Rip to gothamites, but I'm different.

Jack can be rough with you when you're both in that mood, but to that man, you are the ultimate indulgence. The person he wants to spoil; the touch and taste that he loves to savor. Every second he spends with you, in bed and out of it, is a second that he's soothed. You're his safe place, where he gets to sink in at the end of a long day (or a long night).

These days, Robby's baseline can be more abrasive. He spends more time than he'd like justifying care to patients whose families are on their Dr. Google bullshit. He has frustrations, and he gets them out with you. Oh, that isn't to say that he can't be sweet—he can be, frequently is, afterward. But when he's stripping you out of your clothes, even if he notes the flash of new lace, it's not his focus. He's trying to get to you, skin on skin, in his hands, under his lips.

With Jack's tendency to work the night shift, evenings spent together are at a premium. He's used to being up in the small hours, so date nights can go...Pretty late. Especially once he sees the lingerie—groans at that first glimpse of the strap, the hug of the fabric to your skin. Presses up close as he draws you in bed, murmurs that he, "Can't believe you've been wearing this all night."

Robby already has you on your back, yanking down the cup of your bra, sweeping his bearded cheek against your hardening nipple before drawing it between his lips to soothe the sting with his tongue. Eyes closed as his fingers grasp with the waistband of your panties, palm warm against your hip as he gives you a squeeze.

Jack has you pulled back against his chest, the two of you propped up against his headboard. His lips on your neck; one hand sweeping across the mesh of your bra cup, while the other toys with your clit beneath the fabric of your underwear. Between hazy blinks, you eye the flex of his fingers as you tip your hips up into his touch, whimpering as he draws you closer to orgasm. When he pulls his fingers out of your panties, they bypass you completely, and you crane your neck to watch him raise them to his lips, to suck them, and moan.

Robby is muscling between your thighs, diving in head-first, leaving you to finish kicking your underwear off of your ankle. Man on a mission, eyes peering up at you as you grasp his hair, whimper and buck against his tongue and lips and fingers.

Jack takes longer to get you down, curls up behind you when you're both on your sides, teases his hard cock between your thighs to notch against your slick opening. Slips it beneath the seat of your panties, bites back a moan at the sensation of his cock sandwiched between the silky fabric and the slick heat of your cunt. Eases in gently, shivers, presses his face between your shoulder blades as your hand scrabbles against his bare, muscled thigh.

Robby is hiking your thigh up around his as he sinks in, spitting a curse as he bows over you, cock sinking deeper as your body opens up for him. He's curling over you, catching your lips in a panting, open-mouthed kiss, hand slipping beneath your back to undo the clasp of you bra, then around to hook under the band and finally yank it off and away.

Jack is rolling his hips slowly, making sure you feel every inch of what you do to him, of what he's been thinking about doing to you all goddamn day.

Robby is letting his mind clear, pressing tight to your chest as he begins to thrust, grinning as your hands slide up to his shoulders, as you dig in with your nails.

Jack tips his head up, ghosts a kiss along the shell of your ear: "You take me so fucking well, sweetheart."

Robby turns his head to nip your jaw, teases, "You need more, baby?"

Jack is curling his arm more tightly around your chest to pull you back, chuckles as you whimper, slows his pace, draws almost all the way out: "Do you want it?"

Robby is leaning back to swipe at your sensitive clit, hums encouragingly as you whimper and squirm: "You can take it."

But if the two of them have you together—

If you put on a set that's Jack's favorite color, has straps for Robby to grasp and pull and tug and snap—

"So impatient," Jack chuckles as Robby's fingers make light work of your dress zipper before he reaches up to nudge the straps from your shoulders.

You let Robby move you as he wants, wriggle the dress down your body and wait for it to pool around your feet. Jack whistles low, sits on the edge of the bed, takes you in—tuts when Robby reaches for the hooks of your bra, urges:

"Leave 'em on."

And you've been zipping with excitement since this started, but the way Jack is watching you is making you feel seen in a way that you've never been before. He can sense it, spots the flash of nerves in your face. Takes your hips in hand and guides you closer. Keeps his eyes on yours as he tips his head up, sucks your nipple through the mesh. You suck in a breath at the heat and brush, shiver as he tugs the cup and sends the dampened fabric over your sensitive skin.

Jack guides you down on top of him as he lays back, smooths his hands up your sides. The bed dips behind you, and Robby's breath brushes the insides of your thighs. You give your ass a teasing wiggle, giggling when Robby gives it a light slap. But then the seat of your panties are being tugged aside, hand grasping the fabric as he laps at you from behind.

You're surrounded, rocking back between Robby's mouth on your cunt and Jack's mouth on your breasts. Robby lets go of your panties long enough to hook a finger in one of the straps on the sides of your panties. Plucks it, then pulls it back hard enough to snap against your skin when he lets go.

And when you stay on top—when you take them both together, and Robby uses the network of straps on the back of your bra to guide you back on his cock, then down on to Jack's—well. He starts to see the appeal of leaving the lingerie on.

Tag list:

@missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepastaa ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @amneris21 ; 

@ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ;  @moonlightburned; @milf-trinity ; 

@millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; 

@thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @realwhoreforfictionalmen

You couldn't say that; held perfectly still when you were itching to jot it down, wary of scaring him off. It wasn't just that one look, either. From the moment he walked into your office, Robby seemed to be doing his best to hide: head ducked, shoulders hunched, collapsing his broad frame as if he could innocuously melt into the background—as if he could shrink so much that he'd disappear entirely, that you'd forget he was present at all. 

"Okay," You nodded slowly, careful to hold eye contact. "Let's try this instead: why do you think you were referred to me?" 

He gave a soft laugh, eyes darting to the line of book shelves along the left wall of your office, seeming to catalogue the titles, but you could tell that he wasn't taking a single one in. 

"Some of the people that I work with are concerned."

"About what?"

"Me. My behavior, I guess."

"Have you given them reason to be?"

A telling pause as he drew his lower lip between his teeth, head giving a small shake before he defiantly met your eye:

"Nope." 

Hard 'p' pop and all. Firm gaze. Working hard to lie to you as he locked eyes, the surest he'd presented himself since he entered your office. 

"...You can't think of anything?" You pressed. His blinking sped up even as he shook his head slowly.

"Not a one." 

You gave a nod, letting the both of you sit in the uncomfortable silence for a moment. 

“I knew it!” Is Lisa’s only reply before you hear the apartment door open and close. You consider for a moment, eyes unfocused as your fingers smooth along the side of your steaming mug of coffee. 

You know that you ought to loosen up: Lisa’s a grown woman, months out from graduating from college. Besides, Joey’s stuck around longer than you thought he would—certainly longer than the last few boys Lisa brought around…Maybe you should lend him the benefit of the doubt—

The sound of the front door opening again draws your focus, and you lift your phone, feigning distraction. 

“What’d you forget?” You call out. 

“To kiss you good morning.”

John’s voice makes you smile, and you’re setting your phone down before you even finish the email that you’ve been drafting. 

“Hey,” You greet, giving John the space to shrug off his bag and toss his empty Dunkin cup into the trash. “I thought you were gonna text when you got here.” 

“I caught Lisa as she was coming off of the elevator, she let me in.” 

“Sneak.” 

John smiles, cupping your cheeks and drawing you in for a warm kiss. You let yourself lean into him, curling your arms around his middle and sighing as he gives you one more peck. John dips his head, burying his face in your neck, the prickle of his stubble sending tingles down your spine. You smooth your palm up his back, over his dark scrubs, then up to comb through the hair at the base of his neck. 

“How was your shift?” 

“Long.” 

“Oh yeah?” 

“Mm.” 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“Nn-nn.” 

“Okay,” You murmur. Another two, three questions crowd behind your lips, but you force them down. John’s been dealing with questions all night, anything that you wanna know isn’t important enough to bug him with now. 

“...Time is your first call?” He mumbles. 

“9:30.” 

“Good,” He straightens up. “Plenty of time.” 

You don’t ask him what for. You just let him tow you down the hall. 

Since your appendix removal five months ago—since you and John began seeing one another again—the two of you have built up a consistent routine. 

Every Thursday, John comes right to yours after his shift. The two of you shower together, eat breakfast, and as you start your workday, John goes to bed. It’s the day that you typically have the fewest meetings, which gives you time to have a working lunch with John. You block off an hour at the end of your day so that the two of you can go for an early dinner, and you walk with him to Dunkin, then to the Pitt for his shift before getting yourself home. 

It’s your favorite day of the week. 

It feels the most like you imagine life with John would be like if you were married. You shamefully think about it that way on a weekly basis, but you haven’t been able to bring yourself to broach the subject with him. 

It’s just—things have been going so well. You’re afraid of upsetting the apple cart. The whole appendix situation has really slowed you down. It’s not a matter of healing; you were diligent about following the surgeon’s instructions to the letter. But getting that sick? Realizing in hindsight that you should’ve gone to the hospital way sooner instead of pushing through bout after bout of sickness—it’s made you so much more conscious of how you spend your time, and effort; of the arguments and conversations that you choose to chase, and which ones you’re willing to let go. 

Thoughts of a life with John aren’t something you’re going to just drop, but it’s a conversation that you can’t bring yourself to start. If you met a version of yourself from five months ago, the old you wouldn’t recognize who you’ve become. 

You’re starting to think that may be a good thing. 

--  

It’s Lilah’s midday text that shatters your sense of calm. 

11:58 AM parentals incoming. 

A half dozen questions pop into your head—Why? When? For how long? Where are they going to stay? Are they going to want to see you? Will they have time? 

You’re staring at your phone for a few harrowing moments when you hear:

“I‘m starving.”

John’s voice makes you jump about a foot in the air. Well—alright, not quite a foot, but high enough that you bash your left knee into the kitchen table, rattling your water glass and your laptop. 

“Mm,” You groan, gritting your teeth as you steady your glass, nudging it away from your tech. 

“Yow, that sounded like it hurt.”

“Did.” 

“You okay?” John is kneeling beside you before you can answer, turning your chair toward him. The heat of his palm bleeds through the fabric of your pant leg, rolling it up. His hands smooth over your calf, then brush over your knee. 

“Didn’t break any skin,” He comments, then tips his chin up toward you, a smile curling his lips. “Did you forget I was here?” 

And it takes you a moment, because John looks good on one knee—but your throbbing skin anchors you back to the present.

“No! No, of course I didn’t forget,“ You insist. “I was just—I was focused, you caught me off-guard.” 

“Sorry, baby.” John tips his head forward, pressing a kiss to your knee before rolling your pant leg back down. “Lunch smells good. What’re we having?” 

“Salmon with a tofu curry bake.” 

“Mm. You’re too good to me.” John straightens, drifting over to the fridge. You take the opportunity to pick your phone back up, replying to Lilah: [12:03 PM]  Do you know when? 

Lilah [12:03 PM]  not a clue, generalissimo 

[12:04 PM] Did they text you?

Lilah [12:04 PM]  lisa did 

You puff your cheeks out, eyes darting to a Teams message that pops up on your laptop, then back to your phone as you swipe out of your chat with Lilah and into the sisters group chat. The last message is from Lilah, one of the many reels that she goes out of her way to send over text because neither you nor Lisa spend nearly as much time on Instagram as she does. 

[12:04 PM] Please share any information about mom and dad’s visit here. 

It’s a moment before two chat bubbles pop up in unison. 

Lilah [12:04 PM]  👀 

Lisa  [12:05 PM] I was going to tell you later

“You want a diet coke?” 

“Uh—Sure,” You offer John a quick smile. “Thanks.” 

Lisa  [12:06 PM] They’ll be here next week I don’t know exact dates or anything just that they’ll be around

And that’s on par for your parents—infuriatingly so. They’d never been planners, either one of them. Hell, they’d never had to be. They eloped rather than plan a wedding; crashed with your dad’s parents for two years after marrying, as no one was pushing them to find their own apartment; kept you in a deathtrap of an antique cradle that they found someone throwing out for the first five months of your life, until your maternal great-grandmother stepped in and bought them a real one (and if a woman that was born during the Great Depression considered a cradle to be dangerous, you know that it had to be bad). 

They could barely be bothered to keep on top of your schedule when you were young, let alone Lilah and Lisa’s when they were old enough to have one. You learned early on how to coordinate the three of you—getting to school, overlapping afterschool with activities, walking home together, making sure homework was done. Lilah got good at forging your parents’ signature, signing her and Lisa’s homework when it was required, or filling out permission slips for field trips. 

So for Lisa, the golden child, to be the one told that your parents would be ‘around’ next week…Well, you aren't mad. You’re just disappointed.

The scent of salmon and curry curls around your nose, pulling your focus to the plate being set in front of you. You straighten up, brow furrowing as John reaches out, saving the powerpoint that you’ve been working on before lowering the lid of your laptop halfway.

“I was gonna do that.” 

“I got it. Besides,” John sits down beside you, thigh pressing against yours, “You made it, I plate it. Teamwork.” 

“Thank you.” 

“You could get even luckier.” 

“Oh?” 

“Oh yeah. Play your cards right and I might even do the dishes.”

“Opting in for dish duty? Wow,” You smile. “Someone slept well.” 

John shrugs a shoulder, pushing the tofu curry around to release some of the heat. 

“I always sleep better when I’m here.” 

It takes you aback as you watch John as he tucks into his food. You want to ask why he thinks he sleeps better—comfier bed? Softer sheets? 

Selfishly, you hope it’s you.

-- 

By 4:28, you’re dressed for date night, and half-hunched over your bed, hurriedly putting the finishing touches on the presentation that’s been driving you up the fucking wall all day. You can hear John in your en suite—the spritz of his body spray, the crank on and off of the faucet, the creak of the hand towel holder, and then the click of the light switch. 

Your heart ticks up in your chest as John’s hand lightly rubs your lower back. 

“How’re we doing in here?” 

“I need one more minute, hon,” You mumble. 

“Alright.”

John’s flopping onto the bed a second later, making your laptop jostle slightly beneath your fingertips. You roll your eyes a touch, pointedly jabbing the backspace key to undo the typo from the mattress’ bouncing. You can feel John watching you, but you're determined to focus solely on your work. The sooner you finish up, the sooner you can give John your full attention.

It’s a futile effort—John shifts slightly on the bed, and your gaze flickers between him and work. 

“You’re going to get wrinkled,” You warn. 

“Just the back of me.” 

“That doesn’t bother you?” 

“Nah. The back of my clothes are none of my business.”

You try to tamp down your amusement, but a smile spreads across your lips before you can stop it. 

You sigh, “All set,” as you save Group B RFP_V7_Final_FINAL to the appropriate sharepoint folder before shutting your laptop down. “I just need to put my shoes on and throw on some lipstick, and then we can go.” 

You straighten up, expecting John to do the same, but—but he’s still laying on the bed, watching you. You’re about to ask what’s wrong, what he’s waiting for, if he’s changed his mind about being wrinkled—

“You look so pretty.” 

There’s an almost dopey smile on his lips as he says it, one that sends a flurry of butterflies through your stomach. 

“Well, you know me,” You look down, picking a piece of lint from your shirt, “I like to make an effort.” 

“An unwrinkled effort.” 

“Yes,” You laugh, “Now come on.” 

John sits up, and you take a step back to let him stand—but his hands grasp your hips, guiding you closer. 

A few months ago, you would’ve wriggled out of his grip, reminded him that you’re already running late for your reservation. Now, you rest your hands on his shoulders, dipping your head obligingly for the kiss that he leans up for (secure in the knowledge that the restaurant’s policy is to hold your table for fifteen minutes after the reservation time). 

John’s hands wander lower, hooking around the backs of your thighs and squeezing gently. 

“Screw dinner,” he mumbles against your lips, and that makes you lean back with a giggle. “Come on, you’ve logged off, we’ve got the place to ourselves…” He cranes his neck, lips skimming across the skin bared by the sweetheart neckline of your shirt. And you’re tempted, but—

“We won’t be alone for long,” You warn. “Lisa has that—” Don’t call him ‘that boy’ again, don’t— “She has Joey coming over. Besides,” You curl your hand around his jaw, tipping his head up to meet your eye, “You still need to eat—” 

“You know I’ll eat—”

“Dinner!” You laugh, shoving his shoulder before finally twisting out of his grasp. “Come on, we’re running behind.” 

-- 

You’ve been working on being present. As a chronic overthinker, your mind is constantly combing through potential plans, opportunities, outcomes, pivots. You don’t like being caught off-guard. 

But this visit from your parents—this sparse bit of future knowledge—is putting a serious hitch in your efforts to live in the moment. Time and again throughout dinner, your fingers itch to reach for your phone, to check on whether Lisa has added any details to your group chat. If push came to shove, you could just reach out to your parents yourself…But you also know that they answer Lisa’s messages far more frequently than they answer yours. 

You’re not covering off on your distraction well enough. There are a couple of lulls in your conversation during dinner, moments where you realize that John is waiting for you to reply, or to answer a question. You manage to fill in when it does happen: feign that you’re considering an answer, or that the restaurant noise swelled, and you just missed what he said. 

The two of you finish dinner with enough time to stroll through the park toward the Dunkin hand in hand. When your phone buzzes in your pocket, you reach in and pull it out automatically. The message makes your stomach swoop. A date, a time. And the place? 

Your apartment. 

A moment later, the information is joined by Lisa’s ‘Sorry 😬.’

“Everything okay?”

You shove your phone away and smile up at John, fibbing, “Fine. Just Lisa checking in.” 

John’s never met your parents—never made it to Thanksgiving. You haven’t brought up his meeting them since the two of you got back together. You don’t know when your parents will be in town again; as it is, you haven’t seen them in almost six months. But—well, you should introduce John to them, shouldn’t you? You’ve met John’s mom, absolutely adore her. Hell, you have more consistent communication with her than you do your own. 

You pull a deep breath in through your nose. You can do this. You’ve pitched ideas to your boss, to clients. You can just—pitch this dinner to John. 

You clear your throat and start in.

“So, Lisa actually let me know that my parents are going to be in town next week. Given the timing of the visit, I doubt they’ll be around for the holidays, so I was wondering if you wanted to meet them this time around. I think it’s been an appropriate amount of time, I mean, cumulatively, we’ve been together for ten and a half months—” 

“Cumulatively?”

You push past John’s amusement:

“I know that meeting families is a big step, but you’ve already met Lisa and Lilah—and they’ll be there as well. I’m not sure what they’ll want to do just yet, but I’m assuming it’ll be some sort of dinner.” 

“...That’s your conclusion? No ‘in summary’?” 

Your stomach twists at the tease; your feet slow, unbidden, grip slackening around John’s hand. He only gets a half-step ahead of you before he turns to look at you, bringing you both to a full stop. The sigh John lets out makes you want to recoil, but he’s stepping fully in front of you before you can make a move. 

“I’m doing it again, aren’t I.” 

You hesitate before you give a small, dejected nod. 

“I’m sorry,” John murmurs. 

“It’s okay.” 

“No, it’s not.” John raises a hand, using it to tip your chin up. “If it upsets you, it isn’t okay. I know your relationship with your parents is a bit…Tricky. I shouldn’t have joked.” 

“Thanks. And you can say no to dinner,” You hurry to add, “We don’t have to decide this right now. I know it’s a much shorter notice window than I typically like to give.” 

John pulls his lips inward, biting down, and you can’t help but smile yourself. 

“Alright, take that one as a freebie,” You sigh. 

“I’m sorry, baby,” He laughs, “It’s just cute when your corporate-isms sneak in.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” You grumble, hooking your hand through the crook of his elbow and steering him around. “C’mon, let’s get you your Dunkin. Can’t have you yawning on your patients.” 

“...What night’s the dinner?” 

“Friday. I understand if you can’t get off work.” 

“I’ll check. Can I let you know by Monday?” 

“Course you can,” You insist, squeezing his arm gently. “Monday is perfect.” 

--  

It’s going to even out, you know that, but having a Thursday without John around feels so empty. You know that it’s for a good reason—he’s swapped a shift and is pulling a double so that he can be at dinner with your family tomorrow. You’re warmed by the fact that he’s willing to do that for you, you are. 

But the overthinking, panicky part of you is worried. He’s working a double for this. What if he comes to dinner, it’s awful, and he decides that the effort wasn’t worth it? 

You talk yourself off of a ledge multiple times that day, often reaching for your phone, opening his messages, and stilling while your mind cycles through what you ought to text. 

You settle for a message around one, when the two of you would typically be sitting down for lunch. 

[1:03 PM] Hope your shifts haven’t been too hellish. Doordash should be dropping off food for you in five minutes. Can they leave it with the charge nurse if you can’t get it? 

You’re setting your phone down when it buzzes, and you fumble with it, lifting it again and eyeing the incoming call. You bite your lip, steadying yourself before answering: 

“Hello?” 

“Hey.” He sounds tired, and it kills you a little. He’s tired because of you. 

“I’m not interrupting you, am I?”

“Nah, I just stepped out to the ambulance bay to get some air. What’s this about Doordash?” 

“Uh—Yeah, I. I mean, obviously we’re not in our usual groove, but I wasn’t sure what you’d be able to do lunch-wise, so I packed up your portion and sent it over.” 

John huffs softly on the other end, and you relax a touch. You know that sound, can practically picture the smile on his lips. 

“You didn’t have to do that.” 

“Wanted to. How are you doing over there?” 

“It’s, uh…It’s alright. Some of the day shift is a little tense.” 

“Tense how?”

“It’s just a different vibe than I’m used to. I’ll—Oh, hang on.” 

You hear a few words exchanged distantly on the other end, coupled with a, “That’s me,” and a, “Thanks, man.” 

“Got the food,” John reports, “I hate to cut the call short, but I’m gonna run inside and chow down before I get pulled on to another case.” 

“No, yeah, of course, go!” You insist.

“Thank you for lunch.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“I’m excited for tomorrow!” 

You push out a shaky laugh. “Jesus, John, don’t jinx it.” 

“Why do people keep saying that to me?” 

“Just—go eat your lunch before it gets cold.” 

“I will. Love you.” 

“Love you, too.” 

You wait for John to hang up before you lower the phone from your ear, eyeing the notification from Doordash that your package has been delivered. You open up the app to tip—and snort a laugh when you spot the proof of delivery: a photo of John holding the bag and phone with one hand, and giving a thumbs up with the other. 

He does look tired—the bags under his eyes are heavier than you’re used to seeing. But he’s grinning from ear-to-ear. You smile, taking a screenshot before returning to the tip window. You pull in a deep breath, hold it for a count of four, and then let it out slowly. 

It’s going to be fine. John’s going to enjoy his lunch, you’re going to enjoy yours, and tomorrow is going to be great.

-- 

“Do you think there’s enough food?” 

You ask it with complete sincerity, but Lilah’s withering glance from across the living room tells you that she thinks it’s a dumb question

“Do I think the professional-grade charcuterie board, spinach puffs, pigs in a blanket, and fruit crostini are enough for the six of us?” She drawls, eyes sweeping across the side table that you’ve meticulously arranged. “God, no. You need at least five more appetizers.” 

“Lilah,” You huff, turning from her to adjust the slight wrinkle that formed when you set the plate of crostini down. 

“It’s way too early for you to be this wound up,” She adds, “They’re not even gonna be here for, like, another half hour. Maybe an hour." 

You tut, turning and leaning over the coffee table, adjusting the flowers in the vase there carefully. 

“Why does everyone insist on trying to jinx my evening,” You grumble before adding, “They’ll be on-time,” More loudly.

“Doubtful.” 

“They will be,” You insist, straightening fully, planting your hands on your hips. “It’s coming up on Lisa’s graduation, they’ll want to do something for her.”

You glance toward Lilah, watch her lips purse into a pout. 

“You think so?” She asks. 

“They reached out to Lisa first.” 

“They usually do.” 

“Right, but coordinating with her on her busiest class day and making plans to come here?” 

Lilah scoffs, raising her hand to inspect her nails. “As if they know it’s her busiest class day—and they just didn’t want to make a reservation.” 

“Well, my point stands. They’re probably seeing Lisa tonight so that they don’t have to figure out coming back for her graduation.” 

“Hmph. Whatever,” Lilah pushes herself up off of the couch and strolls over to the bar cart. “At least we’ll get it out of the way so that we don’t have to fake it at Christmas. Want one?” She asks, holding up a bottle of gin. 

“Thank you, no. And for the record, it’s peach and basil.” 

“What?” 

“The crostini.”

“What did I call it?” 

“Fruit.”

“Are you telling me peach isn’t a fruit?”

“My point is that the crostini isn’t just fruit.”

“Jesus christ,” Lilah huffs, turning back to the bar cart. “Ya got tonic?” 

“It’s in the mini fridge,” You wave to the bottom of the bar cart. Lilah scoffs, crouching down and opening it.

“When the heck did you get this?” 

“Yesterday. I was thinking about the flow of traffic between the living room and the kitchen, this just made the most sense.” 

“Six people is traffic?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

“Uh-huh. Lime?” 

“In the door. Ice trays are at the very top.” 

Lilah whistles low, straightening with a cold can of tonic and the limes that you precut that morning. 

“You really think of everything, generalissimo.” 

You open your mouth to retort, but you’re cut off by a knock at the door. 

“Pour that quickly, you know how mom gets when she sees you drinking,” You warn, rounding out of the living room. 

“Please, if that’s her, I’ll eat your hat.” 

“Not one of your own hats?” 

“Didn’t bring one.” 

You smile in spite of yourself, peering through the peephole and brightening when you spot John, his hands behind his back. 

“Hey!” You greet as you tug the door open. 

“Hi,” He smiles, stepping in and shutting the door behind himself. You begin to lead the way deeper inside, but John curls an arm around your waist, drawing you into his chest. You grin, leaning up for a kiss. You smooth your hands up over his shoulders, sighing softly against his lips. 

“Missed you,” He mumbles. 

“I missed you, too, hon.” 

John gives you one more squeeze before leaning away. “Something for you, too.” 

“My tupperware?” 

“Exactly.” 

You grin as John pulls the bag out from behind his back, waggling it in front of you. 

“Very kind of you—Oo,” You peek into the bag. “It’s clean, too.” 

“Only the best for my baby.” 

“Quit flirting!” Lilah calls from the other room. “I’m going to be grossed out enough when mom and dad are here!” 

You roll your eyes, taking John’s hand and towing him into the living room. 

“You want anything to drink?” 

“She stocked the bar,” Lilah adds, rattling her drink. 

“Just some water for me for now, thanks—but I’ll grab it. Anyone else here?” 

“Not yet, but Lisa texted the group chat and said she was running behind.” 

“She did?” You frown. “When?” 

“I dunno, like twenty minutes ago?” 

“I didn’t see that.” 

“You were drizzling something on the fruit crostini.” 

“Balsamic vinegar.” 

“You put balsamic vinegar on fruit?” 

“On the peaches and basil, yes.” 

“I love hanging out with the two of you,” John comments as he heads to the kitchen, “It’s like a tennis match.” 

You shake your head as John goes, reaching down and adjusting the flowers again. “...They’re gonna be late.” 

“Quit saying that.” 

“No, Lisa texted,” Lilah insists. 

“What?” You straighten up, rounding to where she’s looking down at her phone. “Just Lisa?” 

Lilah passes the phone over to you. You take it as gingerly as a grenade, reading the text through the cracks littering Lilah’s screen: 

Lisa  [6:08 PM] Mom and dad stopped by after class Grabbing a bite to eat with them before we head over

You blink down at it for a moment before wordlessly handing the phone back to Lilah.

“...You haven’t put the chicken in the oven, have you?” Lilah asks. 

“No.” 

“You can probably cut the preheat.” 

“What’s going on?” 

You can’t bring yourself to look at John as he comes back in. Grabbing a bite, you know what that means. At most your parents will be stopping in for a few minutes, if they stop in to see you at all. 

“You called it,” Lilah offers, “They’re here to see Lisa.” 

“Yeah,” You manage, but feel your throat going tight with upset. You clear it twice, pulling a deep breath in through your nose. “Okay…Well, I’m gonna put the chicken in.” 

“What?” Lilah crows. “Give it up, generalissimo, they’re not gonna come—” “Not for them, for us,” You insist, forcing a smile onto your face and looking between John and Lilah. “We’re all here, we may as well have dinner. The chicken should take half an hour, and I’ll get the veggies on as well, just,” You wave toward the side table. “Help yourselves.” 

You don’t give either of them a chance to question your decision, or to argue—just stride to the kitchen and open the fridge. You can hear John and Lilah’s hushed tones from the living room, but you don’t strain to listen. You’re not sure how well you’d manage to keep yourself together if you had to explain things to John right now. 

You putter around in the kitchen alone for a few minutes, getting the chopped vegetables into steamers, and the chicken into the heated oven. You’re setting the timer on the oven when you hear footsteps growing closer. 

“Here.” 

You turn, smiling slightly at the glass of wine John’s holding out for you. 

“Thanks.” You take it, knocking it gently against his before leaning against the counter. The each of you take sips, and fall into silence. You reach out, lightly adjusting the collar of John’s button-down, then smoothing your hand over his chest. You brace for John to ask if you’re alright, but he doesn’t. He just curls his hand around yours and raises it to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back, then holding it against his chest. You can’t meet his eye; can’t bear the possibility of finding pity there. 

“Chicken should be done in forty minutes,” You report. “Have you had anything to eat?” 

“I’ll grab a bite. Have you?” 

“Nn-nn.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

-- 

Lilah and John keep up the bulk of conversation at dinner. You chime in now and again; chuckle at their jokes; smile when either of them looks at you. You don’t insist that Lilah stay for dessert, but you do make her take home plenty of the leftover chicken and vegetables, and pack a separate bag with some additional hors d'oeuvres. You hang back as John and Lilah say their goodbyes, then follow her into the hallway to see her out. 

“Well, this was a way less awkward evening than I thought it would be.” 

You huff at the insistence, offer, “Makes two of us.” 

Lilah hesitates, hand on the doorknob, before turning to face you fully again. 

“You know why I think they didn’t come?” 

And you don’t want to know, but Lilah presses on: 

“You got all of this together in a week. It would take them a month.” 

“They didn’t come because I can make dinner?” 

“They didn’t come because they don’t put any effort in unless they have to. They just take the easy way out, they’re…They’re cowards. You have a career, and a good life. It makes them feel like they’ve never worked for anything. ‘Cause they haven’t.” 

You smile a little bit. “Thanks, bean. I appreciate your insight.” 

“Yeah, well,” Lilah turns the handle, “Don’t get used to it.” 

“I love you.” 

“Love you, too generalissimo.” 

“Text me when you’re home!” You call after her, only catching her, “Yeah, yeah,” as the door closes behind her. You shake your head, scrubbing your hand over the back of your neck as you turn back into the living room. You wave John off as you see him stacking the emptied hors d’oeuvres plates from the side table. 

“We can take care of those in a minute.” 

John’s brows pop up at the insistence. 

“Who are you and what have you done with my girlfriend?” 

You shoot him a chastising glare as you plop onto the couch, raising your hands and wiggling your fingers toward him.

“C’mere?” 

John sets the plates down and joins you on the couch, drawing you into his side. You sigh softly, curling your arm around his middle and pressing your face into his neck. John’s hand smooths over your shoulder, thumb sweeping the strap of your top. 

“Nice flowers,” he murmurs. You turn your head to look, lips twisting at the sight of them. 

“They’re the same bouquet mom had when she got married…I don’t know why I keep getting those ones. She’s never mentioned them before, and I doubt she even remembers what her bouquet looked like.” You sigh, tipping your head back against his shoulder. “I am so sorry.” 

“What are you apologizing for?” 

“This whole—this was a disaster,” You laugh. And you mean for it to come out lightly, but it shakes as it leaves you. “You worked a double for this—” 

“Hey, hey,” John sits up, twisting to get a better look at your face, “I worked a double for dinner. We had dinner.” 

You peer up at John, biting your lips, and he winces. 

“Too silly again?” 

“No,” You reassure, reaching up and cupping his cheek. “It’s perfect this time.” 

John smiles, dipping his head down and giving you a gentle kiss. You nudge your nose against his as he breaks it, tipping your head to the side as his eyes sweep over you. 

“What time is Lisa coming home?” 

“She isn’t.” 

“Oh?” 

“Not tonight. She texted. She’s crashing at Joey’s.” You’d gotten the message midway through dinner, and you hadn’t been able to bring yourself to do anything but thumbs up the message. “She probably thinks I’m mad at her.” 

“Are you?” 

“No! No,” You shake your head. “She’s not in charge of my parents, they make their own minds up, for right or wrong. And considering the excellent company that they missed out on tonight,” You give John’s cheek a gentle, teasing pinch, “It was for wrong.” 

“So we have the place to ourselves?” 

You arch a brow. “Something on your mind, Dr. Shen?” 

“I have an empty apartment, a girlfriend that I’ve barely gotten to see in a week, and a day off tomorrow. I have a lot on my mind right now.” 

“Care to share with the class?” 

You shriek a giggle as John stands, tugging you up behind him and leading the way to your bedroom.

-- 

You’re jolted awake by your alarm, and it’s a bit of a wriggle and a twist to loosen John’s grasp and shut it off. John groans behind you, and you find him blindly reaching for you.

“Sorry,” You murmur, “I forgot to turn it off last night.” 

John just grunts in reply, sagging back against the pillows as you cuddle up against him. You rest your chin on his chest, peering up at him. You smile at the sight of his sleep-mussed hair, the lessened appearance of the bags under his eyes. He really does sleep better when he’s here. 

John pulls in a deep breath, head tipping from side to side before he blinks at you. You lean up, pressing a kiss to his lips, then another. 

“Hey,” You murmur.

“Mm.” 

“I love you so much.”

“I love you, too, sweetheart.” 

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