you would ever consider romance to be the end-all-be-all of your life — and it isn’t. But Dick Grayson is something special, isn’t he? He isn’t just any romance. 

He is the romance. 

The type that sticks to you, a permanent fixture like he’s been tattooed and engraved into an everlasting mark on your skin. He clings to you like a persistent memory. No matter how many drinks you swallow, how many things you do to keep busy, you can’t seem to shake the thought of him when you’re alone.

The nights are the worst. The world inside your head is too quiet, even in a city like this one. Even when there are sirens blaring from every corner of your apartment and neon lights glare into your bedroom, you’re left to pick apart the decision you’ve made, constantly turning it over in your mind to determine whether it was the right one. 

There are nights when you find yourself reaching for your phone, your thumb hovering over his contact. It would be easy to call him, to ask for him back. You miss him, incredibly so. It would be so simple to send him a text saying as such. 

I miss you. What are you doing tonight?

Thinking of you, are you thinking of me?

I made a mistake. Will you have me again?

You try not to think about him, but the ask is akin to asking you not to breathe. Thinking about Dick comes naturally to you. It’s in the places you frequent, the ghost of him is the only constant lurking in the shadows. It’s the voice inside your head, calming you down when the city gets too much. It’s the absence that you feel the most — the sudden quiet when you don’t have him talking to you about his day, about his family, his friends, his ambition. The silence when he isn’t peppering you with follow-up questions about your week, sincerity and genuine curiosity entwined into his every syllable. 

And just as you’re swirling into this black hole, your phone lights up with an email reminder. A date the two of you were supposed to have. Movie tickets booked weeks ago because you had been so excited to see it, Dick had purchased the tickets immediately. With everything that has happened, you completely forgot to cancel it. 

However, instead of wallowing, you decide to go for it anyway. You’ve been cooped up in your home for too long, burying yourself under this mountain of self-despair. Quality time with your friends helped, but it didn’t cease the voices at night when you’re alone. 

The movie is good, it could’ve been better if you didn’t have this empty seat next to you. The theater is full and yet there is this one gap that sticks out like a sore thumb on opening night. Your mind is half on the movie and half imagining what it would be like to be here with Dick.

He would get popcorn ahead of time, with extra butter, just the way he knows you like it. He would get sweet tea, not cola, because he knows how you don’t like to pair bubbly drinks with airy snacks. He would let you hold onto the bucket and take it as an opportunity to reach closer to you whenever he grabs a handful, even sliding an arm around you to tuck you into his side. When the popcorn is gone, he would hold your hand, squeezing whenever he thinks you need the extra support. 

It’s an almost miserable experience. It’s pathetic how far gone you are for him that you can’t even enjoy time by yourself anymore.

But as they say, heartbreak is supposed to get easier with time. Eventually, you won’t remember what his touch felt like, the warmth of his body next to yours. You won’t think about him every time you pass by the basketball court he used to frequent to keep the neighborhood kids company. You won’t cry when you realize how many people you’ve gotten to know and lost in the process. You won’t think about him and you’ll remember that you can be perfectly content on your own again. 

You try not to fall under the weight of your worries as you step out of the theater. Everyone else filters out in pairs or groups, and you’re left standing there alone in the golden light that casts a glow across the rain-streaked sidewalk. You’re waiting for a cab. A cab that you will soon learn won’t find you. 

Not when you feel the breath down your neck.

“Aren’t you a pretty little bird?”

The unknown voice has you jumping, but not too far when a firm grip wraps around your bicep. Your eyes flash to betray your fear as you take in the masked assailant. He looks familiar, like a photograph hung somewhere in the back of your subconscious. Maybe one of Dick’s files that he tends to strew across your coffee table. 

“You’re Grayson’s girl. I’ve seen you around with him. Blockbuster’s going to want to see you.”

“I’m not— we’re not—” together, you want to say, but you don’t get a chance to finish your words when the man zaps you out cold. 

By the time you wake, there is a dull throbbing on your side where you’ve been electrocuted. The room smells of wastewater but looks relatively clean. You must be near the sewage plant. There is no one in the room and your eyes quickly dart around. What would Dick do in this moment? 

Your hands are tied up with a rope behind your back, feet against the legs of the chair. You systematically go through your surroundings. A shelf with all sorts of items. Books, random paraphernalia, and a glass bottle at the top. An idea pops up in your head, the films you watch finally coming in helpful; it might not be one that Dick approves, but he’s not here to scold you right now. 

Based on the distance and the weight of the chair, you scooch your way towards it. You use your shoulder to bump the shelf, rattling it with the little force you have. You can hear the bottle stumble a bit, but it’s not quite there yet.

Another hard push with your limited movement has it finally dropping on its side, rolling down the shelf until it lands, split in pieces, on the ground next to you. Now, you have to carefully drop yourself onto the floor, making sure you’re not getting the shards on your skin. There is no graceful way to do this, so you just tip yourself over. With your face pressed against the cold cement floor, your hands wriggle around behind you to grasp a piece of the glass, slicing the tip of your finger in the process, but at least you have this. 

Slowly, you use the jagged edge to cut through the rope. It’s an arduous process. The entire time, you’re praying that maybe — on the very off-chance — Dick is still keeping track of you. That he’ll notice your disappearance. Maybe he’ll come to your rescue. It’s a naive thought, but it’s the hope that you cling to.  

When your wrists are finally free, you get to work on your ankles. Another slice on your leg in your hurry to break free before your captors return. You don’t know where you are or how you plan to escape, but that tiny window looks promising. 

You’re halfway up the wall, standing on your chair, struggling to unlock the window when the front door swings open. You whip around and see the imposing figure duck into the room. Fuck. It’s Blockbuster. He is the man who’s been out for Dick’s blood for as long as you can remember. 

And now he has you, trapped in this room. His broad frame takes up nearly half the width of the space. You fiddle with the lock faster, praying for some miracle that you can escape in time. 

But the man doesn’t even give you a chance — his thick arms wrap around your torso before he lifts you up and throws you back onto the ground. If you didn’t know any better, you swear you hear bones cracking. The pain that shoots through you is fast, blistering, blinding. It’s hot-white and has your vision spotting. 

“Where do you think you’re going, pretty bird?” Blockbuster rumbles in vile amusement. “You’re not leaving this room. You’re not leaving this space until I get some answers.”

“Answers about what?” You spit out, the liquid coming out in a smattering of red on the grey floor. 

“Grayson. I want to know his weaknesses, his vulnerable points. I want to know everything there is to know about him to destroy him.”

The wide smile that stretches across his face has your stomach churning in disgust. He crouches on the floor, leans towards you, close enough that his platinum hair brushes against your face. 

“Or maybe you’re it. Maybe you’re his only weakness. Maybe I already have the pretty bird in my hands to take him down.”

“He’s not going to let you get away with this, or anything. He’s going to destroy you before you even come close to him.”

Blockbuster laughs, the sound booming. “This bird’s got claws. I can see why Grayson likes you. Don’t worry, pretty. I’ll break each one before you leave today. I’ll make sure you can’t sing for him anymore. I’ll make you squawk.” 

The threat settles in deep in your gut and your heart plummets six feet under. 

Then it begins. The beating, the brutalizing. You’re on the ground, against the wall, and flying through the air. Your face, your ribs, your hair, your legs, your arms. It goes on and on for what feels like hours. The only light you see is the one that hangs overhead, but even that begins to fade as your eyes struggle to stay open. Your chest heaves with heavy breaths, strained wheezes slipping past your lips in your desperate attempt to stay alive. The glass bits you were so adamant on avoiding before are now affixed to your skin like glitter. 

Your vision goes between white and red and pitch black. When you start to lose consciousness, he jolts you awake again. The only sounds ringing in your ear are his questions, now a jumbled blur of words, and a cacophony of foul laughter. 

You’ve never been religious but in those final moments, you pray. You pray for a savior. You pray that you’ll survive this. You pray that Dick doesn’t have to see you in your final moments.

Despite all that has happened, you like to hope that Dick still cares — and when Dick cares, you know he would live with this weight for the rest of his life. The last thing you want to leave him with is another burden to carry. 

Your ears start ringing from the abuse you’ve undergone. At some point, the pain no longer flares, it ebbs and flows as your body grows numb. Not a single part of you untouched. You don’t think the man even has questions anymore; he only takes ill gratification in the fact that he has destroyed something of Dick’s. 

You swear you hear a different voice, a different sound. No longer your screams or his laughter. A curse, a thud, a yell. Your brain can’t fully comprehend it, not when your senses can no longer be trusted. Not when they barely work. In the spread of red, you see glimpses of blue and black. 

You hear your name. You hear it before you feel a gentle touch, a brush that’s barely there on your head. 

Then it all goes black. 

“We need you to let her go. Sir, we are trying to help.”

“You don’t know what she’s gone through—”

“We will work to diagnose all her injuries. For now, we need you to let us do our jobs.”

“I’m surprised she’s still breathing. The damage she’s taken…”

“Let’s just get through this and let the family know.”

“Sir, this is family only—”

“I am her family,” Dick’s voice snaps back. You’ve never heard him raise his voice like that before. 

Then you hear someone else, more stern, still warm. Bruce. “If you’ll allow my son to stay with her, she doesn’t have family in the area. I’ll handle the paperwork, if you’ll lead me.”

“Sweet girl, I’m so sorry.”

“No, I’m not leaving.”

“Dick, you need to eat at least. You can’t help her like this.”

“I’m the reason she’s here to begin with. I’m not leaving her.”

“How’s she doing?” The deep baritone, you think it’s Bruce. 

Dick’s voice frays at the edges, like he’s barely keeping it together as he inhales. You can feel his eyes on you. “Better. Doctors think she’ll be fine but she doesn’t have the energy yet to be fully conscious.”

“She’s a strong one. She’ll be fine, Dick.”

A pause. You wonder how Dick looks, if he’s been eating— “I don’t think I can ever forgive myself if she isn’t.”

“I should’ve been there with her, you know. We bought those tickets weeks ago. I thought she refunded them when she broke up with me. Didn’t think she’d go alone to such a late showing.” 

A sigh. More high-pitched. Maybe Barbara. She’s been worried sick about him based on how many times she has come to visit. Her voice is more familiar than others. “You can’t blame yourself. You couldn’t have known that would happen.”

“It’s Blüdhaven, of course, something like this would happen. I should’ve expected this, that’s my entire job.” 

“Babs sent me here to deliver this. Can you please just eat first? Everyone’s worried about you.”

There’s the rustling of a plastic bag. You hope that Tim picked up Dick’s favorite Thai spot downtown, the one with the pad see ew he likes. Hopefully, that’ll cheer him up. “Thanks, but I’m good for now.”

“Dick, you’re not doing anyone any favors by punishing yourself. What would she say if she saw you like this, huh?”

“Well, she can’t really say anything now, can she? Because of me.”

“Stop blaming yourself. It’s Blockbuster’s fault. She wouldn’t want you to do this.”

“Should’ve been me in this bed.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’m so sorry. God, I’ll do anything — I’ll give up anything. Just please wake up. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“I can’t do this without you. I need you to wake up, pretty girl. Need to see those eyes again. Need you looking at me again.”

“I swear I’ll do better. I’ll work harder. Please. Don’t take her away from me.”

When your eyes finally flutter open, you feel as if it’s been years since you’ve seen the light. The bright fluorescent lamps above blind you as you groan and turn away. Crust nearly keeps your eyes shut but you reach up to brush them away, only to wince at the searing pain by your side.

“Hey, pretty girl, easy. Don’t move too fast. You’re hurt.” 

Dick. You slowly turn to the side to find him there. Then you briefly analyze your surroundings. 

White. All white. Hospital. The only splashes of color are in the flower arrangements sitting at the end of your bed. Large and wild. Alive. 

You’re alive. 

Christ, you’re alive. 

But Dick — he looks disheveled, the most you’ve ever seen him at least. There’s certainly more than a day’s worth of stubble peppering his jaw, his blue eyes shadowed by the circles surrounding them. His hair is a mussed-up mess, like he’s been running his hand through it nonstop for days. 

He’s fast to approach, gentle to touch. You swear you see the slight tremble in his fingertips as he brushes your hair away from your face. His eyes search yours, drinking you in like he is memorizing every inch of you. Old habits die hard, you suppose. He’s probably cataloging your injuries as if the doctor hasn’t done that already. 

“Hey, Dick,” you smile weakly, the stretch painful. Your throat feels dry, your voice comes out grainy. There’s a stiffness around your neck, which you soon realize is a brace. It hurts to breathe, let alone speak. “What day is it?”

Dick scrambles to grab the glass of water at your bedside table. He eases the rim between your lips, letting the cool liquid slowly pour between your chapped lips. “Easy, not too much. Not too fast,” he whispers, then adds, “Been four days.”

“Hmm, that’s a while, huh? Hope my boss doesn’t fire me for missing work that long. God knows we’re understaffed.”

Your attempt to laugh falls short when you feel the piercing twinge in your stomach, and it comes out as a raspy cough instead. 

Dick’s eyes widen and you shake your head to reassure him. You don’t like the way his forehead creases in concern, how dim his usually bright eyes are. Dick forces a smile at your poor endeavor at humor. “No, I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetheart. Called in for you.”

“Good. What a waste of PTO though.”

“Sweet girl,” Dick breathes out, closer this time as he leans forward and presses his lips against your temple. You barely feel it, still slightly numb under the bandage wrapped around your head. His breath is shaky when he exhales. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I should’ve been there.”

You roll your eyes, but it only makes your head ache. “Don’t be silly. Why would you have been there? It wasn’t as if we had plans.”

“We were supposed to go together. We—” Dick chokes on his words as he sits on the chair next to your bed, bringing your hand up to his face and flattens the back of it against his cheek. “I’m sorry. I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am that I wasn’t there.”

“You were, Dick. You came for me. I knew you would.”

“I wasn’t fast enough.”

“You were as fast as you could be.”

“I didn’t get him. I wanted to, but you were there and you were hurt and I needed to get you to the hospital first. He escaped and—”

“You’ll get him next time.”

“I let you get hurt.”

“You didn’t do anything except save me.”

Dick’s lips quiver as he inhales again, as he looks at you. 

“I love you.”

Then you hear another sharp gasp. Yours. 

“I love you. I should’ve told you that a long time ago, pretty girl. I love you so much. I shouldn’t have let you walk away. I should’ve fought harder for you. I just— I thought you deserved better than me. Someone who could treasure you properly. Hopefully, someone who loves you as much as I do, even if I don’t think it’s possible.”

Your throat is tight. Whether it’s the tears or from the injuries you’ve sustained, you’re not entirely sure. Your question is only answered when you taste the saltiness on your tongue, your fingers reaching up to touch the wet mess rolling down your face. 

“But I can’t let you go. People think I’m selfless, but god — I’m so fucking selfish when it comes to you. Never want you to leave my side again. I want you close so I can protect you, keep you safe, love you proper. I want you to know how much you mean to me. I want to remind you of it every day. I took it for granted before, but never again. I love you. I’ll do it right this time, if you’ll let me. If you’ll still have me.”

“Dick…”

“God, look at me babbling away when you should be resting,” Dick huffs, disgruntled with himself. “I’m sorry. I’ll get the doctor. I should’ve done that first.”

“Stay.”

“I have to—”

You reach for his fingers again, intertwining them. It’s been a while since you’ve had his big hands up close. These hands always remind you that you’re safe, that you’re his. Gentle, a contradiction against the harsh touch of Blüdhaven. “Just for a little while.”

Dick glances between the door and your joint hands in conflict. He caves in to you, because — of course, he does. He’s never been one to deny you when you want to touch him. It’s his weakness. If Clark had his Kryptonite, he had you. 

“For a little bit,” he murmurs reluctantly, “but I want them to check on you right after this, okay? I have to make sure you’re good.” 

For a while, the two of you let the silence seep in. It wraps around you like a blanket, warm and steady. The worries of the past few days — even the past few weeks — seem to melt away as you let your eyes slide close once more, your head pressing back into the pillow. Dick’s fingers twitch in your hand and you give him a squeeze to assure him you’re okay. 

“I was scared,” you admit quietly. You can’t meet his eyes. Not for this. “I wasn’t scared of Blockbuster. I was scared of what would happen if you found me a minute too late. If I didn’t make it.”

“Wh— why would you be scared of that?”

“Because I know you’d blame yourself. You already have, even though you saved me. I didn’t want to be another weight to carry. Another burden on your shoulders.”

There is a fracture in Dick’s voice when he says your name. Like a prayer. Like a desperate plea. “You could never be a burden. I— I don’t know what I would’ve done if I didn’t make it in time. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Might make things easier for you,” you try to tease, but the joke lands bitter on your tongue. “One less thing to worry about. I guess I already was when I ended things.”

Dick is quiet for a moment, you can’t even hear him breathe. So you turn to look at him again, curious eyes finding his slumped shoulders. “Don’t even joke about that. That’s not something I’m entertaining. I’m never not worrying about you,” he mutters, “kept tabs on you even after you broke up with me. I wanted to make sure you always had someone looking out for you, even if it’s someone you didn’t care about anymore.”

You frown then. “Why would you think I don’t care about you?”

His head tilts in question then, brows furrowing. “Isn’t— I mean, isn’t that why you ended things? Because you weren’t interested in me anymore. I wasn’t a great boyfriend, I know that. I should’ve done more. That’s on me. I just thought, you… didn’t care about me anymore. Maybe you found someone else.”

“Dick, oh my— no, not at all. I just—” your teeth sink into your bottom lip, the truth hanging on the tip of your tongue but you refuse to let it slip. 

He looks at you with such earnest eyes, ones that urge you to continue. 

How can you say no to him? How could you think for one second you could let him go?

“I thought it would be easier for you, if we broke up,” you admit quietly and are immediately answered by the deepening of his frown, “you have so much going on. Between Nightwing, Blüdhaven and Gotham, and all the community outreach you were doing, it just didn’t seem like you had time for a relationship. It’s not as if I was helping you in any way, I can’t really do that. Not like the others. So I did what I thought was best.”

The look on Dick’s face now, you don’t think you ever want to see again. He looks absolutely crestfallen. His lips slightly parted, eyes carrying the sort of melancholy that comes after a loss. “You— fuck, you thought that breaking up would be easier for me? How can you— what would even make you think that? I know I’ve been busy and I haven’t been the best boyfriend, but god, you— you never made things harder. Ever. If anything, I feel so much lighter with you around. I feel as if I could breathe again. When this city chokes out the last of me, I know I’ll at least have you. And god, I wasn’t perfect, I was a terrible boyfriend, but you put up with me. I don’t know why you did for as long as you did, but— I didn’t know that’s how you felt with me. I wish you’d told me.”

A laugh of disbelief escapes him, rising from his chest with acid on his tongue. 

“You were always so patient. I thought— I thought that’s all you wanted from me. A few dates here and there. I didn’t want to ask more of you, didn’t want to scare you off. I can be intense, overwhelming. I know I can certainly be, and I didn’t want you to think I was being too demanding.” 

“Dick, you’re… unbelievable. Do you know how much I admire you? Everything that you do? Sometimes, I don’t know what you see in me. When you have all these incredible people around you, when you’re doing all these incredible things. I didn’t think I’d be… enough.”

Dick stands then, cupping your face in his hands. His eyes are wild, alive now. It’s as if he’s been electrified in the last few moments of your conversation. “You are more than enough. You’re everything. Every day I see how hard you work, how much of your heart you put into this city and its people, and it reminds me of why I want to protect this city. It’s because of you. I want you safe, I want you happy here — with me. God, I fucking love you, you know that. I’m going to remind you of it every day. If you’ll let me have you again, I promise you — you’ll never have a doubt in your mind ever again when it comes to where you stand with me. You’ll see what I see in you.”

You crack another small smile, cheeks aching. You’re probably ripping open a couple of stitches, but it’s worth it when Dick breathes a sigh of relief. “Love you too, Dick.”

The smile he offers you is magnificent. The kind that you memorize, print, and tuck away for safekeeping on a rainy day. He presses another kiss to your forehead, then your hand. Firm this time. More confident. He hesitates before he leans to brush his lips against yours. 

And it feels like homecoming. 

“I’m going to put a tracker on you from now on. I’ll drop you off at work and pick you up. I’ll install new security measures in your office and our apartment—”

“Our?”

He freezes then flushes, pink tinging his neck. “If you want. I mean, I think you’ll be safer there. I know we haven’t been together long but I’ll feel better if you’re with me. We can spend more time together, I don’t have to let you go at the end of the day. If you’re not comfortable, I’ll set up a separate room for you first — not to say I won’t be crashing in there every night, but—”

“Dick,” you reprimand teasingly. “I’ll think about it. That’s a big move.”

“Right, yeah. Of course. You don’t have to. I’ll implement new security cameras and sensors at your place. I’ll booby trap some of the windows so no one can break in. We’ll upgrade your—”

“Dick,” you say again, softer this time. “Your offer isn’t a bad thing. I just… I have to think about it. I love you, I do. It’s just been a lot.”

He nods solemnly and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. Always working. Always looking for a solution. 

“It’s not a no, baby.”

The pet name has him perking up, his eyes illuminating for the first time in a while since you’ve seen him. Crystal blue staring right back at you. 

“And Dick—”

“Yeah?”

“Probably time to get the doctor. I might’ve split open a few stitches.”

“Oh, shit yeah.” He jumps to his feet, ready to run out when you call for him again. He pops his head back in, gaze curious, happy, concerned. 

Your lips tug into a smile. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, pretty girl.”

dick is flying to (taglist): @catclaw1 @lunexiax @esunarint @lunaryoongie @alli0-0 @avgdestitute @parker-barnes-af @onecojg @lynnidc @winnichu173 @c3liaaaaa @my-drvidess @fruitypebsworld @smorgasbrods @ruptureedspleen @take-it-on-the-run @a-very-fictional-girl @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @its-pomegranite @athenxt

Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides for as long as you can remember. He’s a few years older than you and you grew up chasing after his footsteps, and he never seemed to mind. You never curbed that habit.

Not when you ended up graduating from the same university, with a major that complemented his future career. Not when you recruited for StormPAR because he was leading investor relations there. Not when you decided to pack up your life and move to the midwest to chase tornadoes.

In the first week of your three-month research project for the new sensors, you and Scott had a little too much to drink. One kiss led to another and suddenly you’re falling into bed with him. 

Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind — so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings. 

He only grunts in agreement before he slides into you. His mouth is hot, distracting, and the unsaid agreement is signed with the burning ache between your legs. 

So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you. 

Because, for Scott, you’ll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue. 

It should be fine — this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when you’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crazy weather fanatics. Theoretically, it should be fine.

But you never expected the addition of a new variable — Kate. 

Kate is… perfect. She’s gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, she’s leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data they’ve never been able to capture. She’s quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone — whether it’s the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.

Once again, it should be fine, except you’ve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. She’s different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. You’ve always only had your name, he’s never had a cute pet name for you. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.

If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when you’re in bed with him, his mind is sometimes far away. He absentmindedly traces your bare shoulder, keeping you close even if his attention seems elsewhere.

You can’t watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.

He doesn’t stop you.

One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it — even if it means you have to move to New York.

Because, while you love Scott, you also can’t bear to watch him fall for someone who isn’t you.

As you’re leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. He’s still naked in his bed, sheets pooled around his hips, as he catches your hand. The look on his face is indifferent when he asks you why you don’t stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.

You’re shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve got an interview.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have revealed that, but you’re exhausted and the honest answer slips.

“An interview? With who? For what?” He sounds more alert now.

“Just a job.”

“You’ve already got a job,” Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.

“I don’t know. I might want to try something different.”

He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. “Something different,” he echoes slowly.

“It’s not a big deal,” you brush him off, “I don’t even know if I’ll get it. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

Scott, again, doesn’t say a word.

It seems so… easy for him to let you go. You know it isn’t on him to love you the same way you do him; that’s not a fair ask. But you also have enough pride to know when to take a step back.

Creating physical distance is not the challenging part; it’s dealing with the emotional toll. Every time you have to avoid your silently-designated spot next to him at bars or how you opt to take Javy’s car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You don’t come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.

Scott’s not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesn’t say anything.

On the other hand, he actually starts talking more with Kate, private chats in the corner of a bar or early mornings over coffee. Sometimes his gaze would flick over to you, harden, and ultimately return to her. That used to be you, but you left that space empty for someone else to fill.

Then you finally get the call.

“I got the job,” you tell him quietly that night.

You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before — for the first time in your life — you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.

The two of you are side by side in bed, you’ve slipped on his t-shirt, drowning in the cotton and his familiar storm-stained scent. You allow yourself to indulge in your last night.

Scott doesn’t look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. “Do you want it?”

No, no, you don’t. You want to stay here — with him and the rest of the team. But this is also a great opportunity, both for your career and the survival of your heart. “I think so.”

He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. “You think so? You’re not even sure?”

“Well, it’s a big jump, but I might take it,” you swallow.

“You shouldn’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”

You roll your eyes at him. “I’m never absolutely sure about anything.” Except for the fact that I’m in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.

“Then don’t go. Stay here.”

His words are cold and stiff. It’s calculated. You are an asset to the team. It would be a pain to hire a new analyst in the middle of tornado season and get them fully trained to do what you do. Maybe you could stay just another month until all this is over, maybe you can get them to postpone your start date.

But could you really do it? Could you stand by the sidelines and swallow your feelings long enough to last until the bitter end?

Sighing, you know your answer. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

It’s now or never. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well confront him — if you can’t have him, then at least Kate could.

“I’m not stupid, you know. I can see it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re in love.”

The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.

“I’m not—” he stops himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever we’re doing.” He frowns. “Kate is wonderful, so I understand.”

Scott’s furrow only deepens. “What the hell are you going on about?”

“You and Kate,” you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. “You guys make a good pair. I’m happy it’s working out, but I just can’t be here to watch that happen so I’m going to take the offer and move to New York. I know it’s tough to replace my work during this time, I’ll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwards—”

“Fuck that,” he snaps, “like hell you’re leaving. What do you mean you can’t be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?”

Maybe he thinks you’re badmouthing her. “She’s great! I’m happy for you. I’m just—” your chest constricts. “I’m in love with you. Shit. I’ve been in love with you, Scott. I can’t do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps you’ll let me have, but I can’t. Especially not when you’re falling for someone else.”

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. “Who said anything about falling for someone else? Also, you’re in love with me? Since when?”

A groan slips past your lips. “This is so humiliating. Can we drop it?”

“Oh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?”

“Forever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?” You grumble, “I was in love with you before… this even started.”

You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re my friend, Scott.”

“Apparently not if you didn’t fucking tell me,” he glares.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Disbelief colors his face. “It would’ve changed everything. Are you kidding me? You’ve been in love with me all this time and you didn’t tell me?”

Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? He’s got his hands balled into fists on the sheets, jaw clenched like he would rather be anywhere but here. While the possibility of him rejecting you has always crossed your mind, you didn’t think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.

He’s right. This changes everything.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I shouldn’t have—” your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want this to change anything between us. We’ll stay friends.”

“We can’t stay friends,” he scowls. Your heart sinks.

You press the heel of your palms against your eyes, praying the tears away. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him. “I can’t— I’m gonna go. I need to—”

“No, you’re staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.”

For a second, you can’t hear past the rushing in your ears, the frantic urge to leave. But when his words settle in and your brain slowly digests each individual syllable, you pull your wet hands away from your eyes. Scott swallows thickly when he sees your face.

“You think what — that I was in love with Kate?” He scoffs but there’s no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. “What gave you that idea?”

You balk at him. It’s your turn to be confused. “You— you’re literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for god’s’ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?”

“That’s because I’m bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name — and I keep watching her because she’s like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?”

You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.

“And that job? I can’t fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well I’d never let that happen. If you really wanted it — and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I’ll be following you to the ends of the earth.”

Your lungs stutter against your ribs. “What?”

Scott turns to face you, hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. To really look at him. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been fucking in love with you.” 

You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, “Since when?”

“Forever.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“You were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didn’t want to date.”

“That’s because you’re always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!”

Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if you’re the fool in this situation. “Except when it comes to you! Jesus, you’re never a pain. You’re the best part of my day. I think about you all the goddamn time. Sometimes, I want you to stop doing this tornado chasing thing because it’s dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But you’re passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.”

“But you— what— this can’t be happening.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot.”

Your lips press together. “You love me and you’re calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?”

“That’s because you are. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasted all this time. I can’t believe I even let you take that interview,” Scott grouses, mostly to himself. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You think I’d let anyone tail me around like you did?”

A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. “I just thought you felt bad for me.”

“You somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,” he mumbles. “I love you. I’m not letting you out of my sight, you hear me. Need you in my car every day. Next to me every time we go out. I need you in my bed every night and I don’t want you leaving either. We’ll share one room from now on.”

You sniffle, “That’s very fiscally responsible of you.”

Scott chuckles, “Well, I’ll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Can’t have you getting bored with me.”

“Please,” you roll your eyes with a smile, “if we’ve survived this long without getting sick of each other, what’s forever, right?”

The reality of what you’ve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.

“I mean—”

“Is that a proposal?” He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.

Sweet, slow, steady.

“Because I’ve got a ring with your name on it back at home. I’ve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, cheeks warm.

“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”

That, you can’t deny.

+ sam: you know how excited i was to write this and i hope it didnt disappoint. ily queen thank you for always matching my freak and my yap mwah!!

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz

The pan in front of Bob sizzles to life as he drizzles the olive oil onto it. The oil spirals as he spreads it around, coating the pan evenly throughout. His stomach growls, demanding to be fed, but alas, Bob has to actually wait for his pancakes to be cooked before he could eat them, much to his hungry stomachs annoyance.

Bob was excited to surprise you with breakfast this morning. You had been out late last night, meeting the rest of the squad at the Hard Deck for some celebratory drinks for another successful mission at Top Gun and your plan to be home by ten turned into you not rolling into bed until half passed two after you dropped off a stumbling Mickey and Jake off to their respective apartments, Nat ducking out just in the nick of time so she wouldn't have to deal with those two.

Bob hoped to make it to you with your favorite breakfast, already imagining your curious face poking out under the covers when he'd walk in with a plate stacked high with that fluffy deliciousness and how you'd stretch, pulling him into an appreciative kiss before snatching the plate from him.

That hope died the moment your arms wrapped him up in a back hug, your head leaning against his shoulder as you yawned.

Bob groans, dramatically throwing his head back at the fact his plan for a romantic morning with you was ruined, “You were supposed to stay asleep.”

“Well good morning to you too, grumpy.”

Bob mumbles something about him not being grumpy, but you ignore him, burying your face deeper in his back, “Couldn’t really stay asleep when my personal space heater walked away and left me shivering in that cold tundra, now could I?”

“It is not a cold tundra in our room.”

“Fix the heater and it won’t be anymore.”

Bob stifles a laugh as he flips the now done pancake onto a plate. You always claimed to the love the cold until it reached below 65 in the house, “Promise I will. Right after breakfast.”

You hum, accepting his answer, “You’re lucky it wasn’t the AC that was broken. If that wasn’t fixed on day one, we would not be here right now.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep. Some cold? Fine, okay. I’ve been fine the last few days that it's been broken. But… a few days without the AC? In San Diego, especially if it was during a heat wave? No thank you!”

Bob shakes his head as he chuckles, when you move to pull away, he brings his hand down from the pan to you, stopping you from detaching from his waist.

 “No stay.”

“You just grumbled at me a second ago for hugging you?”

“Correction, not for you hugging me, for you getting out of bed when I was going to surprise you with breakfast in bed. There’s a difference.”

You roll your eyes, ready to say something witty when he adds, “Plus, you give the best hugs.”

“Well… since you said that so nicely, I guess I can stay.”

Bob does a quiet cheer. You lightly bite his shoulder and squeeze his waist a little harder, but it doesn’t faze him, he just chuckles as he flips another pancake, “Keep squeezing me while I flip these pancakes. It’s a great motivator.”

“Oh really?”

“Yep! The best.”

You stay there, hugging Bob from behind as he makes his way through the kitchen, stuck on him as he grabs cups from the cabinet and the syrup from the pantry, waddling behind him to keep up.

It’s a silly sight that would definitely get the squad to tease you both about being a sappy, lovey dovey couple acting like they were still in their honeymoon phase even though you’ve been dating for years, but it’s how you two worked. You could be wrinkled and grey and you’d still be sickeningly sweet on each other, too lost in one another to care otherwise.

Likes, comments, and reblogs are always appreciated! Love ya!

Please do not copy or repost. Love and thank you all!

It’s Dennis.

Your phone is face down on the nightstand where you left it last night after sending one sad little good night x like a woman with no emotional self-preservation.

You stare at it. For one full minute, you do not touch it. Then you touch it.

The screen lights up too bright.

Dennis 💕: I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize how late it was. Dennis 💕: Good night, June bug. I’ll see you tomorrow.

That’s it. No explanation. No name.

No nervous, over-detailed Dennis paragraph where he apologizes three times and somehow makes you forgive him halfway through because he’s so painfully sincere about it.

Just sorry.

Just good night.

You lie there with the phone in your hand, the blue light painting the ceiling, and tell yourself you have no right to be upset. He said he was helping a friend.

People have friends.

You have friends. Yolanda would commit three HIPAA-safe crimes for you. Shen sends you memes like he’s being paid. Frank would rather choke than say he’s worried, but he showed up outside your apartment yesterday because he knew something was off before you did.

Dennis is allowed to have friends. Dennis is allowed to be busy. Dennis is allowed to help someone without giving you a sworn affidavit about it.

You know all of that.

Your body does not care.

That old, bruised feeling is sitting under your sternum again. Familiar. Embarrassing. The kind of feeling you thought you had outgrown because you’d gotten older and sharper and meaner and better at not needing anyone enough for them to hurt you.

Apparently not.

You lock your phone and sit up. “Nope,” you whisper into the dark. “We are not doing this.” Park’s 0700 case is waiting on your laptop, and if you show up unprepared, he will notice before you even breathe wrong.

You drag the laptop onto your bed, pull up the CT, and force your brain into bone.

Tibial plateau. Split-depression. Lateral plateau involvement. Articular step-off. Soft tissue swelling. Possible meniscal involvement. Approach. Fixation. Bone graft. Plates. Screws. Fluoro. Post-op restrictions.

The clean logic of it helps for maybe twenty minutes. Then your brain wanders again.

A friend.

That’s all Dennis said. Not who. Not why. Not why his face changed when you asked him to dinner. Not why Frank made that face in his kitchen. Not why Abby got careful at the sink.

You press the heel of your hand into your eye. You hate this. You hate that one vague sentence can reach back through years and grab something still tender.

Jake’s voice comes back too easily.

You were never around, June.

Your jaw tightens. Five years.

Five years together through undergrad and med school. Five years of exams, rotations, missed dinners, rescheduled birthdays, apologies typed in hospital stairwells. Five years of thinking you were building something with someone who understood ambition until he used it against you.

When he cheated, he hadn’t even had the decency to just be cruel. He’d been calm. Worse, he’d been disappointed. Like it was your fault he had needed someone else.

You cared more about the hospital than me.

You slam the laptop shut harder than necessary. Then immediately open it again because work still exists.

By 0530, you’re in navy blue scrubs. Your hair is twisted up, and Abby’s orca scrub cap is in your hands. She gave it to you after Park called you “meaner than a shark and twice as hard to redirect.”

You told her it was ridiculous. You wear it all the time. You tuck your hair under it, grab your badge, hospital brooks, pens, trauma shears, and a Tropical Red Bull from the fridge

You look at your phone one more time. No new text from Dennis.  Which makes sense. It’s five-thirty in the morning. He’s probably asleep. You are not upset that your boyfriend is asleep.

Your boyfriend.

The word should feel nice. Instead, it turns the bruise in your chest a little deeper. You shove the phone into your pocket and leave.

The parking garage is cold and echoing when you pull in at 0602.

You sit in your car for a second after turning it off, hands still on the wheel,  Red Bull sweating in the cupholder.

Your phone buzzes. Your stomach flips before you can stop it.

Dennis 💕: Good morning, beautiful.  I’m excited to see you today.

For one second, your face softens.

Then the soft thing gets tangled with the hurt.

Because yesterday, that message would’ve ruined you in the best way. You would’ve grinned like an idiot in your car, typed something stupid, called him Huckleberry, told him not to be cute before seven because you had a reputation to maintain.

Today, you just stare.

You type:

You: good morning

You look at it.

It looks cold, like you’re sending an email.  Like something you’d send to radiology. Not something you send to the boy who makes you melt with a single smile. You almost add a heart.

You don’t. Delivered.

Another buzz.

Frankie 🧸: You okay?

Of course.

Of course Frank knows. Frank can miss entire social cues happening directly in front of him, but if your emotional temperature changes half a degree, he develops military-grade radar.

You:it is 0600 Frankie :That wasn’t a no.

You stare at that and then type:

You: I'm fine. 0700 case.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Then finally another response came through. 

Frankie :🧸Eat something.

You huff. A very Frank text. One that still shows he cares without showing too much of his hand. 

Another text.

Yoyo, My Lover: Park is here early and drinking black coffee like he’s about to declare war on soft tissue.

Despite yourself and all your sad girl feelings, your mouth twitches.

You: So what? That’s his usual demeanor.  Yoyo, My Lover:  No. His calm voice is out.

You wince.

You: thoughts and prayers for everyone with an intact ego.

Then Shen.

Dunkin Addict: night shift casualty report: Lena threatened the printer. Mateo spun around too many times and fell out of his chair. And my personal favorite is a patient called Jack “Dr. Jack Sparrow.” because he has a peg leg. Dunkin Addict: good morning bone gremlin.

You lean your head back.

You: why do you work the night shift is literally the psych ward.  Dunkin Addict/; because medicine is a prison and dunkin is my warden.  You: the printer deserves it? Dunkin Addict:printer was guilty.

Your phone buzzes again… Dennis.

Dennis 💕: Early case today?

You look at it. It’s a very normal question. A sweet question because he’s interested in your day. A boyfriend question. Wondering why his girlfriend is up earlier than normal. 

Your thumb hovers.

Then you lock the screen. Not to punish him. You are not punishing him.

You’re busy. You have a case. You have imaging. You have to be in the break room before Park decides you’re incompetent. You have no time to be weird about a man who said he was helping a friend and didn’t explain.

You grab your bag, your Red Bull, and get out of the car. The garage air bites at your cheeks.

Good.

You need the bite.

By the time you walk into the hospital, your face is arranged into something neutral. Unfortunately, neutral on you apparently reads as “actively haunting the premises.”

The surgical break room is mostly empty.

Mostly.

One scrub tech is eating oatmeal out of a paper cup. A circulating nurse is rummaging through the fridge with the bleak certainty of someone whose yogurt has been stolen. The coffee smells burnt enough to qualify as a chemical exposure.

You drop your bag into your locker, crack open the Red Bull, and pull up imaging on the workstation. The hiss of the can is too loud. The scrub tech glances over. “That kind of morning?” “It’s always that kind of morning.” “Fair.”

You scroll through the CT again, leaning close. Lateral plateau depression. Split fragment. Joint line involvement. Swelling. Approach. Plate position. Screws. Graft. Soft tissue.

You’re writing notes when Yolanda walks in. She stops and is not subtle. Yolanda is never subtle when it comes to you.  She comes to a complete halt in the doorway, coffee in hand.

“Oh,” she says. You don’t look away from the screen. “What?” “No.” “Helpful.” She walks over and drops into the chair beside you. “Your face.”

“My face is reviewing imaging.” “Your face looks like Trinity told me she wants to just be friends.” “That would affect you more than me.” “Exactly.”

You click to the next slice. “I’m fine.” Yolanda takes a slow sip of coffee. You can feel her staring. “What?” you snap. It comes out less sharp than usual. Tired.

Her expression changes. “Did Dennis do something?” “No.”

Too fast. You said that way too fast for it to actually mean “no.”

You both know it. “He didn’t do anything,” you say. “Okay.” “He was helping a friend.” A tiny pause. Small enough that most people would miss it. You don’t. You turn your head. “What?” Yolanda looks away. “Yo.” “What?” “You made a face.”

“I have a face.” “You and Frank both keep saying that like it proves something.” She exhales through her nose. “I’m deciding whether I should mind my business.”

“You have never successfully done that.” “True, but every day is a chance to grow.” You stare at her. She opens her mouth.

The break room door swings open. Park walks in with a chart in hand, OR cap already on, expression calm in a way that makes your spine straighten automatically.

His eyes go to Yolanda. 

Then you.

Then the CT.

Then back to you.

“What’s wrong with you?” Yolanda picks up her coffee like she’s just been handed popcorn. You lift your chin. “Good morning.” “That was not rhetorical.” “I’m fine.” “No.”

You blink.

Park sets the chart down and points to the screen. “Plan.”

Work.

Good.

Work you can do.

“Lateral tibial plateau split-depression fracture,” you say. “Supine positioning with bump. Anterolateral approach. Assess lateral meniscus. Elevate the depressed articular fragment. Bone graft or substitute depending on defect. Raft screws. Lateral locking plate. Protect the soft tissue envelope. Confirm reduction and fixation with fluoro.”

Park stares at you.

“Correct,” he says. You nod. “Flat,” he adds. “But correct.” Yolanda coughs into her coffee. You look back at the screen. “I’m tired.” “You are always tired. Usually you weaponize it.”

You don’t answer. The quiet is worse than snapping back. Park notices.

His voice lowers slightly. “Do not bring whatever this is into my OR.” Your jaw tightens. “I won’t.” “I know.” That makes you look up. His face is still the face of the Shark. Blunt, unimpressed, vaguely annoyed that emotions exist and insist on being managed.

But there is something underneath it.

Steady.

Awful.

Kind, if you squint hard enough and are willing to lie.

“Because if you thought you would,” he says, “you’d step out.” Your throat tightens. Yolanda suddenly becomes very interested in the lid of her coffee. Park picks up the chart. “Scrub in ten.” He turns to leave, then pauses at the door.

“Langdon.” You look at him. “The orca cap is ridiculous.” You stare. Then he leaves.

Yolanda waits until the door closes. “That was affection.” “That was harassment.” “That was him saying he loves you.” “If Park loved me, he’d let me sleep.” “If Park loved anyone, the universe would fracture.”

You almost smile.

Almost.

Yolanda sees it.

“June,” she says quietly. You shake your head. “Not now.”

For once, she lets it go.

The OR is where you usually feel the most like yourself.

Cold air. Bright lights. Gloved hands. Instruments counted. Monitors humming. The clean, brutal honesty of anatomy. Bone is bone. Blood is blood. A fracture either reduces or it doesn’t. There is comfort in problems that show up on X-ray.

You scrub until your hands feel stripped raw, then back into the room with elbows up. The scrub tech gowns and gloves you. Park stands across from you, eyes on the draped leg, already silent in the way that means he’s watching everything.

Time out is performed to confirm the right patient and right surgery.

The CRNA calls vitals. The circulator confirms antibiotics. The C-arm is positioned.

Park says, “Tell me what matters.” You don’t hesitate. “Articular reduction. Alignment. Stable fixation. Soft tissue handling.” “What else?” “Don’t make the X-ray look pretty while the patient’s knee is functionally terrible.”

The scrub tech’s eyes flick up. Park says, “There she is.” It should make you feel better. It doesn’t quite.

You go through the approach. Skin. Subcutaneous tissue. Careful dissection. Respect the soft tissue. Identify the fracture. Protect what needs protecting. Think three steps ahead because Park expects five and punishes two.

He lets you do more than you expected. Which means he trusts your hands even when he clearly doesn’t trust your face today.

“Elevate,” he says. You work carefully, focusing on the depressed articular fragment. Your world narrows down to the joint surface, the fracture line, the instrument in your hand, Park’s voice, the scrub tech’s timing.

For a while, there is only bone. That helps.

Then Park says, “You’re quiet.” “I thought you liked quiet.” “I like purposeful quiet. This is sulking quiet.” “I am not sulking.”

“You’re retracting like someone insulted your dog.” “I don’t have a dog.” “Whatever substitute emotional support creature you use, then.”

The scrub tech’s shoulders shake.

You glance over your mask. “Are you trying to be funny?” “I am being educational.” “You’re being nosy.” “I’m your mentor.” “Unfortunately.”

His eyes narrow.

You sigh and focus back on the field.

The reduction holds. Fluoro looks good. Plate position is solid. Screws sit where they should. The joint surface is restored enough to make your shoulders loosen for the first time all morning.

By closure, your stomach growls audibly.

Park hears it. “Did you eat?” You do not answer fast enough. His sigh could sterilize the room.

“I had a Red Bull.” “That is not food. That is battery acid in costume.” “It was yellow and tropical.” “That does not improve it.”

The circulator laughs.

You finish dressing the incision. Park steps back.

“Acceptable,” he says.

Normally, you’d grin and make him regret praising you.

Today, you just nod.

His eyes narrow again.

You hate that he cares.

You hate that you need him to.

By 1030 the post-op small tasks are stacked on other small tasks.

Orders. Pain plan. DVT prophylaxis. Weight-bearing restrictions. Compartment checks. Physical therapy. Dressing instructions. Follow-up imaging. You explain everything to the patient’s husband while he wrings a baseball cap in both hands.

“Is she going to walk again?” he asks.

You soften. “That’s the goal. It’ll take time, and she’ll have restrictions, but the fixation is stable. We’ll monitor swelling closely and get therapy involved when it’s safe.” He nods too many times. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Thank you.”

When he leaves, Park stands a few feet away, arms folded.

“Better,” he says. You look at him. “You sounded alive.” “How generous.” “There.” He points vaguely at your face. “Irritating. Good.”

You roll your eyes.

For half a second, you almost feel normal. Then your phone buzzes in your scrub pocket. You know before you look.

Dennis 💕:Hope the case went okay. Can I see you later?

Your thumb freezes over the screen. You don’t answer. Park watches you not answer. “Problem?” “No.”

His gaze flicks to the phone. “Is this about the ER resident?” You blink. “What?” “Do not insult me by pretending there are many causes for this degree of idiocy.”

“Wow.” “You were competent before him.” “I’m still competent.” “Barely tolerable, but competent.” You shove the phone back into your pocket. “It’s not about Dennis.”

Park looks deeply unimpressed. “It isn’t,” you insist. He folds his arms. “Then I’ll phrase it differently. Whatever wound he accidentally touched, stop bleeding on my schedule.” That lands close enough that you look away.

Park sees that too. His voice is still blunt, but quieter. “If he’s an ass, I can make sure he fears stairs.” You stare at him.

He shrugs. “Lots of fractures happen on stairs.” A startled laugh slips out before you can stop it. Park nods once, satisfied. “Eat something,” he says. “Then rounds.”

Yolanda finds you in the OR break room eating half a turkey sandwich like you’re serving a sentence. She drops into the chair across from you.

“You look less haunted.” “I had protein.” “Medicine is amazing.” You take another bite and avoid her eyes. She watches you with the kind of patience that feels deeply suspicious coming from a trauma surgeon.

“You ignored him again.” You stop chewing. She sighs. “I saw your face.” “My face needs better security.”

“June.” You set the sandwich down. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” “I want you to say the actual thing.” “The actual thing is stupid.” “Great. Say the stupid thing.”

You stare at her.

For a second, you consider lying.

Then you are too tired. “He said he was helping a friend,” you say quietly. “He didn’t say who. He didn’t explain. He didn’t text until late.”

Yolanda’s face softens. “And it reminded you of Jake.” 

There it is.

The name in the room.

You hate how small it makes you feel.

“I know Dennis isn’t him,” you say. “I know that. I’m not stupid.” “No one said you were.” “But I feel stupid. Because it’s been years, and one vague sentence and suddenly I’m twenty-four again, getting blamed because I was in the hospital too much and didn’t notice I was being cheated on.”

Yolanda reaches across the table and steals a chip from your plate. You stare at her. She eats it. Then says, “For emotional support.” “You’re terrible.” “I know.” She leans back. “Listen. I’m not defending men as a species.” “Brave.” “But Dennis isn’t Jake.” “No,” you admit.

“Dennis gives farm boy who apologizes to doors when he bumps into them. Dennis gives man who carries spiders outside and then asks if the spider is okay. Dennis gives deeply repressed guilt and catastrophic communication skills.”

You stare. “That was weirdly specific.” She looks away too fast. Your eyes narrow. “Yo.” “What?” “You know something.” “I know many things.” “About the friend?” She hesitates. Your stomach drops.

“You do.” “I know there is a friend,” she says carefully. “I don’t know details that are mine to give.” “Great.” “June—”

“No, that’s perfect. Everyone knows except me.” “That is not what I said.” “That is what it sounds like.” Yolanda’s voice sharpens. “Then ask him.”

You look away.

She softens again. “I mean it. Ask. Don’t punish him for Jake’s crimes, but don’t punish yourself by pretending you’re fine either.” You rub at your forehead.

“I hate feelings.” “You’re bad at them.” “You’re one to talk.” She points a chip at you. “Do not pivot to Trinity.” “Coward.”

“Absolutely.”

For the first time all day, you actually smile.

Then your pager goes off.

You both look down.

ED CONSULT — wrist deformity s/p fall, neurovascular intact

Yolanda grins. “Gravity again.”

You stand, grabbing only your phone and badge.  Just navy scrubs, orca cap, tired eyes, and a reputation you’re currently failing to uphold.

“Gravity remains undefeated,” you mutter.

You go to the ED at 1215 because you have to.

Not to linger.

Not to see Dennis.

Not to haunt the department like Shen has accused you of doing with increasing specificity.

You go because an eighty-year-old woman fell in her driveway, has an obvious distal radius fracture, and the ED wants ortho.

That’s all.

The second the sliding doors open, Dana clocks you from the nurse’s station. “Look who remembered she has a downstairs family.”

“I’m here for a wrist.” “You’re usually here for a Whitaker.” “Dana.” “Don’t Dana me.” She points a pen at you. “Your vibes are off.”

“My vibes are HIPAA protected.” “Your vibes are everyone’s problem.” Perlah walks by with blankets. “She’s right.” You point after her. “Betrayal.”

Room six smells like alcohol wipes and fear.

Victoria is already there. Joy, the med student, stands near the counter holding splint supplies like she’s worried they might detonate.

Dennis is not in the room. You are not disappointed. You are not relieved. You are both, which is annoying.

Victoria brightens. “FOOSH injury. Dinner-fork deformity. Sensation intact. Radial pulse strong. Pain meds on board. Dennis said you’d probably want reduction.”

You glance at her. “Dennis said that?” Victoria’s expression flickers. Barely, but you notice it.  “Yeah. He was here earlier.”

You nod and focus on the patient. “Hi, Mrs. Donnelly. I’m June with orthopedics.” The woman squints at you. “You look too young to be the bone doctor.”

You smile. “That’s because the lighting in here is kind.” She laughs.

Good.

You explain the reduction, the splint, repeat imaging, and what you’re checking before and after. Joy watches unenthusiasticly. 

“Joy,” you say, gentler than usual. “Come here. You’re going to help mold.” Her eyes widen slightly. “Me?” “You.” “I don’t want to mess it up.” “You won’t. I’ll talk you through it.”

The reduction goes clean. Traction. Correct dorsal angulation. Restore length. Splint. Mold. Check fingers.

“Can you wiggle for me?” you ask. Mrs. Donnelly wiggles her fingers. “Look at that. Pianist hands.” “You play?” “No. But I always thought I had the fingers for it.”

You laugh softly.

When you step out, Dennis is at the desk. He sees you immediately. His whole face shifts with relief.

“Hey,” he says, standing. You glance at the chart rack. “Hey.” His smile falters at your tone.

“How was your case?” “Fine.” “Good. That’s good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I texted you.” “I was in the OR.” “Right. Yeah. Of course.”

An awkward beat stretches.

Dana looks from him to you. Then loudly says, “I suddenly have business elsewhere,” and does not move at all.

You hold the chart closer to your chest. “I need to check repeat films.” “June—” “Later.” You walk away before he can say anything else.

Behind you, Trinity Santos’ voice floats over the desk.

“Oh, Huckleberry.”

You do not turn around.

It’s over halfway through the shift and Dennis is losing his mind quietly. Unfortunately for him, quietly is still very visible in the Pitt.

He stands at the physician station with a chart open in front of him, reading the same line four times and absorbing none of it.

Trinity leans beside him, arms crossed, watching like he’s a case study. “You’re staring,” she says. “I’m not.” “You are. Badly.”

Dennis looks down. “She’s mad.” “Obviously.” He looks up. “Why obviously?”

Trinity’s brows lift. “Because she’s been down here twice today and hasn’t insulted you once. That woman flirts through violence. You should be terrified.”

Dennis winces.

“I don’t know what I did.” Trinity stares at him. “Men are incredible.” “I’m serious.” “So am I.” He lowers his voice. “Yesterday after shift, she asked me to dinner. I said I couldn’t because I had to help a friend.”

Trinity waits.

Dennis looks uncomfortable.

“And?” “And that’s it.” “That’s it?” “I didn’t think—” “Correct.” He blinks.

Trinity points at him. “You told your brand-new girlfriend you were skipping dinner to help ‘a friend’ and then gave no details?”

“I wasn’t skipping—” “Whitaker.” “I was helping someone.” “Who?”

Dennis hesitates. Trinity’s eyes sharpen.

“Oh my God. Amy Miller?” Dennis’s jaw tightens. “It’s not—” “I know it’s not,” Trinity says. “Does June?” He goes quiet.

Before he can answer, Yolanda appears at the desk like she was summoned by emotional incompetence.

“Please tell me I misheard.” Dennis looks pained. “Garcia—”

Yolanda plants both hands on the counter. “You told June you were helping a friend, didn’t say who, didn’t explain, and then disappeared until eleven?”

“I didn’t disappear. I was working on the truck, and then the fence was—” Yolanda closes her eyes. “Jesus Christ.” Trinity looks at him. “The fence?”

“It was broken,” Dennis says helplessly. Yolanda opens her eyes. “Do you want to be single?” “No.” “Then learn how words work.”

Dennis drags a hand through his hair. “I didn’t know it would upset her.”

Yolanda’s face shifts. Her voice drops. “You don’t know about Jake.” Dennis looks at her. “Who’s Jake?”

Trinity’s teasing disappears.

Yolanda exhales. “Not my story.” Dennis goes still. “What happened?” “Again,” Yolanda says, firmer this time, “not my story. But if she tells you to listen, you listen. Don’t defend. Don’t over-explain. Don’t do that panicked apology thing where you accidentally make yourself sound guilty of seven extra crimes.”

Trinity nods. “Yeah, don’t do that. It’s weird.” Dennis looks between them. “I didn’t mean to hurt her,” he says quietly. Yolanda softens just a little. “Then fix it before she decides she has to protect herself from you.”

At 1630, you are upstairs when Park finds you.

Technically, you are checking the wound vac on the infected knee washout. Realistically, you are also avoiding the ED with the focus of someone avoiding a live explosive.

The wound vac is holding suction. Dressing clean. Drainage appropriate. No concerning erythema spreading beyond the marked edges. Pain controlled. ID narrowing antibiotics based on early culture data.

You document everything. Then document the same sentence twice because apparently your brain is now mush.

Park stands in the doorway. You don’t have to look up. He has a silent presence that you can always sense. 

Most attendings have footsteps. Park has judgment.

“You’re rewriting the same note.” You delete the sentence. “No, I’m not.” “I watched you do it.”

“Then stop watching me.” “Stop being interestingly incompetent.” You look up. “That’s not a phrase.” “It is now.”

He steps inside, checks the wound vac seal himself, then looks at the patient. “Any increased pain?” The patient shakes her head. “No, doctor.”

“Good.” Outside the room, Park stops you. “Lunch?” You blink. “What?” “Did you eat?”

“Yes.” “What?” You hesitate. His eyes narrow. “A sandwich.” “When?” “Eleven-thirty.” “Fine.”

You stare at him. “Are you checking on me?” “No.” “You are.” “I am ensuring my resident does not pass out during consults and create paperwork.”

“Sure.” Park folds his arms. “You have two options.” “Oh, good.” “One, continue acting like a ghost with a medical license until everyone gets tired of pretending not to notice.”

“And two?” “Handle the thing.” You look away.

“I don’t know how.”

Park’s expression flickers. Almost sympathy.

Almost.

“Yes, you do,” he says. “You just hate that it requires exposing something soft.” Your throat tightens.

Then your pager buzzes.

Park glances down at it before you even do.

ED CONSULT — 22F upper arm deformity s/p fall, concern humeral shaft fracture, NVI

He nods toward the stairs. “Go.” You sigh. “You emotionally cornered me and then gave me a consult?” “Efficient teaching.”

“You’re a nightmare.”

“Correct.”

The ED is in that pre-shift-change churn when you get downstairs.

Day shift is trying to finish notes. Night shift is starting to appear around the edges like caffeinated ghosts. Robby is at the board looking personally betrayed by the patient volume. Dana looks one inconvenience away from biting someone.

She sees you immediately.

“Room eight,” she says. “Humerus. She’s scared, her girlfriend is scarier, and Whitaker already gave pain meds.” “Scary girlfriend how?”

“Protective scary. Not security scary.” “Important distinction.” “Don’t make it worse.”

Room eight is bright and tense.

The patient is twenty-two, pale and tearful, left arm supported carefully against her body. Her girlfriend stands beside the bed holding her hand so tightly you’re surprised both of them still have circulation.

Dennis is there with Victoria, showing her the X-ray on the computer. He looks up when you walk in. His whole face changes.

You ignore the tug in your chest.

“Hi,” you say, stepping to the bedside. “I’m Dr. Langdon with orthopedics. You can call me June.” The patient gives a watery nod. “Maya.” Her girlfriend says quickly, “Liv.”

“Maya, can you tell me what happened?” She sniffles. “We were leaving this coffee shop, and I tripped off the curb. I tried to catch myself, and I landed weird. I heard something pop.”

Liv’s jaw tightens. “It was awful.” “I’m sorry,” you say gently. “Upper arm fractures hurt a lot.” Maya’s eyes flick toward the screen. “Is it broken bad?”

You look at the X-ray.

Midshaft humeral fracture. Displaced. Closed. Ugly, but not catastrophic. The thing screaming in your brain is radial nerve.

“It’s a humeral shaft fracture,” you say. “That means the long bone in your upper arm is broken. Your skin is intact, which is good. Dennis tells me your pulse and sensation have been okay so far, but I’m going to check everything again myself.”

Dennis adds quietly, “Radial pulse strong. Hand warm. Cap refill under two. Sensation intact. She can extend wrist and fingers, but it’s painful.”

You nod.

“Good. With this kind of fracture, one of the big things we watch is the radial nerve.” Maya’s eyes widen. “Nerve?”

“I know that sounds scary,” you say quickly. “It runs near the humerus, so we check it carefully before and after splinting.”

Victoria moves closer. You look at her. “Exam?”

She straightens. “Radial nerve—wrist extension, finger extension, sensation over the dorsal first web space. Median nerve—thumb opposition, sensation to index finger. Ulnar nerve—finger abduction, sensation to small finger. Check radial pulse and cap refill.”

“Good.” Maya looks between you all. “That sounded like a test.” “It was,” you say. “You passed by association.” Liv huffs a tiny laugh.

You crouch beside Maya. “Can you lift your wrist back for me?” Maya winces but does it. “Good. Now straighten your fingers.” Another wince. Another movement.

“Perfect. Can you feel me here?” You touch the dorsal first web space. “Yes.” “Here?” Index finger. “Yes.” “Small finger?” “Yes.”

You check pulse, skin, compartments, swelling. Liv watches every move. “Does she need surgery?”

“Not necessarily,” you say. “A lot of humeral shaft fractures can be treated without surgery at first. We splint it, then often transition to a functional brace, and follow closely with repeat imaging. It depends on alignment, pain control, and whether the nerve exam stays normal.”

Maya swallows. “So I’m not going to lose my arm?” Dennis’s expression softens. “No,” you say gently. “You are not going to lose your arm.” Liv exhales like she’s been holding her breath since the curb.

Victoria passes you padding, and you talk her through it.

“Coaptation splint,” you say. “It starts near the shoulder, comes around the elbow, and back up the arm. Lots of padding. Watch axilla, elbow, and ulnar side. No pressure points. We’re using gravity and soft tissue to help alignment.”

Dennis supports the arm while you and Victoria place the splint. Maya cries once when the arm shifts, and Liv immediately leans closer.

“Hey,” Liv murmurs. “Look at me. You’re okay. You’re doing so good.” Maya squeezes her eyes shut. “I hate bones.” You murmur, “Honestly fair.”

Dennis glances at you like he wants to smile but isn’t sure he’s allowed to today. You don’t give him much back. After the splint is molded and wrapped, you check again.

“Wrist back.” Maya lifts it. “Good. Fingers out.” She spreads them. “Sensation still okay?” “Yes.” “Pulse good,” you say. “Cap refill still good.” Victoria nods, filing it away.

You step into the hall to call Park.

He answers with, “Tell me.”

“Twenty-two-year-old female, ground-level fall, closed displaced midshaft humerus fracture. Neurovascular intact, radial nerve intact before and after coaptation splint. Skin closed. Pain controlled after ED meds.”

“Acceptable alignment?” “Ugly but reasonable for splint and close follow-up. Repeat films pending.” “Good. Repeat films. If nerve changes, worsening pain, or unacceptable alignment, call me back.”

“Got it.”

When you step back in, Dennis is explaining pain control and discharge versus observation depending on repeat films and whether Maya can tolerate the splint.

Maya looks at you. “Can I still go to work?” “What do you do?” “I’m a barista.”

You make a sympathetic face. “Not right away. That arm needs rest. No lifting, no pushing, no pulling. You’ll need ortho follow-up, repeat imaging, and a work note.”

Liv nods firmly. “She’s getting the note.” Maya groans. “My manager is going to be so annoying.” Dennis says, “We can make the note annoying-proof.”

You glance at him before you can stop yourself. He gives you a tiny, hopeful smile. Your chest pulls. You look away first.

As you leave the room, Dennis follows you into the hall.

“That was good,” he says softly. You keep walking toward the desk. “The splint?” “No.” His voice is careful. “You.”

You stop.

For one second, the ED noise folds around you: monitors, phones, Dana telling someone not to block the med room, Robby’s voice at the board, night shift beginning to drift in.

Dennis stands close but not too close.

Careful.

Like he knows something is wrong but doesn’t know where he’s allowed to put his hands.

You swallow.

“Thanks,” you say. It comes out flatter than you meant. His face falls a little. “June—”

Dana calls from across the station, “Whitaker, your abdominal pain is vomiting again.”

Dennis closes his eyes briefly.

You use the interruption like a door opening.

“I have to update Park after repeat films.” “Can we talk after?”

You pause.

Then nod once.

“After.”

You walk away before your face gives anything else up.

You make it as far as the ED hallway before you see Frank.

He’s outside trauma two talking to Robby, black scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it, expression tired in a way only an ER doctor can look tired.

He sees you. Stops mid-sentence. Robby follows his gaze, reads the room instantly, and takes the chart from Frank’s hand. “I’ll finish this,” Robby says.

Frank nods once and walks toward you.

You try to speak.

Nothing comes out.

That is apparently the final straw.

Not Dennis. Not the friend. Not memories of Jake. Not the slight loss of confidence in OR. Not Park seeing through you. Not Yolanda saying the name you were trying not to think about.

It’s Frank’s face.

Your brother is looking at you like he already knows. “Frank,” you say, and your voice breaks on the single syllable. He doesn’t ask questions. He just steps forward and pulls you into him. You fold. Right there in the hallway of the Pitt, between trauma bays and a supply cart, with antiseptic and coffee and cafeteria fries in the air.

Frank holds you tight, one hand at the back of your head, the other across your shoulders.

“Hey,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.” You press your face into his chest. “This is so stupid.” “Nope.” “It is.”

“Nope.” “He didn’t even do anything.” “Still nope.” You make a sound that is almost a laugh and almost a sob.

Across the department, Dennis steps out of a room. He sees you and he freezes. Frank looks up. The expression that crosses his face is not subtle. It is older-brother murder in its purest form. Dennis goes pale.

Frank keeps holding you, but his eyes stay locked on Dennis for one long, brutal second. Then he looks back down at you.

“Come on,” he says quietly. “Air.” He guides you through the ambulance bay doors. Cold air hits your face.

The ambulance bay is busy but less suffocating. An EMS rig idles nearby. Someone laughs by the doors. The sky is purple-gray, day thinning into evening while the hospital keeps going like it always does.

Frank leads you off to the side, away from the main path, and leans against the brick wall. You wrap your arms around yourself. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Frank says, “Talk.” You shake your head. “I don’t want to.” “I didn’t ask if you wanted to.” You huff weakly. “You’re such a dick. “Yeah. Talk.”

You stare at the pavement. “He said he was helping a friend.” Frank nods. “And I know that’s normal. I know people have friends. I know he doesn’t owe me a whole report.”

“Okay.” “But he got weird. He didn’t say who. He didn’t text until late. You and Abby both acted like you knew something, and Yolanda knows something, and I don’t, and I just—”

Your voice catches. Frank waits. You swallow hard. “I felt like Jake was right again.” Frank’s face changes. All teasing leaves. “June.”

“I hate it,” you whisper. “I hate that he still gets to be in my head. I hate that Dennis can be sweet and kind and awkward and not him at all, and one vague thing makes me feel like I’m back there. Like I’m too much work. Like I’m going to miss the signs because I’m at the hospital. Like I’m stupid.”

“You’re not stupid.” “I feel stupid.” Frank pushes off the wall and steps closer. “Listen to me.” You look up. “Dennis is not Jake.” You close your eyes.

“He’s not,” Frank says. “Jake was selfish. Jake wanted you smaller because your life made him feel small. Dennis is… Dennis is too helpful and too guilty and too Midwestern to explain himself properly.”

You open your eyes despite yourself. “Too Midwestern?” “He has a disease. It’s called ‘I can fix your fence and not discuss my emotions.’ Very tragic.” A wet laugh escapes you. Frank’s mouth softens.

“He helps people,” he says. “Sometimes to a fault. Sometimes because he doesn’t know how to say no. Sometimes because he thinks if he’s useful enough, whatever he couldn’t fix before won’t hurt as bad.”

You stare at him. He exhales. “That’s all I’m saying. The rest is his to tell.” “So there is something.” “There’s context,” Frank says. “Not a crime.” You wipe under your eye with the heel of your hand, annoyed when it comes away damp.

“I hate crying at work.” “You’re outside. Technically different jurisdiction.” You glare weakly. He flicks your forehead gently.

“Ow.” “Stop spiraling alone.” “I wasn’t alone. I was with Park.” “Worse.” You laugh again, more real this time.

Frank tilts his head. “If it bothers you this much, ask him. Tell him. Don’t do the thing where you decide you’re safer if you shut down first.” You look away.

“I don’t want to be pathetic.” “You’re not pathetic.” “I ignored his texts.” “That was a little pathetic.” “Frank.”

“I’m being honest.” You shove his shoulder. He smiles faintly, then sobers. “You like him.” You don’t answer.

“You like him a lot.” “Unfortunately,” you whisper. “Then don’t let Jake win.” That lands quietly and deeply. 

You take a deep breathe in. Then out.

“Can you send Dennis out here?” Frank’s expression shifts. Protective again. Dangerous. “Yeah,” he says. “I can do that.”

“Don’t scare him.” “I’ll be normal.” “Frank.” “I’ll be very professional. I am at work..” “That is not reassuring.”

He walks back inside anyway.

Dennis comes through the ambulance bay doors less than two minutes later. He looks like a man walking toward sentencing.

Good.

No.

Not good.

Maybe a little good.

He stops a few feet away, hands half raised like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed. “June,” he starts, already rushing. “I’m sorry. I should’ve explained. I didn’t mean to make it weird. I wasn’t trying to hide anything. I just—”

“Stop.” He stops instantly. You take a breath. “No panicked apology spiral.” His mouth closes. “I need you to listen.” He nods.

You look down at your hands because looking at him makes it harder. “My ex cheated on me,” you say. The words sit between you.

Dennis goes very still.

You keep going before you lose nerve.

“We were together for five years. Through med school. I was busy all the time because med school is med school and rotations were awful and I kept thinking if I just made it through the next thing, we’d be okay.”

Your throat tightens.

Dennis doesn’t move.

“When I found out, he blamed me. Said I was never around. Said I cared more about work than him. Said he wouldn’t have had to look somewhere else if I’d made time.” 

Dennis’s face changes. Pain first. Then anger. Not at you. Never at you.

“I know you’re not him,” you say quickly. “I know that. But yesterday, when you said you were helping a friend and didn’t say who, and then you didn’t text until late, it just hit something old.”

You finally look up.

His eyes are glossy in the low ambulance bay light.

“It made me feel like I was waiting to be lied to again,” you admit. “And I hated that. And I hated myself for feeling it.”

Dennis steps closer, slowly.

“Can I talk now?” You nod. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Not the panic version. The real version.” Your mouth almost twitches.

He swallows. “Her name is Amy Miller.” The name means nothing to you, but you listen. “She lost her husband,” he says. “He came into the ED on my first day and I couldn’t save him.” His voice goes quieter.

“I know that’s not rational. I know patients die. I know sometimes there’s nothing else to do. But he was young, and she was alone, and I just… I don’t know. I started helping out at her place sometimes. Farm stuff. Truck stuff. Fence stuff. Things he used to do.”

Your chest aches in a different way now. “It’s not romantic,” he says quickly. “It never has been. She’s my friend. Or maybe I’m just someone who shows up because I don’t know how else to deal with feeling like I failed her.”

You stay quiet.

Dennis rubs both hands over his face, then drops them. “And sometimes it helps with home,” he admits. “The farm. Being useful. Fixing something with my hands instead of standing in the ED wondering if I missed something.”

You soften despite yourself. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Because it felt complicated. Because it wasn’t my story. Because I didn’t think saying, ‘I’m going to help Amy Miller with her fence because her husband died and I feel guilty’ was casual dinner-canceling information.”

You blink.

Then laugh once, wet and unwilling. “That is the most Dennis answer I’ve ever heard.” “I know.” “But you could’ve said more than ‘a friend.’” “I know.” He steps a little closer. “I should have. I will next time. Not in a way that hands you someone else’s grief like gossip, but enough so you’re not left filling in blanks with the worst thing your brain can find.”

That sentence makes your eyes burn again. You hate that he gets it. “I don’t want to be someone you have to manage,” you say. “You’re not.” “I ignored you all day.” “That sucked,” he says softly. You wince.

“But I get it now,” he adds. “I mean, I don’t like it. I don’t want you to feel like you have to disappear first. But I get why you did.”

You look at him.

He looks so sincere it’s almost painful.

“I’m not Jake,” Dennis says. “I know.” “But I’ll prove it anyway.” Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—” “I want to.”

The ambulance bay doors open behind him, and Frank appears just long enough to point two fingers at his own eyes, then at Dennis. Dennis nods solemnly. Frank disappears.

You stare. “Did he just threaten you silently?” “Yes.” “Good.”

Dennis huffs a tiny laugh.

You step closer.

“I’m still your girlfriend,” you say. His shoulders drop with relief so obvious it almost hurts. “Yeah?” “Unfortunately.” He smiles. “Can I hug you?” he asks.

You nod.

He closes the distance carefully, like you’re something precious and easily startled, and wraps his arms around you.

You sink into him. Not all the way. Not immediately. But enough.

His chin rests near your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, quieter. “I know.” “I really did want dinner.” “I know.”

“I still want dinner.” “You missed your chance.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, horrified. You raise an eyebrow. Then say, “But I could be convinced to come over after shift.”

His face softens. “Yeah?” “Don’t say cool.”

He closes his mouth.

You smile for the first time all day like you mean it.

The rest of the shift is not magically fixed.

That would be too easy.

You still have notes. Dennis still has patients. Park still texts you about repeat imaging like your emotional breakthrough is inconveniencing his orthopedic schedule.

But things shift. Small things.

Dennis leaves peanut butter crackers beside your workstation without making a big deal of it. You eat them. Yolanda sees from across the hall and gives you a thumbs-up. You flip her off.

Trinity sees that and says, “Aw. Healing.” Dana mutters, “If this becomes a workplace romance learning module, I’m retiring.” Frank passes you near the board and says under his breath, “You good?”

You nod.

He looks past you at Dennis. “Is he alive?” “For now.” “Good.”

Park catches you upstairs finishing your consult note and studies your face. “Handled?” You sigh. “Do you have cameras everywhere?” “No. Your posture is less pathetic.” “Thank you so much.” “Better.” That, from Park, is basically a blessing.

Dennis’s apartment is quieter than you remember.

Not silent exactly. There’s the low hum of the fridge, traffic somewhere outside, the old-building creak of pipes and heat. But compared to the Pitt, compared to the OR, compared to Frank’s house with Penny accusing people of sock crimes and Tanner running dinosaur trauma, it feels almost impossibly still.

You’ve only been here twice before. Once after your first date, when you both sat awkwardly in the living room with Trinity and Yolanda. And Yolanda yelled at Trinity and you to stop being at each other's throats because of your brother.

Once another night after shift, when Trinity was home and barely looked up from the couch long enough to mutter, “Don’t be weird,” at Dennis before disappearing into her room.

So it isn’t unfamiliar. Not really. But it isn’t yours either.

You stand near the doorway for a second, suddenly aware that exhaustion has settled into your bones. Dennis notices immediately. “Do you want tea?” he asks. You blink. “You have tea?” He glances toward the kitchen. “Trinity has tea.” “That feels legally different.”

His mouth twitches. “She won’t care.” “She absolutely seems like someone who would care.” “She tolerates you now.” “That is not the same as liking me.” “No,” Dennis says, too honestly. “But it’s progress.”

You huff out a tired laugh, toeing off your shoes. “Fine. But if she asks, I was medically unstable.” “I’ll chart it.” “You better.”

He smiles like the sound of your voice matters.

You end up on his couch with takeout containers on the coffee table, neither of you eating as much as you promised you would. The tea sits warm between your hands, probably over-steeped, definitely stolen, and somehow exactly what you need.

Dennis sits beside you, close enough that your knees touch, far enough that you know he’s trying not to crowd you. He tells you about Amy in small pieces.

Carefully.

Not like gossip.

Not like an excuse.

Like a person handling someone else’s grief with both hands.

You listen. You tell him more about Jake than you meant to. Not everything but enough that he can sense the trauma and anxiety that relationship caused you.  Dennis doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t defend. Doesn’t make your pain about his guilt. He just listens, one hand resting near yours on the couch cushion until you finally slide your fingers into his. 

By 2315, the food is cold. Your tea is lukewarm. Your head is heavy.

Dennis is talking softly about Nebraska. About how fixing fence posts makes him feel less useless when the ED gets too loud inside his head. About how sometimes it’s easier to understand a broken hinge than a dead patient.

His thumb moves slowly over your knuckles. You lean sideways. Just a little. Then a little more. At some point, your head ends up in his lap. At some point, his hand starts moving gently through your hair. At some point, your eyes close.

“June?” he whispers. You make a small sound. “Do you want me to drive you home?” “No.”

It comes out barely human. He goes still.

You shift closer, cheek against his thigh, one hand curling into the fabric of his sweatpants like your sleeping body has decided dignity is optional. Dennis does not move. Not an inch.

He looks down at you with something terrified and soft and reverent. Like you falling asleep on him is a responsibility. Like your trust is something he can hold wrong if he isn’t careful.

His phone buzzes on the coffee table.

He glances at it.

Frank Langdon: Is she there?

Dennis very slowly reaches for the phone without disturbing you.

Dennis: Yeah. She fell asleep.

A second later:

Frank Langdon: Don’t wake her up. She gets mean and could use the rest. 

Dennis looks down at you. Your breathing is even now, your face finally relaxed for the first time all day.

He types back:

Dennis: I won’t.

Then sets the phone down. He sits there, back stiff, one hand hovering awkwardly for a second before settling gently on your shoulder. You don’t wake.

From somewhere down the hall, Trinity’s bedroom door stays firmly shut.

Dennis glances toward it once, like he’s half expecting her to sense emotional vulnerability through the drywall and come out just to ruin him. Nothing happens. The apartment stays quiet.

He exhales.

“Okay,” he whispers. “We’re just staying like this.”

And he does.

Dennis doesn’t know how to explain what it does to him, seeing you like this—unguarded, heavy with sleep, your fingers still curled into his sweatpants like some quiet part of you chose him before you were awake enough to take it back. 

He keeps one hand on your shoulder, barely touching, terrified that anything more will feel like too much and anything less will make him lose this impossible little moment. 

He thinks about Amy, about all the ways grief can hollow a person out, about Jake, about Frank texting like he trusts Dennis not to mess this up. Mostly, though, he thinks about you.

How loud you are when you’re scared. How sharp you get when something hurts. How soft you look now in the dark of his living room, breathing evenly against him like safety might be something your body still remembers how to believe in. 

And Dennis sits there, leg going numb, heart aching in a way he does not have a name for yet, thinking he would stay like this all night if it meant you got to rest.

Taglist:

Your phone lights up against your pillow, and there it is.

Dennis💕: Morning, June bug. Dennis 💕:Please eat something before Park turns you into a weapon.

You smile so hard you have to bury your face into the pillow. Disgusting. Tragic. You type back anyway.

You: too late. I was forged in the OR and raised on spite.

The bubble appears. Then it disappears. Then it appears again.

Dennis 💕: That tracks.

You’re still smiling when another text drops down.

Frankie 🧸: Ten minutes. I’m outside.

You sit straight up.

You: outside WHERE Frankie 🧸: Your apartment, genius. You: you were not driving me today Frankie 🧸: I am now. You :why Frankie 🧸: Because I had a vision that you’d be annoying today and I wanted to witness it firsthand.

You stare at the screen.

You: that is deeply unsettling. Frankie 🧸: Nine minutes.

You throw your blanket off and immediately trip over the corner of it.

“Son of a bitch”

Your phone buzzes again.

Yoyo, My Lover: Park is already in a mood. Yoyo, My Lover: Like not a normal Park mood. A surgical thundercloud mood. You: so a Tuesday? Yoyo, My Lover: Worse. He said “teamwork” with his whole chest.

You wince.

Then another notification.

Dunkin Addict: you when someone says “ortho can see them outpatient” ( picture of a racoon sitting on a trash can holding a toy hammer.)

You snort, half dressed, one sock on.

You: aren’t you supposed to be asleep Dunkin Addict: just waiting for day shift. spiritually dead. physically looking forward to breaking down in parking garage. Dunkin Addict: also jack says if you keep haunting the ED for dennis you owe night shift rent.

You grin.

You: jack can invoice me. Dunkin Addict: he will. he has a guy.

By the time you make it downstairs, Frank is leaning against his car in black scrubs, coffee in hand, looking entirely too smug for a man who once cried because Penny called him “Frank” instead of Daddy for a full afternoon.

“You’re late,” he says. You look at your phone. “It’s been eight minutes.” “You took like eleven.” “I hate you.” “No, you don’t.” He opens the passenger door. “Get in, parasite.” You slide in and immediately grab the coffee waiting in the cupholder.

“If this is decaf, I’m telling Abby you let Tanner use your stethoscope on the dog.” Frank gets in on the driver’s side. “It’s not decaf. I’m mean, not suicidal.” You take a sip. Pause. “This tastes responsible.” “Abby made it.” “Gross, there’s no flavor.” “She said you’d say that.”

You sink back into the seat as he pulls away from the curb. The city is still gray-blue and half asleep, roads damp from overnight rain, headlights streaking along the pavement.

Frank glances at you once. Then again. “What?” you snap. “You smiled at your phone.” “I smile at many things.” “You smiled like a concussed golden retriever.” “That’s oddly specific.” “Whitaker?” You stare out the window. “Maybe.”

Frank makes a noise.

You turn. “What does that mean?” “It means nothing.” “Frank.” “It means I don’t love the idea of my little sister dating someone I have to supervise.” “You barely supervise Dennis.” “I supervise the general air he breathes in my department.” “Robby supervises him.”

“Robby supervises all of us. That’s different.” You look at him. He sighs, softer this time. “He seems good.” You blink. Frank keeps his eyes on the road. “Annoying. Nervous. Kind of looks like he’s apologizing to furniture half the time. But good.”

Your throat tightens a little, and you hate that.

“He hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend,” you say. Frank nearly laughs. “Jesus Christ.” “What?” “You are both adults with jobs that require prescribing controlled substances and cutting people open.”

“I don’t just cut people open.” “You know what I mean.” “It matters,” you mutter. Frank’s expression shifts. He stops teasing for once. “Then tell him it matters.” You look down at your coffee. “Yeah,” you say. “Maybe.”

You arrive at 0645, dreading the long day ahead. The hospital is already awake when you walk in. The Pitt always feels like that—like it never slept, like it just changed lighting and swapped casualties.

The ED board is ugly. Orange and red everywhere. Overnight holds. Chest pain. Abdominal pain. Psych waiting on placement. One trauma bay being cleaned from a rollover that came in at 4 a.m.

Night shift is in that end-of-shift state where everyone looks haunted and over-caffeinated. Jack Abbott is at the nurse’s station, one hand braced on the desk, hair doing whatever it wants, arguing with Robby in the calm tone men use when they are both absolutely not calm.

Robby sees Frank first. “Langdon,” he says. “Your sister keeps trying to become ED staff.” You stop mid-step. “I am standing right here.” Dana walks past with an armful of tubing. “Then stop loitering in my department.” “I was here for twelve seconds.” “Long enough.”

Shen appears from around the corner with a backpack slung over one shoulder, looking like he has personally been wronged by the concept of circadian rhythm.

He points at you. “Rent. Night shift wants rent.” “Bill Frank.” Frank doesn’t even look up. “Denied.” Shen’s gaze drifts past you toward the ambulance bay doors, where day shift is starting to filter in.

Dennis walks in at 6:58, black scrubs, backpack, hair still slightly damp like he showered too fast and left the house in a hurry.

Your stomach flips. Shen notices. Of course he does. He leans closer as he passes and murmurs, “Be less obvious, bone girl.” You elbow him. He grins and keeps walking toward the exit.

Dennis spots you a second later.

His face changes immediately. Not big. Not dramatic. Just softer.

“Morning,” he says, coming closer. “Morning.” Frank makes a gagging noise beside you. Dennis stiffens. “Morning, Dr. Langdon.” Frank smiles pleasantly. “Whitaker.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t be weird.” “I’m never weird,” Frank says. Dana snorts from the desk. Robby claps his hands once. “Okay, daycare is over. Day shift, listen up.”

Everyone gathers loosely around the board. Robby runs through the overnight mess with Jack. Chest pain in five needs repeat trop and cards consult if it bumps. Belly pain in nine waiting on CT. Psych hold still no bed. Trauma bay open. EMS already called in a fall from scaffolding ten minutes out. You have no business hangout out here for this, but you don’t have a case until later.

Dennis stands close enough that his elbow brushes yours. You don’t look at him. You absolutely do not. He lowers his voice. “You eat?” You lower yours back. “I had coffee.” “That’s not food.” “It had emotional value.” Dennis gives you a look.

You smile. “What?” “You’re impossible.” “You like it.” His mouth twitches. “Yeah.” Frank, without turning around, says, “I can hear you both.” “Then stop listening,” you say. Robby points at all three of you. “Whatever this is, not near my board.”

You belong upstairs so by 0730 you make you’re way there. Reluctantly.

Park is already in the OR breakroom, standing over the OR schedule like it insulted his family. Yolanda is beside him, arms crossed, trauma pager clipped to her waistband, hair pulled back tight. “Nice of you to join us,” Park says. “I was at handoff.” “You are not ED.” “Robby needed my presence.” “Robby needs blood pressure medication.” Yolanda coughs into her coffee.

Park points at the board. “First case moved to 0830. Infected total knee washout, poly exchange possible depending on what we find. Wound vac after. You’re assisting.” You nod. “Cultures before antibiotics?” “Already on broad spectrum from yesterday. ID wants intra-op cultures anyway. We’ll take multiple samples.”

“Implant retention?” “For now. Components look stable. If it looks like a disaster, we escalate.” You grab the printed list. “And after?”

“Post-op rounds. Distal radius from yesterday needs a reduction check. Hip fracture on medicine service needs consent if cleared. ED will inevitably send us someone who lost a fight with gravity.” Yolanda leans against the counter. “Gravity remains undefeated.”

Park looks between you two. “Why do both of you talk like that?” “Trauma bonding,” you say. “Literal trauma,” Yolanda adds. Park closes his eyes briefly. “I should’ve gone into dermatology.” “You’d scare rashes,” you say. He points at you. “Do not make me proud and angry at the same time.”

For the next hour, you do the rhythm you know best. Pre-op check. Consent reviewed. Mark the correct leg. Talk to anesthesia. Confirm antibiotics. Confirm cultures. Make sure the wound vac supplies are available. Answer the patient’s wife’s anxious questions with the steady calm you save for families because panic spreads faster than infection if you let it.

“Are they taking the whole knee out?” she asks, gripping the side rail.

“Not unless they have to,” you tell her. “The plan today is irrigation and debridement—cleaning out infected tissue—possibly exchanging the plastic liner if Dr. Park thinks it’s necessary. We’ll take cultures so infectious disease can target antibiotics better.”

She nods but doesn’t relax.

You soften your voice. “I know it sounds like a lot. But we’re not going in blind.” Park watches you from the doorway. When you step out, he says, “Good.” You raise an eyebrow. “Was that praise?” “No.” “Sounded like praise.” “Get in the OR.”

The case smells like betadine, cautery, and old infection.

Park is supervising. Irrigation, debridement, tissue samples labeled cleanly. Synovium doesn’t look pretty. Fluid cloudy enough to make everyone quiet. The components are stable, which is something.

“You see this?” Park says, voice low enough that only you hear. “This is why superficial reassurance kills people. Infection does not care that the incision looked ‘fine’ three days ago.” You suction as he works. “Cultures times five?” “At least.” “Poly exchange?” He glances. “Yes. Call it.”

You do.

The scrub tech passes instruments with practiced speed. Anesthesia calls out pressures. The circulating nurse tracks cultures. You settle into the rhythm—anticipating Park’s hand, watching the field, thinking three steps ahead because he expects nothing less and somehow still finds something to criticize.

By the time the wound vac is sealed and holding suction, your shoulders ache.

Park pulls off his gloves. “Acceptable,” he says. You grin behind your mask. “You’re going to make me cry.” “Do it somewhere that isn’t sterile.”

You find Yolanda in the OR break room inhaling leftover pasta from a plastic container at 1130. You drop into the chair across from her. “He still hasn’t asked,” you say. She stares at you. “We’re still on this?” “Yes.” “June.”

“What?” “This is pathetic even for romance,” she says mid bite.  “He calls me June bug, and beautiful. He just makes me giddy. I’m a surgeon not a school girl.” “That’s worse.” “I know.”  She points her fork at you. “Then say something.” You lean forward. “Sure. Right after you tell Trinity that you like her.” Yolanda’s fork stops halfway to her mouth. You smile. She narrows her eyes. “You woke up more violent than normal.”

“You’ve been using her as your emotional chew toy for months.” “She flirts back.” “You deflect.” “She likes it.” “You like her.” Yolanda looks away.

Oh.

You soften, just a little. “Yo.” “Don’t.” “I’m not teasing.” “You are always teasing.” “I can briefly become emotionally available if needed.” She snorts despite herself. The door swings open.

Park stands there, holding a chart. He looks at you. Then Yolanda. Then the half-eaten pasta. “I don’t even want context.” “Good,” Yolanda says. Park points the chart at both of you. “Whatever romantic cowardice this is, fix it. You’re surgeons. We cut people open for a living. Speak plainly or be a disgrace elsewhere.” You mutter, “This is a hostile work environment.” “It is training,” Park says. “ED consult. Go.”

Your pager screams a second later.

ED CONSULT — ankle deformity s/p roof jump, intoxicated, college student

Yolanda looks delighted. “A darty ankle.” Park’s eyes narrow. “Do not chart that.” “I would never,” you say.“You absolutely would.”

The ED is somehow louder at noon.

A toddler is screaming in triage. Someone’s family member is demanding water for a patient who is very much NPO. Dana is telling a man with a towel wrapped around his hand not to unwrap it “just to check.” Jesse is restocking linens with the dead-eyed efficiency of someone who has been asked the same question thirty-six times.

Victoria meets you outside room twelve, tablet in hand, expression dangerously close to laughter. “Before we go in,” she says, “I need you to know he proposed to me, Dana, and the portable X-ray tech.” “He moves on quickly,” you say with a laugh.  “He says he has a lot of love to give.” “What’s the ankle?”

“Jumped off a roof at a day party. Landed badly. EMS splinted. Intoxicated. Got fentanyl en route, dilaudid here. X-ray shows fracture-dislocation.”

You look through the glass.

The kid is twenty at most, pale under a sunburn, backward cap still somehow on his head. His right ankle is splinted but visibly swollen, foot angled wrong enough to make your jaw tighten. “Neurovascular?”

“DP dopplerable. PT is hard to find through swelling. Toes warm. Cap refill less than two. Says he has tingling but he also says his foot is ‘emotionally underwater.’” You nod. “Okay. Let’s see him.”

You walk in.

The patient turns his head. His eyes widened. “Oh my God,” he whispers. “My wife.” Victoria makes a noise behind you that she tries to turn into a cough. You keep your face smooth. “Hi. I’m with orthopedics.”

“No,” he says solemnly. “You’re my wife.” “Not according to hospital records.” “Can we fix that?” “Let’s fix the ankle first.” He gazes at you like you cured his pain just by breathing. You pull on gloves and crouch by the bed. “I’m going to check your foot. Wiggle your toes for me.”

He wiggles them dramatically. “Anything for you babe.” “Good. Can you feel me touching here?” “Yes.” “Here?” 

“Yes.” “Here?” “My heart?”