languid and honey-sweet

As you walk down the snow-slicked streets of Brooklyn, you can't help but take in the festivities around you. Your neighborhood is decked out in warm candescent lights. The sweet, heady smell of warm vanilla floats in the air as you pass by the local bakery. Large glistening garlands line the gates of brownstones while kids line the sidewalks. Joyful giggles and pom-pom-topped hats dash past you as fluffy snowballs fly past your vision in a blur.

With each step, the feeling of frost nips at your face; cheeks and nose rosy from the wind-blown kisses.

You travel in silence, the frosty air making the heat between you and your partner more apparent. Barnes was upset with you, upset being an understatement. After many years of working as Bucky's right hand, you've learned to take silence as more than the absence of sound. It acts as a means of communication; everything unsaid lives between stark black lines, glistening under silver lights.

Looking over your shoulder, you study his demeanor. His shoulders are raised tightly to his ears, his brow hanging low over his cerulean irises. He works his jaw, lowly grumbling something about the Muller family and property damages.

You stop short, swerving around to meet his thorny gaze.

"Barnes, what is your fuckin' problem? You've been talking to yourself for at least three blocks."

"Nothin' is my problem, sweetheart, don't worry about me."

Your head cock without a second thought, eyebrows raised to your hairline, "You quite literally pay me to worry about you, Bucky."

"Not quite," he chuckles, sauntering up to you slowly as he leans into your space, "I actually pay Sam to worry about me. I pay you to hold the gun while I pull the trigger."

You lean forward, "I thought it was the other way around."

Holding your gaze, his eyes search yours, skimming through the file cabinets of your mind like a secretary unshaken. Same as you, Bucky has learned to read what has been left unsaid. The way your posture shifts with certain phrases, how you hate the smell of cedar but love the scent of pine. The way your lips curl around a mug of hot chocolate, even on the warmer days of spring. He can pull your thoughts out of you like a needle in a haystack.

With a deep sigh, Bucky breaks from you, "Sam told me you know, bout that little meeting you're plannin' on having."

You take a step back, false confusion painting your face.

"Haven't a clue what you mean Buck."

He crosses his arms, the thick line of his bicep visible through the black trench he wore, "You know I don't like bullshit, come on."

"This is why I don't loop Sam in on shit like this."

"He only told me because he cares, you know that better than I do."

All he gets is the crunch of snow underfoot as you begin to walk again, hands now tucked into your pockets.

Battered breath follows as he attempts to catch up, his foot steps falling back into sync with yours.

"What did I tell you about holding meetings without people around? You're playin' a dangerous game that we cannot afford to lose sweetheart."

Silence hung heavy over the two of you as the sun set, causing Brooklyn to shine bright, the multicolored lights worming their way around windowsills and banisters alike. By the time the Barnes Finance Bureau came into view, the stiff winter winds had already crept through the thick layers of your overcoat, the frigidness of the air around you rattling your bones with every step you took.

Businessmen catching the last rush hour metro, parents and children comfortably wrapped in the warmth of their homes, tourists flocking to Times Square eager to take a bite out of the big apple, all of these things left this part of the city quiet past sundown.

You both cross the street, hands clenched, searching for warmth in wool pockets.

As you enter the building, a frenzied feeling settles in your stomach.

Tonight was going to be a long night.

Uneasy eyes follow you as you suit up. They watch your nimble fingers tighten the gun holster straps around your thighs. They watch as you tuck bullets and knives into any small pocket they'll fit in. They watch as you settle in front of the dim bathroom mirror, checking to see if your makeup held up against the frost-burnt city sleeping right outside of the window.

Looking for him in the mirror, the two of you make eye contact.

He's slumped in a fold-out chair right next to the door, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you, obviously nervous about what was to come.

With a deep sigh, you set your mascara wand on the sink, turning back to face him.

"You know you can't convince me not to go."

He sits up a little, adjusting the wool trench around like a blanket, "I know, that's why I'm not talkin'."

"Jamie, you and I both know that if they even hear the sound of your boots in the snow, everything will go south. We can't afford to lose our hold on the southern ports."

Breaking eye contact, he looks to the left, a thick hand coming up to rub his stubble-coated cheek, " I know, I know. At least take Tasha and Lena with you. It'll make me less anxious."

"Both of them are with their parents this week; I'm not calling them in while they are on vacation," you uttered, turning back to face your own reflection once more.

He rises with a loud sigh, crossing the room to stand behind you, "This is an emergency."

Turning your head slightly, you catch his gaze again, "James, don't be stupid."

All he can do is shake his head in disbelief as you reach into your makeup bag, pulling out a small powder compact.

"So what's the protocol? What if they don't hold up their end of the deal? What happens if you arrive on site and they decide this is the perfect opportunity to handicap our family?" he leans down next to you, your faces now side by side in the mirror, "What are we supposed to do if something happens to you?"

"Did you take your meds today?"

He turns to look at you, "What are you even talking about?"

When you turn to him, you're nose to nose, "The meds that Dr. Raynor prescribed you last month. The Lexipro? Bucky, are you telling me that you haven't been taking your fucking meds?"

"I don't need medication. Raynor blew things out of proportion; nothing to worry about."

"Blowing things out of proportion, sounds kinda familiar, doesn't it James?"

"Don't do this right now, I'm tryin' to talk to you."

You reach for the zipper of your makeup bag, each set of teeth clicking shut as u pull the silver tag forward. James stands in silence, watching you as you gather your things slowly. Tugging your coat over your shoulders, you finally speak.

"You have my location. I'll keep a tracker on my body for extra precaution. If I'm not back within two hours, you can personally come and collect me."

With anxiousness tugging at his brows, he grips your face, "You promise me you'll be safe? No extra talking or prodding. We've dealt with enough this year, can't afford to take any losses," he sighs, the rough pads of his fingers loosening their grip on your cheeks, " Especially losing you. Don't know what the fuck I would do with myself."

Smiling softly, you lean into his palm, "You'd probably go mad as a sick wife stuck in a room with yellow walls."

His eyes soften, taking a moment to look at you. They follow the soft curves and sharp lines of your face, the length of your lashes. It seems as if he's trying to memorialize this moment, keeping a Polaroid photo of you filed away in the back of his mind for safekeeping.

Locking eyes once again, you posture, "It's 6:30, can't be late."

Apprehensively, he lets go of your face, extending his hand in a silent act of care.

You take it, rising from your seat and allowing him to lead you out of the bathroom and through the quiet office building. Passing glass panel after glass panel, you watch your bodies move in tandem. At first glance, you could be mistaken for lovers. Hands clasped tightly together as you rush through the building, determined to brave the cold winter air together. But the prying eyes of strangers weren't on you now, just your own pupils following two dark silhouettes set against the snowy Brooklyn landscape.

It doesn't take long before you reach the elevator, bright white buttons glowing back at you through the darkness.

Bucky looks to you as you wait for the elevator, "You gonna let me drop you off?"

"We already talked about this Jamie." You continue to stare forward, eyes watching the elevator number change.

He follows your line of sight, bright orange numbers flashing before him, "Yeah, but if I stay across territory lines it should be-"

"Maria is already outside in the BMW," looking to him now with melancholy, "I gave you my word, I'm coming home."

The sleek silver doors of the elevator slide open wide, welcoming you both into its quiet beige chamber. You step in first, turning quickly to face Bucky. Stiff shoulders and shaking hands, he stood before you, a 6'2" statue of complexity. Even now, you could really see him. His eyes shone with a melancholic frustration as they scanned your form, tracing down the silhouette of your wool-wrapped body.

"You promise?" he squints at you, pinky outstretched.

"Promise," you say, tugging him into the elevator with you, "Now will you stop with the sad shtick? You know I don't break my promises.

As a blanket of gunfire rings out above your head, you come to realize that perhaps you were wrong. Maybe the promise you made to James Buchanan Barnes three hours ago wasn't meant to be kept.

You initially came into the meeting with optimism and one goal in mind, keep the Galli family as far away from the South Street Seaport as possible. Even with John Galli's most stubborn son leading the negotiation, you felt hopeful, but slowly your hope seemed to diminish.

He asked that you keep your men out of Manhattan? Okay.

Pay a couple of hefty fees when moving weapons from sea to land? Okay.

But allowing his men to move freely through Brooklyn, bringing drugs into your borough, and putting working-class families at risk? No way was that gonna fly. As tensions rose and the volume of the voices around you rose with them, you could tell that things were beginning to get sticky.

That was until someone's sticky trigger finger decided to "slip".

Now you're running through Manhattan, barefoot against icy concrete with a pair of 6-inch red bottoms in one hand and your gun in the other, trying your best to make it over territory lines. You were lucky enough to make it out of the scuffle without any new bullet wounds, but a shot grazed your thigh, leaving you with a limp.

Swerving around an empty street corner, you take a moment to catch your breath, heavy plumes of smoke escaping your lungs as you inhale and exhale again.

'Why the hell did I ever think doing a deal with a narcotic-taking narcissist was a brilliant idea? Especially with Natasha on vacation-'

Your thoughts are cut short by the soft vibration of the phone in your coat pocket. Answering without checking the caller id, a gruff voice meets you on the other end.

"Where the hell are you? He's about to rip me limb from limb trying to take the car keys from me." Sam's voice echoes out of your phone, bouncing off the brick walls and concrete slabs that made up the alleyway you sat in.

"Hi to you too Sam, fuck." A surge of pain shoots through your thigh as it throbs, causing you to catch your breath.

"What happened, and turn your tracker back on. We lost the signal about 30 minutes ago, and he's on pins and needles-"

You sigh, "Broken."

"What?" You can hear his breathing pick up pace, as if he were starting to jog.

Taking another deep breath in, you speak, "It broke my fall when I jumped out of the second-story bathroom window at the Galli estate."

"Jesus Christ," he pauses for a moment, letting the cogs of his mind turn before speaking again, "How far away from the Ferry are you? If you can make the next one, I can get to you from the port."

"No point, I'm about two miles deep into the Galli territory. If you even make it to me unnoticed, I wouldn't be able to stay here."

Pushing yourself up slightly, you check your bag for something to stop your bleeding, "They're combing the streets for me like a pack of nose blind dogs."

He postures, "Yelena and Tasha just landed. I could send them your cords and-"

"There is no point Sam. I have to make it home on my own-"

Sam cuts you off before you can continue, "What did I tell you about bein' a hard ass?"

You take a deep breath, finally pushing yourself off the ground and gathering your things before speaking once more.

"It only makes more trouble for the family."

The sound of rubber on ice pulls your attention away from the phone. You can hear the faint rattle of hushed voices leaking from the windows of the cars and homes, causing your ears to perk up slightly. You only have so much time before one of the Galli street rats finds you.

Opportunity of a lifetime huh? Finding one of the head officers of the Barnes Family downed in a back alley miles into family territory. Fuck I have to figure this out.

"And what are you?" Sam's voice chimes out, bringing you back to earth

"Family."

With that, you hear a car start on the other end of the phone, "Find a way to ping yourself. Either I come to get you, or I send Buck."

"He'll burn down half the city before even finding me."

"Exactly, you have thirty minutes kid. Get moving."

Three beeps end the call, leaving you alone in the snow once again.

Silently, you pull yourself out of the alleyway, creeping your way through the quiet streets of Manhattan.

Tonight is gonna be a long night.

The roar of the engine bounced between metal and the four concrete walls of the Barnes estate car garage as you sit idle.

The ride home had been mostly silent, with a light-hearted' I told you so' slipping from Sam's lips as soon as your ass hit the peanut butter seats of his SUV. As you rode through the city, passing candy colored lights and frost-covered stoops, the only thing that came to mind was Bucky. Sam had only mentioned how high the tension was as a sort of warning. Describing the air around Bucky's home as so thick you could swim through it, small strings of electricity tickling the hairs on the back of your neck as you walked. The closer you got to the estate, the more the distinctly sick feeling of dread in your stomach began to grow.

How angry was Bucky really? Was this the time you had pushed against the median of your relationship too hard and had finally fallen onto the other side? That sickly sticky feeling continued to grow, crawling from your stomach through your ribs and up your throat like bile. Maybe this was the risk that cut the paper-thin tightrope you constantly decided to walk. You hadn't started the Turf war, sure, but holding the flame too close to the kindling was pretty close.

Interrupting your thought spiral, Sam spoke softly:

"The longer you wait, the worse the conversation will be. I know you know that."

Turning to him with wide eyes, you whisper back, "Sam, I don't know if-"

"Hey," he leans across the center console, placing his hand gently on the back of your neck, "This will work out the way they need to, shit, it was only a matter of time before the Galli's over stepped the perimeters set. This isn't totally on you."

You breathe in deep, sinking into the leather seat that cradles your body, "Yeah, yeah I know. I just can't help feeling like what's to come is sitting on my shoulders. I don't want anyone getting hurt on my dime."

"Whatever comes our way, we deal with it together. Now come on, Bucks' been standing on pins and needles waiting on you to get here."

Sam slips from his seat, rounding the back of the car to meet you on the other side. He helps you out, acting as a support as you two slowly make your way into the home where Bucky waits.

It had been 15 minutes since you'd entered the Barnes home. After a short exchange of words, Bucky helped you change into his spare clothes, allowing him more room to work on your leg. After gentle inspection, he peeks upwards, steely eyes catching yours before speaking.

" You'll live—needed about five stitches. The bullet burned you, so ya' might have trouble healing it. S'best to keep off of it for a while, let it heal up proper. "

Stomach flipping, you watch him prep the medical supplies on the table with precision.

"How long am I outta commission doc?"

Eyes pulled back to your wound, he sighs, "About three weeks. You'll need to work your way back up to high activity tasks after that. You tear your stitches, it'll be more trouble than it's worth, so please do as I ask?"

You don't answer, allowing silence to consume you as he pulls out an anesthetic syringe, administering the clear liquid into your thigh before he turns from you once more.

He moves with intention, heavy hands moving swiftly as he holds an iodine-soaked cloth to your leg.

Eyes swimming up your body, he mutters, "Okay up there?"

"As ok as I can. Don't worry about me, just get it done," you say through lightly clenched teeth.

Unsteady hands reach forward, inserting the needle into your skin. He makes quick work of the wound, pulling the makeshift sutures closed with gentle pressure. Soon enough, he's cleaning up after himself, leaving you in the living room in silence.

Uneasy, you call over the back of the couch towards him.

"How long am I out of commission for?"

Throwing you a look over his shoulder, he grumbles, "With your leg? about a week or two max. If you're talkin' about what happened tonight? possibly a month or two."

Your shoulders sink slightly, "Listen I know-"

"Nope. No, you don't get to talk your way outta this one."

Throwing your hands up, you exclaim, "It wasn't my fault James. Things were going well -"

"Until they weren't, right? Until they had you running through Manhattan barefoot in the snow, hiding in back alleyways with an open wound in your leg," he yells, spinning around to face you.

You stand up and storm your way into the kitchen. Even though you're nose to nose, you feel miles away. Hot breath collides as you stand off, the energy in the room hitting its peak.

"Stop cutting me off and let me fucking speak to you," you huff softly.

He leans against the kitchen island, eyes shooting daggers at you.

"It was a bad idea to go alone, I can acknowledge that fact. But even Sam said it himself, it was only a matter of time before they overstepped. The Galli's have been pushing north for months, James," you sigh deeply through your nose, " and we've never been the family to take shit lying down."

Bucky looks you over, his eyes seemingly scanning through you before he leans forward, pulling you into his chest. His hands are heavy on your body as he cradles you, the warmth creeping through the thin cotton material of the shirt he had given you as he tugs you close. He leans his cheek against the top of your head, causing the next words he mutters to be muffled.

"I'm sorry."

You stiffen at the sound of his voice.

'What would he have to apologize for?', you say to yourself. Before you could reply, he continues.

"It's my fault, should'a never let it get to this point. If I had nipped it in the bud the first damn time, you'd be fine."

His head moves again, chin now resting on top of you, voice clear as crystal.

"Gonna fix this fucking mess I've made. Promise."

Leaning into him, you chuckle, "Didn't Raynor tell you stop assuming responsibility for things that aren't yours?"

"If I did that, where the hell would you be?"

A tender beat sits between you once again—the color-stained image of two lovers cradling each other in the kitchen. Hands tucked into pockets and corners in an attempt to brave the cold within each other. Words unspoken and unnecessary, the thud of beating hearts is enough to communicate effectively.

With a sigh, you push deeper into him, attempting to imprint the feeling of his body into yours.

"Where would you be," he asks again, his voice barely above a whisper.

With your face pressed into his chest, you give him a gentle reply, "In the same place I've always been."

You feel warmth travel from the back of your head to your jaw, pulling your gauze upwards. Your eyes lock with his, the icy blue of his eyes pulling warm as he peered into yours.

With scrunched brows, he mutters, "Ya know I don't like it when you say things you don't mean."

Cocking your head, you take a moment to study him closely. His shoulders were tense and unsure, as if he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to say something that confirmed every doubt that swam inside his head.

"What would be the point of saying something I don't mean right now?"

"You don't want me to feel like the biggest idiot in Brooklyn," he sighs

"I'm willing to cover you in many scenarios, shielding your ego from blows has never once been one of them."

"New day, new you," he snickers.

Leaning back, you squint at him, "Can you remind me why I let Tasha convince me that joining this organization was a smart idea?"

"Because you needed to make rent, and the secretary job you had at Stark Industries wasn't cutting it?"

You press both hands into his chest, allowing you space to look at him fully.

"Alright, Kingpin, we have war strategies to go over if we plan on keeping our side of the bridge."

A light tug pulls you forward, molding you tightly against Bucky's chest.

"Mhh mhh, come here. You owe me after almost dying a block away from the Brooklyn Bridge Street. Stay here with me for a while, will ya?"

"Yeah, Buck, I'll stay here for a while."

Mecca’s Notes ⭑.ᐟ YAYYYY YOU MADE IT!! tysm for reading the fic! Leave a comment if u enjoyed it, lemme know what you thought! I would also like to give a special shout out to @phoenix-in-writing and @elixirfromthestars for carrying me on their shoulders through the writing of this fic😭 Also a special special shout out to my wife @wherewinterblooms for pushing me over the finish line while I was having difficulty finding my footing!

Mecca’s Maestros ⭑.ᐟ @sunday-bug @gremlin-girly @wint3rbarnes @stanmarvelous @barnes-babydoll @galactict3a @wint3rbarnes @sunshine-daydreams0809 @hyunjinvoid @winter-soldier-vibes @dolcesaints @buckytakethewheel @buckybarnes82 @stantastic-association

“I’m not,” is all he can manage out through a tightening throat.

You freeze at his foreignly dismissive tone, ceasing your gentle swaying as your eyes follow the man across the windowless room. “Oh…” you waver.

“I’m a physician for the P.D. on my off days,” he explains distantly, limping slightly on his prosthetic as he heads for the rocking chair in the corner. He has to adjust his right leg before he can sit down properly.“A warehouse robbery went sideways. One of my buddies got shot.”

You forget to tell him that it’s not an off day if he’s working when your chest flares with a sudden worry. “Oh, my god— Is he okay?”

“Stable,” he answers, half-strangled. “Garcia’s with him.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jack nods on muscle memory, sweat dripping from his grey-brown curls. He swallows hard with his eyes squeezed shut and runs his sweat palms down the thighs of his camo pants. He struggles to catch his breath as he confesses, “Yeah, but um… Full disclosure, I do think I’m having a little bit of a panic attack.”

“Oh!” is all you can think to squeak out.

“Yep.”

“Okay!” you blurt, suddenly scrambling. “Okay, um… Let me…”

You falter in place, momentarily frozen as your racing mind struggles between holding the baby in your arms and rushing for the man across the room. You gingerly set the sleeping Jane Doe into her tiny incubator before walking the short distance to Jack. Your face screws with sympathy as you watch him grimace through each shallow breath and an obvious pain you can’t quite identify from here.

“Is it your shoulder?” you ask. “You’re favoring it a little.”

“Got grazed in the crossfire,” he nods through panted breaths. “But I’m good.”

“Can I take a look—?”

“I’ll deal with it,” he tells you, suddenly curt. “I just gotta— catch my breath first.”

You muster a quiet smile that he can’t see with his eyes still shut. You’ve dealt with your fair share of stubborn patients throughout your residency — the bulk of which were young children — so you crouch before Jack at the rocking chair and level with him the way you would a frightened toddler.

“Jack…” you coo gently. “The pain is triggering a fear response in your brain, which is spurring your panic attack, which is why you can’t catch your breath—”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” he scoffs, trying to be playful about it, though the words come out far too deadpan in his current state. He blinks through the haze settling over his vision, and his chest aches when he finds the look you’re giving him — equal parts hurt and sympathetic. “Sorry. I… I didn’t mean it like that—”

“I understand,” you nod. “I know you want to handle it on your own, but if it’s your shoulder, you won’t be able to reach it.”

“I can’t—” Jack drags a ragged inhale and shakes his head. “I can’t go back out there. I don’t… don’t want anyone else to—”

“I get it,” you interject in a gentle murmur before he can lose any more of his breath. “If it’s only a graze, I should be able to do it here. I just need you to let me.”

His chest heaves beneath his heavy military garb. He meets your warm gaze with a glassier, more apprehensive one — scruffy jaw clenched tight, and nostrils slightly flared as he takes in another shallow breath.

Jack nods once, a faint tilting of his chin, ‘cause the slight movement is the only plea for help he can muster.

You know this, too, so you give him a kind smile in response.

“Okay. We’ll go slow, alright? I’ll tell you everything I do before I do it,” you say and rise to full height again before him. “I just need to take off your vest first, is that okay?”

He nods again, through a rattling breath.

“The velcro might be a little loud,” you warn gently. “But I’ll be as quiet as I can.”

With your attentive gaze trained on your practiced hands, you miss the wet-eyed look Jack gives you in response — a subtle look of awe and confusion. He wonders wordlessly if you’ve worked with PTSD patients in the past, if that’s why you knew to warn him about something anyone else would’ve seen as trivial.

The incredulous look never quite leaves him, as you work with deft and gentle hands to remove his radio and the several clasps keeping the vest in place. You set it off to the side, and the camo jacket he wears beneath it goes next — “May I?” you’d wondered quietly, before dragging the silver zipper down his torso as softly as you could when he gave you a silent nod of consent.

You go to set it with his vest on the table beside you and notice the left shoulder of his beige tee is stained with dark red blood — a faint crimson patch, still a little wet at the center.

“I need to take your shirt off now,” you tell him. “Would you be more comfortable if I cut it off?”

“No,” Jack shakes his head. “I can— I can do it.”

“Then what I’m gonna do is slide it up your torso, over your head, then down your arms,” you tell him, still very gentle, even with your insistence. “I just need you to stay as still as you can for me, okay?”

Jack nods despite himself.

The ache in his chest only fizzles out when he feels your hands on him, soft knuckles grazing his ribcage as you drag the thin fabric up and over his skin.

You’re impossibly gentle with him. There’s a foreign sort of softness in your touch, which Jack Abbot had not experienced in some time — that he had not allowed himself to experience in some time. Something about it eases the ice-cold panic in his veins, leaving something much warmer in its wake.

“Is it bad?” Jack wonders, shirtless before you now, as he hunches over with his elbows on his spread knees. He grits his teeth when his body jerks with a sudden shiver, which he’d rather blame on the blasting A.C.

You watch the freckled muscles of his back twitch with involuntary movements as you loom just beside him, eyeing the fresh wound with fidgeting hands as you fight the urge to comfort him physically. The scrape is red and raging, not bleeding as much now, but still obviously quite tender.

“I’m sure it feels a lot worse than it looks,” you tell him with an attentive squint to your gaze. “It should be good with a saline flush and a bandage, though…”

Jack lets out a wavering sigh when you part from him. He feels less like he has to struggle for breath now, but there’s a lingering pinching in his chest that he can’t quite shake — not worry or panic, but something much softer than that — a quiet trepidation at being so taken care of like this, a distant shock that you’d even want to do it at all.

He watches you take a peek at the sleeping baby in the incubator before heading for the sink in the corner, where you slip on a pair of gloves and grab the supplies in the cabinets.

“I’m sorry about this…” he says when he finally has the breath to. “I know you have better shit to do—”

“Don’t apologize,” you tell him. “I’m happy to do it— It’s kinda my whole job, actually…”

“Yeah, but…” he scoffs a faint laugh, thin lip twitching upward in a smile he doesn’t really mean. “I’m bein’ stupid about all this, I know.”

Jack almost cowers at the look you give him when you return to his side, pretty features all twisted with offense. “You were shot, Jack.”

“Shot at,” he corrects, like it makes any difference.

“And you’re taking it a whole lot better than most people in your situation would be,” you say, setting the supplies on the table at your side. “You got shot at and still helped your friends before taking care of yourself— while also being on the verge of a breakdown, might I add. So you can argue with me all you want, Abbot, but that doesn’t change how strong you are, how brave you are.”

Half-distracted as you prep the supplies, you don’t realize what you’re saying until Jack looks at you funny. His heavy head swivels slowly to flash you a quiet smile over his freckled shoulder.

You grimace at yourself. “Sorry, I— I’ve been spending a lot of time in pedes… I forget how to speak to actual adults sometimes…”

“Well, pedes definitely suits you,” Jack nods. “Even though I do hope you stick around here when your residency’s up, obviously. I mean, where else am I gonna get care like this— ‘cause you and I both know that Robby’s bedside manner is just despicable.”

You purse your smile to the side of your mouth as your face flares with a sudden warmth.

“Okay, um, I—” You clear your throat and try to reorient yourself when Jack’s words make your stomach do blackflips. “I’m gonna flush the wound with some saline now, okay? It’s gonna feel a little cool, and it’ll probably sting a bit—”

“Hey,” Jack coos, giving you a firm look with something a little more vibrant in his gaze. “I’m good now. Let’s do this.”

He stiffens slightly when the saline rushes through his wound, pervading the ache with a cold feeling that makes it sting all the more. He hangs his head and tenses his broad shoulders, which tremble with ragged breaths as he tries hard to breathe through the ache. His hands ball into fists and release in rhythmic motions, knuckles flaring white before relaxing once more.

“You’re doing great, Jack,” he hears you murmur from behind him, and tries to pretend his chest doesn’t warm when you do so. “Doing so good for me— Just a little bit of pressure, and we’re all done, okay?”

He smiles to himself, swallowing down the urge to make a joke about you talking to him like a child. He feels a sliver of soft gauze press to his warm skin before you slip a sticky bandage on top to keep it in place. He mourns your touch the second you pull away.

“See? Piece of cake,” you grin and head again for the sink. “Thank you for letting me patch you up, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack’s greying brows lower in a confused look, though you aren’t looking at him to see it. “Thank me?” he scoffs and reaches for his shirt. “What the hell did I do?”

“I don’t know… I just— I know it’s hard for you to let other people take care of you sometimes, that’s all,” you shrug, smiling at him over your shoulder as you run soap through your fingers. “So, you know, thank you for trusting me, you know?”

“Well, thank you for putting up with me,” he says.

“Eh. I don’t mind it,” you quip and dry your wet hands. When you look back at him again, you find him struggling to put his shirt back on. Your chest flares with a fleeting panic as you rush to him on instinct. “Here. Let me—”

You close the distance between you in a few short strides, curling your fingers under the neckline to drag it back over his head. You don’t share a word between you while your gentle hands run over his body to tug his shirt into place. You can feel Jack’s eyes on you the whole time, though you never quite gain the courage to meet them.

“There you go…” you huff with a wavering smile. “Do you need a ride back home?”

“No offense, sweetheart, but I think you’ve done enough already,” he scoffs, hardly noticing the nickname slip from his mouth. “It’s barely noon, I can’t have you burning out already over me.”

“I’ll drive you and come back,” you decide with a firm nod, still strikingly soft in your way. “Jesse can watch over Jane while I’m gone. No biggie. C’mon.”

You turn on your heel and head for the door.

Jack has no choice but to follow after you — but it’s a choice he would’ve happily made, anyway.

“You know, I used to think you were just sweet and assertive,” he jokes as he collects his vest and jacket. “But I’m starting to think you’re just bossy.”

“Hey. I’m sweet,” you protest with a feigned look of anger on your face, too pretty to be as intimidating as you want to be.

“You are,” Jack grins. “The sweetest.”

Two and a half years ago, your very first novel was written. It was a romance, but it was the swirling, gentle kind that didn’t involve an abusive biker mafia boss. You pulled the good parts of yourself out and put them in the main character. You made something that was beautiful. You didn’t mind that it wasn’t exactly a smash hit. You weren’t getting billions of sales, but the people who did read it loved it. And your publishers wanted more from you. You wanted more from you. Your days had hit a lull, though. Your keyboard seemed to twist into something untouchable. Like it grew ten feet tall and glared down at you. You couldn’t even start to climb it and reach the first letter. Much less write something enjoyable. 

 You tried to find inspiration out of your house. You’d sit in the park and watch all the couples and eavesdrop on conversations. You’d take walks down the street, looking at advertisements and regular day-to-day people. You searched for inspiration in your own reading. You looked for it in museums and art. Nothing came to you. It was all boring. 

 You hoped maybe you needed a scenery change. So you packed up your laptop and headed down to a cafe. You settled into the corner, peeling open your laptop. You stared at the blinking cursor as the barista prepared your drink. You hovered your hands over the keys, focusing on the feeling of the cafe. 

 The warmth of the coffee shop prickled at his skin. 

Prickled? Cold prickles. Not warmth. That makes no sense. Is this your first day writing holy-You eyes shot up at the sound of your name being called. You stood from your table, leaving your laptop behind. You pulled your coffee from the counter, turning back around to head towards your seat. Only your eyes caught on the cover of your book. You paused. 

A big, hulking man was hunched over a small table. His back was to the window, the sun framing his large shoulders. At the part of his hair was a small patch of white. His face was scarred, but the pale lines didn’t cut through his beauty. It seemed almost like his face was carved with the scars in mind. They fit his face and made him look…

What’s that word? Reminds you of aubergine. Almost stunning. Not amazing, that’s too childish. Oh, what is that word? 

He lifted his eyes, meeting yours. He curved an eyebrow. You felt doom crawling up your back and digging into your shoulders. You were being a creep and staring. Either you silently move away, pack yourself up and leave, or you start a conversation. You took a step closer. 

“Enjoying the book?” You asked, glancing down at the page he was on. He looked about halfway through it. Your lips quirked at the sight of pen and highlighter covering the page. He was annotating your writing. The man glanced down at his book. He let out an awkward laugh, the points of his canines flashing. Hot. 

“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Have you read it?” He asked, pulling his eyes back to you. You stared at the cover. What have you gotten yourself into? You technically have. 

“Oh yes, a year or two ago.” You stated, feeling your face start to burn. His brows furrowed. He tilted his head to the side. 

“I thought it came out this year.” He questioned. His hands started flipping through the pages to find the publication date. You jumped. 

“Oh! Um- I got it early from one of those Goodreads giveaways. They give a couple people the books before the publication.” You covered. You were digging a hole and digging it fast. The opportunity to hear someone’s real thoughts was pushing you ahead. Especially because he was hot. His hands stopped flipping through the pages, returning to his last page. He nodded. 

“That’s pretty cool.” He stated. He sounded genuinely impressed. 

“It was signed too.” You added. Which was true. You had fucked your signature up so bad you couldn’t imagine anyone but you having it. The man looked up, his face twisting into a cringe. 

“Doesn’t mean as much when it’s an unknown, does it? That would be cool if it was like-” He paused, tilting his head up to think. “Jane Austen or something.” He finished. You tried to ignore the twinge of pain that hit your stomach with the word ‘Unknown’. 

“Well, that would be very impressive; they’d have to bring her back from the dead.” You chuckled. He grinned at you, letting out a small laugh. 

“That’s a bad example.” He mumbled, pulling his bookmark from the table. He pressed it between the pages, closing his book. He turned all his attention to you. You felt your chest warm; this stranger was giving such a sign of devotion. To put your book away for a stranger? Obscene. He might as well have stripped down in front of you. 

“What’s your favorite part?” You asked, drawing his attention back to your book. He thought quietly, wringing his hands on top of the table. He hummed. He turned his head from you, staring out the window in thought. You bounced on the balls of your feet. Jeez, your writing was so awful he couldn’t think of a single good part. His eyes snapped back to you. 

“The letters. They’re incredibly moving and very clearly show their devotion,” he whispered, almost too quiet to hear over the chatter of the cafe. You nodded. That was your favorite part too. 

“People don’t write love letters anymore.” You wistfully said. You truly missed love letters. You hadn’t gotten one, but you wished they were a part of society again. The man nodded. 

“They really don’t.” He mumbled. You pointed to the book again. 

“What’s your least favorite part?” You asked. You really wanted to know. You could use his input on your second novel. 

“The main character.” He didn’t have to think for a second this time. You were starting to regret this conversation. He had to think so hard to find his favorite, but he didn’t have to consider anything to find his least favorite. 

“Too annoying?” You asked. Yes, well, you were considered annoying sometimes, so clearly the character based on you must be too.  He furrowed his brows, glaring at you. 

“Not in the slightest. The issue I have is that they’re too perfect. There are no flaws. Real people aren’t like that. I understand it’s fiction, but it’s disappointing. It’s such a beautiful book that kind of falls flat because the main character is kind of two-dimensional. The book has this stunning message of unconditional love. It falls apart because it’s easy to love someone perfect. Real people aren’t like that. They’re horrifically flawed. They’re assholes sometimes; they blow up; they have things wrong with them. This character is like if the author made someone fall in love with a robot.'

'I can tell they’re capable of writing people with flaws because the love interest does. They just didn’t use that skill on the main character. But I guess I’m thinking about it too hard.” He rambled, leaning back to cross his arms over his chest. Your eyes dipped to his arms, following over the dipping and rising ocean waves of muscle. You sucked in a breath, looking back to his eyes. He’s right, of course he is. You didn’t give them any flaws. You worried that if you added the shitty parts of yourself, every reader would hate them. Your character was perfect, and that’s how you wanted to publish them. A simple character had to be better than an unintentionally hated one. 

“You’re right. The main character is a little two-dimensional. You’d be great in a book club.” You said, pulling your coffee to your mouth. You stared at him over the rim of your drink. He watched you from the corner of his eyes. 

“I don’t know about that.” He mumbled. He dropped his eyes to his lap, almost like he was flustered. You stared at his hair, zeroing in on the white streaks. At first, you thought it was bleached, a very good bleach job. But he didn’t have any black roots. So, unless he bleached it last night, it was natural. 

“Do you have vitiligo?” You asked, your eyes still examining his scalp. He lifted his head, making you meet his eyes. 

“What?” You lifted your hand, gesturing toward your head. 

“Your hair. Vitiligo sometimes causes white streaks in hair. It looks natural; you don’t have any roots.” You furthered, dropping your hand from your head. He scoffed at his lap. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He grumbled. You hummed. Weirdo. A hot weirdo. You gasped as the word came back to you. You snapped your fingers. 

“Alluring. That’s the word I was looking for.” You muttered. The man stared at you as you started to mutter about amazing aubergines. You slipped away from his table, dropping back into your seat across the shop. You set your coffee down. 

An alluring man with hunched shoulders sat in a coffee shop with a well-loved paperback book twisted in his hands. 

That’s almost something. It's a good opener, maybe. He’s hot; that's made clear. The book has been read before, and he twists his books around. He’s hunched; he’s a little shy. You have something. You glanced over the edge of your laptop to find the man staring at you. His mouth was parted like you just called him a bitch. You tilted your head to the side, asking him a silent question. He pressed his mouth together, patting his hands against the table. 

He’s been playing eye tag with the only other person in the shop engrossed in a novel for the past thirty minutes. 

The man stands from his seat, taking his book with him. He advances on your table, sitting across from you. 

“You left.” 

“You’d make a great detective.” You mumbled, dropping your eyes back to the screen. 

He liked to bend books to his whim. He got to lay claim to an entire universe and twist and pull it however he liked. Which was how his universe had treated him. Its twists and yanks left trailing scars across his skin. 

“My name is Jason,” Jason mumbled. You lifted your eyes, tracing over his face again. 

His cutting green eyes trailed across the pages. 

You hummed in response. He frowned at you, pinching his lips together. 

“What’s yours?” Jason pressed. You pressed your laptop screen down, breaking down the wall between the two of you. You leaned forward. You pointed your finger at your name sprawled across the cover of his book. Jason looked down at your hand, his eyes widening. He looked back up at you. 

“You’re joking,” Jason stated. All the humor in his voice was gone; he was begging you to say yes- you were joking. You pulled the book from his hands, flipping to the back cover. You held the small black and white picture of you next to your face. Jason groaned, dropping his face into his hands. 

“This is embarrassing.” He mumbled to himself. You hummed, closing your book again. You slid it across the table. 

“It’s okay.” You tried. Jason shook his head in his hands. 

“No. I totally insulted your writing to your face.” Jason grumbled. He pressed his hands into his face, completely mortified. You sighed. 

“You were right. I didn’t give the main character flaws. You gave me good analysis. I appreciate it, seriously, Jason.” You reached out, gently pulling on his wrist to reveal his face again. He gave you an embarrassed look, hiding his lips inside of his mouth.  

“I can’t believe I did that.” He whispered, staring at the cover of his book again. You smiled at him, watching him carefully. You were incredibly grateful he was reading his book in this coffee shop. 

“I’m glad. I think I beat my writer’s block.” You almost giggled. Jason huffed. 

“I’m mortified. I don’t think I’m living this down.” Jason muttered. You rolled your eyes. 

“Let me make it up to you. We could maybe get dinner.” You ventured. Please say yes. Say yes. You could spend only one evening with him and still write a whole book. Clearly something about him was pushing all the buttons you needed to be inspired. He was hot and smart. That’s not a frequent combo. Jason lifted his eyes, his eyebrows shooting up. He nodded quickly. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Jason stumbled out. You hummed. You moved to pull your phone out. The bell above the cafe door rang; another incredibly muscular man stepped through the door. His face was solid as his eyes swept over the people. His eyes landed on Jason, his face lighting up. He lifted his hand, waving back and forth. 

“Jay!” He shouted, making the quiet cafe-goers grumble. Jason clammed up, his shoulders tightening. 

“Oh, my god.” He mumbled. Jason pressed one of his pens into the cover of his book, sliding it towards you. 

“I have to go.” He said. You hummed, peeling open the front cover of his book. You scribbled your signature on the cover and left him your number. You slid it back to him. Jason snatched it up, making quick work of the cafe. He herded the loud man out of the cafe. You could see them arguing through the window. You grinned at the sight of Jason pressing the book to his chest. 

the next day...

"What the fuck?"

He freezes, standing by the window. The sight before him is...terrifying, to say the least. He feels like he's in a nightmare. He spent the entire duration of patrol mulling over the things he said to you before he left. We both know you won't, except you did.

He stares at the kitchen of your shared apartment. All of your water bottles that you constantly left by the sink are gone. The vase of flowers you always left on the island is empty. Your collection of cheesy magnets is gone, the fridge stripped bare.

He looks to the living room. The stack of your books that always accompanied his own is missing. Your coffee mug no longer sits empty on the coffee table atop your favorite coaster. Your stupidly girly throw blanket is no longer draped over the couch.

"What...the fuck," he whispers to himself again. "No, no, no, no, no..."

He walks to the front door. Your shoes—usually tossed haphazardly by the door, thrown over his own boots—are nowhere to be found. Your keys are not in the ceramic bowl by the door. Your collection of puffer jackets and coats no longer clutters the coatrack.

Jason swallows, and only then does he register the growing lump in his throat and the pit of dread in his stomach. "Baby?" he calls out, as if this is all some sick prank. "C'mon, doll, don't do this to me, where are you?"

He slams open the bedroom door. "Fuck," he breathes, shoulders dropping. Your cluttered mess of brushes and foundations and powders is gone, the dresser's surface wiped completely clean of excess from your makeup—it looks untouched, like you were never there.

The bed is stripped bare—that was your comforter and pillowcase set, after all. The clinical white color of the pillows and mattress seem to mock him and everything he lost.

He opens the closet. Only one half of the space is now occupied—his half. The rack that once held your shirts and hoodies, the organizer that once held all your "going out" heels, the overflowing laundry basket you never let him touch...all of it is empty.

"No," he mutters again, entering his final destination: the en suite bathroom.

He finally lets his unshed tears fall as he stares at the room. Your pink towel? Gone. Your fragrant shampoo and conditioner? Gone. Your decadent body wash that he loved to sniff off of you after your showers? Gone.

...Your toothbrush that once accompanied his by the sink?

Gone.

With shaky hands he pulls his phone out from his pocket, immediately going to check your location. "Location unavailable, what the hell does that mean?"

With his heart in his stomach, he clicks a few buttons and suddenly he's waiting for you to pick up the phone—you're his one and only emergency contact, of course.

After a few rings, it goes to voicemail. "Fuck!" he exclaims, calling again.

Voicemail, again.

10 times he calls. Each time, the line rings thrice before sending him to voicemail. On the last call, he finally leaves a message.

"Doll, where the hell are you, baby?" he asks into the phone, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I know I said you'd never leave but please, all– all your stuff's gone and I don't know what to do. Please, please pick up the phone, ma. I- fuck, I love you, come back."

He hangs up, not noticing—or maybe just not acknowledging—the tears streaming down his face. "My baby," he sighs, taking a seat on the couch. If he doesn't sit, he might collapse with how much he's shaking.

For good measure, he shoots you a bunch of a few texts asking where you are, why your location's off, and telling you that he loves you.

He tosses his phone to the side, clenching and unclenching his fists in an attempt to get this shaking to stop. The apartment feels cold and clinical without you or your belongings in it.

He doesn't like living alone—or at least feeling like he's living alone.

Jason doesn't go to the manor at all that day. He spends the entire day busying himself with random chores around the half-empty apartment and checking his phone every 5 seconds.

With every one swipe of peanut butter onto a slice of bread, he checks his phone for your location, a call, or even a text back. He never thought it'd take him 20 minutes to make himself a PBJ sandwich.

He's wiping down the bathroom counter when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

Y/N has started sharing location with you.

"Oh, thank fuck," he sighs deeply, feeling as though a weight has been lifted off his chest. He doesn't know if you meant to turn on your location again, but the details don't matter now—he needs to get his baby home safe and figure out what the hell happened.

The address in his phone led him to another apartment on the other side of Gotham. He almost second-guesses his GPS until he sees your car parallel parked outside the complex. He can see boxes in your trunk which likely house everything missing from your own apartment.

He gets out of the car. Apartment 117, he's looking for. "Please don't be with another man, please don't be with another man," he whispers in a chant to himself. It's not long before he's stopped right outside the apartment door, the little dots on his phone—one representing you, the other him—shown as being 10 feet apart.

A shaky fist raises to rap his knuckles against the door. He stands there for probably two minutes, and he begins to wonder whether he's made a mistake. Just as he's about to walk away, you swing the door open.

Wait, not you. His brows furrow—he recognizes the girl immediately as your friend Sydney from the unmistakable sleek ginger hair.

"She doesn't want to see you," the girl says.

Jason has to look down at her, but he subconsciously tries to make himself smaller. The last thing he needs to do is scare off the one person who can lead him to you.

"I...I really need to see her, Sydney," he murmurs softly. "We– we had a big fight last night and now all of her stuff is gone. I just need to talk to her."

"I know what happened," she says, ready to shut the door. "You're a dick, Todd."

"Wait– don't shut the door—"

"—Syd, it's okay. I'll talk to him."

His entire rhythm seems to slow, his body calming down once he finally hears your voice. It may not be directed at him, but that kind, gentle lilt could soothe him under any circumstances.

"Doll?" he mutters, trying to peek around Sydney to get a glimpse of you. "Oh, baby..."

You brush past your friend, offering her a grateful smile before shutting the door behind you. You and Jason stand alone in the stuffy hallway, the walls suddenly too close.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"What're you doing here, Jason?" you ask finally.

His breath hitches. It would go unnoticed to most, but not to you. "Don't call me that."

"Your name?"

He nods. "No...I'm supposed to be Jay or– or 'baby' or 'handsome,'" he replies. "Jason feels too...formal."

You sigh, eyes diverting from his and focusing on the decorative plant stood in the corner. "You never answered my question."

"What am I doing here?" he shifts to meet your gaze once more. "Ma, what are you doing here? You had me scared shitless when I got home! Your– your stuff was all gone, you wouldn't answer my calls or my texts. Baby, I–"

"You what?"

"I thought I lost you." That familiar lump is clawing up his throat again. He tries to swallow it down, tries to brush away the sudden burning in his nose and behind his eyes.

"Shouldn't you be thanking me?" you murmur. "You told me that you wanted me to leave; you dared me to. So I did."

He cups your cheeks and you can feel the tremor in his warm hands against your skin. "Babygirl, you have to know I didn't mean that," he whispers oh so softly. His blue-green eyes are so gentle and assuring as they stare into yours, albeit a little glossy as well. "Oh, fuck, you're my everything, darling, I could never do without you."

You swallow as his hands drop from your face, arms falling to his side as his head falls to your shoulder. "I'm sorry," he whispers. You feel a sudden wetness against your shoulder when his arms engulf you. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry..."

You take a deep breath. How could you not forgive him? Your sweet, broken Jay...

Fuck if Sydney calls you 'easy.'

You reciprocate his hug, tangling both your hands in his hair to cradle his head. "Oh, Jay..." you shush him gently, lips trailing a path of kisses across his hairline. "I know..."

"I don't deserve you," he admits.

"Is that why you're trying to push me away?" you ask him in your soothing voice.

He blinks, staring into space for a moment against your shoulder. "I...yeah. I think that's exactly why."

You smile softly, resting your temple against his. "Then we can fix it, okay? Together."

He nods, finally picking his head up to meet your gaze again. "Together."

You look into his eyes for a bit. "I'm sorry for my...extremities. Y'know, moving all my shit out of the apartment and ghosting you and—"

"—Ma," he cuts you off, eyes imploring you to slow down. "I understand. You had every right to be angry and act on it, okay? I'm sorry, not you. Never you, my baby."

You lean in, hands cupping the back of his neck. He goes gladly, soft lips meeting yours in a gentle, slow kiss. There's a tinge of salt on your tongue from his tears slipping down his face, but you don't mind. You pull away after a few moments, resting your forehead against his.

"I love you," you reassure him. "I'm not leaving. I'm yours. I love you."

He nods. "I love you, too, doll."

Your whole relationship with Frankie had been like chasing a storm from the beginning. Despite living in Florida, the sunniest place either of you had ever known, the rain always found you faster than you could prepare for it.

Some storms arrived quietly.

Others kicked the front door off its hinges.

This one had come in the shape of a tiny plastic bag tucked inside the pocket of his jeans.

***

Frankie was dead silent the whole drive. While the first traces of sunrise bled orange into the sky, turning it into something that looked like a watercolor painting, you couldn't bring yourself to appreciate it today. His knee bounced the entire drive, his foot tapping relentlessly against the floorboard. His shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat despite the air conditioning blasting at full volume.

"You know, you don't need to do this. You could just... drive home."

You shook your head immediately. "And then what?"

"I can do the rehab at home."

"Like the last time?"

He flinched at the memory, just a little.

"I don't do this to punish you, Francisco."

He scoffed, thumb rubbing over his bottom lip as he stared out the window, watching the landscape blur by.

"I don't see what's gonna be different there than when I lay in my own vomit at home."

"They're professionals, Frankie. You can talk to someone who can really hold you through this without falling apart alongside you."

"Mhm."

"Frankie..."

He shook his head. "Don't use that tone on me."

"Which tone?"

"The pity one."

"I don't—" You exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"'s okay." And he sounded honest. "I'm the one who should be sorry."

"You're sick, Frankie. You didn't choose this."

"I am a fuck up, cariño."

Your eyebrows furrowed. You bit your lip before blindly reaching for his sweaty hand, squeezing it while keeping your eyes fixed on the road—even as your vision began to blur with uninvited tears.

"No, you're not. You survived things most people couldn't even imagine surviving. Somewhere along the way your brain found something that quieted all that noise, even if only for a little while. It may have chosen the wrong thing but that doesn't make you wrong. You're still you."

"What if this is all I'm gonna be now?" His voice barely rose above a whisper. "This washed-out version of me. I'm farther away from the man you fell in love with than ever..."

"Hey, hey," you reined him in gently. "No, that's not true. He's still in there. He just needs a little help finding his way back to shore, hm?"

You squeezed his hand again. "And there's nothing wrong with needing help sometimes. The strongest people do. And you, Frankie Morales, are one of the strongest people I've ever known. I'm so so proud of you."

You weren't able to look at him as the sun climbed higher, promising another day of scorching heat. But you heard a small, broken sound that sounded suspiciously close to a sob. Without thinking, you took the next exit, still twenty minutes away from the rehab center. Gravel crunched beneath the tires as you pulled onto the shoulder and finally looked at your boyfriend.

Despite his broad frame, he suddenly looked so unbearably small in the passenger seat of his own truck. He looked hollowed out by the weight he carried. By the guilt clawing at him for failing you. He looked lost.

You unbuckled your seatbelt and leaned toward him, still holding his hand before pressing a kiss against his knuckles.

"Look at me," you pleaded.

He shook his head stubbornly. So you cupped his cheek with your free hand, gently guiding his face toward yours. His soulful dark eyes shimmered with tears, red-rimmed and exhausted. The sight hit you straight in the chest.

"How can you..." His voice cracked. "How can you still stay? Why didn't you just leave already?"

A watery smile tugged at your lips. "Because, unfortunately, I love you a shit ton."

A weak laugh escaped him before his face crumpled again. He took your hand between both of his and kissed it with all the devotion only he had ever shown you.

"I'm scared."

"I know you are."

You brushed your thumb across his cheek. "I am too."

Silence settled between you for a moment. "But I think we just need to do it anyway. Even if we do it scared."

He closed his eyes. "I can't do this for you. God, I wish I could." Your voice wavered. "But this is something you need to do for yourself. For the man you've always told me you want to be. Not only the one scarred by war and loss."

You rested your forehead against his. "And I believe in you."

A tear slipped down his cheek. 

"I'll always be here, rooting for you."

"You're truly too good for me, mi amor."

You smiled—a real one this time—and shrugged. "Maybe."

Another shrug. "Guess you're just a lucky bastard then."

"The luckiest on this fucking planet," he murmured.

Like magnets finding their opposite, you drifted toward one another. Your hand rested against the back of his neck, your thumb brushing behind his ear, tracing the small letter tattooed there for you. Matching the one you wore in the same place, even if you'd gotten yours weeks later. Your foreheads touched in a grounding gesture.

He let out one long, shaky breath. "I love you."

And you knew he meant it. God, he meant it with every bruised piece of his heart.

"I love you more," you whispered. "Always more."

You smiled through tears. "And now I'll drop you off for your very expensive extended holiday."

That earned you the smallest huff of laughter.

"I'll be right here picking you up when you're ready, okay?"

You felt his nod more than you saw it.

***

A few minutes later, you watched him disappear through the doors of the rehab center. Only then did you realize your hands were still gripping the steering wheel so tightly they hurt.

For a long moment, you couldn't make yourself put the truck into gear. Watching the biggest part of your heart walk away was hard. Trusting that he was walking toward himself again was harder.

The whole drive home you cried, singing along to your shared playlist between shaky breaths, selfishly wishing that, when all of this was over, you'd get the love of your life back whole instead of only living with the fragments addiction had left behind.

thanks for reading 💌

main masterlist • ko-fi