love. poetry. me.

Virginia Beach

"Is it Trin's car?" He asks as he settles into the seat uncomfortably. He was a bit too tall for this.

Nodding, you pulled the seat belt across your chest. "She lets me borrow it sometimes. Before you say it, no, I'm too scared to take your gas guzzler anywhere."

You had come to pick him up. There were a few whistles and side eyes as you two got into the old Prius. You were also waiting slightly away from the barrage of family members.

You didn't need to, he had told you. But of course, you had insisted. Least I could do, that's what you said.

Not that Jake minded you picking him up in the least. He had never been picked up. Even when he went home, there was no one at the airport waiting, which was fine with him, truly. It was a two-hour drive from the ranch and it was better for him to get a cab. But barely a year in Virginia and hell, he was going to pick up a lot of bad habits.

"So, how was it?" You ask him like a mother picking up a toddler from camp. It's ridiculous. And also something he could get used to.

"Well," he shifts, adjusting the collar of his khaki shirt, "it was amazing. I got the top bunk and we all sat in a circle and sang kumbaya at night."

You run a hand over your face, grinning slightly. "Fair point. Well, how are you then?"

He rolls his eyes at your concern before catching an earnest, waiting glance from you. "Fine, Rudy. Nothing interesting. Just a bunch of patrolling and burning fuel."

You hum for a second. "Sounds safe."

"As safe as doing nothing can be." He stares out at the open road.

"Well, nothing in a highly efficient death machine is still mild to moderate levels of concerning." You tap your fingers against the steering wheel.

"Yeah, sure." He huffs out, slightly red. Jake knows the apartment is just fifteen minutes away, but you're driving faster than he expected. He almost wished you weren't before the realization sets in. You're both going to the same place. "How's the apartment?"

"Uhm— Good, I think." You scratch behind your ear. "I put a few plants in the kitchen. They're succulents, pretty low maintenance."

"Huh, I was a bit of a botany nerd in college," he mutters as he spreads his palms out on his knees.

You stare at him for a minute before turning back to the road. "I wouldn't have guessed. What was your major?"

"Mechanical engineering." He stretches his muscles as much as he can in the car. "Then got into The Martian."

"You're kidding." The car swerves once in your disbelief before you correct yourself. "The movie or the book?"

"Both. Movie first though."

You slowly lower the car's speed as you turn the corner into the parking lot. "So much I don't know about you, Hangman."

He clips the seat belt off before you put it in park. "We've got nothing but time, sweetheart."

The elevator ride is, for the first time, briefly tense. You crack your knuckles and fiddle with the key in your bag for a long while.

"Are you nervous?"

"No, why— oh, shut up." You startle as the door opens along with his question. "Okay, I just want to give you a moment before we go in. It might be different."

"Yeah, I know. I helped you move in, remember?" Jake shrugs off his heavily patched bomber jacket. "It better be different, you're living here now."

"Well, I did try not to change it much. Except the guest room. It's a mess now." You turn the key in its lock. He likes what you've done with it. Blue and green tassels hang quite beautifully from it. If what you've done with his— the place—is anything like it, it's going to be alright.

"Okay, last chance to run away and get a hotel," you mutter as you push the door open, stepping aside to watch him.

Jake should've taken your word for it. There's not much different. Sure, there's a knitted blanket on the couch, a few textbooks on the coffee table. The key holder is fixed upright by the door. And yeah, the hallway light is warmer, like it doesn't want to gouge his eyes out.

"You hate it." Rubbing your forehead, you state from the side.

Jake chuckles, hanging his jacket on the last edge of the rack, which now holds a stethoscope, a white coat, and two bags. "Oh, please. It's so hard tripping over your very neatly arranged textbooks."

"Well, that's a relief." You laugh, relaxing. "I hope you don't break your nose, because I have to get to work, and I'm a teensy-weensy bit late. Get settled. I'll bring breakfast donuts when I get back."

Jake turns around to see that you've still not stepped into the house. Reaching over from the threshold, you grab your brown handbag and your steth. "No Boston creams, please."

"I got you, bearclaw man." You give a three-finger salute, letting the door go.

—

The smell of pancakes hits you even before you open the door. You step into the apartment, hanging your jacket and bag on the coat hanger, taking soft steps toward the kitchen.

He's playing music. Something country with an exquisite chord progression in the background. And he's singing along.

"If you tell me that she's not here,

Then I'll follow the trail of her tears."

You catch him spinning around in the mirror you had placed on the blank wall opposite the dining table facing the kitchen. If he looked hard enough, he could've probably seen you. But he's getting another batch of pancakes ready. And there's flour on the back of his T-shirt, although you're not sure how it got there.

"She would get mad and she used to say

That she'd come back to Memphis someday,

That's how I got to Memphis,

That's how I got to Memphis."

He spins once more and now the spatula is a mic.

"I haven't eaten a bite

Or slept for three days and nights

That's how I got to—" Oh, hell! He saw you! "You can come out now, creep."

You raise your arms in surrender. "Sorry, you seemed like you were enjoying yourself."

"I was." He points the kitchenware at you like a sword. "Then I saw you lurking."

"Sorry, sorry." You hang your head as you lean on the counter. "You're a good singer."

"Well, thank you, ma'am. I do fancy myself a choir boy in my dreams." He places the entire stack of pancakes in front of you. "You better eat five."

"I was going to eat cereal out of a box, you bet your ass I'll try to eat ten." You move past him to grab two plates. "Sit down, we'll do this together."

"What's that on your hand?" Jake points the spatula at your forearm where a nasty purple bruise is forming.

"Just an antsy patient who was a bit too strong." You shrug, pulling down the sleeve of your shirt. "You won't believe the shit that happens to the nurses."

He stares at you, eyes wide. "Fuck. How do you guys do this?"

"Thoughts, prayers, and good food that doesn't go cold," you say, pulling four onto your plate.

"I'll get these three and join you." He waves the spatula over the last of the pancakes. "You like chocolate chip, right?"

You pour out two glasses of apple juice. "I love them."

—

"No! No! No! The spices are in the rack." You're waving your hand around like a maniac and he's enjoying this way too much. "The flour is in the cabinet."

He opens the rack with a flourish, eyes searching around. "Well, where are the sauces?"

"In the fridge!" You throw your hands up, exasperated. "They taste better when they're chilled, you know."

He gets out the green chili sauce and slathers it over his fried rice. He then points his chopsticks at you. "Sweetheart, you're honestly weirding me out."

"Hey, I definitely mentioned this in the lease so you couldn't kick me out." You swirl your noodles up onto the fork. "Besides, you're the one who's putting chili on Schezwan fried rice."

"It's called having a spice tolerance." He circles around the island to reach you. "You got a noodle on your shirt."

"Ugh." You look down and pluck the noodle between your fingers. The dark gray sweatshirt you wore didn't actually show much of a stain, thankfully. "You'd think I'd be better with a fork."

It took you a while to be your usual slob self around him. More like two weeks, but during those two weeks, you wouldn't step out of your room if you had a hair out of place. But, as time went on, watching him in the kitchen in T-shirts with tears in the corners, sweatpants so faded that any color seemed near to gray, had let you be comfortable with yourself. And you have a feeling that he knew what he was doing.

"Do you wanna learn how to hold chopsticks?" He asks you as he sits down beside you.

You tilt your head. "You can try to. But it won't work."

"Okay, so, you know the basics, right?" He takes the unopened chopsticks and tears the cover.

You shake your head. "Nope, teach me like I'm five."

He chuckles as he splits them into two, hands open for yours. You place your palm in his. "First, you keep one of these guys under your thumb, with the pointy side flat on your hand."

"Uh-huh."

"Then, in comes the second guy." He makes a slow airplane flying gesture until he places the next stick in your hand. "You hold this guy with your pointy finger and your thumb."

You laugh first, then flex your fingers, following along. It wasn't the first time you had tried this. But it was certainly the funniest, watching a naval aviator explain this to you like you were a child.

"Now, you get the bad finger." He points to your middle finger once, making you snort. "You get this guy to support his friend. Then, tuck the two little guys under and now, you can move these up and down to grab food."

"Yay!" You whisper, taking the chopsticks to your carton of noodles. And due to your amazing coordination, noodles end up on your shirt and the table.

"You're really bad at this."

"I know."

"Comically." He laughs, gesturing around you with his chopsticks.

"Well, glad to make you laugh then."

The sound dies into something better, a smile.

North Island

"Hello, aviators."

Jake turns his head along with everyone else at the new voice approaching the podium. Jack Abbot is carrying the big binder that you usually carry, and wearing black-rimmed glasses. "Today's topic is CVS. Or simply put, your heart and blood vessels."

He knew that you would probably go back to ignoring him, but Jake didn't expect you to escape the entire program. There was barely a week more left. Coyote jabs him quite hard in the ribs. "Dude! Where is she?"

"How the hell would I know?" Jake snaps back, leaning away from him.

"Do we have a problem?" Abbot leans against the podium, eyes fixed on them. "Because, you know, I can just walk away. This is stuff you're already supposed to know."

Jake sucks in a breath sharply. In the last few sessions, no matter how rowdy the back row had gotten, you hadn't threatened to end class. He's about to apologize when Mickey speaks up from behind him. "Sorry, sir. We were just wondering where Dr. Rudy is."

"Well, the good doctor had a personal emergency. She took the last flight to D.C."

"Why D.C.? She lives in Virginia Beach." Jake sits up straight in his seat. He knew where your mom was. Was she in D.C. now? Is that why?

"Oh my God!" Coyote softly whispers as murmurs burst around the room.

"Lieutenant Seresin, stand up."

"Are you kidding me?" Jake scoffs loudly when the older man pins him down with his gaze. "Yes, sir."

"What is G-LOC?"

Jake stares at him for a moment before answering. "G-force induced loss of consciousness, sir."

"Explain its physiological basis to me." Abbot closes the binder with a thud and steps off the podium.

"Increased gravity leads to blood pooling in our legs, which means less blood for our brain. Which means blackout," he finishes as the other man takes a step closer to him, "sir."

"So, you're saying that the vision loss occurs with the loss of consciousness?"

"No, sir." Okay, he was really putting him through the wringer. "Blood flow to the eye is reduced first."

"Anybody know why that is?" Abbot waits for about ten seconds before answering the question himself. "The pressure inside the eye is naturally higher than the fluid pressure in your brain. The perfusion or the blood flow to the retina is determined by the pressure difference between the average arterial pressure and the intraocular pressure. When the arterial pressure drops, the pressure inside your eyes increases, decreasing blood flow to the nerves."

"Now, Lieutenant Seresin, what are the long-term effects of high gravity on the heart muscle?"

The question feels rather pointed as Abbot steps right in front of him. Jake thinks long and hard, but he comes up empty. "I don't know, sir."

"You don't know?"

"I don't, sir."

"As the high gravity exposure is in short bursts, it has no long-term effects on the myocardium." Abbot leans back. "Good. Since everyone seems to know what is needed, class dismissed."

Without waiting for a response or acknowledgment, Abbot turns around.

"Sir," Jake calls out against his better judgment. "Is it her mother, sir?"

"No. I think it was her old roommate. It's not serious. There was an accident and she was the emergency contact." Then he drops his voice to barely above a whisper. "Now, as homework, I'd like you to look up the definition of the word 'personal', Lieutenant."

—

"Jake," Phoenix calls out to him from the Hard Deck. She smirks when he turns around. "Oh, so he answers to the name."

He scoffs as he gestures at the new bartender to top off his whiskey. "Fuck off, Phoenix."

"Yeah, fuck off, Phoenix," Coyote repeats as he slides into the seat beside him. "But seriously dude, she's the girl you lived with?"

"Whoa, hold on!" Phoenix raises a hand, eyes wide. "Hangman lived with a girl?"

"Jesus." Jake runs a hand through his hair as the daggers surround him. "It wasn't like that. There was nothing between us."

Rooster takes another sip of his beer. "That I believe."

"He means no sex, Rooster," Coyote adds unhelpfully, and screams out loud when Jake stamps his boot on his foot. "Sorry, man!"

And around him, everybody stands with their mouths wide open. Even Bob, who was usually good at being just neutral on things, is slightly swaying on his feet. Rooster asks the gentleman on his other side to get the fuck off the chair so that he can sit down.

And even though Jake knows that they're being dramatic, it's hard that no one could believe it.

"Hold on, if there was nothing between you two," Fanboy points aimlessly two places over, "then why the hell were you making 'fuck-me' eyes at each other?"

This makes Jake laugh. "It might have been 'if I'm seeing you here, then God fucked me over' eyes."

"It felt very much like 'unrequited love' eyes," Rooster chips in. "Not that I would know."

"No, no. I agree," Payback chimes.

"Wow, why are y'all just looking at me?" Jake raises a playful eyebrow. "Are you guys that obsessed? Jeez, I knew I was good. I didn't know I was *that* good."

Rooster rolls his eyes. "We were looking at her too, asshole."

Virginia Beach

"Jesus fucking Christ, nobody's telling me anything, Trin! They were saying that the shooter was at the concert first. Now, they're saying he's there. And nobody has any idea on whether he's in handcuffs or if he's— God, I don't know. The roads are fucking jammed and nothing other than emergency vehicles is being let through! It's a fucking hospital, goddammit! They have to say something!"

He takes a few deep breaths, listening to the voice on the other side. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. Just let me know after you get there, please? Let me know that she's fine, okay?"

When she mutters something that sounds like an agreement, Jake lets the call drop and raises the volume of the TV.

—

It's twelve in the afternoon when you finally stand outside your apartment door. You're fully expecting to explain why you didn't let Trinity call him or call him yourself. You had texted that you were safe and fine at eleven, very helpfully. But he hadn't seen it, which was pretty uncharacteristic of Jake.

You can hear the news channel rambling something about the attack as you push the door open. And the sight is just short of pretty, leaning on heartbreaking.

Jake is half asleep, draped on the couch, fully dressed. He stirs at the door creaking, taking a while to orient himself. From the looks of how one hand of his is clutching the remote, he must have been awake the whole night. You try to breathe quietly as you step over to his side. But at the same time, he manages to crack his eyes open. And when he sees you, he stumbles forward with all his weight into your arms. His hands are spread across your back, holding you firmly to him.

"Hey, hey, hey," you say softly. "I'm fine, I'm alright. I just need a really long shower, I'm okay, I promise."

"They were— the news was saying that the— the shooter—"

"Yeah, no. The shooter wasn't there. He was apparently pronounced dead at the scene." Your breath hitches in your throat. "It was just a disgruntled shop owner with a concealed carry permit."

"Oh, okay. Okay, thank God."

"The Hangman believes in God?" You chuckle dryly against his chest.

His voice comes out lighter than you expected. "Well, he does now."

"Now, let go, Jake. I'm pretty sure there's so much dried blood on me right now." You push your palms against his chest and he lets you, albeit reluctantly.

"Okay. You get a shower, get some sleep. I'll be here," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

You nod and start walking toward your bedroom, forcing your jelly-like legs to move. Unfortunately, unlike all the other times you've done this, they collapse before you close the door.

Maybe it's because they know even if you're not caught, you'll be held.

"Hey, hey, hey. You're okay." Jake is beside you in an instant, gathering you in his arms again. His hands graze your shoulders as you flinch and pull away. This makes him take your hands in his.

That's so much worse.

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine!" You snap as the tears flood your vision. "Oh God, don't touch me! There's so much blood. There's so much blood on my hands."

Jake leans back, hands hovering over you for a moment before settling at his sides. "Okay, here's what we're going to do. I'm going to run you a bath. You can wash your hands as many times as you like. You can stay in till the water gets cold. Then, you're going to get out. You're going to get into bed and try to get some sleep."

You bob your head furiously as he gets up, wrapping your arms around yourself. The tap turns on in the bathroom and he comes back. "You should get in."

"I can't. I can't stand, I can't walk." It's pathetic how you want him right now. It's even more pathetic to think that you might need him. But it slips out of your mouth all the same. "Oh God, don't leave me alone, Jake."

"Okay. All right." He looks anywhere but at you for a second, and you can see him steadying himself. "I'm going to get you into the shower then. Is that okay?"

You nod wordlessly again, and in a moment, he lifts you in his arms, carefully not to touch too much of your fraught skin, and takes a few short steps into the bathroom. He sets you on the lid of the toilet and slowly pulls your black scrub top over your head. Then, he hesitates. You know he can see the marks on your arms where you were grabbed. But you can't explain anything right now. You'd rather put your head under the hot water.

He somehow understands, and nods quietly to himself again, as if filing this under something he would or would not ask later.

His hands move to your waist then, pulling the elastic carefully. It's completely useless when you lean forward into his shoulder, hips lifting slightly to help him. He lets the fabric pool at your feet.

You're sure you feel lifeless to him. And honestly, it's how you feel too. His hands pause at the back, hovering just above the strap of your bra. "Should I?"

"Just get it off, Jake, please."

He takes a sharp breath in as he unhooks the clasp with deft fingers. As he moves to your panties, you lift your hips again, and he slides both of your bottomwear off. He's done this before, you're sure. But maybe not like this.

And that does help you feel a bit less cold while sitting with your feet on the cold tile.

Jake takes all your clothes and places them on the sink. Then he turns around to check the water. "It's pretty hot."

He gives you a hand to help you stand and slowly puts a foot inside the tub. The water is scalding, actually. And it feels good. You settle into it, feeling the heat against your chest, as he sits where you were before.

It does help.

—

You don't know how long you stay inside the tub. You fell asleep at some point. Because now, as you stir awake, the room is only lit by the lights from the neighbouring apartments. You don't have any underwear on. You're dressed in a cotton T-shirt that is definitely not yours. And the unfamiliar blanket around you shifts as you turn to the side. You jolt a bit to find him asleep, again. This time, his head is resting on the bed, on top of his hands while he sits on the floor.

"Jake," you call out softly. "Jake, come to bed."

He wakes up rather startled, eyes darting before settling on your hand in his. "Are you sure?"

"Just come on, Jake."

He climbs in awkwardly above the covers, which makes you kick them over him and move closer. You feel stronger now. Less freezing. As you flush against him, he relaxes a bit more. He pulls you closer as you turn around to obliterate the imaginary distance between you as you press your back to his chest. You can feel his breath on your neck, his fingers twisting lightly in your hair. You let out an exhausted sigh. "It was a shitty day today."

"We don't have to talk about it," he whispers against your skin. "You don't have to say anything to me. It's okay."

"Will you let me finish, cowboy?" you ask without any malice. And you know he gets it when he laughs into your hair.

"Sure, sweetheart."

You put your hand over his hand that rests on your waist. "It was horrible from the start. Somebody stole my snacks, the vending machine ran out of Kit-Kat. Frank and I got into an argument about a treatment plan. And John, the attender, accidentally ran a gurney over my foot. Then, shit rained down."

Your voice cracks as you continue. "I held it together, Jake. For a long time. And then— then, there was this dad who only bought tickets to the concert because his little girl loves the band. I couldn't find her for a long time. And then when I did."

Jake's hand tightens around you. "Was he the one that did this?"

You shake your head. "It's not his fault. He couldn't believe me. He thought I was lying. But she had ID on her, Jake. I wasn't lying."

"I know, sweetheart. I know." He presses a soft kiss to your shoulder as your sobs racked you. You turn in his arms to face him, but his eyes are down. "Your nose is red."

"Well, now, you know why they call me Rudy." You try to laugh, but it turns to a snortle. "It's for Rudolph, because this isn't the first time I've cried so hard that I can't think straight."

A small smile graces his face as he waits for your sobs to die down. "My name wasn't always Hangman, you know?"

"Knew it couldn't be something that terrible." You wait for him to let out a chuckle, say something silly, and walk out of it. But it never comes. So you clutch his hand as he takes in a sharp breath.

"I had a WSO, a backseater back in Top Gun. Eli. He's—he was like my brother. We used to get into the craziest shit together." He looks up at you with a wry smile, raising a hand to wipe your tears as he confesses his scars. Typical. "One time, he disconnected the radio so that nobody could hear me screaming during a swan dive. Our flight instructor said that it was 'a maneuver executed with beauty and grace'. Then he made us do a hundred push-ups."

He laughed once, the sound watery. "It stuck. I was Grace, he was Beauty, which we debated a lot. And we were pretty awesome."

You know the only reason he paused is so he could catch his breath. You wait again; you let him speak.

"One day, we had a bird strike. The engines were gone. We were supposed to eject. We had to get the canopy first. But I don't— the canopy release was slow. And Eli released first."

"Okay." You let your hand rest on his jaw, and he almost melts into the touch. His green eyes were as glassy as he looked at you.

"I never had a backseater after that. Hell, I never even let a wingman be close to me anymore. I just left them hanging."

You lean forward to rest your forehead against his. "That's why I've never seen any of your friends. I was starting to think that you were embarrassed of me. You just don't have friends."

"Hey!" he protests softly against your mouth. "I have friends."

"Really?" You lean back, with a playful rise of your eyebrows.

"Well, there's Coyote, obviously."

"Obviously." You repeat, trying to picture the man you only had knowledge of through the various pranks they played on each other.

"Then—" Your stomach rumbles embarrassingly loudly, interrupting his list.

He presses his lips lightly to your forehead. "Time for takeout?"

"Time for takeout."

a/n: if anyone's wondering who i picture as eli, it's wilson bethel. hehe, im letting my bullseye obsession shine through.

Fifteen aviators. Ten days.

"NASA can never have enough research." Your steps are slow, careful. Still not one of them takes their eyes off the projector screen. You can't see any of their faces. "And we thought you guys would be the best candidates for it."

One click. 'LONG TERM EFFECTS OF HIGH GRAVITY EXPOSURE' fills the screen. It's a simple title, pretty straightforward, if you do say so yourself. And if you didn't have at least ten of their co-operation, you could go home fully unaccomplished.

"I know you guys are all about call signs, so it makes sense that I do this too, right? You guys can call me, Rudy." The podium is at least five feet tall. Damn it, if you stand behind it you're gonna look like a middle schooler at her graduation. It's practical that you turn. "Don't ask me where I got it, I won't tell. Unless you ask really nicely."

The joke lands. You can hear a few snickers here and there.

"Now, for the next week days, I am here to brush you up on your aviation physiology. I'm going to give you some basic pointers that will help you keep your health and your job for a longer time," Jack gives you a tiny nod of approval. You breathe a sigh of relief before turning to the only two women in the group, sitting to your left, "which research shows that most of you ignore or forget."

There's a sharp breath of air on the other side. You raise your eyebrows quizzically before turning right back to the edge.

Damn it, this was going to be hard.

Abbot's forehead scrunches up. Known you for barely six months and yet somehow, he knows your 'deer in headlights' look very well. He makes his way over to the centre.

"And I'm her boss, Jack Abbot and I don't do nicknames. So, why don't you guys introduce yourself?" He takes the podium and God, he looks like he belongs. "Ladies first?"

There's a soft scoff as you turn back to the women.

"Callie Basset, call sign, Halo." The one at the ends starts.

"Natasha Trace, Phoenix."

"Bob Floyd... Uhm—" The man beside her, a cute blond with glasses, gets up slowly, then looks around before sitting back down "—they just call me Bob."

A chuckle makes its way out of you. "That's... very original."

Then at the other end, he stands, as confident and cocky as always. Well, almost always. "Jake Seresin, Hangman."

He sits back down. There's a flicker of surprise in your eyes as well as a mutter of disbelief at the lack of embellishments. The guy next to him stands up awkwardly sensing something just as acutely.

That must be Coyote then.

"Javy Machado, I'm Coyote."

You give him a small smile that he returns, fist bumping mentally at the correct guess. But his eyes are then set on his friend slouching beside him.

A few names go on.

Payback, Fanboy, Fritz, Yale, Rooster—

Abbot's dismay at his name pulls you from your haze. "Bradley Bradshaw? Did your parents hate you or something?"

There's a barely there smirk on his face. "No, sir. But I'm told my dad was a practical jokester of sorts."

You snicker before snagging on the word 'was'. In the corner of your eye, you see him, watching.

Oh, maybe it was going to be a long ten days.

Virginia Beach [two years ago]

The elevator doors open very, very slowly. You would have considered the stairs if it wasn't so damn hot already. Stupid summer.

And speaking of hot, the guy inside is not bad. Not bad at all. Or he could be, if he looked up from his damn phone.

"Rudy!"

Ugh, you could just kill Santos. Of course, she calls you that stupid nickname in front of this very handsome stranger. You give her an exaggerated roll of your eyes, holding the elevator door as you step in and turn. "What?"

"Get chocolate chips." She yells from the other end of the hallway. "I'm making my special tomorrow."

"Okay, okay!"

As the doors close, you slouch against the wooden panel. Blown through and through.

"So, what's the special?" You turn towards the tall man, who flashing you a brilliant smile. Oh, that has his attention.

"Oh, uhm—" you fumble with your set of keys for a second,"— pretty sure it's chocolate chip pancakes."

"Sounds good, mind if I join?" His eyes are green, and teeth a bit crooked. Wow. But definitely not enough to invite a stranger to breakfast. He laughs as you gape. "Don't worry, it's a joke. Maybe."

You force a flustered smile onto your face. "Yeah, sure."

"So, neighbour," he pauses looking you up and down, "what do you do?"

The strap around your shoulder feels like it's digging into your skin. You adjust it before you answer. "I'm a doctor."

He raises one eye brow. "Like 'save people' doctor or 'grad paper' doctor?"

"Like 'I work at a hospital' doctor." You huff lightly. "Have you ever heard of a PhD saying their job was doctor?"

His grin widens at your slight annoyance. "You could've been the first."

You're caught in his light coloured eyes and ding! The elevator doors start creaking open interrupting the moment. "Sorry to disappoint."

"You haven't disappointed me. Yet." His eyes crinkle at the edges as he holds that cheshire cat smile.

"Well, nice to meet you, neighbour." You give a small smile.

"Hangman— Jake." He corrects, the top of his ears a shade of pink."

Your smile turns teasing. "Was that first one your real name?"

He smirks, catching himself. "You'll have to find out, Rudy."

North Island

So, morale booster, Jack Abbot has given everyone the first day off. And asked them the best place for a drink.

That is why at seven-o'clock, Hangman is standing in the Hard Deck nursing a light beer. Coyote gave him so much shit about that. And about the meeting. But there was no way in hell they were discussing this with everyone else around. Especially with everyone else around.

You walk in, right behind your boss' feet, sticking to him like a fly in a glue trap. Jake couldn't help but feel that he was the glue trap.

"So," your boss, Abbot begins, "This is what you do for fun around here."

He holds out a hand for a pool cue and Fanboy hands it over without comment. Abbot settles it on the table, and aims at the orange ball that sits near the corner pocket. Slam!

It goes in. Good. But not as good as him. "You wanna play, doc?"

Abbot smirks as he answers. "Don't mind if I do. You're stripes, I'm solids?"

"Rack 'em up, Bob." Jake says without taking his eyes off the old man.

"They can rack it up themselves, Bob." You speak up from behind him, earning a small 'ooooh' from Phoenix. "Don't trouble yourself."

Of course, the first thing you say and it's the start of an argument. Jake smiles to himself as Bob shakes his head, one hand pushing up his glasses. "Oh, I don't mind."

You brush past him to the other side. To your boss. "Then neither should they."

"Okay, kid." Abbot rolls his eyes at you with some sort of affection that chafes at the hole inside him. It's horrible that someone else—

He shouldn't do this.

He tried.

You didn't want to.

It ends there.

"Anybody wanna play this?" In his periphery, he can see you pick up a few darts off the table. He strains his gaze back to Abbot who lines up for the first shot after lining them up.

"Yeah, I'm game." Rooster, who has never been interested in any competitive sorry in his sorry ass life, perks up. Asshole.

"Shit." Nothing falls from Abbot's hit. It's his turn. Oh, this old man was going down.

"I'm not much of a player though, okay?" He can hear you muttering in the background. Low enough that you don't want him to hear, but loud enough to not let anyone else know. "You go easy on me."

"Don't worry. I'm not good at it either. This is Hangman's game."

Clash! Thunk!

"That's pretty good for a newbie." Phoenix walks over, looking over your shoulder.

You always did well under horrible circumstances. While Jake, on the other hand, is sure this is going to be the worst game of his life.

—

It continues to be the worst game for well over the last half hour. The only thing working in his advantage is how the other man is always shifting his weight to the left, which puts his hits a bit off the trajectory.

You, on the other hand, are what you have always been. Warm, funny, comfortable even despite the cracks in your voice. He's pretty sure everyone likes you by this point. Hell, who wouldn't?

It takes him some time, but he gets the upper edge. He just has the eight ball left while Abbot has two more.

"I know you said don't ask but how'd you get the name Rudy?" Payback's the one asking, despite your warning. He knows you'll tell them. Not everything but enough. You don't need to though.

Bob sinks down in his chair. "Yeah, you don't seem very—"

Clash!

He over calculated. Fuck. The white ball falls in too. Abbot whistles. "So close."

"I bet it's a long, long story." Jake ignores him, balancing his chin on the pool cue, looking past him. You meet his eyes for a moment, a frazzled moment, before turning away.

He knows that look. It's the one that says, I'll embarrass myself so nobody else gets the chance. Shit, he was just trying to support you.

"Actually, it's a pretty simple thing." You shrug, taking the last sip of your beer. "My roommate found me crying after a bad day, nose all red like Rudolph. And over time, she got too lazy, so it got shortened to Rudy."

"Whoa..." Fanboy sighs. "That would be a really cool backstory for somebody."

Rooster leans down by your side. "What were you crying about?"

You let out a tired laugh as you stand. "I don't remember. It just stuck."

Liar.

"Another round of beers before I head out? Everybody?" There's a faint murmur of agreement around but most people are already gone. Well, except the dagger squad. And Coyote.

"I'll help." What is he doing? It's very clear that you didn't want to talk to him. Fine. He didn't want to talk to you either. Yet, after you reach Penny and order, it feels like a different story. "So..."

"So?" You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, questioning, and somehow warm.

"I wouldn't have said anything."

"About the name?" It's insane how much you still get him. You raise your eyebrows at him, your fingers curling around the other. "It's not a big deal."

"Yeah," he scoffs, "sure."

"Okay." You roll your eyes. It's a sharp movement like you can't wait to get away. Just as Penny places eight beers in front of you, you pick up four. "I'm not here because of that night. You didn't win, you know?

Jake just quietly shakes his head for a moment. "Oh, I know."

You nod before you move away.

Virginia Beach

"You look horrible." Jake says as you get into the elevator, taking out his headphones. He's in navy shorts and a grey tank. You look away, obviously.

You rub your still sleepy eyes, and try to smoothen your hair out. "Yeah, I'm not a morning person, that's why I stick to the night shift."

"Yeah, I can see that." He rolls the airbuds in his hands once. "You need coffee."

"I hate coffee." You roll your shoulders back. People have the judgiest looks when you say this. But Jake just looks shocked.

His mouth drops open in disbelief. "Nobody hates coffee."

You shrug lightly. "I just keep disappointing, don't I?"

"Yeah, you're weirding me out right now." He frowns in disbelief, putting the airbuds back into their case. "Just when I wanted to take you out to that cafe too."

You laugh out once. "You're serious?"

"I was." He shrugs.

"Sure." You tilt your head to the side, eyeing him up and down. "So, you're one of those guys, aren't you?"

He leans back a bit surprised. "What guys?"

"Guys that get up at the crack of dawn to work out."

"You know what?" He shakes his head slowly this time. "You're so right. Except I was just a tiny bit late today."

"Yeah, seven a.m. You need to be more disciplined, Jake."

The doors creak open as you walk out. He chuckles. "You have no idea, Rudy."

-

It's the afternoon. Actually, you like to call it vampire nap time because that's when you poor night shift people sleep. You just want the person on the other side of the door to spontaneously combust at this point.

The bells rings once more as you open the door, razzled and too fast that it slams against the wall.

"Jesus!" Jake huffs. "Are you okay?"

You force your eyes open to notice that he's the one holding a hand weirdly, in a dish towel. And it looks like dried blood is on the other one. "What happened to your hand?"

"What do you think, doc?" He opens the dish towel to show a nasty gash on his right forearm. "Am I going to die?"

You take his hand in yours, tracing the puckered skin. It's a deep wound, non-fatal but incredibly prone to infection open like this. "You need stitches. You'll need to go to the E.D."

"Then I gotta then submit reports to the V.A and all." He winces as he covers the wound back. "It's a mess, Rudy. You sure you can't just help me out?"

You take one long looks at him. Of course, being a doctor entailed this. Bandaging up a neighbour after a night of possible vigilantism. "Only if you tell me what happened."

"Bar fight. Got too excited about the Longhorns.

You scoff as you move to the side gesturing him in. "Cowboy forgot he was in Virginia, did he?"

"Yep." He turns around eyeing the grey couch. "So, where should I sit?"

"At the table please. Fair warning, it might be a mess after breakfast." You walk straight into your bedroom. "I'm going to get the sterile suture kit."

When you come back, he's steadily eyeing the photo wall that you and Trinity set up. A lot of drunken karaoke, belly shot photos in that. "She seems fun."

"She is." You swipe a few crumbs away before setting the kit and rubbing alcohol down. "She just prefers wearing the hat, though."

Jake turns to you with a small smirk. "Jealous already?"

"Oh, please." You huff dabbing the alcohol on gauze. "Just managing your expectations."

You turn to find his eyes on you, intensely set on your hands. "Now, I don't have any local anaesthetic because I'm not a drug dealer. You can take ibuprofen if you want but it won't really help much."

"I can handle it, doc. Go ahead." He leans back in his chair, a deep breath in.

You shrug once. "So, I'm going to sterilize the area, okay? This is going to sting."

He takes on one sharp gasp of air and makes no other sound.

"Good. Now, you can breathe, don't want you to pass out." You pat his forearm. He seems to relax under your words. "So, military man, huh? What do you do, Jake?"

"Really? You're asking me that now, doc? After all this time?" He shakes his head moving away, a slight tinge of mischief in his eyes. Your needle nearly pierces slightly more skin than it needed.

"Okay, if you can't answer without moving, then you shouldn't." The joking tone vanishes out of the room as you respond sharply. If you didn't suture this right, the scar he would have would be way nastier.

"Hey, doc? This your first time?" He asks so softly at your aggression that you look up at him, incredulous.

"What makes you say that?"

"You seem nervous." He shrugs. "I'm not judging, I just need to know if I'm your guinea pig."

You take the bite necessary. And complete four stiches before you answer. His breathing deepens but he stays still. "I've been working in Virginia for two years. As you cowboys say, this ain't my first rodeo. This isn't even my worst."

"So, it's just me?" The sarcastic edge is back in his voice. "Am I making you nervous?"

"You have a truly inflated sense of self, don't you?" About seven more left.

"Oh yeah, doc. Definitely." His grin is present even as you make another stitch. But his muscles tighten. His neck looks taught. "You don't get to be one of the only pilots with a confirmed air to air kill in the Navy without it."

You stop before making the next one. "You gotta relax, Jake. Otherwise you're gonna pull these."

He takes in another deep breath yet again and looks out the window behind you.

"So, you're a naval aviator?"

He turns back to you. "City girl knows her military vocabulary, huh?"

You smile up at him lightly. "Just watched Top Gun."

"For Tom Cruise in his underwear?" He laughs as you make a disapproving noise at his movement.

"Well, you wouldn't watch Top Gun for Ryan Gosling, would you?"

He laughs loud again. Huh. He does kinda look like Ryan Gosling.

"Jake, stop laughing. I just got two more stiches left." He settled down at your words, lips still turned up.

"Okay, Dr. Rudy."

You raise your eyebrows as you make one more stitch. "You really think that's my last name?"

"Well, if it's your first, your parents must have hated you." Jake stretches his neck back and forth as you work.

"I can see why you'd think that." You take the last bite of skin. "It's actually a nickname."

"Really?" He asks, very seriously.

"Yeah. My name is way more normal." You finish the stitch as you tell him your name.

He looks at you green eyes wide. "Then why do they call you that? You don't seem very rude."

You pat his shoulder as you get up, cleaning around the wounds and stitches once more much to his discomfort. You place down the gauze and begin wrapping it.

"It's just one of those things that stick." You decide to just tuck the cotton in the corner. He stretches completely this time. "Don't pull that! You're all done, lieutenant."

He looks you earnestly in the eye as he gets up. "Well, thank you, doctor."

North Island

"You might hate the name, but fighter pilots' neck affects all military aviators. And it is the most profound cause of cervical disc degeneration."

"As you all know, when you pull multiple Gs on every flight, eight to nine ones on the worst ones where you have to execute vertical climbs, sharp turns, and dogfight maneuvers. You might have done this at least once before."

The screen shifts in front of you to show an intense and famous targeted strength conditioning that prepared their necks for lateral extensions.

"Now, none of you tell me you don't know who these people are."

It's Rooster who answers from the third row, right. "F1 drivers."

"The only people in the world who experience a similar strain to yours. Except they do it for much less noble reasons, of course."

Muffled laughter floats around.

"See, this training should be more than something you have done once. Research has shown that F1 drivers who practice such high-intensity neck training for one week every month have better strength and fewer injuries."

"So, you're saying we need to come back to base for training even when we're off?" Payback asks from the left.

"I'm saying for the sake of your health, find a gym that can train you in this off base, then."

There are mutters and groaning everywhere.

"Okay." You raised your hands once. "You might think that this is not that important. But I've seen your reports. Hell, this is a one-hour session and Phoenix has rolled her shoulders more than four times, Fanboy has stretched his neck more times than that, and Jake—"

You both startle at the same time, eyes locked on one another before you realise that you need to complete your sentence. "Hangman has cracked his neck twice. You might think this is a joke. Well, guess what, I'm not the one with the C-spine strength of a fifty-year-old."

"So, yeah, it's your choice. Suffer at the gym and continue in the job you love, or I'll say nice words in your eulogy about a radical disc collapse."

Jack shakes his head from the back. Okay, enough scaring everyone for today. "That's it for today. We'll see you Monday to discuss the cardiovascular effects you experience. Thank you."

And you're really too busy gathering your notes to notice when he steps into your space. "It's nice to see you still care. I thought you were ignoring me."

You let out a soft sigh. "It's a bold assumption when it's only been two days."

"Still. I know you."

"Bye, Hangman." You let out a half-hearted hum as you walk away. You can hear Coyote behind you going 'Jake' in a sing-songy tone.

Virginia Beach

You're late.

Jake had checked his mail twice. Usually, the time you got back from your shift was the time he went running now. There was nothing special about eight a.m. except maybe him threatening you with coffee while you rolled your eyes and said that you'd stick to tea.

Maybe you took the day shift today. You had probably left early, then. He lets out a soft sigh as he places the buds back into his ears and walks out the door to smack into you.

"Shit! You okay?"

"Owww..." You mutter as you rub your shoulder. "What are you made of, a bag of rocks?"

"Wait, lemme hold this." He takes the nearly empty box of donuts from you. "Don't tell me you carried this all the way from work because you wanted to be eco-friendly."

"Haha, very funny." With something that could easily be mistaken as fondness, you take the box back from him and open it. "No, I saved this one for you. I hope you like Boston cream, though."

"My favorite. We should get married now." He tried not to show his disgust at the cream-filled confectionery. On any other day, he would've gotten a bear claw. "What's the special occasion?"

"It's my birthday."

He almost chokes on the one half-stuffed into his mouth. "What?"

"Yeah, I'm a big girl. Well, woman." You shrug with a little smile. "And now, I can dump this in the trash."

You fold the cardboard into something that he would never have the patience to do, something that takes up much less space than before, and chuck it into the recycling bin.

"And how old is this big girl?" Using the back of his hand, Jake wiped the remnants of cream from the corners of his mouth.

You let out a loud gasp, placing a hand over your chest. "Didn't your mama teach you never to ask a lady's age, cowboy?"

"Yeah, she did. Unless it's going to be on a candle on a cake." Jake put the rest of the donut into his mouth and watched you wait for him to swallow it. "You have a party planned?"

"Trin—my friend does. Something simple at home because I'm too old for a bar crawl." You roll your eyes fondly. "Saturday, though. I have work tonight."

He wiped his fingers on his shorts. "Jesus, it's your birthday."

"Says the guy who might not even be home for his birthday." You shake your head at him, handing him a tissue. Damn, you were well prepared. "You should stop by."

"To the party?" His eyebrows shoot up to his hairline before he reels himself in. "But won't it be a bunch of your friends?"

You nudge him with your elbow. "What, you don't think you can handle a few medical doctors playing charades?"

"Oh, them, I can handle." He makes a dismissing wave with his hand to hide the way he swallows. "I don't know about whether they can handle me."

Your fingers tighten around the bag strap. "I'm sure they'll be graced by your awesomeness."

He chuckles. "Sure, then."

—

"Yo." A woman with dark hair and striking blue eyes opens the door.

"Hey..." The greeting is elongated as he strains his neck to see if you're around.

"Can I help you?" The woman—Trin, clearly—holds the door tightly, not giving him much of a view.

"I'm your neighbour." Oh, he sees what this is. She thinks he's being a creep. "I'm Jake."

That shifts something in her. "You're the pilot?"

"Aviator." He corrects, then wonders what difference it would make to her. "But sure."

"Rudy said you might stop by. You just missed the song." She opens the door finally, stepping aside. He almost trips over the footwear outside as he gets in. Oh, damn it. He's late. You had said around eight. Eight-thirty was clearly late.

The apartment is the same as before, with a slightly warm-lighted twist of electric candles and medical books being stuffed into the corner instead of being spread on the table. There are two men and about five women that he sees inside. You're by the feet of the couch, chin resting on the coffee table as a kid acts something out. You seem thoroughly invested in the game.

"Super! No, good!" The other girl gestures for you to keep going. "Well? Nice? Amazing? Wait, nice? Nice! Okay, the second word now!"

And suddenly, without context, the brunette playing takes one look at Jake and points to him and the other guys around. But your eyes stay on him. "You came!"

His lips curl up into a genuine smile. "Yeah, of course—"

The girl claps her hands for your attention back as the dark-haired guy whistles. "And ten... nine..."

"Wait, I got this." You say, nudging him with your elbow. "Nice men? Nice guys? The Nice Guys!"

The girl shrieks from beside him and rushes to tackle you in a hug while Trinity taps her on the back. "You got it together, Crash. Proud of you."

So, Trinity was the one with an affinity for nicknames. You slowly release yourself from the hug and cross the room to wrap him in one. "Hey. You made it."

You lead him to the centre of the room. "Guys, this is Jake. Jake, the guys."

You rattle off names from one end of the couch, but he's looking at glitter that has shifted from your eyelids to your cheeks. He's just a bit startled as you turn to him. "You want some cake?"

He doesn't even get a chance to answer as you drag him across to the kitchen. "I hope you like chocolate."

"Are you kidding me? Who doesn't like chocolate?"

You snicker while placing an already cut piece onto a paper plate. "My mom."

Just as he takes the plate, the box in his pocket shifts. "Wait, uhm... I got you something."

"You shouldn't have." The whisper is playful, and he understands the subtext: yeah, you absolutely should have and now I'm going to judge you based on it. He digs out the small box from his back pocket.

"I didn't really have an idea what to get you... So..."

You take the box, treating it as if it were a fragile thing, stroking the velvet once before opening it. Your eyes light up as you fail to hide the grin tugging at your lips. "Wow, you know it's my birthday, right?"

"Yeah, I know. I thought it was cute."

You tilt your head as you take the silver chain out of the box. "You know, Taylor Swift and Harry Styles had one each to signify their relationship."

He inclines sideways to the same angle as you. "Are you saying I should get one?"

"Easy, cowboy. It's a fact." You say a bit breathlessly as you take off the clasp, holding it out to him.

He places the cake down, taking the necklace in both hands. "Thought it'd be nice. This way, you can always remember your annoying upstairs neighbour."

"Yeah," you murmur as you turn around, moving the hair off your neck. "An airplane, very subtle."

His fingers ghost over your skin, which is slightly abnormally red, acutely aware of the heat radiating from you as he fixes it. "I'm shipping out in two weeks, you know."

"That's fast." You take in a sharp breath. When you turn back, the pendant is crooked on your chest. He gently pulls it down to straighten it.

"Not really, it's been three months."

You fiddle with the necklace almost immediately. "How long will it be?"

"You miss me already, sweetheart?" He chuckles, pleased. You roll your eyes, eyebrows narrowing at him.

"Jake."

Stepping back, he retreats immediately at the steel in your voice. "Six months."

You exhale tiredly. "I'll probably move out in two months."

"What? Why?"

"My mom's coming to visit. She's going to be staying a month and the space isn't here. Besides, I needed to move out a long time ago."

Jake folds his arms, taking a step back. "Well, why didn't you?"

"It was, you know, comfortable. I don't wanna leave here. But it's too expensive to afford alone."

Wait. That's it.

"Then don't."

You raise your eyebrows quizzically at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying what you think I'm saying." He steps forward, lips twitching at the corner. "Move in with me."

"We've known each other for barely three months. You can't be serious?"

He uncrosses his arms, leaning with one hand on the counter. "As a heart attack. Look, it's not a proposal, it's practical. I can't just leave my apartment like that for half a year, so, yeah. You move in. You can take the guest room, there's barely anything in there. Your mom can take my room when she visits. And the house isn't covered in dust when I get back. Win-win."

"You think that's a good idea?" You tilt back a bit.

"I think it's the best idea."

You wrap your arms around yourself, and he's almost sure that you'll say no. "There's a lot of logistics to be worked out in two weeks."

He can feel himself going warm all over. "Then we better get started fast."

You shake your head, pulling him to the other room. "Not before I beat your ass in Pictionary, Hangman."

North Island

"What was it that you called it?" You pant out, bending down to catch your breath.

"Dogfight football," Bob answers, looking extremely nice despite the fact that you all had been playing ruthlessly for the past hour. You were so done. "I don't even get the rules."

Phoenix jogs up by your side. "Nobody does, they just want the ball."

"That sounds like a surefire way for me to practice some of my emergency medicine skills."

"Wait, emergency medicine?" She stops dead in her tracks. "You're a doctor?"

You scoff, but it comes out as a heavy exhale as you straighten. "I'm sorry, was it not clear over the billion slides of human physiology I explained?"

"We thought you were a researcher," Bob chips in, taking a hand through his hair to get out the mud. "You're from NASA, right? Are you a flight surgeon, then?"

"Not yet. I'm still thinking about it." You wipe your brow on the back of your hand.

"Does Jake know?" The curiosity in her voice is very clear.

"I don't know." You cross your arms. "You'd have to ask him that."

Bob takes the staredown between you two as a cue to get back into the game.

"We asked." Phoenix crosses her arms in front of her chest. "For someone who can't stop talking about himself, Hangman was weirdly evasive."

You sigh, wondering how much was yours to say, how much was his. Maybe you should say nothing at all to a stranger you met a few days ago. "It's not my place to say."

"Uh huh." She tilts her sunglasses forward on her nose to give you a look.

"Hey! Phoenix, Rudy! You guys playing or what?" Halo calls out, clearly chuffed at being the only girl left in the game.

"You guys go ahead." You turn to walk away from the game as all the guys groan. "I'm gonna get a beer."

You move to where Jack is lounging beside your tote. "You're not having fun?"

Even though there's an inflection of a question, you know it's an observation.

"Yeah, it's not my game." You pull down your coverup. "I'm gonna get a drink. You want one?"

"You're going to have to talk if we're going to do this whole thing." You can feel his gaze wearing you down. "Otherwise, this is going to get too personal in the middle."

You turn away with a mock salute. "I'm gonna take that as a no, sir."

—

The Hard Deck is peaceful. You give Penny a wave before you sit at a booth on the edge, mindlessly scrolling through your phone. Penny notices Jake coming in before you.

"Hangman, if you drag any more sand into my bar, I'm gonna throw you out."

He raises both his hands in surrender. "Don't worry, Penny, I thoroughly shook the sand off on the doorstep."

You snort into your beer and wait for the others to come in. But no one else does.

"You want a drink?" Penny asks him in your background. But he shakes his head.

"No, I gotta drive. Thanks, though."

He approaches you slowly, giving you more than enough time to get up and away from him. But you don't. And he settles into the seat in front of you. "Hey."

"Hey." You manage to give him a smile. Or at least a pathetic attempt at it.

It must have been pathetic enough to notice. "Drunk after your first beer, sweetheart?"

"Just tired, Hangman." You down the last of your beer in one gulp. "And I should probably go now."

"Listen, wait—Rudy, you need a ride?"

You sigh, tucking your hair into a crusty bun. "The hotel's just five minutes away. I'll get a cab. It's no problem."

"I'll drop you." He waves his keys in front of your face. And it looks to you like you have no choice but to follow. "Come on."

The truck looks exactly as you had seen it. Big, with darkly tinted windows and a heavy frame. The door weighs you down as you open it, and you have to step on the support to get in. He doesn't even try to help you because he knows. He knows how much it would piss you off.

"Where are you staying?"

"The Ramada." The studs look like yellow stars on a dimly lit road.

He whistles once. "Fancy."

"It's what they gave us." You shrug. He knows that you hate hotel rooms and how they feel. It's a minute before you talk again, before you feel like the silence is more jarring than the situation you're in. "I'm sorry about your dad."

He looks over like he didn't quite expect this turn of conversation. It takes him a moment to smooth out his face. "Thanks. I got the flowers."

You both know that the gesture was as flat as his tone. You should've been there. Maybe. Maybe you should've stayed far away so as not to add to his grief.

"I heard about your mom," he says after a beat. He glances at you, eyebrows raised. "How's she doing?"

Scores settled, then. God, you two were perfect.

"Good. Physio's a bitch, but she's working through it." You sweep a stray strand behind your ear, thinking about how you'd need to call her. It was seven, though; she might be in the middle of dinner.

Somewhere along the road, you realise that it's definitely not five minutes to the hotel. Jake breathes a bit harder before he talks. "Why didn't you tell me?"

You crack your knuckles. Of course. Of course he'd take the opportunity to ask that. It's the question that had been looming around this whole time, the one you thought you had already answered. "I told you, I'm still gonna go back."

"Bullshit, Rudy." His voice is harder, even harsher than he expected from the look in his eyes. But you knew that this was coming. You just wanted him to force the rest of the words out. "If you wanted to go back, you wouldn't have taken it."

"Yeah, well, I'm not staying."

He takes his eyes off the road to take a long look at you, then turns back, chuckling dryly. "This is about us, isn't it? This is about you thinking that I won because you're here."

"I told you." You wring your wrist, looking straight ahead. You can see the gate of the hotel. "You didn't."

"Trust me." He grips both hands at ten and two on the wheel. "I would've lost you either way that night."

There's a silence that feels like smoke between you as he pulls into the parking lot. It feels heavy enough that you might choke if you don't talk.

"After mom's stroke." You shouldn't feel like this. You shouldn't feel like explaining your choices to him. You didn't owe him that, right? Yet, here you were. "It was hard at first. The schedules were a nightmare. I was barely home, and she felt all alone."

"So, I decided I would do something about it. At least until she got better."

His breathing evens out a little as he reaches over for a hand that you freely give. "I'm sorry, sweet—Rudy. I should've called. You didn't respond to my voicemail and I thought—it doesn't matter, I should've called."

"Oh. Oh." You realise you said that out loud when he turns to you with wide eyes. "I—I have to go. I'm sorry, I have to go. Good night, Jake."

He scoffs as he takes his hand away from you. "Yeah, good night."