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pairings aged-up!neteyam x mangkwan!female warrior
notes stupid loverboy neteyam, emotional turmoil for the reader, smut (p in v), oral (f & m receiving), childhood trauma :(, kuru torture, violence and blood, reader is a tough cookie but deep inside she just longs for a normal life
synopsis you were sent to kill neteyam, the warrior you have repeatedly grappled with in your clanâs raids that he kept sabotaging. you are confident he wonât recognize you without your paint, but alas, he does!
âTake this and go!â You pushed a woven basket of herbs into the arms of a young raider, jerking your head toward the hoard of direhorses waiting on the sidelines.
The smell of burning fibers is the familiar perfume of your clan's raids. As the people around you scream in horror, you could almost smell their fears, too. The village huts dissolved into orange embers while you moved around, your double-bladed staff a crimson blur, deflecting a wild swing from a desperate villager and had the man running away. Your fellow raiders pillaged what could be pillaged while Vakrep, the nephew of Varangâs second-in-command Riku, barked orders.
The Mangkwan fell in a disarray the moment Omatikaya war cries were heard from above. Now, most of them were panicking, much like the people of the clan you were just raiding. You were running toward what seemed to be a storage hut when a scream resounded from the distance, your head whipped on its direction, immediately seeing a young boy, barely taller than your waist, his eyes wide with terror as he dodges a Mangkwan warrior twice his size. Taykan, laughed a harsh, guttural sound, his spear already arcing down. You didn't hesitate, you ran towards them, holding your bladed staff out, the curved blade flashing before it hooked on the Taykanâs arm, yanking him off balance. He stumbled, roaring in surprise.
âGo!â you said, a low growl in your chest, eyes fixed on the child.
The boy scrambled away, a small blue streak vanishing into the smoke. Tayrep snarled, regaining his footing.
âFor fireâs sake! What is wrong with you?!â he spat, eyes narrowed at you.
You fixed him with a stare that promised pain. âWe are to raid the village, not hunt children for sport. Go, help the others secure the hoard!â
He hesitated, then grumbled, turning to rejoin the fray. Your gaze tracked the boyâs escape, a flicker of something soft in your eyes when suddenly, you heard a loud curse from one of the sky people who accompanied you in the raid. Your head snapped to his direction, seeing his metal body grappled against an Omatikaya, larger and taller than his specialized metal suit. You saw the manâs fist move in several sharp, foreign motion, sending blow after blow, and puncturing the manâs metal suit with a sickening crack.
You tilted your head, your lips parting. Neteyam. A Mangkwan ran toward him but he spun fast, his wrist twisting to use the longer blade his weapon to wound the man with a hard jab before kicking him away, returning to the metal suit. Once heâs ruined it all, he pushed it to the ground, not killing the tawtute.
Your gaze traced up from the muscles on his arm up to his angled jaw. His presence here, during a Mangkwan raid, was a familiar insult. Two years ago, on a similar night, you grappled with him in a combat, failing to truly hurt him which you think he deserves for sabotaging your clanâs raid. You remembered the clash of your blade against the blade of his knife at his forearm. Heâs extremely strong and hss surprising speed for a warrior of his size, so you learned not to underestimate him.
A low hiss escaped your lips at the sight of him and you lunged without thinking. He turned to you, his eyes widening a little before reacting to meet you halfway, his dual blade fist knife at the ready. You spinned your staff, hurling the blades closer to him. He was taller, a wall of muscle even before, but you were more agile, your quickness a match for his brute strength. The blade that extended to his forearm parried a thrust of your blade. You danced around him, seeking an opening, and smiling like a predator eyeing its meal.
His sharp eyes tracked your every move before shifting, a fluid grace that belied his size, blocking your strikes instinctively. You faked a high strike, then dropped low, sweeping your staff in a wide arc. He jumped, agile as a viperwolf, but you were already twisting, bringing the staff up, the curved hook of the blade catching his shoulder. He grunted, pulling back, but not before the jagged edge bit deep. A line of crimson bloomed on his shoulder.
âStill too slow,â you murmured, a triumphant glint in your eyes.
He huffed, his eyes glowing with playful mischief. You narrowed your eyes, annoyed, so you pressed your advantage, a flurry of strikes to force him back and back until his heel caught on a fallen branch. He stumbled, off balance but he immediately found his footing. You pushed him, hard, your hand pressing againg his chest when you heard Vakrepâs roar cut through the air as he called your name. You glanced over your shoulder, then back at Neteyam. His eyes were fixed on you, a strange intensity in their depths.
You pushed him again. âGo!â you hissed, your voice low and urgent.
He didn't move, just watching you, his breathing ragged. You turned, sprinting towards your party, leaving him standing there in the middle of the burning village. You risked a glance back and saw that he was still there, a lone, blue figure, watching you disappear into the smoke and fire. You remembered years ago... That same moment when you looked back and he was just standing there, watching you run away.
A few moons later, the training grounds was filled with the sounds of blades clashing. You moved among the young Mangkwan, correcting stances, demonstrating blocks, your double-bladed staff a natural extension of your arm. The red blades flashed as you carried it with controlled precision, sparring with a young Mangkwan, barely a man, his eyes wide with concentration. He lunged, a predictable move, and you flowed around him, the flat of your staff tapping his side.
âDead,â you said in a bored tone. âYouâll die quick if youâre too eager.â
He nodded and you continued, ensuring to fulfill your role of honing their skills, keeping in mind the philosophy that pulsed in every Mangkwanâs vein: only the strong survive. Those who are too weak to hunt, those who are too injured to recover, are left to death for the taking, left to rot as lessons to others.
You remembered Säyimâs frail hand, her hunting days long behind her. Kekihe, her granddaughter, was no more than a foal. They were what this clan sees as disposable, marked for abandonment. Your heart silently rebelled to your own peopleâs words. Säyim and Kekihe are your life. A family you found in the chaos.
Your eyes caught Vakrep standing on the sidelines. His eyes, as always were on you, the possessive glint in his eyes making your skin crawl. He raised a hand by the time your current trainee wws done.
âIâll spar with you next,â you heard him say, the sound followed by the snickering of his foolish crew behind him. âI miss... touching you.â
You gritted your teeth, your hand itching to wound him for the disgusting meaning behind his words, reinforcing the talks he spread about having bedded you which held no truth in them. âYou talk too much,â you spat, your hand gripping your staff.
His lips curled into a sickening smile, stepping closer to you. âJust a friendly bout, yerik. Do not embarrass me or elseââ
You didnât wait for him to finish. You lunged, spinning your staff, until one of its blades cut an arc across his chest. He jerked back, the tip of your blade catching only the thick woven strap of his knife sheath. His crewâs laughter died down instantly.
âCareful,â he gasped, his smirk faltering as he scrambled to draw his own knife. âYouâll ruin the fun before weâve even started.â
âThe fun starts when you stop breathing,â you hissed, circling him but he moved fast, too.
His low growl rumbled behind you, making you spin, sending a wide, sweeping kick that he evaded. He grinned at you, a predatorâs flash of teeth, his eyes hungry. âThe yerik fights like a nantang... Always so compelling,â he sneered, lunging.
You ignored him as you twisted, his grip only grazing your shoulder. You delivered a sharp jab to his ribs, and he grunted, stumbling back, but only for a moment. He came at you again, faster, stronger. He aimed for your head, but you blocked, the jarring impact travelling up your arm. You saw an opening, and you swept his legs out from under him, sending him butt first in the dust. Before he could recover, your staff was already descending on him, the tip of the red blade pressing against his throat while your foot kicked his chest. He looked up at you, his eyes burning with renewed obsession, not anger nor defeat.
âOne day, yerik,â he rasped, his voice dark with promise, âYou will be mine.â
You hissed at him. âIn your dreams, you disgusting dust.â
You were planning to push your blade further on his throat if only a young Mangkwan didnât arrive, calling you. âVarang calls for you. At the ops center.â
The ops center. You had been there only once since the last year when Varang joined forces with the sky people, finding the alien smell and cold metals really unsettling. You canât tolerate sky people either with the way they look at your people as though they were tools to use when necessary or mere animals to be tolerated.
The place was filled with machinery and the glare of foreign light that could take the form of anything. Quaritch stood before one, his face etched with grim determination. Varang, her regal posture unwavering, stood beside him, her eyes holding a glint of something you couldn't quite decipher. Meanwhile, General Ardmore stood in the middle.
Quaritch gestured to the shimmering hologram. It showed a desolate landscape, a half-built RDA outpost, then a sudden, explosive eruption. Dust and debris filled the air, and through it, a flash of blue, an ikran flying through the chaos. Its rider, impossibly precise, was disabling machinery and killing sky people. The footage zoomed in, revealing a face, grim and focused. Neteyam.
You watched, a strange awe blooming in your chest for his sheer audacity. He was a force of nature, a single warrior dismantling an entire armed installation. He was everything the Mangkwan revered in a fighter. Too bad, heâs the enemy.
âYou looked as if youâre impressed...â Varangâs voice cut through the hum of the machines. Her eyes, narrowed, watched you from across the room.
You turned to her, shrugging, a deliberate nonchalance you didn't actually feel. âHeâs not one to be underestimated.â
General Ardmore snickered, a humorless sound. âSheâs right. Sullyâs boy is one hell of a man. Who among us here will happily march into a hell pit as easily as his boy has?â
Quaritch huffed, a gust of irritation. âHe underestimates and embarrasses us, Ardmore. He will continue to think we are assailable if we just let him beââ
âBut we are, Quaritch.â Ardmore cut him off, her voice sharp. âIf he could come riding that banshee and disable an entire armed outpost with his primitive weapons, then we are assailable, and that is embarrassing. We will put an end to this, once and for all. And I hear he is also a concern for the Mangkwan?â She turned her gaze to Varang.
âHe is. He has sabotaged many of my peopleâs raids in the past years.â Varangâs voice was laced with venom. She strode towards you, her movements deliberate, her eyes never leaving yours. She reached out, her fingers cupping your face, tilting your chin up, presenting you to the sky people as if you were a prize. âThis is who Iâm talking about⌠my most beautiful warrior and the most skilled in combat.â
âShe is beautiful,â Ardmore agreed, her eyes sweeping over you. âWe will send her, at your approval.â
Your eyes snapped back to Varang, a knot tightening in your stomach. Send you? To what? Varang offered them a sly smile, a chilling curve of her lips. âI approve.â
Your breath hitched. âWhatâs going on?â The words were a strained whisper.
Varangâs hand, surprisingly gentle, moved to your braids, her fingers tracing the simple headdress you wore, a lone red stone framed by two viperwolf teeth, marking your high rank intl the clan. âWe will send you to that damned son of Toruk Makto, daughter. You will kill him⌠Avenge your brothers and sisters that fell in his hands... Think you could do that for me... For us?â Her smile remained, but now it held an uncanny quality that sent a shiver down your spine.
Fear, cold and sharp, pricked at your resolve. You swallowed, trying to steady your voice. âAnd what if he kills me instead?â The question hung in the air, a challenge Varang rarely tolerated. Her people followed without question, without doubt. To hesitate was to border on betrayal. You saw the impatience flicker in her eyes as she eyed you darkly.
âThen you die.â she declared nonchalantly. âIt is something you must do for the people.â Her voice hardened, leaving no room for argument.
Quaritch then stepped forward, his voice a rumble, outlining the details. They told you about the annual convention of the clans which you already know about, a gathering of all the chieftains, discussing peace and trade among each other. They introduced you to a Liâonan man named Taryu who you were told is an RDA mole, infiltrating events such as that to learn the movements of the clans.
He would accompany you along with Trojan, a recombinant soldier under Quaritch, to ensure your entry in the convention. Taryu, a traitor to his own kind, explained that Neteyam would be there this season, to accompany his father, Jake Sully, as next-in-line to the Omatikaya leadership.
You listened to everything they were saying, registering nothing because your mind is reeling. You have to kill Neteyam. At the convention. You pictured the bustling gathering, the chieftains, their heirs, the throng of people. You couldn't just attack him there. Youâd be dead before your blade even found him. Or perhaps, you would succeed, only to be cut down moments later. A cold dread settled in your gut. You couldn't die. Not now. Not when you have Säyim and Kekihe depending on you.
You walked back to the yurt you share with Säyim and Kekihe, the familiar scent of leaves burning greeting you as you entered. Kekihe, barely eight seasons old, played with grass, pretending to weave them together, her forehead furrowed in concentration but as you entered, her head snapped up.
âSister!â she grinned, her happy face looking up at you as if you hung the stars yourselves.
Säyim sat by the low fire, roasting yerik meat wrapped in leaves. She smiled up at you, her eyes filled with adoration making you finally smile. Her eyes betrayed her true feelings though, reflecting her worry for you as she signed. You understand the familiar movement of her hands, remembering what you had to do.
You moved to the fire, warming your hands and staring at the embers. âVarang wants me to go to the convention,â you said, your voice flat. âI will be gone... Maybe a few days. Iâve checked our provisions. You two should be alright until Iâm back.â You smiled.
Säyimâs hands, gnarled but strong, flew to your arms, gripping them tightly. Her eyes pleaded, her mouth unable to form the words. She shook her head, signing with frantic gestures, a language only you could understand, yet sometimes donât. Right now, you're refusing to understand. She understands without you telling her what your mission will be. What will a Mangkwan do at the convention anyway? She drew a line across her throat, then pointed to you, then to Kekihe. A shudder ran through you. She was warning you.
âI will be alright,â you tried to reassure her. âIâll be back.â
But she wouldn't let go, her grip tightening, her signs growing more desperate. Her hands signed the sign for Varang, then a knife, then your neck. She was furious, her distress visibke. You had to calm her, murmuring reassurances you didn't believe yourself. You understood her fear: Varang is sending you to your death. But the deeper meaning of her signs, the truth she tried to convey about your parents, remained just out of reach, a truth you werenât able to grasp.
You left the yurt before the sun even rose, the weight of Säyimâs unspoken words and Kekiheâs innocence pressing down on you. You had always known Varangâs ruthlessness. You had seen Mangkwan warriors, out of their blind fanaticism of her, sacrifice themselves for her and... Now, she is asking for your life. The thought of Neteyam, the warrior you secretly respected, the one you were now commanded to kill, twisted in your gut. It is not always that you admit fear... But right now, you are scared.
The journey to the convention was a blur of discomfort. Trojan, a hulking figure wearing your skin with the dead eyes of a sky person, accompanied you and Taryu who led the way. He didnât only ensure your entry in the covention, he also secured your place among the female performers, a group of young women from various clans, their faces painted with bright, intricate designs.
You stood among them, your own face free of your clanâs ash and paint. Taryu explained that it was part of the disguise, to appear harmless, a simple girl among many young women. You watched them prepare, their laughter light and unrestrained, and a pang of something akin to longing pierced you. You wondered what it would be like, to be one of them, a normal girl, unburdened by the weight of Varangâs ambition, of your clanâs harsh creed. You were twenty, past the age when most women mated, yet no man in the Mangkwan had ever stirred your heart, nor even truly captured your attention. You imagined a simpler life with Säyim and Kekihe, a different path, away from the hardness of your own people. The thought felt traitorous, but in that moment, anger at Varang overshadowed all else.
The performance began. The drums pulsing, vibrating through the ground. You moved with the other dancers, your body flowing, your limbs graceful as you danced, a mask of serenity plastered over your face, belying the turmoil inside you. You tried to lose yourself in the movement, to forget the knife strapped to your thigh, the mission.
As you spun, your eyes, almost instinctively, drifted towards the dais where the clan chieftains and their heirs sat. And then you saw him. Neteyam. You stopped breathing as your heart gave a lurch, a frantic drum against your ribs. From where you are, you can feel his eyes in your direction but you couldnât be so sure. You are confident he wonât recognize you without your paint, after all, heâs only ever seen you clad in it.
Yet, your stomach clenched, tearing your gaze away, focusing on the dance, on the rhythm, on anything but him. But every time you stole a glance, his eyes were still fixed on your direction. Even when he turned to speak to those beside him, his eyes seemed to return to you, a silent, unwavering focus.
The performance ended. The dancers dispersed, mingling with the crowd and you found yourself wandering, inspecting the stalls that belong to each clan, displaying their unique crafts and delicacies. You accepted every offer of fermented fruit juice, the potent liquid a welcome distraction that helps numb your nerves. You moved through the throngs of people, your senses overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of a world so different from the ash lands of the Mangkwan or the metallic and asphalt of Bridgehead.
A young man, his face painted with the markings of the Tayrangi clan, began to speak to you, offering another bowl of juice. âThat is the sweetest Iâve ever tasted. I saw you trying the juices, you might like that,â he said.
You took it before he even finished talking, nodding performatively, barely listening, your eyes still flicking towards the dais. Neteyam was still there, engaged in conversation. He hadnât approached. A strange mix of relief and disappointment washed over you.
You lifted the bowl to your lips, the sweet liquid a comfort. The young man rambled on, his voice a pleasant tone that you conveniently tuned out, you didnât even notice when he abruptly fell silent. In your peripheral vision though, you saw a towering form approach.
âNeteyam,â the young man greeted, touching his forehead. âOel ngati kameie.â
A deep voice, resonant and familiar, cut through the din as he returned the greeting. You remained focused on your bowl, pretending not to notice the imposing presence even when you felt his eyes on you, a warmth that prickled your skin. You are so nervous.
âWhat is there to enjoy?â you heard Neteyam ask the young man. You stepped back a little, giving them space. You peered up, and your eyes met his. He touched his forehead, a formal greeting, then his gaze dropped to the bowl in your hand. âWhat are you drinking?â The casual question was directed at you, his eyes, dark and intense, never leaving yours.
âSwoaâŚâ you answered, a slight tilt of your head, a carefully practiced innocence. You lifted the bowl slightly so heâd look at it instead of you.
His lips parted in a small smile before reaching out, his large hand covering yours as he gently grabbed the bowl. He didnât take it fully from your grasp, but rather brought it to his lips while you're stil holding it, his eyes still locked with yours as he sipped.
âSweet,â he said, his voice a low murmur.
The young man from earlier, sensing the shift in attention, had quietly slipped away, unwilling to challenge Neteyamâs obvious interest. You tilted your head. âAnd if itâs poisoned?â
A small smile sliced across his lips, revealing a flash of white teeth. âIs it?â
You narrowed your eyes. âIt could be, and you drank straight from it.â Your usual biting tone slipped before you finished the remaining liquid in your bowl. Your gaze snagging on the white scar on his shoulder, a stark line against his blue skin. Your scar. Your handiwork. A smirk touched your lips before meeting his eyes again, seeing him still watching you, a knowing glint in their depths.
âIt would be worth it then,â he retorted, his voice playful, a challenge. âFor a man to stare at a woman as beautiful as you as he dies?â He received his own bowl of fermented juice from a passing server, his eyes never leaving yours.
You huffed, a small, disbelieving sound. âYou are stupid.â You hadnât expected this. The serious, formidable warrior you had fought was replaced by this charming, stupidly reckless man. âDo we know each other?â you pretended to ask, your eyes searching his face.
A boyish smile broke across his face, transforming his features. âMy nameâs Neteyam,â he said, his voice a warm rumble. âYours?â His question was breathless, as if he hung on your answer.
You considered lying, inventing a name, a clan, a false identity. But a strange impulse, a sudden defiance against Varangâs machinations, pushed your real name from your lips.
He repeated it, testing the sound on his tongue, a soft reverence in his voice. He smiled, a genuine, open smile. âI think I could have imagined that you have a name very fitting.â
You rolled your eyes, a small, genuine laugh escaping you. He was a smooth talker and undeniably charming that you found yourself amused despite the gravity of your mission. You wandered with him through the bustling convention, moving from stall to stall, exploring the various clansâ offerings. He pointed out different customs, shared observations, his voice steady and pleasant, as if heâs used to talk about nearly everything, a true diplomat. Meanwhile, you accepted every offer of fermented juice as though they were bowls of courage sent your way. By the sixth bowl, he caught your hand before you could even lift it to your lips.
âPlanning to get drunk?â he asked, his grip firm but gentle.
You looked at him, shaking your head. âJust trying to relax.â
âYou donât like festivities?â he asked, his hand hovering at your waist as you navigated the crowd.
You shook your head again. Mangkwan gatherings were rarely joyous affairs, more often rituals or raucous snuff parties orchestrated by Varang. You found little pleasure in the addicting fumes. You had experienced how it dulled the senses and twisted the mind, and Varang herself rarely indulged in it. You prefer having your wits about you every hour of the day.
âWould you like to explore the woods instead?â he asked, his voice casual, as though there was no meaning in there at all, but perhaps, there was truly none. Neteyam loved festivities, but he also loved peace and quiet which he often found in the woods back home.
You, however, snapped up like syĂl hearing a movement. This is it. The opportunity you had been seeking. Get him alone. Render him vulnerable. You fought the urge to narrow your eyes, to let your true intentions show. Instead, you offered him a small, shy smile. âIf you want.â
You walked into the forest, the sounds of the convention fading behind you. Bioluminescent flora illuminated your path, casting a glow on the towering trees. You reached out, your fingers tracing the glowing leaves as you two walked. The air here was clean, damp, and alive with the scent of growing things, very different to the metallic smell of Bridgehead and the choking ash of your homeland. You breathed deeply, trying to calm the frantic beating of your heart. You were about to do something you had never done before, something that felt both terrifying and exhilarating.
You stopped by a large pitcher plant, its leaves shaped like a goblet. You pulled it down gently, arching your head back before catching the cool, pure water that trickled from it. Some droplets rolled down your chin as you swallowed, rolling down your neck as you faced Neteyam, offering him another shy, innocent smile, part of the act, part of the lure, which proved to be effective because his eyes, dark and dilated, watched you, captivated. He lifted a hand, his thumb brushing away a drop of water from the corner of your mouth.
You stepped forward, boldly, emboldened by all the fermented juice you drank. You rose onto your toes, your lips brushing his, a light touch. You watched his face, saw his eyes drop to your lips, then lock with yours.
âYeah?â his deep voice grumbled.
He watched the playful glint in your golden orbs before moving. His arm snaked around your waist, pulling you close, molding your body against his. His other hand cupped your neck and jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek. His lips descended on yours, hard and searching, a fierce hunger that stole your breath. You staggered back, until your back met a tree. You pulled him closer, your fingers tangling in the braids at the nape of his neck, your other hand pressing against the solid wall of his chest. The sweetness of the fermented juice, the taste of him, filled your mouth. He kissed you with a desperate intensity, as if the world would end with the next breath.
His hand slid down your back, a warm caress. You tensed, a fleeting worry that he would feel the scarifications that marked your skin. But he didnât pause, his fingers trailing lower, past your waist, cupping your ass to lift you.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, your arms tightening around his neck, pulling him deeper. He broke away, only for a moment, his breath ragged, his eyes scanning the surrounding forest probably to look for a place. He kissed your neck, the sensation sending shivers through you, as he walked a little deep away from the main path, finding a private clearing.
The soft moss yielded beneath your weight as he lowered you down. The bioluminescent plants cast a dim glow around you, treating you to a view of his sculpted body as he loomed over you, a mountain of muscle and intent. His eyes held yours as he lowered himself, his lips claiming yours once more.
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, while his calloused hand found your breast, giving it a possessive squeeze that made you breathily sigh. He pulled back, his gaze lingering on your face before dropping to the pink feathers adorning your chest. A deft movement, and the top was tossed carelessly to the side, leaving you exposed to the cool night air.
You gritted your teeth, watching his face carefully, trying to see if youâll see change in them. Three parallel lines of scarification bumps formed a V-shape across your shoulder blades, meeting at your cleavage. They connected to the same patterns on your upper back, the unmistakable tradition of the Mangkwan. You waited and yet he didn't flinch, didn't question, only dipping his head low before you felt his warm lips trace the line of your neck, down to the raised bumps of the scarifications on your shoulders. He kissed them, then licked, a slow, deliberate exploration that made your breath hitch. His eyes, dark and hungry, flickered up to yours as he captured an engorged nipple. You moaned at the foreign, exhilarating sensation, cradling his head as he suckled on them.
He moved further down, his lips tracing another series of vertical lines of scarification on your abdomen, leading to the delicate V-shape of your lower belly. He kissed and licked, a low hum rumbling in his chest, as if it all made it feel better for him. His fingers, gentle yet firm, found your tail, a soft caress that made you arch your back. Then, his lips brushed against the long scar on your inner thigh, a tender kiss as he untied the simple knot of your loincloth. More loving kisses followed the length of the scar as the fabric fell away.
You felt yourself pooling between your legs, a hot flush of embarrassment rising in you. You had touched yourself countless of times before, even explored with your wooden phallics, but this⌠this was different. His eyes met yours, a silent question in their depths. You groaned, a guttural sound, and he laughed, a deep, rich rumble.
âRelax...â he kissed your inner thigh before dipping his head, his tongue lashing out. Consecutive hard sucks followed and you couldn't help but moan louder, your hips bucking instinctively. Your imagination, it seemed, had been utterly inadequate. It hadnât prepared you for the possibility of this.
Weak from his ministrations, your body thrummed, your mind barely conscious as your eyes focused on him. He was untying his own loincloth, his eyes darkly caressing your naked form. You bit your lip, pressing your feet against his lower abdomen, a silent command. He allowed it, smirking at you as he fully freed himself. Your gaze dropped, your breath hitching. He was long and thick, humbling your wooden toys by a mile. Daunted, you couldn't hide the apprehension in your eyes. He saw it, and a primal glint ignited in his own.
He grabbed your ankle, his large hand caressing your leg, tracing your calf, up to the underside of your knee. Then, with a firm clasp, he spread you wider. You couldn't even fake bravery as he lined his cock against the tight opening of your pussy, a soft nudge. You bit your lip and he lowered his head, capturing your mouth in a soft kiss, a good distraction. You moaned into his mouth as the wide head of him slipped inside you. It was uncomfortable at first, a stretching fullness youâd never known and when he eased more of himself in, the feeling intensified, making you feel so full.
He groaned, burying his face in your neck. You cradled his head, your fingers tangling in the strands of his braids. He pressed a hard kiss against your neck, and a scream tore at your throat when he plunged the rest of his length into you, burying himself balls deep.
You clutched his shoulders, your fingernails digging into his skin. He lifted his head, his eyes scanning your face, concern etched into their depths.
âHurt?â he rasped.
It did, but it thrilled you. You shook your head. âContinue,â you ordered, squeezing his shoulder. His eyes caressed your face, lingering. You watched for a flicker of recognition again, for his gaze to fall on the vertical lines of small scarifications that lined your nose.
âYou are so beautiful...â he mumbled instead, his voice thick with desire. He kissed you, then began to move, slow and deliberate at first, then building in rhythm. âSo fucking tight.â
You cupped his jaw, gently holding his face, willing him to stare into your eyes as he moved inside you. He did. Both of you were in a trance, the clearing filled with your moans and his groans. A guttural sound ripped from his chest when you kissed him softly, your lips brushing his as he drove into you.
âFuck,â he weakly breathed, a low chuckle rumbling from deep within him.
He moved with relentless rhythm, pushing you higher and higher until both of you shattered in an explosive climax. He kissed you as you came down, his thrusts shallow now, a gentle rocking. Then, he rolled on his back, pulling you with him, so you wouldn't bear his full weight. His hand, warm and heavy, caressed your back. After a while, you propped a hand on his chest, pushing yourself up. He watched you with dark, dilated eyes, his hand falling to rest on your waist.
âAgain?â he asked.
You bit your lip, then slowly, began to move on top of him. A moan escaped you as your clit repeatedly grazed against his pelvis. You quickened your pace, your hand reaching out, searching. Your fingers closed around the familiar hilt of your knife, lying discarded on the moss next to your loincloth.
In a snap, you brought the blade to his throat. His expression didnât change. His eyes, still dilated with raw desire, locked onto yours. His thumb, resting on your waist, continued its slow caress.
âDo it,â he whispered, his voice a low rasp.
You stared down at him, fear gripping your heart. This was never truly in you. Killing never brought you pleasure, nor was hurting people and animals. You do your duty for the clan but you donât hurt people if you can help it, but you know that doesnât make you a good person because at the end of it all, you still brought unimaginable horror to many people. Varang. She had forced your hand, given you no choice, treating you as a tool to use. Your whole life, you had always acted on her behalf, but this⌠this you couldn't do.
You have always considered this a weakness. You carried something most Mangkwan lacked: mercy. Why couldn't you just kill him? Prove your loyalty to Varang, to the people. But also, why should you? Why prove yourself to the leader who had sent you to your death?
You blinked, your hand, still holding the knife, loosening its grip on his neck. He felt it. So, without breaking eye contact, he slowly, carefully, moved his hand up, covering yours. He gently unclenched your fingers from the knife. When you released your hold, he took it, tossing it away with a soft thud. His hand, now free, hooked around your nape, pulling you down into a searing kiss. Shame and relief washed over you. Shame that he kissed you despite your attempt, and relief that he did. It was strange.
Both his arms now wrapped around you as he kissed you, his hips adjusting between your thighs. A broken cry tore from your throat as he began to thrust from below, his hips slapping against yours with desperate speed. You could barely form a complete string of moans. You didn't know you could be so turned on by the act of being caged in his strong arms, used for his pleasure that you climaxed again, a helpless, shattering release, while Neteyam chased his own, continuously slamming into you. By the time he finished, you were limp in his arms, breathing heavily, unable to move.
At some point, you drifted into a brief, light sleep, but then a jolt brought you back, finding him cleaning you up with a soft leaf. You scrambled away, your eyes hard and sharp, a stark contrast to the softness in his. You grabbed your loincloth and top, dressing quickly. He did the same, rising to his feet as you did.
âYou okay?â he asked, watching you carefully as though you were a wild viperwolf heâs trying to calm down.
You hissed at him. âWhat do you want to hear?â
He tilted his head. âReviews?â he asked, his voice playful and full of meaning.
Your eyes narrowed. âYou are stupid,â you said, continuing to tie your loincloth on your tail.
He chuckled, stupidly amused with your words. âI know you, you know,â he said, his gaze lingering on your face. âYou gave me this.â He pointed to the white scar on his shoulder. You glanced at it, a faint line on his dark skin. He felt a little foolish for pointing it out. It was shallow, shamed by the scars you bore, the ones he had just kissed. He couldn't even imagine the wounds they used to be.
You stared at him. âAnd yet you came up to me, you idiotic man.â
His eyes swept over your body, gaze so full of meaning you felt an urge to slap him. His eyes lit up though, a flicker of realization. âWere you supposed to be in disguise?â he whispered, genuinely curious.
Dumbfounded, you tilted your head. The answer was plain on your face and he scrambled for words. âI am Mangkwan.â you said, slowly, to get it into his thick head.
âI know. I just told you I know you,â he said as a matter of fact. You realized now. Why he hadn't been bothered by your scars because he knew you, he knew what you are. And still went there with you.
You huffed a frustrated breath. âYou are one stupid man. You are an idiot.â You hissed at him. You imagined the corpse he would have been now if Varang had sent a different Mangkwan.
He stared at you, his eyes still dazed. He didn't seem to care what you said. He held out your knife, the blade facing him.
Another groan tore from your throat. You snatched the knife from him. âYou ought to be careful next time. You were really easy,â you said, narrowing your eyes to mock him. âIf I had wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.â
He tilted his head, his eyes darkening, hot on you. âI have no doubt,â he said, a note of pride in his voice. âAnd there is no next time, neither was there a last time. Iâm not that easy.â
You couldn't help but laugh, a sharp, disbelieving sound. He seemed to realize what he had just said, because he smoothly looked away, his hand lifting, as if to rub his nape, before awkwardly dropping it. âSaving face, Sully? I got you there in record time.â You savored the newfound power, a delicious, unexpected sensation.
He stared at you, silent, but you could almost hear the gears grinding in his mind.
âWhat?â you snapped, confused by his unwavering gaze.
âJust... So this is how you look without your paint,â he said, his voice soft.
Your face crumpled in annoyance. He didn't take you seriously, and it was your own fault. You hissed at him, turning to walk away, feeling his hot gaze follow you and then the thud of his footsteps. Before you reached the edge of the woods, his hand caught your elbow. You tried to shake it off, but he pulled you back, a spring toy snapping into him. Your palms pressed against his broad chest as your body almost slammed against his.
âI want to see you again,â he said, his voice deep.
Your nose almost flared. âI have no reason to see you again,â you hissed, freeing yourself from his grasp. âBe thankful to your goddess that I showed you mercy.â
He watched you walk away this time, his eyes still glinting with a strange mix of amazement and amusement. You returned to the convention, searching for Taryu when a sharp clap was heard. Trojan stepped into view, a sneer twisting his features. You gritted your teeth at the sight of him.
âImpeccable performance,â he drawled, his voice laced with mock admiration. âYou didnât waste time, huh? Varang didnât tell us we had a hustler on our side.â
You stood impassive, giving him nothing.
âI wasnât even needed here. You did everything on your own. Got yourself out there and lured that damned demon effortlessly,â he continued, shaking his head. âYou must be really hot by Naâvi standards. I mean, you look delectable to me as it is, and Iâm a human.â His eyes raked over you.
You chuckled with disdain, the sound mocking his words, especially because he wore a Naâvi body. âI donât expect anything from you anyway. Now, are you going to patronize me for doing all the work, or will you shut up soon?â
He laughed, a harsh, grating sound. He bowed his head mockingly. âShutting up soon, but I need to know what happened. Where is the demonâs corpse?â
Demon. You wanted to roll your eyes. âI did not kill him. Itâs not a job for me to do,â you said, nonchalantly.
âWhat?â He said, stepping toward you. You stood your ground, watching him with dark eyes, daring him to come closer. âYou had the chance, and you did not?â
âHow many chances did the RDA have to kill that man? Probably uncountable, and yet he remains breathing. Is there really no honor in you sky people that you had to resort to underhanded tactics to kill a single man?â
âYou are in no position to talk about honor, Mangkwan,â he retorted, his voice sharp. âYou know nothing about politics and strategies. The RDA wonât waste resources and soldiers just for the life of one man.â
âThen the RDA must bear the losses that one man brings them,â you countered.
âI saw you disappear into the forest with him. Ah, I know,â a snicker escaped him. âHe fucked you. And you decided you wonât kill himââ
You hissed, unsheathing your knife, and before he could even blink an eye, you had the blade pressed against his throat. His eyes widened, primal fear flashing in their depths.
âDo not test me, demon,â you threatened, your voice a low hiss.
He took a short, sharp breath, afraid to move his head, lest you dig the blade deeper. He raised both hands, stepping back slowly, watching you as if you were a wild animal. âIâll relay what happened to Quaritch. Await your punishment from your deranged leader.â
The travel back to Bridgehead City was surprisingly calmer than your travel to the convention. You didnât know why, but you couldnât find your anxiety yet, even as you know that Varang will surely deal with you. The sterile air of Bridgehead that welcomd you made you wince. It scraped at your nostrils, it was a stark contrast to the humid forest you had just left.
Quaritch and Varang waited in the ops center, the room humming with the low thrum of machinery, banks of glowing screens casting an eerie blue light on their faces. Varangâs eyes, bright and predatory, settled on you as you entered. A wicked smile stretched her lips. You braced yourself, each step a march toward an inevitable punishment.
âIt is swift. Just as I expected from you, daughter.â Pride laced her voice, a sickening sweetness that made your gut clench.
Trojan snickered, the sound grating. âShe didnât kill that devil incarnate, Quaritch. She had the chance though, he got lured right into her trap without her trying but still, that ingrate didnât kill him.â
Varangâs smile vanished, her eyes snapping to you. âIs this true?â
You met her gaze, a chilling fear crawling up your spine, but you refused to shrink. âYes.â
Her hand clamped onto your forearm. âAnd you didnât kill him, why?â
Trojan snickered again. âGood questionââ
You hissed at him, cutting him off mid-sentence. Quaritch, a flicker of amusement in his eyes, raised a hand, silencing Trojan with a glance. You turned back to Varang, your voice low, controlled. âHe would kill me if I tried to. And truthfully, I do not want to die.â You lied. âIf the sky people want him dead, then they should come for him.â You shifted your gaze to Quaritch, a challenge in your eyes. âOr do you fear him, Colonel?â
Varangâs grip on your forearm tightened, her nails digging into your flesh. âHow dare you question Quaritch?â Her voice cracked like a whip. You clamped your mouth shut and she turned to Quaritch, a placating smile returning, though it didn't reach her eyes. âI will deal with her.â
She dragged you out, her grip like iron as you walked past the many machineries and tanks until you reached the place allotted for the Mangkwan. A few children played near the entrance to the living quarters, their laughter a contrast to the dread building within you. Kekihe called your name, her voice filled with innocent joy but Varangâs angry hiss silenced her, and worry morphed her face before her small features twisted in fear. Your forehead furrowed, a pang of hurt piercing through you as you watched how scared she was. You forced a smile, happily waving a hand, a silent assurance to soothe her.
Varang shoved you into her yurt. You stumbled, landing hard on the ground. You knew better than to rise, remaining kneeling, your head bowed, as her fury descended on you.
âYou brought me shame. You embarrass me to our allies!â Her eyes, wide and furious, burned into you. âWhy did you not kill him?â she bit out, each word sharp.
âOloâeykte, I already saidââ
âI do not care about what you do not want or whether you do not want to die,â she cut you off. âMy order was for you to kill the son of Toruk Makto.â Every word was emphasized, punctuated by the deceptive touch of her hand on the thick plait of braided hair behind your head. Your breath hitched, closing your eyes, knowing what would come. âAnd yet you failed me.â
A beat of silence and then a pained scream tore at your throat as she forcibly connected her kuru to yours. Your back arched, muscles spasming as you threw your head back, a primal shriek echoing in the yurt. White-hot pain seared through your mind, a thousand needles piercing your consciousness. The memories, long buried, erupted. Varangâs voice, cold and sharp, echoed in your head. You were much smaller, being punished for something you can't even remember anymore.
Your body felt like it was burning, every nerve ending aflame. You couldnât even see her clearly, your vision marred with streaks of white as desperation clawed at you, a desperate need to be freed from this torment.
She grabbed your jaw hard, her fingers digging into your cheek. âI would kill you right now for this misdeed. Tell me why I shouldnât.â
Your body convulsed, gasping for air, the world spinning. You forced words past your burning throat. âI have been loyal to you, Oloâeykte, my whole life.â That was the truth. You realized now how it was only ever driven by fear and never respect and devotion for her. You wished you could say more, explain the impossible choice she had forced upon you, but your mind was reeling.
She groaned, a sound of frustration, before pulling her kuru violently. You stumbled on the floor, chasing your breath, jolts of pulsing pain attacking your body. âYou do not want to kill him⌠but you are not scared of him.â She said, her voice laced with a strange realization, interpreting what she had read from your raw emotions. She narrowed her eyes at you, then pushed you away. âGet out of here!â
You crawled out of her yurt, gasping, your limbs trembling. Kekihe waited in the distance, her small frame hunched, tears streaming down her face. She ran to you, throwing her arms around your waist, burying her face in your hip, her sobs muffled against your skin. Anguish seized your heart as you kneeled. The physical and mental pain inflicted on you barely made you cry, but as Kekihe cries for you, only then did your tears fall.
You stroke her hair, assuring her you were okay, your voice rough with unspoken pain. âDo not cry loudly,â you whispered, your eyes darting back to Varangâs yurt, âShe might hear you.â
You returned to the yurt you shared with Säyim and Kekihe. Säyim sat by the low fire, her eyes fixed on the entrance. Kekihe, still sniffling, recounted what she witnessed. Säyimâs face contorted, groans of rage tearing at her throat. You assured both of them you were fine, though your body throbbed and your spirit felt raw.
From that day forward, you had fallen from Varangâs favor. In turn, you had lost your last shred of respect for her. You didnât even know if you had ever truly respected her at all, or if you had simply done what you thought necessary to keep yourself, Säyim and Kekihe, safe from her wrath.
You continued your duties, a silent rebel within her ranks. You trained young warriors. You hunted, venturing further from Bridgehead, seeking the clean scents of the forest. You hunted for Säyim and Kekihe, for the vulnerable. If the hunt yielded more than enough, you shared with others, another act of defiance against the selfishness Varang has ingrained in her people.
A moon had waxed and waned since your encounter with Neteyam. And now, you hunted in a forest an hourâs flight from Bridgehead. You had washed away the ash and paint, leaving your skin bare, a conscious choice for a safer hunt. You knew the risks; others had paid with their lives for being Mangkwan in these territories.
You were stalking a small yerik when you heard a sudden, rhythmic thudding on the ground, followed by heavier ones. A blur of blue followed by the monstrous, hulking form of a palulukan, its massive mouth opened, snapping inches away from the personâs head. Without any hesitation, without even a thought, you released your arrow. It whistled through the air, but the palulukan, a creature of pure instinct managed to evade it. The arrow flew past its head, embedding itself harmlessly in a tree trunk further back.
You missed it, but your shot had done a different job. The palulukan, its momentum still carrying it forward, halted mid-stride, its massive head swiveling until its eyes fixed on you. Your breathing hitched at the same time an enraged bellow ripped from its throat. It coiled and then it launched itself, a terrifying, unstoppable force, directly at you. You stepped backward, nocking another arrow, and sending it flying. The forest, so peaceful moments before, now screamed with danger.
âRun!â A deep, resonant bellow, full of urgency and power, cut through the din.
But you didnât run. You aimed another arrow, holding your breath, scared but still defiant. The palulukan closed the distance between you two in terrifying strides. You released the arrow. It struck the beastâs shoulder, but it merely enraged it further. There was no more time. The palulukan was almost upon you. You turned, finally, to flee, running as fast as you could but your foot caught on a gnarled root, sending you stumbling. You cried out and fell hard on the ground. You felt a jolt of agony splintering up your foot. You sat there, watching in sickening slow motion as the massive palulukan zoomed forward. You fumbled for one of the separated blades of your double-bladed staff, preparing for a desperate, final stand.
This was it. Youâre going to die. But at least, it would be in the mouth of a palulukan.
But you heard a whistling sound, and then a thud. The palulukanâs charge faltered. It staggered, a guttural roar tearing from its throat, then it collapsed. An arrow, fletched with large green leaves, jutted from its chest, buried deep. The beastâs momentum carried it forward, its massive body plowing through the soft ground, sending a cloud of dust and leaves flying in the air until its snout came to rest mere inches from your outstretched foot.
Silence descended, broken only by your ragged breathing. You sat there, heart hammering, disoriented, the scent of dust thick in your nostrils as you heard heavy footsteps thud closer, purposeful and swift, followed by an angry, âWhat were you thinking?!â
You snapped your head up, indignation burning through the pain. How dare he yell at you after you had just saved him, and gotten yourself injured in the process? A tall, broad figure emerged from the tree line. Your lips parted, a huff of disbelief escaping you. Neteyam. His face, initially contorted with anger, softened, a quick wave of concern washing over his features as his eyes landed on you. You would laugh at the swift change if you werenât so thoroughly enraged.
You hissed at him. âHow dare you get mad? I saved you!â You gestured wildly to your throbbing foot. âAnd now, Iâm hurt!â
His eyes widened a fraction, traveling from your face to your ankle. âYouâre hurt?â he repeated, already scrambling to your side. He knelt, his large hands gently assessing your now swelling foot. âFuck, you sprained it.â
You raised a brow at the foreign word. You tried to move your foot, to pull yourself up, but a jolt of excruciating pain shot through your leg. He groaned and gathered you into his arms, lifting you easily as thought you weigh nothing, and set you down on a nearby rock, kneeling in front of you once more.
He carefully pressed down on your ankle, and you hissed. He looked up, his eyes filled with concern. âHurt?â
You bit your lip. âNothing I canât handle.â
He sighed, a deep, rumbling sound. âI wonât allow you to strain your foot further if thatâs what youâre planning to do.â His eyes dared you to challenge him. âIâve got you. Donât worry.â He opened his satchel, pulling out a flat, intricately carved container.
âAs you should, that happened because of you,â you said, watching him open the container, dismissing the fact that it was your decision to intervene.
He held your foot gently, applying a dollop of thick, minty balm to your ankle. âIâm sorry,â he looked up again, his expression earnest. âI didnât mean for this to happen.â
A prickle of guilt pierced your thick shell. You had blamed him, but he had saved you too. You pushed your lips forward. âI know,â you said in a small voice. âSorry.â A word you rarely utter.
He lifted his head, a small smile gracing his lips. When your eyes met, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. You stared at him as a strange, ticklish warmth spread through your chest. You forced a cough, looking away.
âWhatâs that balm made of? Itâs cool,â you asked, changing the subject.
âDapophet and spice bell, mixed with the nectar of a hatchet bee,â he told you, still smiling softly. âWe need to be somewhere safe before it darkens.â He easily gathered you into his arms again.
He walked and you looked around, taking in the unfamiliar forest. âDo you know these woods?â you asked.
âNot much, but I saw a falls over there. Thatâs where I was planning to jump to escape the palulukan,â he said.
You remembered his calm demeanor earlier, the absence of panic. He had a plan. He wasnât even fazed by having killed a palulukan, as though it were a small achievement among many. He found a small grotto near the falls, a hidden alcove veiled by hanging vines. He gently placed you down on a soft, mossy stone bed.
âIâll go get more herbs and food,â he said, leaving his satchel beside you.
When he returned, he already has a string of iridescent fish, a bundle of fresh herbs, and an armload of wood for fire.
âIâll help you start it,â you said, carefully trying to slide off the stone bed. But he intercepted you, his hands firm on your waist, settling you back down. You almost hissed at him, but bit back. âIn my clan, I am a priestess of fire,â you told him in a biting tone.
He smiled, a genuine, easy smile. âRelax, spitfire, I believe you.â He smirked. âBut I have to wrap your ankle with poultice. Weâll start the fire later.â
You pushed your lips forward, watching him work. He crushed the herbs with a smooth stone, his movements precise and practiced. You thought of your clan, how no man, not even most of the women, knew anything about tending to injuries. They left the weak to die. And here was this man, a fearsome warrior, yet so gentle, and knowledgeable in the matters of healing. No one had ever cared for you so tenderly and you felt something tug at your heart. No one had ever let you be the weak one.
He meticulously wrapped your ankle with a woven fabric, securing the poultice in place. Then, he helped you down. âNow we can start the fire,â he said, scaling the fish with practiced ease.
You struck a spark, coaxing a flame from the dry tinder. He watched, fascinated, as the fire caught, growing quickly under your ministrations. âHow did you do that?â he asked, genuine wonder in his voice.
âWe worship the fire,â you said, your tone clipped, a hint of pride in your voice. âWe call to it as you call to your Eywa.â
He stared at you, his expression thoughtful and then he nodded. âI understand.â he said with no hint of prejudice and judgment that you held his gaze for a long moment, a strange warmth spreading through you.
You ate the roasted fish together, the silence comfortable, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the murmur of the waterfall outside your grotto.
When it was time to sleep, he sat on the ground, sharpening his arrows on a smooth stone, despite the ample space on the stone bed beside you. âDonât you want to lie beside me?â you asked, your voice softer than you intended. His head snapped up, his eyes wide as they met yours.
âI want to, of course,â he answered quickly, like a yerik being offered food. âI mean, if you want me to⌠thenâŚâ he stammered, so unlike the fierce warrior in the battlefield.
You raised a brow, stifling a laugh at his unexpected decency. âWell, I feel sorry that you have to sleep on the cold ground⌠when thereâs plenty of space beside me⌠here, on the mossy bed.â You yawned, stretching as you turned to your side, your tail moving lasciviously.
He stifled a smile, his eyes watching your tail. You watched him stand, biting your lip, a small, private smile blooming on your face as he lay down beside you, filling your back with warmth. You fell asleep so quick it was almost record-breaking and when you woke up, sunlight is already filtering through the vines that serve as a curtain for your grotto. You were cuddled to Neteyam, his arm wrapped around you and your cheek pillowed on his chest.
You were so surprised that you jolted awake, moving back faster than you could think. Neteyamâs eyes flew opened, panic already flashing in them watching you fall off the stone bed. His arm shot up immediately though, catching you mid-fall and pulling you back to him.
âShit,â he breathed and you frowned at the foreign word. âEywa, sheâs a little disaster.â
Your frown deepened. âI was surprised! I didnât allow you to hug me!â you pushed him away.
He chuckled, sitting up and gently grabbing your leg, youâd kick his hand away if only it wasnât your injured foot that he was cradling. âIâll unwrap it, letâs check how your foot is doing,â he said, his voice still thick with sleep.
Youâd retort with something smart but you were distracted with his gravelly deep voice, ended up just watching him unwrap it. There was a vibrant bruise of purple and green, but the swelling was already receding. You tried to rotate it but there was still pain, making you wince.
âStop straining yourself,â he groaned, fixing you with his best stern look, but when you didnât hiss or bite back, his finger lifted to boop your nose. âWeâll rewrap your sprain with poultice and Iâll get us some food,â he said, already moving as if heâs being timed.
Days bled into one another and surprisingly, you were never bored except when youâre alone because heâs out to hunt. One afternoon, he came back with a variety of fruits, some of them you never even knew existed. The sight of them alone excited you, but when he presented a small, intricately woven cord, your attention was snagged immediately. You felt like a kid being presented with many, many gifts. Dangling from it, polished to a dull sheen, were several palulukan teeth.
âThis is beautiful,â you said, peering up at him, âI like it.â
He tilted his head, smiling. âItâs yours.â He parted both ends of the woven cords and you leaned forward to offer your neck.
You touched the centerpiece. A fang, much longer and more curved than the others that surround it. Your eyes caught the leaf that cradled more palulukan teeth and your hand reached for it. âCan I have this?â you asked, your voice softer than you intended.
He nodded, his finger brushing the fang sitting on your sternum. âSure. I have nothing to do with it anyway.â
You raised a brow, a flicker of amusement dancing in your eyes. âHow about bringing it back to your clan as proof of your might?â Even among the Mangkwan, felling a palulukan was a feat. Such a kill warranted celebration, proof of a warriorâs prowess.
He blinked, genuinely perplexed. âWhy would I need proof?â
You pushed your lips forward. Of course. The warrior who dismantles entire armed outposts with only his bow and arrows required no tangible evidence of his strength. You simply shook your head, a small smile playing on your lips.
Mornings often found you curled against his side, just like your first morning together. In your defense, the chill of the forest is not to be underestimated. Whenever you cuddled closer, he would stir, a low hum in his chest, and without a word, his arm would wrap around you, pulling you deeper into his warmth. A quiet triumph blooms in his chest each time you woke entangled, your body not recoiling, no sharp hiss escaping your lips. One time, you even snuggled closer into him even when you're already awake.
By the fire at night, you spoke of nothing else but your own people. He spoke of his family, his voice soft with affection as he told you stories about his siblings, while you listened, painting mental pictures of what they might look like.
âHow old is your brother Loâak?â you asked again, thinking you missed a part because he mentioned a little sister around Kekihe's age.
His eyes snapped at you. âHe's mated,â he answered.
You frowned. âAnd? Thatâs not what I asked,â you rolled you eyes, biting into a juicy fruit.
âHeâs a year younger... But mated already,â he said as if he really needed to add that fact. âHe beat me to it.â he added smoothly.
You raised a brow, both understanding and not understanding what heâs trying to say. Yes, he is unmated, but you donât know how that is any of your business.
âYou hunt on your own?â he asked, his fingers absently weaving through your hair. The question came after you mentioned your various solo journeys before this one.
âEveryone in my clan must sustain themselves on their own. Most of them hunt only for themselves,â you told him.
He tilted his head. âWhat of the old and the young? Who feeds them?â
âThe young depend on their parents,â you replied. You remembered scrambling for scraps, foraging for berries in the ashen woods an hourâs walk from the village when you were young. No one hunted for you so you learned to hunt young.
âWhat about orphaned children? Surely, there are some of them, with how frequently adults in your clan dieâŚâ His voice held a gentle probe, a curiosity that bordered on concern.
You pushed your lips forward, in awe of how he hit the nail right on the head. When you were young, you couldn't understand the fact that adults could watch you starve and do nothing... And here he is, perhaps years late, thinking about children like you were.
You sighed. âThey either get adopted or die⌠I have one, her nameâs Kekihe.â A soft smile touched your lips at the memory of the bright-eyed child.
âYou have an adopted child?â he asked, his voice laced with an almost boyish curiosity.
âNot adopted, not really⌠I live with her and her grandmother, Säyim,â you clarified. They are your family now. Their presence is a balm in your hard existence.
He nodded, a thoughtful expression settling on his face. âAnd now, you cannot hunt because of your foot,â he mused, a flicker of worry in his eyes. âI will hunt for you. You canât go home to them with nothing.â He said, determined.
While heâs out hunting every day, you worked on weaving a choker for him. You used your red dye, stringing small, polished beads onto a fine sinew. The palulukan fang, black and sharp, is its centerpiece. The days continued to melt, and with each passing one, your ankle gained strength. A dull ache with every step remained but the sharp pain had receded. One afternoon, after you were finally done with the choker you were creating, you let the pull of the water outside your grotto win you over.
You were on the upstream of the waterfall, surrounded by large rocks before the actual fall and you felt relief that yiu were not tempted to jump over. You shed your top and loincloth, the cool water making you shiver as you submerge yourself further in the icy water. You floated on your back, watching the sky filtered by the canopy aboveÂ
Neteyam arrived then, a huge yerik slung effortlessly over his shoulder. You maneuvered to stand, the water swirling around your hips, looking up at him. âMy foot doesnât hurt that much anymore,â you told him and you were surprised at how sad you sounded. âThe waterâs cold and it helps.â
He nodded, his gaze sweeping over you, and you felt a strange triumph when you see the subtle downturn of his lips, mirroring your sadness. He lowered the yerik to the ground, its bulk settling with a soft thud. Your eyes followed him as he walked towards the stream, his movements fluid. He untied his loincloth, the simple act sending a jolt through you. Your breath hitched, watching the fabric fall away, revealing his cock, already hard and thick.
He submerged himself, the water rippling around him, and swam under the surface, emerging a few feet away. A sly smile curved your lips as you moved towards him. His eyes, dark and dangerous, watched your every move. You scooped water onto your hand, casually reaching for his shoulder to wash away the remnants of blood from his hunt. You caressed the scar youâd given him, your fingers tracing the raised skin before leaning in, pressing your lips to it. A deep rumble escaped his chest and you smiled, your own desire mirrors the heat in his eyes as you continued to wash the blood from his arms, appreciating the taut lines of his form.
âDid you wander far? Where did you catch the yerik?â you asked, your voice a low murmur.
His hands found the curve of your waist, settling there, his grip firm. âNot that far. It was alone near the river where I fish,â he answered, his voice a low growl.
You peered up at him, finding his eyes dilated, fixed on your face. âIt was huge.â One of your hands drifted down to his abdomen, tracing the hard planes of his muscles, your gaze never leaving his.
You rose onto your tiptoes, and he eagerly lowered his head, meeting your lips. He groaned as your mouths finally met, his hand cupping your jaw, tilting your head back to plunder your lips, demanding and possessive. Your hands caressed up, hooking your forearms around his nape. One of his hands slid up, kneading your breast, as his lips traced a path down your jaw, along your neck, and onto your shoulder. You cradled his head, your own head thrown back as he kissed your scarification bumps reverently.
His other hand scooped you by the ass and you wrapped your legs around his waist, your hips instinctively arching. He laid you down on a smooth, moss-covered rock by the stream, the cool stone a contrast to the heat of his body. He loomed over you, kissing your lips again before his mouth trailed down your neck, across your shoulder, over your chest, and finally to your belly, his lips pressing soft kisses to each scarification. You spread your legs wider, a silent invitation as he made his intent clear, he kissed the long scar on your thugh tenderly before his mouth found your pussy.
Your breath hitched and your hips bucked involuntarily, grabbing a handful of his braids, pushing him down further, gaining a deep groan from him. He kissed and licked, a relentless assault on your softness, until you were writhing, stimulated to the brink. He rose then, your body trembling as you weakly watch him, one hand grabbing your breast, squeezing.
He watched you, his eyes dark with raw desire, propping a hand on the rock beside you. He kissed you softly, a tender brush of lips, before pressing his forehead against yours. âDo you want me, my fire?â he asked, his voice low and thick with arousal.
You moaned, a soft sound in his ears. âYesâŚâ
He pressed a hard kiss against your lips, then gently took your hand, guiding it to his cock. âPut me in you thenâŚâ
You whined, a frustrated sound, lifting your head to kiss him, but he pulled back an inch, evading your lips. You groaned, glaring at him as you circled your fingers around his thick cock, the smooth, hot skin making you moan. You spread your thighs wider, lifting your hips slightly, your hand moving up and down his length in a slow caress.
He watched you, biting his lip, a raw, animalistic expression. You breathed shakily, guiding the wide head of his cock into your softness, whining as you move your hips, swallowing him slowly, inch by agonizing inch. He claimed your lips, kissing you deep and hungry, his tongue tangling with yours. Your scream was muffled by his kisses as he plunged the rest of his length into you in one swift, desperate motion, holding your hips in place. You clutched at his shoulders, your fingers digging into his flesh, your other hand leaving angry red scratches on his back. Like the first time, a sharp ache blossomed, but it was quickly overridden by a profound, delicious stretch.
âHurt?â he asked, his tongue tracing the curve of your lip.
âNo. So goodâŚâ you mumbled, kissing him again, losing yourself in the sensation.
You made love, there by the stream, and when he carried you back to your grotto, he didnât let go of you. Later, as you lay tangled on the stone bed, the cool air caressing your heated skin, you felt him kiss your hair, inhaling your scent, a deep, contented sigh rumbling in his chest. You nuzzled deeper into his neck, the scent of him filling your senses.
âI made something for you,â you mumbled, your hand idly caressing his chest.
He kissed your temple. âYeah?â He pulled back slightly, his eyes searching yours.
You smiled softly, and his heart lurched, a warmth spreading through his chest as if you were the very source of fire, a true fire priestess. He couldnât resist, his lips finding yours again. You chuckled, untangling yourself to reach for the choker youâd made.
âI only have red dye with me⌠so the beads are red,â you said, lifting the choker into the air, a small frown on your face. âSorry.â
He sat up, his large hands covering yours as he touched the choker. âDo not say sorry,â he said, his voice firm, his eyes reprimanding you. âThis is beautiful, baby.â His fingers traced the smooth black fang centerpiece. âRed is beautiful.â
âIt is the color of MangkwanâŚâ you pointed out, as if that alone were reason enough for him to dislike it.
âIt is your color,â he corrected, his earnest eyes fixed on yours. He remembered the fierce beauty that had captivated him years ago, the first time he ever saw you in an ambush of a Mangkwan raid. Truthfully, heâd sabotaged the Mangkwan raids that followed that just to see you again. He hadnât, until months ago, when youâd wounded him, leaving him with a scar that he now wore with pride.
He removed the choker he was already wearing before leaning in toward you. You understood, kneeling to reach behind him to tie the choker around his nape. His hands settled on your waist, and his lips found your chest, pressing a kiss to your scarifications. You sat back on your heels, your fingers touching the beads at his neck.
He stared at you, his eyes soulful. âWe will see each other again,â he said, his voice low.
You gave him a haughty look, a playful glint in your eyes. âThat sounds more like an order than an entreaty.â
His eyes widened, humor dancing in their depths. âWell, baby, I am not above begging.â He took your hands, his earnest gaze locking with yours. âI beg of you, my fire, say you will see me again and save this warrior from his misery of constantly missing youâŚâ He brought your hand to his chest, pressing it over his beating heart.
A sly smile cut through your lips. You pushed gently against his chest. Youâd thought about it countless times in the past days, the desire to see him again, the quiet hope that he would want the same. âYouâre being dramatic,â you rolled your eyes. âI will see you.â
He smiled then, a triumphant flash, bringing your hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to your palm. âAlways so merciful.â
âWill we see each other here?â you asked, slowly lying back down on the stone bed.
He watched you, his eyes darkening, his hand pressing against your lower abdomen, a slow caress. âIâd go to you, my fire, if you wish.â
You rolled your eyes again. âSure, if you can make it to Bridgehead,â you smirked, raising your hands above your head, your round breasts offered to his gaze.
His eyes darted down, his hand travelling up, covering one of your breasts, massaging gently. âIs that a challenge, baby?â he asked cockily.
You turned serious, the playful facade dropping. âDonât even try, Sully. You would never step in a place where every single person wants your head.â Your teeth gritted, the warning sharp.
He tilted his head, a thoughtful hum escaping him. âSomeone doesnât want me to die,â he mused, pinching your nipple, a jolt of pleasure making you moan.
You kicked him lightly with your uninjured foot. âYou just said you want to meet me again. What else will we do but fuck? Who will fuck me if youâre dead?â
He laughed then, a boisterous, manly sound that filled the grotto. His smile, deceptively handsome and lopsided, held a glint of mischief as he looked at you. âOnly I get to make you feel like this, baby. Only me.â His hand clamped around your inner thigh, spreading your legs apart.
You raised a brow, watching him rise onto his knees, positioning himself between your spread legs. He lowered himself, his mouth claiming yours in a hard, demanding kiss. You closed your eyes, your arms wrapping around his nape, pulling him down to you.
Having to leave that little pocket of forest you two carved out as your own held a surprising reluctance in you. You felt like you didnât want to leave, but your foot, though still a little tender when you give it your full weight, was mostly healed. Besides, Säyim is definitely worrying. He watched you with silent intensity as you lathered your skin with ash, then applied the black and red paints to your face and forearm, transforming yourself back into the Mangkwan you are. To an outsider, his devotion would be glaringly obvious. Heâs a man completely ensnared. Yet, you still thought him foolish for being here, being with you.
You looked at up at him when he leaned forward, dipping his thumb into your red dye, then, with a careful touch, painted the horizontal line from beneath your nose, down to your lips and chin, as if telling you he knew exactly what your signature face paint looked like. When youâre ready, he helped you tie the yerik heâd caught onto your ikran, adding many fruits and strings of fresh fish with it. One would think you were sent out to get food for a whole village.
âThat is a lot,â you said, patting your ikranâs head.
âYou can do what you wish with it,â he said, pulling you close by the waist and inhaling your scent, making you feel conscious about the ash but he didnât seem to care at all. âI want to give you everything you need.â
You peered up at him, your eyes glinting with promise that youâll return the favor... someway else. Varang, the Mangkwan, and the RDA, they all seemed distant, fading in the background. You had never felt this way before, this intoxicating mix of joy and warmth. You had never truly rebelled, not like this, and for the first time in your life, you wanted to chase this feeling Neteyam ignited within you. For once, you wanted to choose yourself.
You flew back to Bridgehead, your heart still alight with joy, a warmth that had settled deep within. But the warmth quickly dissipated, replaced by a cold dread, when you heard Vakrepâs voice behind you as you were discharging the yerik from your ikranâs back, the heavy carcass thudding to the ground.
âWhere were you?â he asked, his voice a low sneer.
You snapped a sharp glance at him, your eyes narrowed. âHunting. What is it to you?â
His eyes, creepy and always invasive, swept over your body. âYou killed a palulukan?â he asked, a curious glint in his gaze as he noticed the necklace around your neck.
âAgain, what is it to you?â you retorted, dragging the yerik further, then lifting the strings of fruit.
He stepped forward, closing the distance. âIt is my business to know where you are going. One day, Varang will give you to me,â he said, his fangs on display, a predatory smile stretching his lips. âSo you better watch your actions⌠and keep yourself untainted. For me.â
You winced, a visceral wave of disgust washing over you. You hissed, a low, guttural sound. âI would kill you before that happens.â
He snickered, a harsh, grating sound. âIâd like to see you try, but you have no choice. You know that. You are a strong warrior, as am I⌠Varang will ensure the future of the Mangkwan through us.â
You gritted your teeth, watching him turn and retreat.
Meanwhile, at the Omatikaya hometree, Neteyam was enveloped in his motherâs embrace. He had been gone for weeks, but her initial worry, softened into relief as she scanned his uninjured form. Her eyes, however, caught on the choker at his neck.
âPalulukan⌠you killed a palulukan?â A smile of fierce pride broke across her face. âWhere?â
âWestern rainforest⌠it chased me,â he said, a flicker of a smile playing on his lips, and for a moment, Neytiri was reminded of the boy he once was.
âRed beads? Beautiful⌠It is a strong color,â she mused, her fingers tracing the beads. âIt suits you, son.â
Neteyam looked at his mother, his eyes alight with an emotion that surprised even Neytiri. âDoes it?â he asked, his voice soft, almost vulnerable.
She chuckled, her hand reaching up to rest on his head, a gesture of affection despite his towering height. âIt does.â
The happiness radiating from him, a palpable aura, did not escape Neytiri. Nor did the sight of his thumb, faintly reddened with dye. She watched her son move through the winding ramps of Hometree, a lightness in his steps, as though he floated on air, buoyed by an invisible joy.
The forest, just as it stood witness to thousands of Neteyamâs ancestors, seems to hold the secret of your clandestine meetings, too; hearing the sounds of shared laughter that mingles with the whisper of the waterfall, saw how the mask of the perfect son slips from Neteyamâs face, replaced by vulnerability he only ever allowed you to see. It was a stark contrast to the one he shows when you two were in a spar though. He is a competent fighter and youâve known that in the two times you faced him in a ground combat, but you had a hunch that heâs holding back which you take as insult.
âMawey, baby. This is just a game,â he said, sidestepping you, his hand catching your wrist with ease.
âScared?â you shot back, twisting out of his grip, a kick sent at his side, but he blocked it, a surprised grunt escaping him.
âFuck, you kick like a direhorse,â he said, chuckling as he flicked his hand to shake off the faint pain that blocking your kick brought. You circled him, eyes narrowed, a predatory glint in their depths. âRespectfully.â he added with a boyish smile.
You raised a brow. âDonât hold back on me, Sully,â you said, smirking.
He tilted his head and you could tell heâs accepted your challenge because you felt the full force of his strength. He was faster, stronger, and his reach longer but you were able to find gaps. You were smaller, sure, but you were more agile and ferocious, your skills honed by countless unrestrained fights.
âYou fight as if you want to kill me,â he said after the spar, pinning you against a tree, his chest heaving, a sheen of sweat on it. Your own chest rose and fell rapidly, your eyes locked with his as your lips curved into a smirk. He groaned, cupping your chin and tilting your head up to kiss you hard.
You hummed against his lips, kissing him back. âWhat if I am?â you mumured against his lips before giving him consecutive pecks.
He laughed, a genuine, booming sound that echoed through the trees, angling his head to kiss you softly. âWill die happily, baby,â he whispered, kissing you again, this time, deeper.
You allowed yourself to melt into his kiss, hooking your arms around his nape at the same time his large hands spanned your waist, both your hearts beating against your ribcages in sync, both seeking release and desiring to tangle around each other, just as you two later were. As your meetings continued and occured as frequently, Neteyamâs absences did not go unnoticed by his clan. In the great communal space of Hometree, the elders and warriors often glanced at the empty place beside Jake Sully. Jake, who had already had a hunch about what Neteyam is doing, remained silent.
The clan had pushed his son to mate, to choose a woman from among them the moment heâd come to adulthood, but Jake had never seen Neteyam show interest in any Omatikaya woman, but these frequent disappearances and slipping back into Hometree late into the night, with that stupid smile on and a lightness in his steps, Jake could only assume.
He shook his head to himself, his lips curling in a private smile. Let the boy find his own path. For this, he often covered for his eldest son, a silent acknowledgement of how Neteyam, who had carried most of the clanâs burdens against their enemies for years, deserves this, more than ever.
âI sent him on patrol,â Jake would state, his voice carrying an authority no one dared question.
One night, Neteyam returned late from a meeting with you, having been away for over a day. He stepped into the Hometree just as the council meeting was concluding.
âYou are not in attendance again!â Neytiriâs voice was sharp with concern and annoyance as she reprimanded her son. Her eyes held a steely glint. âYour father covered for you, but this cannot continue.â
Neteyam stood straighter. He had just parted ways with you, your scent still lingering on his skin, the memory of your laugh a warm ember in his chest. His head bowed a little, offering no argument. âMy apologies, Mother. It will not happen again.â
âYou are late for the council meeting! Late for your duties! What is so important that it pulls you from your responsibilities?â she continued and Jake could almost imagine her breathing fire.
Neteyamâs head remained bowed and Jake knew his son wonât talk back, unless heâs in a position that allows him to defend himself. Jake, taking initiative, put both his hands on his mateâs shoulders, gently pulling her back.
âMawey, baby, mawey. Give the boy some slack, heâs always working hard,â he nod his head toward his son before pressing on Neytiriâs shoulders. âHe is still just a young man.â
Neytiriâs shoulders slumped, realizing that Jake is saying nothing but the truth. No one works harder than Neteyam, and it made her feel guily that sheâs expecting so much from him. âIâm sorry, son. You may go and rest now.â she said, reaching up to put a palm over her sonâs head.
Neteyam nodded, excusing himself to both of them and walking away. Jake watched his son, seeing the faint smile that touched his lips. The heavy burden Neteyam carried for this clan seemed to lift from his shoulders when he returned from these secret rendezvous. Jake once again smiled to himself, a silent understanding passing between father and son.
You dodged Neteyamâs weapon, spinning as you bring your own twin-bladed staff around in a wide arc. He blocked, his blade thudding against yours. You pressed the advantage, sending a flurry of strikes, each aimed at each opening you can see. He parried, his brow furrowed in concentration, a smile playing at the corner of his lips.
âToo slow, Sully,â you hissed, feinting left, then dropping low, sweeping your staff at his legs. He hopped, a grunt escaping him, but you were already up, disarming him with a swift flick of your wrist. His knife fell to the ground. You pressed the tip of your own to his throat.
He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. âAlways a cheat, my fire.â He didnât move, eyes glinting with admiration.
âAlways a fool for falling for it,â you countered, pulling your staff back. You offered him his weapon.
He took it, his fingers brushing yours, his fingers lingering. âYou make it too easy to be a fool.â
You narrowed your eyes. âIâm starting to think I only managed to wound you because you allowed me.â
A smirk appeared on his handsome face. âI didnât, but I was definitely distracted.â
You explored the forest, with him pointing out plants, describing their properties, their uses in medicine or sustenance, and you find it funny that he knows so much.
âThis one, its sap can soothe burns,â he explained, his finger tracing the broad petal of a healing rose. âAnd this, its berries, when crushed, make a potent pain reliever.â
âAre you sure youâre not your peopleâs tsakarem?â you asked, chuckling.
He grinned. âMy grandmother knows a lot about healing. Healers, under her supervision, teach the kids the basics. Just in case a situation calls for it,â he said.
You tilted your head, remembering what an expert he was at tending to your injured ankle, seemingly knowing exactly what to do. You smiled, thinking of a people making it a norm to teach the children how to care for one another.
You held his weapon, examining its weight and its design. Youâve never seen a weapon like it before. The handle was beautiful, fashioned after the sloping head of a direhorse. You adjusted your grip around it, remembering how he held it in a perpendicular angle, his hand fisting around the hilt. A short, pointed blade jut forward, itâs the blade he used to puncture that sky personâs metal suit by delivering punches.
On the other side, a longer blade extended down, covering your forearm. This is what he used to wound your fellow Mangkwan with a twist of his hand, slashing at the chest. It has dual blades, customized especially for him, and extremely deadly. âThis is a beautiful weapon,â you commented.
He smirked. âIt was my Uncle Tsuâteyâs. He was the Oloâeyktan before my father... He fought with my parents in the battle of the Ayram Alusing.â
You smiled at the thought. Every battle heâs fighting is guided with the weapon of an Oloâeyktan and warrior who fought for their people. You wondered about your parents. Mangkwan warriors like yourself... who both died before you could even remember them.
You leaned against a tree, your top askewed and your breathing ragged as streaks of white marred your vision from the mind-blowing orgasm he just gave you. You felt his mouth on one of your nipples and your fingers tightened around his cock. âShit...â
He chuckled at the word you used, sending delicious vibrations on your breast as he sucked on it, his fingers caressing your still-sensitive pussy. Your hand trembled as it continued moving up and down his length and when his lips traced up, you lowered your head to catch his lips and kissed him. You can feel him smiling against your kiss and you reared your head back to look at him.
You bit your lip before dipping your head to press an open-mouthed kiss on his neck, gaining a breathy chuckle from him. A renewed flame burned within you as your lips traced a path down his chest and to his abdomen, your hand still pumping his cock. You peered up at him, meeting his eyes as your lips hovered near his hard length. He raised a brow, his eyes dilated and hot on you.
âI want to kiss you here...â you whispered and you felt him physically tremble as his hand grabbed you shoulder firmly.
Many moons unfolded this way. The days you met were punctuated by him teaching you how to hunt better in the forest, by both of you challenging and pushing at each otheâs limits in combat, and by that one activity inside your grotto that you unanimously decided was best for leaving the two of you breathless. It was clear to him where this is going, he knew the odds he needed to beat to get there, and his body was already vibrating with energy when he thinks about what he is capable of doing, for you.
You, on the other hand, found yourself more and more learned about the nuances of his smile, the way his eyes crinkled when genuinely happy or amused. Unaware, you mirror his gesturesâa hand on his arm, a soft brush of your shoulder against his, and your fingers always finding his skin. The sound of his laughter seemed to have carved itself in your heart, reminding you of warmth when youâre back at the concrete and metallic labyrinth that was Bridgehead where a different kind of tension has settled over your people.
The children had been sick. It doesnât take one to be so smart to conclude that the nearest river that had been the Mangkwanâs source of water had been polluted with the RDAâs hazards. The last time you went there to collect water, you observed its waters shimmering with an unnatural sheen. You are still Varangâs unofficial tsakarem, having been taught about the various toxins and hallucinogens, but the very little you know about actual healing, you learned from Neteyam.
He knows the basic benefits of each flora you see in the forest and heâs helped you gather herbs for the sick when you told him what has been going on. If only the situation wasnât so dire, you would find it comical how quickly he acted when you asked, as if it wasnât in his mind that it was the Mangkwan you were talking about.
You moved between the sick in a makeshift infirmary made of whatever fabrics the Mangkwan has gotten from previous raidings. The children, usually so vibrant, lay listless with eyes glazed and breaths shallow.
âHis fever burns all day long,â a mother pleaded, her child writhing on a mat.
You pressed a cool, damp cloth to the childâs forehead, offering a sip of boiled water mixed with crushed bark. âKeep him warm. He needs rest.â You showed her how to mix the herbs, how to make the poultice. You taught the other women, too, their faces grim at first but then began to help, their hands clumsy but willing.
The river, Varang had declared, was merely a form of cleansing when she graced the makeshift infirmary with her presence. âNo, this is not natural. The river is contaminated, Oloâeykteââ
âIt is weakness,â she told you, her head snapping at the growing number of sick wth disdain. âHere... Only the strong survive.â
âThey are children, Oloâeykte. Some are women. They are the future of our clanââ
âI do not wish for the future of this clan to be on the shoulders of children who fall sick over river water,â she said. âMy people have endured worst.â
You kept your mouth clamped then, nodding, knowing that you cannot change her mind. She saw the plague not as a threat, but as a culling, a way to purge the clan of its lesser members. But you saw the fear in the eyes of the mothers, the desperation of the fathers, in the childrenâs small bodies being wracked with sickness.
Each of your hunt became even more desperate. You distributed food among the sick, among the families whose hunters were too weak to stalk game. But it was never enough. The sickness continued to spread, some children had died and though deep ache tug at your heart at the sound of their mothers wailing, you stayed behind to offer whatever comfort you could give.
You were walking with the bowl of fresh herbs you gathered in the nearest forest when you saw young raiders running to the roost. You grabbed one by the arm and saw him visibly catch his breath. âAre you raiding?â
âVakrep is leading us to Zeswa. Said we need their medicineââ
âYou are raiding the Zeswa?â you asked in a hard tone, and when he nodded, you let go of his arm and rushed to the infirmary.
You set the bowl down and quickly instructed the women on what to do before making your own way to the roost. You felt ashamed at what youâre feeling, the urgency to stop them from doing what you have done, and even led, for years. Were you as beyond saving as Vakrep? Have you done so much evil already that it voids your right to call out the wrongdoing of your own people?
You launched your ikran into the sky, the wind whipping at your face as you flew over quickly changjng landscape until you reached the clouded forest, seeing the Mangkwan raid party right away despite the thick fog. You dove without thinking, intending to intercept and to reason.
But then there were others there, too. Omatikaya warriors had gotten here faster than you did. You jumped off your ikran before it even fully landed on the ground but an arrow flew, and you felt a searing pain in your calf, a gasp tearing from your throat. You staggered, almost landing hard on the nearest tree, the breath knocked from your lungs.
âNo!â a familiar voice bellowed. Neteyam.
A dark shape moved over you. Not Neteyam, but Vakrep, scooping you up in his arms, pulling you away from the chaos.
âMy leg!â you hissed, struggling against him, but the pain flared.
You heard the clash of weapons fading behind you as he carried you to where the ikran are waiting, slumping you on the back of his ikran before launching into the sky. Back in Bridgehead, the outrage simmered. Warriors, their faces grim, gathered before Varangâs yurt. Their families, gaunt and trembling, stood behind them.
âOur children are dying, Oloâeykte!â a warrior cried, his voice raw with grief. âThe sky people poison our waters! What will we do? What will you do?â
Varang emerged, her eyes already cold. âYou whine like pups. This is much like the fire that burned our people years ago... Nothing can stop it, but only the strong endure.â
âThe strong die in their sleep from fever!â another shouted. âTheir bodies swell! This is not like the fire that burned our people, this is the sky peopleâs poison!â
She waved a dismissive hand. âWeakness. Your bodies are simply not fit for this land. It is your own failings, and if this weakness among you continues, I will have to deal with all of you.â
A collective silence. The warriors exchanged glances. The respect, once absolute is now flattering, replaced by resentment. You watched from the edge of the crowd, your bandaged leg aching. This was not the Varang you had known, the fierce leader who commanded loyalty. This was a tyrant, blinded by her own twisted belief.
A day later, you walked toward your grotto despite the ache in your leg. Your pride simply cannot take the limping. Neteyam was already there, restless as he paced the clearing, but the moment his eyes landed on you, he ran, pulling you into a crushing embrace. His breath hitched against your hair, ragged.
âFuck, Iâm so sorry, baby,â his voice thick with stress, with anger. He lowered himself, his large hand gently touching the wrapped wound on your leg.
âDo not worry,â you murmured, squeezing his arm and pulling him up. âThat was just a near-miss. Itâs nothing I canât handle.â
He rose, his eyes blazing, a raw anguish on his face. âStop saying that.â His voice was a low growl. âStop saying you can handle everything, especially when Iâm here. Iâm here for you. You should have told me what you needed, what your people needed, and I would have handled it.â
You smirked, but it was a genuine curve of your lips. You cupped his jaw, your thumb tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, then rose on your toes to kiss him softly. âI know,â you murmured against his lips. âI know.â
He leaned into your touch, his eyes closing for a moment, then opening to devour you. His hand found the small of your back, pulling you flush against him. He lifted you, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, and carried you into the grotto, laying you gently on the soft stone bed.
He moved over you, his body a familiar weight, a comforting pressure. His lips found yours, a deep, hungry kiss that stole your breath, erasing the pain, the anger, the fear. You surrendered, as you always did with him, your body yielding to his, trusting him implicitly. He stripped away your loincloth, his eyes dark with desire, tracing the lines of your body with reverent hands. His mouth followed, a trail of fire from your lips, down your neck, across your shoulders, lingering on the scarifications etched into your skin. You arched into him, your hips rising to meet his, a low moan escaping your throat.
His fingers danced between your thighs, teasing, swirling, until you were slick and ready, your core aching for him. He entered you slowly, a deep, satisfying stretch that made you gasp, then moan as you wrapped around him, pulling him deeper still. He moved, driving into you, his hips pounding against yours, and you met him, thrust for thrust. You felt his control slipping, and you held him tighter, meeting his thrusts until he cried out your name, his body shuddering against yours as he spilled himself into you.
You lay tangled, the warmth of his body a shield against the cool air of the grotto. Your fingers traced the lines of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart.
âWhat causes the sickness?â he asked, his voice a low rumble against your hair.
You sighed, your suppressed anger bubbling to the surface. âThe sky people. Their waste poisons our waters.â You paused, then continued, the words tumbling out, raw and bitter. âVarang won't believe us. She calls it weakness. She says they are a drain, that they will only drag the clan down.â Your voice cracked, a tremor running through you. âShe has dictated my life. My whole life. She sent me to my death, sending me to you.â
He pulled you closer, his lips pressing against your forehead. âI couldnât have killed you, baby.â
âYou were so stupid,â you whispered, a soft laugh escaping you. âIf it had been a different Mangkwan, you would have been dead.â
âIf it had been a different Mangkwan, I wouldnât have been there with her,â he said, his voice firm. âI wouldnât even come up to her.â
âYou say that now...â
âIâm saying it because it is the truth. I told you I know you, didnât I? It was an easy conquer because I have wanted you for so long.â he said, his voice raw.
You stifled a smile, propping yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. âIs that what happens when anyone wounds you? Then I am the only one allowed to wound you.â Your eyes darkened, a possessive glint in them.
âIt wasnât because you wounded me,â he said, his voice a little resigned. âIt was⌠years ago.â
Your forehead furrowed. âThat was a long time ago.â
âYeah.â He croaked, as if heâs accepting the fact that heâs been devoted for years, even without any assurance. And then he remembered... âWho was that man? The one who⌠carried you away?â
You blinked, confused for a moment. âVakrep.â
âWho is he to you?â he asked, his voice tight.
âHe is a nuisance,â you said in a biting tone.
âHe likes you.â
A wave of disgust washed over you. âHe does not. He is fucked in the head, as you say. He doesnât like. He thinks he owns everyone.â
âAnd does he think he owns you?â
Your eyes darkened further. âI donât care what he thinks. Do not worry yourself about him.â You pressed your palm against his chest, a silent reassurance. âI am here with you, Neteyam.â
He caught your hand, holding it, bringing your fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. His eyes searched yours, and your heart ache when you saw the silent question and desperate plea for something in them.
At Bridgehead, the whispers grew louder. The Mangkwan, once united under Varangâs cruel rule, now questioned. You sat beside Kirenâs child, applying a fresh poultice to his swollen glands. Kiren, a seasoned warrior, sat beside you, his face etched with worry.
âOur people sicken,â Kiren said, his voice low, almost a whisper. âVarang turns her back, just as Eywa had. She sees only weakness.â He looked at you, his eyes holding a fierce, desperate hope. âYou heal them. You hunt for them. Many warriors⌠they follow you. Would you lead us, warrior? Against her?â
You looked at the child, then at Kiren. A new life. A better life for Kekihe, for Säyim, for all of them. The thought sparked, a tiny flame in the darkness. âI... I will think on it,â you said, your voice trembling. âI will get back to you.â
But you never got the chance.
The next morning, a guttural scream, filled with horror, tore through the camp. You ran outside, your heart seizing in your chest. Kiren. His body, mangled, twisted, tied to a post. As they would an animal regularly tortured during rituals. His face, frozen in terror.
Your peopleâs faces were impassive, blank masks. None showed what they truly felt, save for Kirenâs mate, who knelt in front of his body, her wails tearing through air. Some, you noticed with a sickening lurch, even celebrated, their smiles cruel. Across from you, Vakrep stood, a smug smile on his face. He bowed his head, his eyes meeting yours, as if he knows that you know why Kiren is dead.
A hush fell over the crowd and you saw Varang, strutting into the circle, her head held high. Her eyes, predatory and sickeningly filled with pleasure, swept over Kirenâs broken form.
âLet Kiren serve as a cautionary tale among you, my beloved people.â Her voice was gentle, silken with lie, yet her smile was evil. âDo any of you know what he did to deserve this?â She paused, letting the silence stretch. âHe was treasonous. He was planning to oust me. Would you like that? Would you like the leader that rose above Eywaâs misdeeds against us and built this clan from the ashes it was reduced to, to be cast out?â
The crowd shook their heads, the face of subservience. No one was brave enough to challenge her, not now, not after this.
âI thought so, too.â Her smile widened, a cold, sharp thing. Her head swept across the crowd, her gaze lingering, searching. Then her eyes found yours. A sudden sharp dread washed over you. She smiled. And you know it was not a good thing at all.
By midday, the children Kekihe often played with ran toward the makeshift infirmary, their small voices shrill with panic. âVarang took Kekihe!â
Fear, raw and primal, seized you again. You ran, despite your still healing leg, toward Varangâs yurt, but you were stopped by Säyim, her face streaked with blood, her worldless cries tearing at your heart. You pulled her into a desperate embrace, but she was signing frantically, a whirlwind of frantic gestures you couldnât fully understand. You saw Vakrep behind her, his smile sick and smug.
You unsheathed your knife and walked toward him. Säyim held you back, her grip surprisingly strong, her eyes wide with terror as she continued to sign, her body trembling. âWhat did you do to her?!â you screamed at Vakrep, your knife held tightly, ready to strike.
âVarangâs orders,â he said, his voice smooth, unconcerned. âI told you, yerik. The day would come. I was counting.â He smirked.
You gritted your teeth, a growl rumbling in your chest, and lunged. But before you reached him, warriors, much stronger and bigger, held you back. You thrashed, your rage roaring within you. Vakrep turned his head to an emerging figure, silently ordering his warriors to let go of you when he saw Varang. The warriors pushed you toward Varang, and when you saw her serene face, your anger flared anew.
âWe must come to an agreement, daughter,â she said, her voice soft, smiling. She turned her back, entering her yurt.
You followed, your breath heavy, expecting to see Kekihe, but the yurt was empty. âWhere is Kekihe?â You hissed.
âShe is somewhere⌠safe.â Varang smiled, achillingly calm expression, not minding your tone. âShe will train under me. Just as you had, daughter.â Her meaning was clear.
âDo not hurt her,â you begged, your voice breaking, a desperate plea. You remembered the pain of your own childhood, the brutal training, the constant fear, the torture. Kekihe could not go through that. You refused to let it happen.
âOf course,â Varang said, her face twisting into a pretense of worry. âI would never. But of course, this is all on you, sweetling. If you are good to me, I am good to her. Do you understand?â
You took a sharp breath, your chest tight with dread. You nodded.
âYou will mate Vakrep.â She threw the curveball, and you felt like a knife was twisted in your gut. âYou agree?â Your eyes snapped to hers, disagreement blazing in them. She saw it, her smile faltering for a moment. âSäyim and Kekihe⌠I see you care for them deeply.â Her fingers, played with your kuru, a subtle threat as she repeated, âYou agree?â
You swallowed hard, your throat dry. âI⌠I will think about itââ
She tugged, a sharp pull on your kuru. âDo. You. Agree?â
You took in another sharp breath, the air burning in your lungs. âYes,â you breathed out, tasting ash in your mouth.
She grinned, an uncanny sight. âJust as I thought you would.â She nodded, dismissing you.
You slipped out of Bridgehead the next day, a ghost in the pre-dawn gloom. The forest, once a sanctuary, now felt like a trap. You wanted to run, to flee this place, this fate. But Säyim and Kekihe were constantly on your mind. They depended on you. What would Varang do if you didnât come back? Besides, you and Neteyam⌠it wasnât like that. You couldnât burden him with your woes, your twisted life. He deserved someone free, someone who wasnât the enemy of his people. Perhaps, who you were better off with, was Vakrep. Someone who had done things as unimaginable as you had done.
The fire cracked in the grotto, its flame mirroring the tremor in your hand as you traced the cracks of his chest. The words clawed at your throat and every breath tasted like ash, watching him with his eyes closed, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips, both sated and sleepy. It made your coming betrayal feel like a physical blow against your chest.
âWe need to stop this.â You whispered.
His eyes, though heavy with sleepiness, snapped open. A frown touched his brow. âWhat?â
âThis. Us.â You gestured vaguely between your bodies, still entwined. âIt has to end.â
He pushed himself up fully, sitting upright, the glow of the bioluminescent moss in the grotto allowed you to see his raw, vulnerable look. âWhy?â
You sat up, too. âThings always end, Neteyam.â You wrapped your arms around your naked from, creating a wall between you. âNothing lasts.â
He reached for you, his hand warm against your bare shoulder. âThis doesnât. Not us.â His voice was low, edged with a tremor of its own. âWhere is this this coming from?â
You flinched away from his touch. âNeteyam, this isn't serious. You know that, donât you? We are two young people who find pleasure in each otherâs company. There are no strings. Thatâs all we are.â
He snatched his hand back as if burned. His jaw tightened. âBullshit,â he said in a growl. âWhat if I want to be tethered to you? What if I want to be your mate?â
You laughed, a harsh, brittle sound that cracked in the quiet. âThen you are stupid.â Your voice rose, losing its calm. âI am Mangkwan, Neteyam. I am your peopleâs enemy. How many times must I remind you?â
âI do not care about any of that.â He grabbed your hand, his eyes burning into yours. âI never cared. Not about your clan. Not about your name. Only you.â
An exasperated sigh hissed between your teeth. âDo not make this hard, Neteyam.â Your voice broke, a plea escaping. âYou will forget me, trust. This will be a distant memory in the future and yuâll thank yourself for not taking this seriously.â
He cut you off with an anguished groan, a sound ripped from deep within him. âIf I could forget you, I would have done it years ago!â His voice cracked, raw with emotion. âBaby, I am in love with you...â
Tears, hot and sudden, pooled in your eyes at his tone. You loved him. A love so fierce it threatened to consume you. But this was a love you could not allow. You were poison. You would burn him to ash.
âI am to mate Vakrep.â The words echoed in the small space.
His head reared back, as if you had struck him, clawed his face. The fire in his eyes died, replaced by a chilling void. âYou canât possibly do that.â The word was barely audible.
âIt is not my choice.â Your voice was thin. âVarang⌠she decides.â The name was a curse.
âShe cannot keep decidinh your life for you!â He gripped your arms, his touch firm. âYou must fight. I will fight with you.â
You shook your head, the tears finally spilling down your cheeks. âI cannot. And you must not.â Your breath hitched. âShe will hurt Säyim and Kekihe. She has Kekihe now. We havenât seen her for days.â Your voice rose, a desperate cry. âNeteyam, I know she will hurt her. Sheâs hurting her. She did it to me when I was small. She hurt me.â Your breathing grew ragged, quick, panicked gasps.
Neteyam watched your face crumple in pain, and then fear, your glassy eyes seem to see nothing but the horror of your childhood flashing before them. His face mirrored the anguish in yours, pulling you into his arms, a tight embrace that stole your breath. Your head burrowed into his shoulder, tears soaking his skin.
âI cannot allow her to hurt Kekihe. This is the only way.â
His hand tangled in your hair, stroking your head. âThis isnât the only way, my love.â His voice was a low rumble against your ear.
You shook your head slowly, a desperate denial. âI am not for you, Neteyam. I am the fire that will burn you to ashes if you donât let go...â
He tilted his head back, pulling you away just enough to look into your eyes. His gaze was soulful, filled with an unwavering devotion that broke your heart further. âI will burn happily, baby.â
You hugged him then, tighter than you had ever embraced anyone. You clung to him, desperate to stop him from slipping away, to prevent the best thing that had ever happened to you from fleeting, leaving you alone in your dark world. Leaving the rendezvous place, the sacred space that had witnessed moons of your life with Neteyam, was the hardest thing you had ever done.
And now, a different fire crackled before you, its flames mocking your despair. You stared into it, your tears falling, unheard, and swallowed by what you must do. Tonight, you were to mate Vakrep. Tonight, you will lose whatever freedom you thought you have. You wished the fire would consume you, turn you to ash before you could endure such a fate.
Säyim sat beside you, her anguish palpable. Her eyes, red-rimmed and swollen, mirrored your own. The female attendants, their faces impassive, finished arranging your headdress, an elaborate cage of red and sharp fibers.
Säyim tugged at your hand when they left, her touch insistent. Her hands began to sign. You watched her, a knot forming in your gut.
âKekihe?â you asked, a desperate hope in your voice. She nodded eagerly, her hands moving again, a frantic dance. âI know, Säyim,â you said, squeezing her hands. âThatâs why Iâm doing this. I will not let Varang hurt her.â
She shook her head, a violent motion, and pointed at you, her signing more urgent now.
âNo, she will not be like me.â You tried to reassure her, your voice thick. âI promise you. Varang will not kill me. I will fight. My priority is to protect you and Kekihe, always.â
She shook her head again, frustration twisting her features. Her hands flew, pointing at you, then at herself, then making the sign for death. You watched her, a chill creeping up your spine. Youâd seen the sign for death before, but the contextâŚ
âMy parents?â you asked, your voice barely a whisper. She nodded, tears pooling in her eyes, before making the sign again, insistent. You felt a her fear. âNo, Säyim, I will not be like my parents. And Kekihe will not be like me. I will protect her. I promised you.â
She shook her head again, her face contorted in a silent scream. She signed once more, her movements sharp, desperate. You watched carefully, your head tilting as the meaning slowly, chillingly, solidified. When she finished, she stared at you, her eyes pleading, willing you to understand.
You blinked, the world momentarily blurring. âMy parents were killed?â She nodded eagerly, her hands signing, a torrent of unspoken words. âVarang?â
She nodded, tears streaming down her face, then she opened her mouth, revealing the raw, jagged scar where her tongue had once been. Your face twisted in horror. The realization and the sheer, brutal truth of it all struck you like a physical blow. You pulled her into a fierce hug, her frail body trembling against yours.
Anger, cold and swift, enveloped you, making you grit your teeth. It surged through your veins, eclipsing all else. You stood, a sudden, fierce resolve hardening your features. You walked to the corner of the yurt, grabbing your double-bladed staff from where it hung against the woven wall. Säyim watched you, fear widening her eyes, but she did not stop you. Not this time.
You burst from the yurt, intent on finding Varang, on tearing her apart. But then, a deafening explosion ripped through the air, shaking the ground beneath your feet. It came from the RDAâs industrial site. You staggered, your fury momentarily forgotten, replaced by alarm. Screams, distant and terrified, echoed. Fire bloomed from the other side of Bridgehead, a hungry orange maw. You were watching in shock when another explosion, closer this time, erupted. You looked up, your eyes scanning the smoke-choked sky. A lone ikran was soaring above the flames.
âSullyâs boy! Sullyâs boy!â You heard the shrill of panic from sky peoplw. You saw them, small figures, scrambling, dispatching soldiers on the ground.
Neteyam.
From where you stood, away from the quickly growing fire, your heart drummed hard against your chest as you watched him nock another arrow in a swift, practiced motion. It flew, striking a huge RDA tank, making it erupt in a huge flame, an explosion that rocked the ground. Then, the ikran, with its defiant rider, banked sharply and flew away.
A hand clamped on your forearm. You spun, your eyes locking with Tawâtan, one of the Mangkwan warriors who had shown discontent with Varangâs rule. His face was grim, his eyes wide with urgency.
He tugged at your arm. âLetâs go! Get Säyim!â
Your eyes widened, a breath of horror escaping your lips. Another explosion sent a shower of sparks into the night. The RDA was panicking, soldiers running on foot, fighter jets screaming into the sky.
âNo.â You shook your head, pulling your arm free. âYou get Säyim! Get her to safety! Get everyone who will come with you to safety.â You met his gaze, your voice firm, absolute. âKekihe. I will find her.â
He tugged at your forearm again, his grip tight. âWe got her. Come with us now!â
You looked at him, surprised. Kekihe was safe? A wave of relief, potent and dizzying, washed over you. But there was no time for questions. Another young warrior, his face streaked with ash, emerged from your yurt, half-carrying Säyim, who was signing frantically, her eyes wide with terror.
âGet them to safety, Tawâtan.â You ordered, your voice sharp, authoritative.
You didnât wait for his answer. You ran back into your yurt, grabbing your longbow and quiver of arrows. Your divided staff slung across your back. You burst out again, running toward where your ikran waited, agitated by the explosions.
You called to your ikran, a piercing whistle that cut through the din. It flew toward you immediately, a magnificent shadow. You jumped onto its back, making tsaheylu before you beckoned it upward.
The ikran launched into the air, its powerful wings beating against the smoke that managed to hide Neteyam from the sight of RDA pilots. You nocked an arrow, aiming for the closest fighter jet, a monstrous metal bird firing at Neteyam. The arrow flew, finding its mark in its open underbelly. It shuddered, black smoke erupting from its side, then plummeted, ensuring an explosion.
You saw Neteyam then, nocking another arrow toward an industrial site. A fighter jet, its engines roaring, pursued him relentlessly. You nocked another arrow sending it toward the jet. It struck one of its rotors, causing it to spiral into an explosive death. Several Mangkwan warriors on their ikran flew then, too. For a terrifying moment, you thought they were after you. But then, they swooped, targeting RDA tanks. They were on your side.
âNeteyam!â You bellowed, your voice carrying across the wind. You flew closer, noting the ash and red dye streaking his skin, just like yours. You motioned your head toward the dense canopies of the forest below. To cover. To ground.
You flew there, reaching the intricate labyrinth of trees in record time. But a hoard of Mangkwan warriors, their war cries echoing, immediately followed. You and Neteyam dove, flying under the thick canopies, knowing you wouldnât be able to fight the overwhelming numbers overhead.
âWhat were you thinking?!â You shouted at him, the wind whipping your words away. You weaved through the giant branches and twisting vines, the forest a blur of green.
Mangkwan warriors, their ikrans screaming, followed, their arrows slicing through the air, forcing you to duck and swerve. Then, you heard another set of war cries, different this time.
âOmatikaya!â Neteyam shouted, his ikran surging, attempting to fly upwards, to meet his kin.
You flew upward, too, but then you heard it. Vakrepâs sick, smug voice, calling your name. Instead of following Neteyam, you maneuvered your ikran, pulling it down, choosing to face him. But Neteyam, seeing your choice, also maneuvered his ikran, circling back down, placing himself between you and Vakrep.
Vakrepâs eyes, filled with a predatory gleam, landed on Neteyam. Surprise, a fleeting flicker, crossed his face. Then rage, when he spotted the choker adorning his neck along with an IFF tag you donât even know where Neteyam got.
âNeteyam te SuliâŚâ His voice was thick with fury, a guttural snarl. His gaze flicked to you, then back to Neteyam, as if he had just pieced together a grotesque puzzle.
Vakrep lunged on his ikran and Neteyam welcomed his assertion. Their ikran grappled in a swirling dance of fury. But Neteyam managed to unseat Vakrep, pulling him down to the forest floor. Neteyam was taller and bigger in built, his movements stronger. But you knew Vakrep. He was a cheat. Neteyam overpowered him, landing heavy punches on his face. Then, a flash of movement from above alerted you of the coming of a Mangkwan warrior loyal to Vakrep. You saw his arrow aim for Neteyamâs back and you unsheathed your knife, sending it his way, and it flew, burying itself deep in the manâs chest. He crumpled, his longbow falling harmlessly, but the arrow thatâs already loosed found its mark in Neteyamâs arm.
He groaned, an animalistic sound of pain and rage. Vakrep found his chance, pushing Neteyam off him and unsheathing his knife to send a blow on Neteyam but you moved, grabbing one of your blades behind you before tackling Vakrep off Neteyam who had just splintered the wood of the arrow lodged in his arm. You held Vakrep by his kuru, wrapping the thick plait around your hand and wrist. Meanwhile, Neteyam was quick to grab a random longbow and arrow, pointing it at Vakrep.
âPut your knife down, Vakrep,â you said, your tone biting. âWe will finish this here...â
He put his knife down, spitting blood down at your feet with disdain. âYou lay with the enemy, you disgusting whoreââ
You kicked the back of his knee, sending him down on his knee, before putting your blade in his throat. âYes, uncountable times. And it was great,â you snickered, making him thrash against your hold but you tugged at his kuru hard, while Neteyam renewed his hold on the arrow pointed at Vakrep. âEnjoy a warriorâs death.â
You slashed Vakrepâs neck in a clean, brutal cut, hearing him gurgle, a sickening sound, as blood gushed from his throat. You let out a sigh of relief, one that was short-lived because you heard familiar war cries descending from above. You looked at Neteyam, seeing a grimace of pain twisting his features, but he stood straighter, grabbing his weapon at the same time you fixed your blades into a double-bladed staff.
Vakrep, dead at your feet, was the first thing they saw. âTraitor!â One of them said before lunging.
You sifted your hold on the center of your staff, holding it tight before spinning it into a brutal arc to catch the spear of a Mangkwan who charged at you. One of your blades caught the shaft of his spear, knocking it before you spun the other blade to slit at his throat. Before his body even hit the ground, you saw Neteyam moving behind you, dropping low to a avoid a swinging club.
With a sharp thrust of his fist, he delivered a punch-stab to a Mangkwanâs chest, and before pulling the short blade out, he twisted his wrist, ripping his arm outward. The longer blade delivered a sweeping slash to another Mangkwan close to him. It was to your advantage that you know how the Mangkwan fight, some of them even trained under you, and now, when a warrior swung low at Neteyam's legs, you vaulted over the attackerâs crouching form, driving a blade into his shoulder and slicing upward.
Your flank was left exposed, but Neteyam stepped right in, his blade catching the strike meant for your ribs, deflecting it harshly before sinking his weapon into the enemy's side. You moved as one until the Mangkwan warriors fell, one by one, reduced to a heap of corpses.
You stood there, unable to process the carnage, when another hoard of Mangkwan warriors landed. But among them, you saw the familiar faces of those who had sided with you, Tawâtan among them. He eyed Neteyam, his fingers brushing his forehead in polite greeting, something youâve never seen your people do. He then glanced at Vakrepâs corpse among the heap of Mangkwan corpses before looking at you.
âSäyim and Kekihe are with the women, they are accompanied by Faykirâs crew,â he told you.
Neteyam beside you spoke for the first time, his voice deep and almost breathless. âThink you can you send a man to their location? Iâll have men get the women and children, take them to safety.â
Tawâtan nodded, turning to Säron. âThis is our quickest rider.â
Neteyam nodded, removing an arm band, handing it to Säron. âIâll send men to the location. Show this to a man named Tormak.â
Säron nodded and walked away, while Neteyam touched something in his neck, speaking to someone in his comms to give his orders. He wasnât even finish yet when several Mangkwan landed again. You closed your eyes and sighed. When you opened it, you saw Riku, looking at his nephewâs corpse on the ground before his face contorted, a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. Then, Varang appeared, her eyes sweeping over the scene, landing on Neteyam with a chilling curiosity.
âThe famed son of Toruk Makto.â Her voice was a silken whisper. She smiled, a predatory curve of her lips, her eyes flicking to you. âYou came to take this woman.â She concluded, her gaze settling on you, cold and dissecting. âI wonder what youâve seen in her. She is weak. She failed her people.â
âI failed no one, Varang.â you spat her name out. âIt is you who failed us. Many Mangkwan died because of the RDA, and yet you refused to see. You have been so blinded by ambition and hatred that youâve lost sight of us! Among us, you are the weak one, refusing to budge and get over a single tragedy, allowing it to control your whole life and dictate what happens to your people!â
She snickered, a rasping sound. âWhy would they listen to you? You are a traitor. Just like your parents.â She smiled, a cruel, triumphant twist of her lips.
You watched her, pain piercing your heart. âYou killed them.â The words were a whisper.
âYes, I did.â Her eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. âThey betrayed me. They were traitors who aided the damned Toruk Makto against my orders!â
âAnd what is the punishment for an Oloâeykte who betrays her people?â You met her gaze, your voice rising, gaining strength. âWho leaves them to themselves in times of great despair?â
She hissed and her warriors nocked their arrows, aiming at you. But then, the Mangkwan who sided with you, their faces grim, raised their bows. Varangâs eyes snapped up when she heard unfamiliar war cries descending from the air. The Omatikaya, among them Jake and Neytiri, landed behind you. The Mangkwan were outnumbered, and she knew it.
âLeave, or this will end here. And it will not be good for you, Varang,â you said her name in a biting tone. âFor everything you did to me and my family, I shall be righteous if I tear you apart.â
Varang watched you, her eyes sharp and full of resigned rage. She hissed and you hissed back. It must have taken so much of her pride to turn away, along with her warriors, and the fear that was overpowered by your anger swam to the surface, sending a tremor in your body. You staggered, the adrenaline draining. Neteyam immediately caught you, pulling you into his uninjured arm, his grip firm and comforting.
âOh, baby,â he whispered, breathless, hugging you.
âNeteyam, thank you. We owe Y/N the lives of our families. And now, we owe it to you, too.â He looked behind him, at the warriors you had helped in the past, their faces etched with gratitude. âIf itâs not too much⌠weâd ask uturu⌠only until we could stand on our own. If⌠if youâll have us.â
Neteyam seemed to look beyond you, his gaze sweeping over the Mangkwan warriors who had chosen to stand with you. He nodded once, his arm reaching out, gripping forearms with Tawâtan. Tawâtan let out an anguished sound, his arm finding your arm, his head bowing. The other Mangkwan warriors, laying down their weapons, knelt on one knee, bowing to your feet. Tawâtan thanked Neteyam, too, his voice thick with emotion and Neteyam told them to stand, his voice firm but kind.
âNeteyam.â A womanâs voice cut through the air. You looked behind you and saw a slightly older woman, her features striking and resembling Neteyam unmistakably.
âMother.â He said, his voice softening. You moved away, allowing his mother to embrace him. A slightly older man, tall and broad, walked toward them, too, placing a large hand on Neteyamâs head. He had five fingers, much like Quaritchâs, and you remembered him from the convention.
âWe all need to go home. You are wounded.â She told him, her eyes tracing the blood on his arm.
Neteyam nodded, his arm still around your waist, his grip firm, leaving no confusion about why this battle had been fought, or who he had fought it for.
Neteyam, despite his wound, made sure to accompany you to where Säyim and Kekihe are when you all arrived at Hometree. You werenât expecting the Omatikaya to immediately warm up to you and your people, or expect them to accept your presence here, but you were thankful enough that they were not hostile. Save from some curious looks, and some children getting scared, there were really no violent reactions that you know of.
As you two walk, you saw a little girl approach, jumpy on her toes, her short braids flying in the air. âNeteyam!â Her jolly voice sounded, and when her eyes landed on you, you almost expected the girl's smile to falter but it didnât. âSome of the Mangkwan are sick, so grandmother had them all receive treatment at her tent. Tsanu is setting up a very large tent, he said itâs temporary but it's where they will sleep!â
Neteyam smiled, putting a hand over the girlâs head. âThis is Tuk, my little sister,â he told you.
You smiled. âHi, Tuk...â you said and her eyes widened a little before she smile shyly.
âAre you Y/N?â she asked curiously and when you nodded, she practically jumped over to your side and held your hand. âI know where your family is!â
She pulled you up a winding ramp, and honestly, you arenât really that used to climb trees and you almost lost your footing if only Neteyam werenât able to catch you. Tuk gestured to a small kelku like it was a gift and when you walked inside, you saw Kekihe and Säyim huddled together. You let out a breathe of relief, especially at the sight of Kekihe.
âOh, Kekihe,â you ran inside, kneeling to hug the girl who hugged you back tightly, her hand clutching at your arm like she's afraid youâll disappear. Säyim wrapped her around you two and you sobbed in her arms.
âAww...â you heard Tukâs small voice behind you.
A deep, unfamiliar wave of relief washed over you as you hugged them both, meanwhile, Nteyam still stands outside the kelku, still unbothered about his wound that his unyielding figure there catching Säyimâs eyes. She signed. Is he your lover? She meant to say and you chuckled, despite your tears. You nodded silently.
âAnd I love him, Säyim...â you mumbled, your tears falling.
It is a good thing, to love, she signed. He is a good man, I can tell. Her soulful eyes stared in yours, a reassurance.
You smiled and nodded, knowing that already. After talking with her for more, you walked outside, seeing Neteyam standing there. âNeteyam,â you said in a soft voice, your hand grabbing his forearm. âYou are wounded, you should have had this treated already.â
âYes, right now...â he mumbled. âThey are okay?â he asked.
You nodded, tears pooling in your eyes again. You feel like crying all day, just cry all the tears you havenât cried your whole life. âNeteyam. Thank you.â
He raised a hand, cupping your neck and jaw. âWeâll talk about this once Iâm treated,â he said and you nodded.
Later, as candles burned inside the Tsahikâs tent, Neytiri stood outside, her gaze fixed on the quiet form of her son inside. Moâat, her face etched with a calm wisdom, placed a hand on her daughterâs shoulder.
âAre you certain, Mother?â Neytiriâs voice was a low murmur, still watching her son.
Moâatâs smile was soft, a knowing curve of her lips. âI have dreamed of it for years, daughter. And you have never seen your son as happy as he has been in these past moons. Eywa could never be wrong.â Her grip on Neytiriâs shoulder pressed, a silent reassurance. âDo you worry, daughter?â
Neytiri let out a sigh, the sound heavy with unspoken thoughts. âItâs just⌠this isnât what I imagined.â
Moâat tilted her head, her eyes twinkling. âAnd you think Jake Sully is who I imagined for you?â
A small, surprised huff of laughter escaped Neytiri. âThat is different, Mother.â
âIs it?â Moâat questioned, her gaze unwavering. Neytiri met her motherâs eyes, a quiet understanding passing between them.
Days bled quickly. You watched your people shed their old lives by washing away the ash and paint, the symbols of their Mangkwan identity, revealing skin that had not seen the sun in years. Säyim, her hands never idle, joined the Omatikaya weavers, meanwhile, Kekihe quickly found a friend in Tuk. The other Mangkwan found their place. Some hunters joined the Omatikaya hunting parties. While those who wished to be warriors will have to go through the Omatikaya iknimaya.
Kiri, her movements graceful, often sought you out. âLoâak, my brother, already found his mate,â she told you one afternoon, as Kekihe and Tuk splashed in a shallow stream nearby. âHe lives at Awaâatlu, in the eastern sea.â
You nodded, a faint smile touching your lips. Neteyam had already told you about it. He spoke to you of Awaâatlu, of the Metkayina, and their wise tulkuns.
Kiri smiled as she observed Kekiheâs joyous shrieks as Tuk splashed her. âTuk took to her quickly. She doesnât have many children her age to play with here. Now, there are many new children. Iâm pretty sure her friend Popiti will love Kekihe, too.â
Your gaze lingered on Kekihe, a warmth spreading through your chest. You should feel content, you thought. Your people were safe, cared for. Kekihe was happy. Yet, a restlessness stirred within you. Neteyam was healing, you knew, but why had he not sought you out? Days had passed. Perhaps, the novelty of the forbidden has worn off. You are afraid it was the case.
The Omatikaya also threw a celebratory feast. The air filled with the rich aroma of roasted meat and sweet fruits. You watched, a lump forming in your throat, as your people danced, their faces alight with genuine joy. Tears pricked at your eyes. This was true happiness, a gift you had never truly known.
Kiri appeared beside you, her voice gentle. âPeyâra told me you were Tsakarem of your former clan.â
You turned to her. âI hardly am. I just did what I needed to do.â
âBut you were their healer. You gave them hope when there was none. And they said they are alive because of you.â She offered you a vibrant forest flower, its petals unfurling like a tiny, colorful fan. âI think you ought to prepare yourself for Moâat. My grandmother. She is Tsahik of Omatikaya. You will have many meetings with her.â
Your brow furrowed slightly. âWhat for?â you asked softly, the words barely a whisper.
Kiriâs eyes shifted past your shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. She didnât answer, instead melting away into the throng, heading towards where Tuk and Kekihe now giggled, chasing glowing insects.
A sudden stillness enveloped you and your heart began a slow, heavy thud against your ribs. You didnât need to turn to know because the air around you had shifted, became more charged. You turned, slowly, and saw Neteyam, his arm bandage wrapped neatly. His eyes, dark and intense, were fixed on you. A lump formed in your throat again.
âHi,â you croaked, your voice thin. âHow are you?â
âFine,â he said, his voice deeper than you remembered, a touch rough. âWasnât so bad.â
You nodded, looking away, suddenly finding the intricate patterns of the Hometree floor fascinating. âGood. Thatâs good to hear.â You bit your lip, fighting the tremor that threatened to overtake it. Why the distance? Why the delay?
âYou?â he asked, his voice softer now. âHow are you settling in? Säyim and Kekihe?â
You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. âSäyim is learning with the weavers. Sheâs always loved to weave. And Kekihe has found a friend in Tuk.â You glanced at your hands, twisting your fingers together. âMy people⌠some of them are no longer used to a Hometree. Ours was burned by the fire long before some of us were born. But they are learning.â
âThatâs great to hear,â he replied.
You looked down at the dancing figures, the vibrant colors blurring. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You didnât know what else to say. The awkwardness was a physical weight. The thought, cold and sharp, pierced through you: the novelty has worn off. This is how it ends. After everything.
âIâll go,â you said, your voice barely audible. âCheck on Säyim.â
âAre you avoiding me?â His voice, sharp and accusatory, stopped you mid-turn.
You snapped your head back, indignation flaring. âWhy would I avoid you?â you asked, your eyes almost narrowing at his audacity. Heâs the one avoiding you!
âI just got here.â His eyes narrowed.
âYeah. Well, itâs awkward. I donât think we have anything more to talk about.â Your voice was tight, strained.
He tilted his head, his expression hardening. Now that you truly looked, you saw not detachment, but a simmering anger in his gaze. âYou think so?â he asked, his voice low, dangerous. âI think we have so much to discuss.â
Your nose flared. âOh. You werenât really acting like it. You have avoided me for days,â you hissed, the words tumbling out. âAnd donât tell me you were healing. You are a man too virile to be knocked down by a single arrow on the arm for days. Just tell me if we should start acting like we donât know each other.â
He took a step forward, his immense height suddenly towering over you. His hand, surprisingly gentle despite the anger vibrating in his body, closed around your forearm. âI was angry with you, baby. Hell, I still am.â His voice was thick with frustration as he pulled you closer.
âWhy? I didnât do anything wrong. In fact, I should be mad at you. You are very stupid, you could have been killed!â you retorted, your teeth gritted.
A giggle drifted from nearby. You glanced over to see a group of teenagers, eyes wide with curiosity, whispering amongst themselves, their gazes flitting between you and Neteyam. He tightened his grip on your hand, pulling you away from the feast, deeper into the Hometreeâs winding ramps, until he found a secluded alcove glowing faintly with hanging firepots. He stopped, then turned to face you.
âThen what do you suggest I do, baby? Stay back and let you mate that scoundrel? You truly donât believe Iâd let that happen, do you? I would rather dieââ
âDonât say that!â you hissed, your shoulders slumping. The weight of your past, the chains of Varangâs manipulation, are long behind you. You were free. âI had to do it, Neteyam. My problems are not yours and I mean it when I said you shouldnât waste your life with me.â
He groaned, his grip on your hand tightening further as he pulled you fully into his embrace. âA life without you is the only one Iâll consider a life wasted.â His voice was a raw whisper against your hair. âI am so in love with you. And to know that you would rather carry your problems and burdens alone instead of sharing it with me is a heavier burden for me. I am here now, do you understand? Your problems and burdens are mine. You are mine.â
Tears welled, hot and stinging. The urge to weep, to collapse into his arms, was overwhelming. To be protected, loved, to have your burdens carried by someone who cherished you so deeply. This was a feeling utterly new, completely foreign. Säyim and Kekihe loved you, yes, but you carried them, protected them. This, this kind of love that allowed you to rest, to simply be⌠it undid you.
You cupped his jaw, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone. You gave him a weak, open-mouthed kiss, and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound. You sniffled, tasting salt on your lips. âI love you, Neteyam.â
His arms tightened around you, crushing you against his chest. His head dipped, finding your forehead, then your lips. âI love you so much, baby. And I see you. I have always seen you.â
You smiled through the hot tears, a genuine, radiant smile. You knew the truth of his words. âI see you, Neteyam.â You pulled back slightly, your gaze locking with his. âAnd I love you so much.â You rose onto your toes, kissing him again, your arms hooking around his nape, your chest pressing against his. Both your hearts hammered, a frantic, joyous rhythm against your ribs. âWhere is your hut?â you mumbled against his lips.
His eyes darkened, but a low chuckle rumbled in his chest. âSo we can talk more in private?â He raised a brow, a teasing glint in his gaze.
You pursed your lips, peering up at him with feigned innocence. âDidnât you say we have lots to discuss? Itâs a little loud out here.â You pursed your lips.
He grinned. âWell, since you askedâŚâ He took your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and led you up the winding ramps of the Hometree.
In the quiet sanctuary of his hut, he kissed you, softly, lovingly. There was no rush, only the deep connection that hummed between you. His hand cupped your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek, his eyes soulful as they searched yours. âI want to be your mate, my love. And⌠I want you to be mine.â His whisper was raw, full of yearning.
You blinked, a fresh wave of tears blurring your vision. Mating in your clan had been a nothing but a means of reproduction or domination. Theirs, you knew, was a sacred bond, witnessed by Eywa herself. And you had known his body, known his touch, the way he made love, the way he pleasured you like a man cherishing his beloved woman.
His hand cradled your face. âI will not force you to worship who I worship. It will take time for you to believe, I know that. But⌠I want to be truly yours, and you to be truly mine. So please, have me...â The yearning in his voice was palpable, a tangible thing that wrapped around your heart.
Tears pooled in your eyes, brimming, then spilling. âI am yours, Neteyam. You have me.â
He kissed you, your head pillowed on the soft, woven mat. He made love to you, slowly, the connection of your kurus pulsing, enhancing the experience. His mouth muffled your moans, silencing the sounds that threatened to escape. âShh, baby. People might hear,â he whispered, a chuckle rumbling against your lips.
âBut itâs so good,â you whined, pulling him back for another kiss.
The next times were rougher. You felt his earlier anger and frustration, in every thrust, every hard squeeze on your breasts. You bit down on your loincloth, muffling your cries as you lay facedown, his body pressing into yours from behind. You lost count of how many times he claimed you, how many times you surrendered. Even as you drifted to sleep, he was still moving inside you, his lips pressed to your neck.
You woke to the cheerful sound of childrenâs laughter. A soft smile touched your lips. You heard Kekiheâs voice among them, clear and bright. It felt like a dream, a fragile, beautiful illusion. You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to the smooth skin of Neteyamâs shoulder. He stirred, a low groan escaping him, and pulled you closer, his arm tightening around your waist.
âI think theyâll call for breakfast soon,â you murmured, your voice thick with sleep.
âLetâs skip it,â he mumbled, his hand on your shoulder sliding down to knead your round breast, rolling and pinching the pebbled tip.
âIâm hungry,â you complained playfully, a soft gasp escaping you.
He chuckled, his lips pressing against your ear. âIâll fill your belly up, donât worry.â
You groaned, the soreness between your legs is not a joking matter. âNo thanks,â you said, pushing against his chest. You were still recovering from being pounded on literally just an hour ago, both of you waking up just to fuck and then going to back to sleep again.
Neteyam caught your waist as you tried to roll off the mat, pulling you back, your back slamming against his chest, his lips finding your neck. You shrieked, and then clamped your mouth shut, remembering the children just outside the hut. You bit your lip as you found yourself beneath him again, peering up as his hand hooked under your knees, lifting them, spreading your legs wider.
Suddenly, Tukâs voice, echoed nearby and you sat up and pulled a blanket over you in record time. Thankfully, she didn't burst inside. âYou two should really see this! This is the coolest thing youâll ever see!â
Neteyam groaned, his head falling back. âShe says that all the time.â
You chuckled, kissing his cheek. âWe should really get up now.â You moved quickly, dressing yourself, trying to smooth your hair as best you could. He followed you out of the small alcove and into the receiving area of his kelku.
There, you stopped, breathless. Hundreds of atokirina, glowing with an ethereal light, floated in the air, swirling and dancing. Thousands, perhaps, some even drifting gently inside the kelku. From below, you could hear the soft murmurs of the people, watching from the branches, while children chased the glowing spirits with joyous shouts.
You felt Neteyamâs warmth behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close. He held out a hand, catching an atokirina in his palm, its gentle glow illuminating his face. You watched in awe, never having witnessed such a breathtaking display.
âWe have been blessed, my love,â he whispered, his lips pressing a soft kiss below your ear.
You reached out, catching one in your own palm, its tiny light pulsing softly. You smiled, a deep, profound sense of peace settling over you. A promise of a new beginning.
Below, Neytiri, Moâat, and Jake watched the spectacle unfold.
âThey have been blessed, Jake,â Neytiri said, a radiant smile on her face.
Jake blinked, looking at his mate, then back at the floating lights. âWhat? Did they mate⌠there?â
Neytiri smacked his arm, her eyes widening in mock outrage. âYou donât say that! To anyone, at all!â
Jake rubbed his arm where Neytiri smacked him. âI didnât know the atokirina could float this high...â he said innocently.
âNothing is impossible in Eywaâs grace, children,â Moâat said, her smile serene, her gaze fixed on the two figures silhouetted against the glowing spirits.
A/N | i started writing this at the end of january, and i finally got around to finishing it. i can't believe neteyam is the one who brings me out of my stump lmfao. anyways i hope u guys can tell how much love i put into this... ohh neteyam...
SYNOPSIS | grief and survival collide when you, a displaced sätareym warrior, find refuge among the omatikaya and the son of the great dreamwalker oloeyktan. confusing feelings for neteyam grow despite your refusal to believe eywa had any hand in your path.
CONTENT WARNINGS | canon divergence, neteyam is so down bad, heavy grief, cultural displacement, religious trauma, avoidance, panic attack, romantic tension, kissing, emotional overload, self doubt, running away from feelings
WORD COUNT: 18.4k
Sätareym â  from naâvi roots inspired by säta (hunt) and reym (dry land). the name translates loosely to hunters of the dry land.
You stopped believing in Eywa long before the fires reached the horizon.
Most children of the plains grew up beneath a sky so vast it seemed to cradle their hope, told again and again by elders that the wind carried Eywaâs breath and the glowing lines of your clanâs rosette-patterned tanhi mirrored her watchful eyes. Yet hope had slipped from you early, falling away like ash shaken from a dying ember. The stories never matched the world you saw. The stories never saved anyone. You remembered your tsahĂŹk kneeling beneath the rising sun, his palms pressed to the scorched earth as he whispered prayers meant to steady the clanâs heartbeat. His low voice, soothing like wind in tall grass, had once filled you with comfort, but eventually you learned to hear its hollowness. His words carried reverence, but they were swallowed without answer. Each time he called upon Eywa to guide the herds or bring water or protect the young, the sky stretched above without stirring, brilliant, indifferent, vaster than grief. The Sätareym believed Eywa moved in wind currents, in far horizons, in the breath of distance itself , yet no wind shifted when your parents fell. No horizon opened to spare them. No presence rose from the plains to shield them from metal and flame.
Your people had always been a clan of endurance; tall, long-limbed riders with midnight skin built for the sun, rosette-marked like the great plains cats . You had grown up in motion, in migrations that carried the clan across gold-streaked grasslands and cracked riverbeds following rainfall and grazing patterns. The Sätareym taught that falling from a Paâli (direhorse) was a lesson in humility, yet nothing prepared you for falling out of your own life. Loss struck with the speed of a hunter-cat hidden in the reeds. One moment you had a mother who tied beadwork at your collar and laughed with her whole face, eyes shining like dawn over savanna dust. One moment you had a father who taught you to lean with the Paâliâs stride, to trust the groundâs rhythm beneath hooves. The next, smoke choked the plains, metal birds shrieked through the clouds, and fire touched everything you loved.
The First War had taken your shared songs with the Olangi long ago, leaving your people standing alone beneath the horizon. The Second Pandoran War took far more. Step by step, season by season, your clanâs numbers withered like dry grass under relentless sun. For years you crossed the plains seeking water, fertile ground, respite, yet human machines hunted the land as if trying to erase the very memory of nomadic life. Sätareym kelku shelters collapsed again and again under sudden evacuations, dismantled in frantic breaths instead of practiced rhythm. Painted tassels once meant for ceremony were torn away to make bindings for wounded limbs. Direhorses trembled beneath their riders, ears pinned to the crack of distant gunfire. Each time you settled, destruction rose behind you. Each time your tsahĂŹk prayed, the sky answered with silence.
Your disbelief did not come from anger. It grew quietly, settling into your bones. You carried it through migrations, through every desperate search for safe ground, through every burial sung beneath an open sky too wide to hold your grief. You listened to the elders say, âThe grass bends where it must,â yet you wondered how many times grass could bend before it snapped. You watched Oloâeyktan Tsawra ride at the front of each flight, her presence solid, unbroken, the mantle of beadwork across her chest shining like a rising sun. Even she, the indomitable rider whose endurance shaped the clan, could not shield you from the shrinking world. Her jaw tightened more each season. Her voice held weight but no longer warmth. A leader cannot weep openly, yet you saw the tremor in her hands when she thought no one watched.
Sickness crept among those left. Thirst hollowed even the strongest riders. The youngestâthose meant to attempt the sun-chase for the first timeânever received the chance to prove themselves. The clanâs bones thinned. Your people, once proud and fierce in their solitude, found themselves held together by a thread stretched near breaking.
Seeking uturu had been unthinkable once. The Sätareym did not cling to land, but they clung fiercely to autonomy, to the belief that survival was found in the bond between clan and plains. Yet the plains themselves burned. The wind carried the reek of fuel and smoldering herds. The horizon no longer promised freedom. It promised death.
You remembered the moment your tsahĂŹk, Makto, finally spoke the words your people feared.
âOe'm ngaytxoa ma âevi (I'm sorry, my children)⌠we must bend or be broken.â
His voice had not wavered. He turned his face toward the forest far beyond the savannaâs dying edge, toward the territory of the Omatikaya, the Naâvi who had absorbed the Olangi while leaving your people to face the plains alone. Old sorrow clung to that direction like dust.
Yet choices had narrowed until none remained.
Now you rode beside the last survivors of the Sätareym toward those towering trees, toward a people who moved through shadow and vine instead of horizon and wind. Your direhorse breathed beneath you, ribs rising against your calves. Its scent, warm and familiar, was a tether to a life crumbling behind you. Your skin, deep indigo and patterned in rosettes that once rippled like shadow through tall grass , felt foreign in the humid air creeping from the forest edge.
You did not whisper to Eywa as the forest canopy came into view. Your heart carried no prayers. You held only memory now. Bright ones that hurt to touch, dark ones that shaped the hollow inside you, and the steady ache that had lived in your chest since childhood. The ache that told you gods did not listen.
You rode in silence, eyes fixed on the unfamiliar shadowed world ahead. The Omatikaya would grant you refuge or they would not. Eywa would intervene or she would not. Belief had no part in survival.
Your clan survived because it ran. Your clan survived because it endured. Your clan survived because it bent where it must.
Yet a quiet part of you wondered. While the forest opened to receive the last of your people⌠what future remained for a heart that no longer trusted the sky?
The jungle swallowed the last breath of open sky before you were ready for it. Moist air clung to your skin where wind once lived, and the quiet murmur of insects replaced the long-distance hum of plains currents. Your paâli shifted beneath you uneasily, its ears flicking forward and back, uncomfortable with the dense weight of life pressing from every direction. You understood its unrest. Your people were shaped by distance, by horizons that held no walls, not towering shapes blotting out the sun.Â
Your clan moved in a careful line, mirroring the same traveling formation you had kept through countless migrations. The older riders flanked the young, while Tsawra rode at the front, her shoulders squared, her braids lifted slightly by the moist breath of the forest. Makto followed not far behind her, his kuru wrapped loosely in white-beaded strands that gleamed like stars against the shadowed green . Neither spoke, but both radiated a tension your people rarely showed. Plains clans feared little. Yet this place could swallow a rider whole without leaving even dust behind.
Your paâli tossed its head, and your grip tightened on the reins just as a sharp hiss cut through the foliage.
âFtang tsenga nga lu (Stop where you are)!â
The shout snapped across the path like a whip. In an instant, Omatikaya riders broke from the undergrowth, emerging with bows drawn, paâli stamping the earth with fierce precision. Blue bodiesâlighter than yours, sleeker with the strength of tree-leapersâcircled your column like shadows peeled from the forest floor. Their arrows gleamed with wicked tips, pulled taut against strings that had taken lives before.
Your breath lodged painfully in your throat. You had seen warriors aim weapons before; the RDA made it impossible not to. Yet this was different. These Naâvi did not shout in hatred. They held their bows with the cold steadiness of those who had protected their home for generations.Â
Tsawra lifted one hand high, palm outward, her voice cutting clean through the rising panic.
âRutxe yemstokx't tĂŹsraw seyki ayoe (Please donât hurt us)! We come in peace.â
Maktoâs deep voice followed, unshaken even as bows stayed locked on your riders. âMa leNa'vi (My people), hold. Lower your reins. Do not provoke them.â
The Sätareym obeyed, though unease rippled down the line. Your clan rarely showed fear, but the forest pressed close, and arrows aimed at your chest forced honesty into your heartbeat. Your palms dampened against your paâliâs hide. Its muscles trembled with the desire to flee, yet escape was already cut off. Riders perched in the branches above, silhouettes blending with leaves, arrows pointed downward like judgment.
One Omatikaya warrior stepped forward, his posture rigid with authority. His braids were adorned with bright feathers and forest beads, his tail lashing. His eyes swept your people, lingering on the rosette patterns across your skin; a clear sign you were not forest-born. You watched Tsawra meet his stare head-on, her chin raised in the steady way plains leaders held themselves.
âKaltxĂŹ, ma tsmukan (Hello, my brother),â she said evenly. âI am Tsawra, oloâeyktan of the Sätareym clan. We seek uturu.â
âYou bring many,â he replied, voice clipped, wary. âWe were not told to expect riders of the open grass here.â
Makto guided his paâli forward with slow movements. His expression remained calm, though sorrow hung in the lines framing his mouth. âWar follows us. The dry lands burn. We ask only to speak to your oloâeyktan.â
The warrior flicked his gaze over your people again. The sight of the exhausted riders, the gaunt children, the ash-darkened leather harnesses seemed to settle heavily over him. His bow eased a fraction. A breath later, he signaled with two sharp gestures. One by one, the Omatikaya lowered their weapons.
Relief shuddered quietly through the clan, though no one dared speak.
Your shoulders loosened, though not completely. You had grown too used to danger appearing the moment safety seemed near.
The warrior stepped closer to Tsawra, though he remained mounted. âJakesully will decide. Follow our lead. Do not stray.â
The Omatikaya shifted around your clan with smooth discipline, forming a protective, yet clearly controlling formation. Their riders flanked your sides, some moving ahead to scout the path, others weaving through trees with agile grace. The forest seemed to open for them, branches bending under their familiarity, roots avoided with instinctive precision.
Your people rode in silence deeper into the jungleâs pulse.
You felt the air grow thicker, heavy with scents of damp soil, thick leaves, and unfamiliar blossoms. Your paâli snorted irritably, clearly disliking the uneven terrain. You leaned forward, whispering reassurance, but your eyes remained fixed ahead, tracing the path these forest warriors carved for you.
Jake Sully. His name carved itself into your mind like a spearâs edge.
You had never seen him, yet you knew enough to feel your stomach twist with resentment. A dreamwalker. A human who walked in a stolen body, shaped by a people he was not born into. Eywa had answered him, the stories said. Eywa had chosen him. Eywa had saved him.
Your breath caught painfully.
Why not your clan? Why not your parents, whose laughter still lived in the cracks of your heart? Why not the countless riders who painted their skin in palulukan (thanator) rosettes during the first rains, who leapt beneath open stars during rituals meant to praise the Mother? Why had Eywa turned her gaze toward a humanâan outsiderâwhile your people burned? Why did the one touched by poisonous metals, who fought with weapons the land itself rejected, receive her blessing?
Stories spoke of Jake Sully living in comfort now, with a mate and children of his own. A full kelku, warm arms around him, laughter echoing in Hometreeâs halls. He fought still, of course, but he fought with purpose, with a clan behind him, with Eywaâs hand once upon his shoulder.
You clenched your jaw until it ached.
He got to keep his family.
Your people lost theirs.
A single hot tear gathered at the corner of your eye before you could stop it. You blinked it away quickly, refusing to let it fall where the Omatikaya might see. The forest made no room for weakness. Neither did you.
The path ahead brightened, and towering shapes rose through filtered light; massive, ancient, the kind of trees you once heard described in stories sung by Sätareym elders who had never touched them. Hometree stood like a living mountain, its roots curling into the earth with quiet authority.
The escort slowed.
Your heart hammered with a violent, bitter rhythm. You lifted your chin as you approached the massive roots of Hometree, roots that rose from the earth like the coiled limbs of an ancient titan. The forest floor hummed faintly beneath your paâliâs hooves, as if the great tree breathed through the soil itself.Â
This place felt alive in ways the plains never were. You had spent your entire life beneath an unobstructed sky, the wind carving open paths before every migration. Now the canopy pressed low like a heavy hand, thick with humidity and the scent of sap. Your people rode silently, shoulders tightened, posture steady but wary. None of you belonged here, and everyone knew it.
An Omatikaya rider at the front raised his arm, halting the line. âRutxe (Please)⌠dismount your paâli here.â His voice held politeness, yet there was no softness in it. The request was an instruction wrapped in courtesy, leaving no room for refusal.
Tsawraâs head tilted in acknowledgment. âTsalâs tam (itâs okay). Do as they ask,â she called back, offering a small gesture meant to soothe the unease rippling through the Sätareym. Her voice carried reassurance only a leader could offer, yet her jaw remained tight. She dismounted fluidly, landing with the grace of a plains rider whose body was made for ground and speed, not branches.
Your feet touched the earth a moment later, and your paâli pressed its muzzle briefly to your shoulder before being guided away by Omatikaya handlers. Its warm breath ghosted over your skin in a silent plea not to leave its side, and your chest tightened at the separation. Direhorses were central to your clanâs heartwearing identity, and losing its presence, even briefly, felt like stepping into a place without your own shadow.
The forest shifted above you with sudden motion. Figures emerged from Hometree, descending ring-like platforms circling its colossal trunk. They moved with controlled ease, their bodies used to vertical terrain. Eyes widened as they spotted your people; spotted your height, your darker indigo skin, the rosette tanhi that marked your clan as unmistakably foreign to the forest. Murmurs spread like wind through tall grass, except the sound felt sharper, tinged with wariness and confusion rather than admiration.
Ikran swooped down from nearby perches, wings carving the air with startling power. Their screeches echoed through the clearing as they circled above, scanning your clan with predatory focus. You felt their attention like heat against your scalp, and your shoulders curled subtly inward. Being prey in anotherâs home lodged an unpleasant weight beneath your ribs.
Your gaze dropped to the ground, your steps falling into sync with your people as you followed Tsawra and Makto toward the heart of the clearing. The whispers followed like an invisible tide. You caught fragmentsââplains ridersâââlook at their skinâââwhy do they come hereââspoken without malice but with unmistakable unease. Each word scraped at the raw edge of your exhaustion.
Tsawra moved at a steady pace, her expression composed despite the dozens of eyes tracking her every breath. Makto walked at her side, offering polite bows and gentle, respectful greetings.
âOel ngati kameie (I see you),â Makto murmured to a group of elders, dipping his head with genuine grace despite receiving no reply in return.
âWe see you, ma frapo (everyone),â Tsawra said softly to another cluster of Omatikaya, her voice carrying the warmth of tradition.
The silence that met her words pressed like a stone against your sternum. Your leaders kept offering peace even when none was returned, because that was the Sätareym way: strength was measured in endurance, no dominance. Yet the ache of being met with empty air dug into you.
You kept your eyes down until the ground leveled out into a vast open space beneath Hometreeâs shadow. When you finally lifted your gaze, the sight struck like a blow.
A crowd had gatheredânearly the entire Omatikaya, by the look of itâstanding in a semicircle with expressions ranging from fascination to distrust. The forest glow caught their beaded harnesses and paint markings, scattering reflected light across the clearing. You felt stripped bare under their scrutiny. A frown carved itself onto your face before you could stop it, the weight of being watched pressing harder than any arrow ever had.
The crowd shifted suddenly, creating a path through its center. Your breath stilled.
A man stepped forward.
His body was marked with beads and ceremonial animal skin, his hair braided with feathers that shimmered subtly as he moved. He carried the confidence of one accustomed to command, though his stance lacked the arrogance you expected. His eyes, a yellow human shade shaped into a Naâvi face, swept over your people with measured calm.
Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply, sinking into the Sätareym gesture of respect: palms placed over the heart, shoulders lowered in dignified acknowledgment.
âOel ngati kameie, Great Toruk Makto,â they said in unison.
Your spine stiffened.
So this was him.
Jake Sully.
Closer inspection revealed the traits whispered about: the human eyebrows, the four-fingered hands, the subtle tension in his shoulders that hinted at a man who carried two worlds inside him. You felt heat ignite beneath your skin.
Jake lifted a hand gently. âPlease⌠stand. There is no need to bow,â he said, voice softer than you anticipated. His words carried sincerity, though you felt no ease from them.
Tsawra straightened with the composed dignity of a leader who refused to shrink in anotherâs home. âWe thank you for receiving us,â she said, her tone steady. âI am Tsawra, oloâeyktan of the Sätareym. This is our tsahĂŹk, Makto te Tsamsiyu. We come seeking uturu. Our plains burn. Our people diminish. We ask for safety, for time to heal.â
As they spoke, movement stirred behind Jake. A Naâvi woman stepped into view, tall and fierce,but her eyes were wide. Her presence radiated strength so palpable it felt etched into the air around her. Beside her stood four children; two boys and two girls, each with expressions reflecting varying degrees of curiosity and caution.
Your gaze narrowed.
Two of the boys stared directly at you.
The older boy beside him bore far more resemblance to the Naâvi woman; dark braids framing a face expressive enough to betray every flicker of emotion. His eyes remained wide as if he were memorizing each shape of your face. His posture wavered between pride and curious shifting.
The younger one had the familiar eyebrows, the same human-like details as Jake, though softened by youth. His cheeks warmed visibly when your eyes met his, a flush blooming across his skin in a way both earnest and unguarded. He nudged the older boy subtly, whispering something under his breath, yet he couldnât tear his gaze away.
The older one blinked several times, startled as though realizing he had been staring too openly. His expression tightened with embarrassed awareness. He raised his hand in a careful gesture, touching his forehead before extending his palm in the traditional sign of greeting.
Oel ngati kameie, he signaled, his face composed yet still touched by wonder.
The younger boy scrambled to mimic him, repeating the gesture.
Your brows pulled together, confusion knitting across your features. The unexpected kindness caught you off guard, leaving your mouth parting slightly before any words rose. A flush crept up your neck before you could stop it, and the sensation rattled you more than the stares of an entire forest clan. You turned away sharply, grounding your gaze on the woven roots beneath your feet. Distraction was a luxury neither exhaustion nor grief allowed. You would not let the wide-eyed wonder of two forest-born boys make you forget the purpose of your presence here.
Tsawra had already shifted her attention back to Jake Sully, her voice clear and firm as she continued the explanation of your clanâs dire circumstances. âOur previous oloâeyktan and tsahĂŹk fell during the First Pandoran War,â she said, her tone unwavering despite the old weight behind those words. âThey answered your call, Toruk Makto. They rode to join the many clans who fought beneath your command.â
A visible discomfort tightened Jakeâs posture. His shoulders drew inward almost imperceptibly, and his gaze dropped briefly to the earth before rising again with a muted heaviness beneath his expression. âI remember them,â he said quietly. The words carried sincerity, yet they could not soften the truth that your people had paid dearly for that memory. You watched him closely, searching his face for any sign of regret deep enough to match the ache carved into the Sätareym over the years. You found only guilt and a strain of helplessness, neither of which satisfied the bitterness simmering inside you.
Makto stepped forward with the dignified calm that had sustained your clan through its harshest days. The wooden beads woven into his braids glimmered faintly in the filtered light, each one a symbol of sky-watching rituals carried out beneath open horizons . âToruk Makto,â he began gently, âthe Omatikaya absorbed the Olangi after the First War, when their plains were no longer safe. The Sätareym will be no different. We can learn the ways of the forest. Our people are strong. Our riders adapt quickly. We will fight with you against the tawtute (sky people), as we did before.â
The idea struck you like a dull blow. The notion of adapting to this place felt as implausible as converting wind into stone. Yet Maktoâs voice carried conviction, and if he believed in your clanâs ability to survive here, many would follow without question. You only wished Eywa had shown your tsahĂŹk such confidence years ago, before your clan faded to a fraction of itself.
Jake inhaled, preparing to respond, though the words seemed to catch in his throat. He lifted his hands uselessly for a moment, as if trying to gather language that would satisfy both duty and compassion. The hesitation irritated you more than anything else he had said. Leadership should not waver, especially not from the so-called Toruk Makto.
An approaching presence disrupted the moment.
A woman stepped from the crowd, her bearing commanding enough to shift the air itself. She moved with the authority of someone born to guide and to judge. Her eyes held the depth of a story longer than the forest roots spiraling beneath Hometree. Recognition whispered through the Omatikaya like wind. You realized at once that she must be the tsahĂŹk of this clan.
Tsawra and Makto bowed deeply with reverence seldom seen outside sacred Sätareym rituals. âOel ngati kameie, TsahĂŹk Moâat,â they greeted, their voices imbued with genuine respect for her role. Even those among your clan unaccustomed to forest traditions straightened subtly, sensing the immense spiritual gravity of this woman.
Moâat regarded your people with an expression impossible to decipher. Her gaze swept over the Sätareym. Her eyes lingered on the frail, the wounded, the children who clung to their parentsâ hands with tightened fingers. The forest hummed around her, as if waiting for her verdict.
Her voice finally rose, steady and firm. âYou have crossed many trials, ma Sätareym. You have lost much. Eywa sees your suffering.â
A quiet exhale rippled through your clan, though you remained still. You did not believe the words, no matter how softly they fell.
Moâat continued, âYou will be granted uturu among the Omatikaya. You may stay within our lands.â
Relief surged from your people like a single breath released after years held tight. Shoulders eased. Eyes brightened with hope fragile yet unmistakable. Even the air seemed to shift as your clan absorbed the meaning of her decree.
Your heart, however, clenched.
Uturu meant survival, yes. But it also meant dependency on a people you did not trust, under the authority of a leader you could not forgive.
Moâatâs gaze crossed yours briefly, lingering with a depth that unsettled you. Her eyes held no judgment. She saw defiance in you, or sorrow, or the fracture left by disbelief. You looked away, refusing to let her see more.
The Omatikaya moved with a natural fluidity as they guided the Sätareym through the enormous opening carved into Hometreeâs trunk. Warm light filtered down through woven branches overhead, creating drifting patterns that danced across the packed earth. Every step deeper inside revealed layers of artistry your clan had never known. Vast tapestries hung from the interior walls, some dyed in hues you had only seen on the backs of distant birds, others woven with intricate whorls depicting hunts, bonding rituals, and clan histories. The work was delicate yet powerful which was a stark contrast to the sturdy, travel-worn hide structures your people had used for generations across the plains. For a moment, you wondered how a life shaped by movement could coexist within a place built to stay.
Your people murmured in quiet fascination as they were shown their new kelku. Hammocks layered like constellations stretched across multiple levels, small ones cradling children who swayed gently as they laughed together. Brightly colored beads hung in clusters like hanging fruit, chiming softly whenever a breeze passed. A group of young Omatikaya carved toys from smooth wood, passing pieces to one another while telling stories that echoed faintly through the chambers. Their joy hummed through the air, unburdened and open. Some Sätareym children stared with bright-eyed wonder, their earlier fear loosening into fragile excitement.
Omatikaya adults approached your clan with warm smiles, touching hands to hearts in greeting. They offered woven bracelets, small trinkets, and even pieces of fruit from their harvest baskets. The wary atmosphere from earlier dissolved into genuine hospitality as if the tension had been merely a thin surface the clan had now stepped through. Voices rose in gentle welcome, and your people answered with tentative smiles. Relief softened the lines etched into Maktoâs face, while Tsawra observed every detail with an evaluating gaze of a leader cataloguing a safer world for her riders.
The Omatikaya escorts reassembled and gestured for your clan to follow once more. Music drifted faintly in the distance, a slow, rhythmic vibration that tugged at the ribs. The Keeper of Songs awaited at the Tree of Souls, ready to weave the Sätareym into the narrative of the forest people. You understood the gesture was sacred; you also understood it was final. Once sung into a clanâs memory, your identity would be tied to theirs.
Your people seemed lighter than they had in years. Some walked with lifted chins, some whispered excitedly about the glowing flora, and a few even touched the hanging vines with reverent fingers. You wished their joy could seep into you. It only deepened the ache in your chest, because you could not feel what they felt. Beauty was a distant thing, like starlight seen through smoke.
Footsteps fell into rhythm beside yours, light and confident. A presence hovered close enough to brush your awareness, though not close enough to intrude. You turned, expecting some curious child or another well-meaning Omatikaya.
Your breath stalled when you saw him.
The older boy from earlierâtaller than you remembered, shoulders strong, features shaped in the likeness of his mother more than his fatherâwalked easily beside you. His braids shifted with every step, brushing the curve of his chest. He offered you a smile warm enough to soften stone.
âI am Neteyam te Suli Tsyeykâitan,â he said, voice steady and sincere. The way he carried himself confirmed what the name already meant: the son of Jake Sully, future leader by bloodline, one of the forestâs own. His presence was composed yet attentive, as though your reaction mattered more than it should.
You stared at him. Initially out of surprise, eventually out of irritation that he expected anything from you.
He seemed unbothered by your silence. If anything, amusement flickered in the corner of his eyes. âAre you doing well, ma tstkxe (stone faced)?â he asked lightly, the nickname slipping out before you could process it. A playful challenge glimmered beneath his tone.
Heat rushed to your cheeks. The forestâs humidity had nothing to do with it.
His smile widened at the sight of your fluster, and that only stoked the spark of annoyance lighting your chest. âWhy do you ask?â you snapped, sharper than intended. âWhat do you want?â
Neteyam lifted his hands in a small gesture of surrender, though the teasing curve of his mouth betrayed how entertained he was. âI wanted to make sure the jungle has not swallowed you whole yet,â he said with a laugh threaded beneath his words. âYour face looked lost in thought. Or lost in fear. I was not sure which.â
Your lips parted in a quiet scoff, torn between offense and another unwanted flush warming your skin. The boy who carried the blood of Toruk Makto stood beside you with only curiosity bright enough to disarm. His stride matched yours effortlessly, as if he had walked beside you all his life instead of merely minutes. The ease in his presence unsettled you more than open stares or whispered judgments ever could.
Neteyam did not shrink beneath your guarded silence. His head tipped slightly toward you, braids grazing his shoulder as he studied your face with an earnest interest that made your pulse stutter. âMay I know your name, ma tstkxe?â he asked. His tone was gentle, but a spark of playfulness danced beneath it.
A sharp breath filled your lungs before you turned your gaze on him. âWhy are you speaking to me?â The question escaped more bluntly than you intended, driven by the tension coiled in your ribs. âYou have no reason. I did not ask for your company.â
A laugh escaped him, disbelief at your directness. âForest manners must be strange to you,â he teased lightly, touching a hand to his chest as though struck by your tone. âBut even you cannot expect me to walk beside you in silence when you glare at every glowing syulang (flower) as if it wishes to bite.â
Heat flared through your face again, unwelcome and uncontrollable. âLeave me alone,â you muttered, your voice clipped at the edges. âI do not need the attention of the oloâeyktanâs son.â
Neteyamâs smile steadied rather than faltered. âThat will be difficult,â he replied with a shrug of his shoulder. âI have been told to help guide the younger warriors of your clan. I cannot leave you alone even if you wish it.â
Your steps halted so suddenly that the leaves beneath your feet rustled in protest. The escorting line of Omatikaya drifted ahead without noticing, the glow of bioluminescent vines lighting their path. You stood unmoving, staring at him with disbelief carved across your features.
âI am the only young warrior of the Sätareym,â you said quietly. The words tasted strange spoken aloud.
Pity dawned across Neteyamâs face, and you didnât like it one bit.
Your eyes narrowed. âHow do you know I am a warrior at all? You have never seen the plains. You know nothing of my people.â
Neteyam lifted a hand and pointed to the tassels around your ankle; sun-dyed strips that snapped subtly when you walked, woven with the precise pattern your warriors used to signal readiness for mounted combat . âOnly your warriors wear those,â he said simply. âThe sound alone tells your story. I heard it when you entered the clearing.â
Your stomach tightened. The tassels had always been part of you, a mark of skill and survival earned through the Sun Chase. To have them recognized so quickly, so effortlessly, by someone who lived in an entirely different world unsettled you in a way nothing else had.
âI do not need your help,â you snapped softly, stepping forward and brushing past him. The swirl of your stride caught the faint glow of nearby plants, scattering light across the forest path. Your breath felt tight, sharp, unwilling to soften no matter how unfamiliar kindness reached toward you.
Footsteps followed behind you without hesitation.
Neteyamâs presence settled at your shoulder again, this time quieter, with a small frown that pulled gently at the corners of his mouth. His earlier teasing had dimmed, replaced by concern flickering like a small flame trying to stay alive against wind. His gaze stayed lowered for a few steps, as though searching for the right words, though the noise of both clans rising into excited chatter seemed to lift him gradually back into warmth. The distant glow ahead cast shimmers across his face as the path widened.
The Omatikaya grew livelier with each step toward the sacred place. Their voices carried above the forest floor, joined by the deeper, rolling tones of your own people. Even the quietest Sätareym child seemed to brighten beneath the soft light.Â
Neteyamâs smile returned fully at the sight. âYou will like this ritual,â he said, leaning close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath. âWe bring out the Blue Flute for this. And Ninat sings tonight. She is our Keeper of Songs. Her voice carries through the forest like an Ikran soaring through the skies.â
You responded with a soft hum that held no commitment, a sound more out of politeness than interest. He did not seem bothered by your lack of enthusiasm. His stride remained relaxed, his eyes taking in every detail of your reaction with a curiosity that had not dimmed since the moment he greeted you.
The crowd formed a wide crescent before the radiant heart of the Tree of Souls. Bioluminescent tendrils swayed gently, lighting the scene in waves of violet and silver. As the Sätareym filtered in, the Omatikaya shifted to make room without hesitation, extending hands in greeting, touching shoulders, offering smiles warm enough to thaw frost. The joy in the clearing felt almost tangible, wrapping around both clans like a woven mantle of welcome.
You stayed near the edge of the gathering, Neteyamâs presence anchoring itself beside you without asking permission. The ritual began slowly, with Moâat stepping forward, her expression serene and powerful under the shimmering branches. She lifted her arms, and the entire forest seemed to pause along with the clans.
âEywa receives all who walk in hardship,â Moâat proclaimed. âTonight, we weave the Sätareym into the memory of the forest. May our branches meet. May balance return.â
Her voice carried across the clearing like a stone dropped into still water.
Once she stepped back, instruments rose around her: seed rattles, stringed harps, carved horns, and at last the rare Blue Flute, gleaming with etched patterns that caught the light. The first notes lifted softly, weaving through the branches in tranquil spirals.
Ninat stepped forward. When she opened her mouth, her voice poured into the air with a clarity that startled even you. It resonated like wind across a grass sea, pure and unwavering. She sang of Eywaâs breath moving through every living thing, of loss, of rebirth, of clans merging not in desperation but in strength.
The beauty of it seeped unexpectedly beneath your ribs.
You were surprised to find Neteyam still beside you when you turned your head slightly. He had not drifted toward his siblings, nor toward the other warriors. He stood as if tethered to your side, shoulders squared with a protective ease that unsettled you.
His eyes met yours immediately, warmed by the songâs glow. A smile softened his features, lifting his lips gently.
Ninatâs voice soared higher, singing Eywaâs name with absolute devotion.
Neteyam leaned closer, his voice low so only you could hear. âI am grateful Eywa brought your clan to us,â he whispered. âIt feels right that you are here.â
Your heart lurched violently.
Grateful.
Eywa brought you here.Eywa guided your steps.Eywa, who had never answered your people.Eywa, who had saved Jake Sully.Eywa, who had watched your clan burn and remained silent.
A sickening heat rose up your throat, twisting the melody around you into something suffocating. Ninatâs beautiful voice became distant, buried beneath the pounding in your ears.
Without a word, without a single backward glance, you stepped away from the crowd. Your departure was swift, practiced in the way of someone used to escaping emotion before it could betray their strength. The tendrils of the Tree of Souls brushed lightly against your shoulders as you passed, glowing petals bending as though calling you back.
You ignored them.
Behind you, confused footsteps halted. A soft breath of confusion escaped someoneâs lipsâa sound that belonged only to Neteyam.
You hated to admit it, but training with Neteyam was not the worst fate that could have been hurled into your path. The first few days had been stiff, filled with tension so heavy it clung to your movements. You carried resentment in your shoulders like a second quiver, and every time he corrected your stance or touched your elbow to adjust your center of gravity, your muscles coiled as if preparing for battle. Yet Neteyam never met your rigidity with irritation. His patience startled you. His teaching reminded you of Makto guiding young Sätareym riders; gentle enough not to break a spirit, firm enough not to let one get lazy. Neteyamâs hands always steadied rather than forced, and his voice held calm confidence that seemed to seep into your bones despite your best efforts to resist it.
It became clear quickly that he was good with the little ones. You had seen him in passing with Omatikaya children. Teaching them how to climb, showing them how to tie knots with nimble hands, steadying them when they stumbled during games of balance across low branches. You recognized the practiced cadence of a teacher in the way he spoke to you. He must have trained the younger warriors too, perhaps even his siblings, if their movements were any indication. The realization softened the edges of your annoyance, though you refused to let that show. It was easier to pretend he grated on your nerves than admit you admired the patience behind his instruction.
His gentleness toward you surprised you more than anything. He never mocked your missteps on the unfamiliar forest ground. He never scoffed when your foot caught a root or when your forest jumps lacked lift. Yet he was not lenient. He pushed you but it wasnât cruel. He pushed you with a steady insistence that forced you to feel the power in your legs, to sense the bend of each branch you stepped on. He seemed able to tell exactly when you were holding back. His eyes saw every hesitation, every moment you failed to give your full strength. You expected disappointment, or frustration, or even cold dismissal.
You never found it.
Whenever he caught your restraint, his gaze only deepened with a kind of understanding. A warmth lived behind that understanding, as though your resistance drew him closer instead of driving him away. You could not understand why your closed-off nature did not repel him. Your people were known for reserve, for caution around outsiders, for slow trust that grew only in the solitude of plains winds. Yet he did not seem deterred by any of it. The more you tried to push him away, the more present he became, steady as a guiding star when the horizon faded.
Your days slowly shaped themselves around him. You woke with the sun and found Neteyam already waiting, arms crossed loosely as he leaned against a low-hanging branch. He offered greetings in that soft, warm tone that made your chest tighten with a feeling you refused to name. Training lasted long past midday on most days, leaving your limbs sore and your breath heavy. His laughter began to blend with birdsong, a sound you caught yourself anticipating even when irritated by it. You would walk away after lessons, pretending you needed space, but your mind often replayed the way he corrected your footing or how his gaze lingered when you finally executed a movement correctly.
You were certain he would tire of you quickly. You had been abrasive, distant, evasive, unwilling to fully participate in his world. You had made him chase you through the forest like a hunter tracking elusive prey. You had met every kindness with suspicion. Yet he continued to show up for you, every single day. His presence carried no weariness, no shadow of regret, no sign that he was tired of your company. His persistence confused you more than anything else in the forest.
Assimilating into Omatikaya life still felt foreign, but you no longer stumbled through it. Your steps felt less heavy, your understanding of the terrain no longer held solely by fear. You learned which branches were strongest for climbing, which flowers were harmless to touch and which could sting, which vines were safe to swing from. You learned the pathways through Hometree, the communal rhythms of morning meals, the way songs rose at dusk like soft embers drifting upward.
Yet no part of you wanted to abandon the Sätareym in your blood. Your clothing remained unchangedâleather wraps fitted for riding, beadwork patterned in the sun, tassels that snapped lightly when you walked, marking you unmistakably as a plains warrior . Forest textiles were offered to you many times, dyed in blues and greens, beautifully woven, comfortable against the skin. You turned them down each time. The leather at your hips held memories of long rides across shimmering grass. The beads across your chest carried lineage. The tassels marked years of endurance your clan had fought to keep. You refused to shed them simply because the world had changed.
Your weapons stayed close. The Sätareym spear was balanced for mounted throws, far too heavy for most Omatikaya who trained in the trees, but it had saved your life more times than you could count. You carried it during every lesson, even when Neteyam insisted you leave it behind for climbing practice. He eventually stopped arguing. He must have understood the weight of memory carved into its haft.
Your rituals remained yours alone. Each dawn you slipped away to practice them in private, kneeling beneath the open sky where it broke through the canopy, small patches of horizon that let you breathe like a child of the plains. You ran fingers over the earth in circles meant to honor the herds and traced faint rosettes over your heart in silent remembrance. You whispered the names of those who walked the wind before you. You bowed your head not to Eywa, but to the memory of your peopleâs long endurance.
Neteyam never intruded on those moments. You wondered if he sensed them or simply respected the aura around you when you returned. Either way, he never asked questions. He only met you with a steady gaze that held no judgment, as if waiting for the day you trusted him enough to let him see beyond the walls you kept wrapped around your heart.
That frightened you most of all.
Now Neteyam stood beside you, guiding your hands as you held a bow for the first time, a weapon that felt foreign and unbalanced in your grip. Your discomfort showed in the tension of your fingers, the stiffness in your shoulders, the slight downturn of your mouth as you tried to imitate the forest-born posture.Â
Neteyam noticed every detail. âLoosen your grip,â he murmured, his voice steady. âThe bow is not a rival. If you fight it, it will fight you back.â
You huffed softly, pressing your lips into a thin line. âYour weapons require too much waiting.â
âThat is why you find them difficult,â he teased, leaning in just enough to tilt your elbow upward with two fingers. âPatience is a strength, not a punishment.â
Neteyamâs patience, however, was being tested in more ways than your training. The two of you were not alone today. His siblings had insisted loudly that they wished to visit a place they called the âOld Battlefield.â Kiri had spoken with a quiet aweness, Loâak with reckless excitement, and Tuk with the unshakeable certainty that wherever her siblings went, she must go too. Neteyam had agreed with a resigned sigh, clearly accustomed to their demands, and you had found yourself trailing after him simply because he moved and you refused to let him think you were avoiding him again.
The path had led you to a clearing where rusted metal skeletons rose from moss and vines. The old link shack crouched at the center like a wounded creature swallowed by the forest, its shattered windows reflecting sun in faint, broken shards. Kiri explored the area with gentle steps, touching vines growing over old machinery. Loâak poked around the ruined frames with more enthusiasm than sense, announcing discoveries that were mostly old pipes and abandoned crates. Tuk bounced from object to object, her laughter weaving through the clearing.
Meanwhile, Neteyam attempted to teach you how to shoot.
The contrast felt absurd.
He positioned himself behind you, close enough that the warmth of his chest grazed your shoulder. You stiffened slightly, but his hands were respectful, adjusting your grip without forcing control. His braids brushed your cheek as he leaned over your arm to align your aim toward a moss-covered log.
âPull smoothly,â he instructed, guiding your fingers slowly across the string. âDo not jerk it. The bow responds to calm.â
âI am calm,â you lied, your voice strained.
His tail flicked once in amused disbelief. âYou are about as calm as Loâak is obedient.â
You shot him a glare over your shoulder, though you felt heat rising beneath your cheeks. âDo you ever grow tired of hearing your own voice?â
He smiled with unshakable ease. âNot when I know you are listening.â
A flustered noise escaped the back of your throat before you could swallow it. You jerked your gaze away, focusing solely on the target ahead. The bowstring trembled beneath your fingers, betraying the tight coil in your muscles.
Kiri glanced over from the link shack, studying the two of you with amusement. Loâak spotted her look and snickered openly, earning a sharp shh! from Tuk, who seemed to believe she was the groupâs unofficial keeper of secrets. Their whispers only made your grip tighten, though Neteyam pretended not to notice the chorus of siblings watching.
âYou hold strength in your arms,â he murmured, his voice softening just enough to slip past your defenses. âYou could bend the bow without trying. But strength is not the lesson today. Balance is.â
You released the arrow too quicklyâit thudded into the dirt several paces short of the target.
Your face tightened with embarrassment. âThis is foolish,â you muttered. âMy clan does not fight this way.â
Neteyam circled to face you fully, the laughter fading from his expression as he met your eyes. âNo, your clan fights with the wind at their backs and the ground racing beneath them. You chase the sun across the plains. You strike with distance and momentum.â His gaze softened with something like admiration. âBut you are here now, ma Sätareym. You walk where branches hold the sky instead of open air. Different ground demands different skill.â
His sincerity struck deeper than his teasing ever could.
You looked away, blinking twice to push down the sting in your throat.
Neteyam stepped closer again, lowering his voice. âWe learn each otherâs ways if we wish to live as one clan. My people learn your ridersâ strength. You learn our balance. That is all.â
Your fingers loosened around the bow without meaning to. His siblings continued their exploration behind you, oblivious to the quiet shift occurring between you and their eldest brother. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the glow of the fungi brightening faintly as though the trees themselves were listening. You lowered your gaze to the ground, watching how your shadow curved against the moss, the shape of your stance imperfect and hesitant.
A quiet breath left you before you could swallow it. âNeteyamâŚâ you murmured, eyes unfocused. âI do not want you to stop teaching me.â For a heartbeat you paused, unsure if the words would betray too much. âI do not mind learning your ways.â
The confession slipped from you like a fragile offering, light as dust carried on wind. It was the closest you had come to trusting him.
Neteyamâs reaction was immediate and radiant. His smile bloomed across his face, warm enough to soften even your guarded expression. His ears lifted in delight, tail swaying once behind him, unable to hide how deeply your words struck. His joy felt honest, untouched by mischief, bright in a way that nudged at the edges of your ribs.
You tilted your head slightly, studying the play of emotion across his features. He looked younger when he smiled like that.
Neteyam stepped closer again and gently wrapped his hand around yours where it rested on the bow. âOne last time,â he said softly. âLet me help you.â
You nodded, this time without reluctance, and shifted into the stance he had been trying to teach you for days. Your shoulders squared, your feet rooted deeply in the forest floor, your breath steadied. Neteyam moved behind you with care, brushing no part of you by accident.
He set his hands on your ribcage first, his thumbs pressing gently just beneath your sternum. âLift here,â he murmured. âYour breath must stay low and quiet. If your chest rises too high, the shot will falter.â
His touch was steady, warm, grounding in a way you were not prepared to acknowledge. Your breath hitched despite your efforts at control.
Neteyam guided your ribs into alignment, his hands lingering only long enough to ensure your posture held. He moved with a patience that spoke of countless hours spent teaching younger siblings how to balance on branches or string a bow.
When he stepped closer, you felt the heat of his body nearly aligning with yours. His chest brushed lightly against your back as he reached forward, placing his hands over yours on the bowstring. His fingers slid along yours, firm and steady, molding your grip into precision.
You turned your head, startled by how close he was. His face was right there, barely a breath away. The forestlight traced the curve of his cheekbone, the edge of his jaw, the soft fullness of his mouth. His eyes were already on you, half-lidded, deep and intense, the kind of gaze that made the world feel suddenly small and unbearably intimate.
He glanced at your lips for the briefest moment.
Your stomach twisted with startling force.
âYou may shoot whenever you wish,â he whispered, breath brushing the shell of your ear.
You swallowed hard, forcing your focus toward the target. The bowstring was taut beneath your fingers, the tension humming like a living thing. You inhaled slowly, aligning your shotâ
A burst of laughter shattered the fragile stillness.
âBro!â Loâak shouted across the clearing, voice full of teasing glee. âLook at you two! Should we leave you alone to mate orââ
You jolted violently. The arrow snapped free of the bow with a harsh twang and shot uselessly into the canopy above. Your heart lurched into your throat, heat flooding your face with a force that made your ears burn.
Neteyamâs hands flew off you immediately as he spun around, tail lashing with outrage. âLoâak, you skxawng (idiot)!â he barked. âDo you wish to lose your tongue today?â
Loâak cackled from atop the metal beams of the ruined shack, clearly pleased with himself. Tuk hid behind her hands, giggling uncontrollably, while Kiri gave Loâak a glare sharp enough to make vines recoil.
You were laughing too.
It slipped out of you before you could catch it; soft at first, then fuller, richer, bright in a way that startled even you. Your laughter filled the clearing, mingling with Tukâs and Kiriâs, swirling upward like warm wind lifting dry grass.
Neteyam froze.
He turned back toward you slowly, anger dissolving from his features, replaced with astonishment. His eyes softened as if he were witnessing sunrise crest over the Hallelujah mountains. His lips parted as the sound of your laughter washed over him.
He could not be angry anymore.
It was the first time he had ever heard your laughter.
âTsatseng tsal lu (there it is),â he murmured softly under his breath, eyes fixed on you as though afraid to blink. âThat is the sound I have been waiting for.â
Even though you were not anywhere near ready to attempt the Omatikaya Iknimaya (rite of passage), Neteyam had decided you should at least meet an ikran. Your protests were immediate and varied. You claimed you were tired, that you needed to train with your bow, that Makto requested your help, that the forest air bothered your lungs, that Loâak had insulted you so deeply you required solitude to heal. None of the excuses held when Neteyam tilted his head with that maddening mix of patience and amusement. You refused to admit the truth: flying terrified you. The sky had always belonged to great predators, not riders. Your clan was born to the earth, to the power of hooves and horizons, not the emptiness between clouds.
Neteyam listened to all your excuses as if they were drifting leaves, light and inconsequential. Eventually your resistance cracked, not because you were ready, but because his determination pressed against your guard like a fly too constant to ignore.
Now you stood atop Hometree with him, the vast forest stretching below in shimmering bands of green and deep violet. Height never bothered him; he moved across open branches with the natural ease of a forest cat, tail steady behind him for balance. You, on the other hand, remained partially hidden behind his shoulder. The wind tugged your braids back, but your feet refused to come any closer to the edge.
Neteyam wore his flying gearâflying visor, leg guards etched with his familyâs stories, and a cumberband that wrapped across his waist in elegant, interwoven loops. He looked every bit the warrior his people claimed he was. The way the sunlight cut across his cheekbones, the confidence in the slope of his shoulders, the steadiness in his movements, all of it made him look like he belonged to the sky itself. You pressed your lips together, refusing to voice the thought that his beauty unsettled you more than the height.
Neteyam lifted his head and released a series of calls. His tone shifted between chirps, trills, and drawn-out notes that vibrated across the open air. The sound stirred the wind, awakening a distant answer. You braced instinctively, feeling the tremor of approaching wings before you heard them.
The beat of powerful wings echoed across the breadth of the forest canopy. A shadow passed over you, sweeping large and decisive. Neteyam stepped forward with practiced readiness, and his ikran descended in a tight spiral before landing directly in front of him. The creatureâs wings folded with precision, talons gripping the branch with controlled strength. Iridescent scales shifted across its body, catching light in hues of blues and yellows.
Neteyamâs face softened instantly. âMa yawne tsaheyl si (my bonded beloved),â he murmured to his ikran, his voice lowering to an affectionate hush. He pressed his forehead briefly to the creatureâs, his queue brushing the rough texture of the ikranâs neck. His hand traveled along the creatureâs jawline with gentle familiarity. The ikran leaned into the touch, wings relaxing slightly, its chest expanding with a pleased rumble.
You watched in awe, pulled into the moment despite yourself. Your breath slowed, your earlier fear loosening, replaced by a warm, unfamiliar pull in your chest. The bond between them felt profound, like watching two spirits greet after a long journey apart. You had seen direhorse riders connect deeply, but this was different.Â
Neteyamâs eyes flicked toward you. He noticed the awe on your face immediately, and a teasing smile curled onto his lips. âDo not hide,â he said in a tone that carried quiet mischief. âI see how you look at her.â
You pressed your jaw shut, feeling heat creep up your neck. Words refused to form in your throat. The ikran turned its head toward you, one bright eye studying you with predatory intelligence. Your pulse stumbled.
Neteyamâs smile widened slightly at your speechlessness. He reached back without hesitation, taking your hand in his. He guided your hand toward the ikranâs snout, slow enough not to startle you or the creature.
âSeze,â Neteyam murmured softly, âthis is⌠my student. She trains with me.â
You nearly protested at the possessive phrasing, but your breath hitched as your fingertips brushed smooth scales warmed by sunlight. The ikran lowered its head slightly, allowing you better access. The creatureâs warmth seeped into your hand, and you felt a gentle exhale brush your palm.
Neteyamâs hand remained over yours, guiding the slow motion of your touch. His proximity, his warmth, it all pressed against your chest with a steady force. You stole a glance at him, only to find his gaze already locked on you.
Your breath wavered, but you did not pull away. The warmth of Sezeâs scales lingered on your fingertips, anchoring you in a moment you never imagined experiencing.Â
âMa Neteyam⌠what is her name?â
His smile brightened instantly, pride softening his features. âShe is Seze,â he replied, stroking the ikranâs jaw with reverent fingers. âNamed after my motherâs first ikran.â
Your eyes widened before you could stop them. The honor of carrying such a name struck you deeply. Naming an ikran after one so legendary, after a bond forged through war and triumph was no casual choice. The significance left you momentarily stunned, mouth parting with a quiet breath you could not shape into words.
Neteyam noticed the shock painted across your face and a laugh slipped from him, warm and delighted. You snapped out of your daze long enough to glare at him, though the light heat coloring your cheeks made the expression softer than you intended.
Seze tilted her head, observing your reaction with a low rumbling click as if she too found your surprise amusing.
âSeze is⌠she is powerful,â you admitted at last, your voice carrying reluctant admiration. âBut I am ready to go down now.â
Neteyamâs grin returned at full strength. âKehe. Not happening.â His tone brimmed with mischief. âYou are flying with me.â
Your shoulders tensed instantly. âWhat? No. Absolutely not.â
âYou have no choice, ma tstkxe,â he said, leaning one elbow on Sezeâs saddle as though settling into a casual conversation. âYou are too frightened to climb down Hometree by yourself. You shook all the way up here.â
âI did not shake,â you protested, even though you both knew you had clung to every secure surface on the way up.
Neteyam raised a non-existent brow and the expression told you he saw through your lie effortlessly.
âYou are the biggest skxawng I have ever met,â you muttered, crossing your arms tight across your chest.
He hummed in acknowledgment, not even attempting to argue. With a smooth motion he swung himself onto Sezeâs saddle, hands moving instinctively to secure his gear. The harness creaked softly as he adjusted the straps. His posture relaxed into a confident lean, but his gaze stayed fixed on you with unspoken expectation.
You glared back at him. âStop looking at me like that.â
âLike what?â he asked, knowing full well what you meant.
âLike you already won.â
His smile turned unbearably smug. âI did.â
A frustrated breath hissed through your teeth, but you moved toward him anyway. Your hands gripped the saddle with trembling reluctance, and you climbed behind him, settling into place with stiff, cautious motions. The saddle felt too narrow, too precarious, too close to open sky. The height pressed against your nerves from every direction.
Neteyam reached to double-check every strap and tether, fingers moving with practiced efficiency. You watched nervously, your heart thudding against your ribs. Each tightening of a strap sent your mind spiraling with new questions.
âIs this secure? What if it breaks? What if Seze does not like me on her back? What if she flips in the air? What ifâNeteyam, answer meâNeteyam?â
He stayed entirely silent.
Your anxiety spiked. âWhy are you not answering? I asked you a questionâNeteyââ
Seze launched into the air with a powerful beat of her wings.
Your scream tore from your throat before you could stop it.
Neteyam burst into laughter, loud and bright, even as he leaned back to steady you with an arm braced across your legs. The wind rushed past, pulling your braids behind you in wild streams. The forest fell away beneath your feet, the canopy dissolving into a wash of color.
Your nails dug into his shoulders. âNETEYAM! YOU DID THIS ON PURPOSE!â
His laughter only grew fuller, shaking his shoulders beneath your grip. âI told you, ma Sätareym,â he shouted over the wind, joy radiating from him like sunlight. âFlying is easier when you do not think too hard!â
âYou could have warned me!â
âYou asked too many questions!â
âI HATE YOU!â
âYour arms say differently!â
Your scream rose another octave, ripped from somewhere deep in your lungs. Your hands flew from his shoulders to wrap around his waist, holding him with a desperation that surprised even you. Your forehead pressed into the space between his shoulder blades, your breath shaking against his back. His heartbeat, steady beneath your cheek, felt too calm for what he had just unleashed.
Neteyam whooped in exhilaration above the wind. âHold tight!â he called, already shifting his weight.
You barely had time to register the warning before Seze rolled through a spiraling arc, wings slicing through the sky.
âI swear by the plains,â you shouted into his shoulder, voice cracking, âI will impale you with my spear when we land!â
Neteyam didnât answer. His laughter drowned beneath the roar of the wind as he guided Seze through another sweeping turn, savoring every second of your outrage and terror. He looked like he had been carved from the sky itself, untamed and alive.
Time blurred into wind and motion until he finally allowed Seze to slow. Her wings extended into a long, steady glide, each beat softer than before. The frantic rush eased into a gentle cradle of air. You remained pressed against him, your breath still uneven, your arms refusing to loosen their hold.
Neteyam glanced down at your head tucked firmly into his shoulder. For a moment his expression shifted into something warm enough to rival the sunâa tenderness you had no chance of seeing. He reached one arm behind him without turning, fingers searching until they found your thigh. His palm settled there gently, squeezing once in reassurance, thumb tracing a slow, grounding arc into your skin.
âMa tstkxe,â he murmured over his shoulder, voice softer now, âlook up. You will like this.â
You shook your head violently, refusing to pry your face from the safety of his back. âNo. I am not looking. Ever.â
He huffed a quiet laugh. âPlease. Truly, you must see.â
âNo.â
âPretty please?â
âStill no.â
A beat of silence passed, filled only by the sound of wind gliding over stretched wings.
âIf you look up,â Neteyam said, sly amusement slipping back into his tone, âI will cancel training tomorrow.â
Your head snapped up instantly.
The sight stole the breath straight from your lungs.
Below you, the forest stretched in endless waves of green, each tree shimmering with veins of soft blue light. Tendrils of bioluminescence curled between branches like floating starlight. Vines coursed down the sides of enormous trunks, glowing faintly in the dimming afternoon. The Hometree stood in the distance, grand even from this height, its roots towering like ancient guardians.
Your mouth parted in awe. Words refused to form.
The fear gripping your stomach melted as the sheer beauty of the world beneath you settled into your bones. The height no longer felt like danger, it felt more like freedom now. The plains you had grown up in were far away, but here, above the canopy, the sky belonged to no rider. It belonged only to the wind.
Neteyam watched you with a smile gentle enough to quiet storms. âNot so terrible, right?â
You nodded slowly, breath still caught somewhere in your throat, gaze fixed on the breathtaking sprawl of Pandora beneath you. Your lips remained parted, the expression on your face unguarded, struck open by the vastness of the world around you.
Neteyam laughed softly in amazement.. He turned forward again, adjusting Sezeâs glide to keep the moment unbroken. The sky held the both of you in a quiet expanse that felt larger than anything you had ever known.
The further you flew, the more the scenery shifted. The thick, towering forest peeled away, its luminous vines and layered branches giving way to open light. Golden grasses stretched outward across the plains, bending in long, rippling waves beneath the breath of the wind. The boundary between forest and savanna cut across the land like a painted line; one side wild with twisting roots and light-filled leaves, the other wide and endless, open enough for a rider to disappear into a horizon that never arrived. It looked like the meeting place of two hearts, two histories pressed side by side: yours shaped by sun and distance, and his shaped by shadow and branches.
You knew you and Neteyam could not land. The plains near the border still hid dangers. Stray metal remnants, wandering sky machines, and powerful fauna. Yet seeing your home from above, even from afar, cracked something inside you. The rosette markings on your skin seemed to warm, remembering what it felt like to race across tall grass, to breathe without roots tangling your path, to feel the sun blaze against your shoulders without a canopy breaking its strength. The savanna shimmered beneath Sezeâs flight, an illusion of movement even from this height, as if the land itself reached upward to greet you.
Your throat tightened without warning. Tears gathered, blurring the edges of the horizon. You blinked fast, refusing to let them fall, but the ache inside your chest swelled as memories collided with the present. You had lost so much hereâfamily, safety, every piece of a life you once knew. Yet the plains still looked beautiful. They still looked like home.
Neteyam had not turned his head, his gaze fixed forward as he guided Seze in a steady, respectful circle over the border. Even without looking at you, he sensed the shift in your breathing. The tension in your arms softening. The wind carried the faint sound of a breath caught in sorrow rather than fear. Neteyamâs shoulders lowered slightly, as though the emotion in your silence pressed gently against him.
âMaââ he began quietly, voice tempered with caution, unsure how to soothe you without intruding on a wound too personal to touch.
You cut him off without words. Your forehead pressed against the side of his neck, your braids brushing his shoulder as you leaned into him. The contact was small, barely more than a breath against his skin, but it held everything you could not say. Your voice came out as a murmur, soft and trembling, carried by the rush of air around you.
âIrayo⌠ma Neteyam.â
Neteyam inhaled sharply, a quiet breath drawn through parted lips. His eyes softened with an expression you did not see, warm and protective and aching. His hand slipped back along Sezeâs saddle until his fingers brushed your thigh again.
âSrane,â he answered softly, voice thick with emotion he attempted to hide. âOf course.â
Seze banked smoothly, wings carving a wide arc as Neteyam guided her back toward the forest. The plains faded slowly behind you, becoming a soft glow of gold at the edge of your vision. The forest welcomed you again with its layered greens and pulses of blue, its canopy folding around you like a sheltering hand.
Neither of you spoke during the return flight. Words would have felt too small for the moment, too clumsy beside the quiet rhythm of wingbeats and the lingering warmth of your forehead resting against his skin. Neteyamâs posture stayed steady, but the occasional flick of his tail betrayed the quiet storm of emotion swirling in him.
You did not move away until Hometree rose beneath you once more, its mighty structure waiting like a beacon carved from living memory. The sky draped itself in soft amber as the sun dipped lower, and the final traces of the savannaâs scent clung to the wind, reminding you of the place your heart once lived. Sezeâs wings beat in a steady rhythm as she descended, her shadow stretching across the upper branches like a silent guardian returning home. When she landed atop the great tree, her talons sunk into the bark with a resonant thud that vibrated through your feet.
Neteyam slid down first, one hand stroking Sezeâs neck in a gesture filled with affection and familiarity. His touch followed the grooves of her scales as though he knew every ridge by memory. âGood girl,â he murmured, voice dropping into a soft rumble. âIrayo nĂŹtxan (thank you very much) for carrying us.â
He turned toward you and lifted a hand, offering help without a trace of hesitation. You placed your hand in his, allowing him to guide you down from the saddle. His grasp was firm, steadying you even before your feet touched the bark. Your body remained tense from the flight, and he seemed to sense every tremor that still lingered in your limbs.
You turned to Seze once your footing steadied. âIrayo, ma Seze,â you said quietly, resting a hand against her warm snout. âYou fly with a brave heart.â The ikran released a low, pleased rumble and nudged your palm gently before stepping back. With one powerful thrust of her wings, she lifted herself into the air, spiraling upward until she disappeared beyond the glowing canopy.
When you faced Neteyam again, he was already watching you. His expression lacked its usual teasing curve; instead, it held a careful warmth, like he was studying the way the wind shaped your hair, or the way the lingering sunset painted your skin in muted gold. He stepped toward you slowly, allowing you to feel each narrowing inch of space between you.
âTell me truthfully,â he said, voice low enough that it barely carried over the sighing leaves. âDid you enjoy it?â
You rolled your eyes with exaggerated effort, though your heartbeat had not yet calmed from the flight. âKehe,â you said in your most dismissive tone. âI did not.â
Neteyam clicked his tongue, tilting his head as if wounded. His lower lip curled into a theatrical pout so dramatic you almost laughed outright. âI see. Since you had no fun, we should return to bow drills. All day tomorrow. Maybe the next day also. Your posture still bends like a reed in rain.â
A horrified gasp tore out of you before you could restrain it. Your reaction sent him into a grin so radiant it nearly broke your attempt at composure. You shoved his shoulder with both handsânot hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point. A giggle escaped you, light and quick, startling in its honesty.
Neteyam caught your wrist before you could fully pull away. His fingers wrapped around you gently, holding just enough pressure to stop your retreat. The smile remained on his face, but it softened as he looked at you. Your breath caught the instant you realized how close the two of you stood.
You eased your smile, the sound of your earlier laughter fading into the quiet. The pads of his fingers rested against the sensitive skin inside your wrist carefully, as though he feared breaking the moment by holding too tightly.
Your voice lowered without meaning to. âNeteyam⌠is there⌠something troubling you?â
His breath hitched, almost imperceptibly, before he shook his head with slow deliberation. âKehe,â he whispered. âNothing is wrong.â
His denial did not match the intensity in his eyes. He lifted his hand, releasing your wrist only to bring his palm to your face. His touch cupped your cheek, the roughness of his callouses grounding you in a way that made your knees weaken. The gesture was gentle enough to unravel a part of you youâd kept sealed since the plains burned. His thumb traced the line of your cheekbone, brushing softly across your skin as though memorizing you through touch alone.
Your eyelids lowered on instinct. Your cheek pressed into his palm, a small, instinctive nuzzle you couldnât stop. Warmth bloomed across your chestâunexpected, frightening, and strangely peaceful. The world around you dulled until only his breathing filled your ears.
Neteyam leaned forward.
His lips brushed yours with the caution of someone touching fire for the first time. The kiss began as a hesitant meeting of breath and warmth, a question rather than a claim. His hand cradled your cheek more fully, fingers curling into your hair as if anchoring himself to the moment.
You answered him slowly, unsure yet drawn in by the tenderness he poured into the space between you. Your lips pressed back with slight hesitation, the motion guided by instinct rather than confidence. The kiss deepened only by a thread, enough for you to feel his breath tremble against your mouth. His other hand rose to your waist, settling with cautious reverence, as though asking permission simply through the steadiness of his hold.
The forest hushed around you. Even the wind paused, letting the warmth between you settle uninterrupted.
Neteyam exhaled into the kiss like someone receiving a long-awaited truth. His lips moved against yours with a softness that unraveled every line of resistance you had built since coming to the forest. He kissed as if afraid to break you, as if aware of the fragile, glowing bond forming between you that neither of you dared put into words.
When he finally pulled awayâonly the smallest distanceâyou felt the absence of his mouth like a sudden cold. His forehead rested against yours, your breaths mingling, your heartbeats struggling to find rhythm again.
It had been a few days since the kiss, and you had done everything in your power to bury it deep enough that even Eywa couldnât dig it back up. You repeated to yourself over and over that it had been a mistake, a moment stolen by adrenaline and gratitude and the afterglow of flying. You insisted that Neteyam could not truly see you in any way beyond duty or curiosity. You reminded yourself that your clans were shaped by different winds, raised under different skies, carved by different trials. He belonged to roots and canopy. You belonged to horizon and open air. It was easier to cling to that truth than to risk believing the emotion in his eyes had been real.
It helped your denial that Neteyam had been busy. The clan had been preparing for the Hunt Festival, a celebration grand enough to consume several days. Tasks had been scattered across every family; setting up drums, painting bodies, crafting elaborate masks and headdresses. Neteyam had been swallowed into the commotion, helping the hunters prepare offerings, guiding young dancers through their steps, and occasionally dragging Loâak away before he somehow got in trouble. Training between you had been canceled without a word, giving you the time you thought you needed to steady your breathing and convince your heart that nothing had happened between you.
The Hunt Festival roared through Hometree now, voices rising in waves of laughter and song. The Sätareym had embraced the festivities with surprising enthusiasm. You watched from your hiding place near one of the upper walkways, pressing your back against the woven bark wall as your people ran past, dressed in animal costumesâpainted snouts, woven tails, feathered headdressesâchasing Omatikaya children with spears tipped in bright dye. Someone beat a drum that echoed like galloping hooves. Another blew a carved horn that mimicked the cry of a plains cat. Sätareym elder women laughed until they cried as they taught Omatikaya dancers the long, bounding steps of the sun-chase ritual. Even the babies, painted with tiny paw prints across their bellies, were cooing in delight.
A bitter sweetness crept into your chest as you watched. The Hunt Festival reminded you painfully of the First Rain ceremonies back home, where your clan painted rosettes over their bodies and leapt skyward in grueling endurance dances. You could almost smell the wet clay, feel the cool rain streaking your cheeks, hear the distant thunder rolling across the savanna. For a moment, you let yourself imagine that you were back among the plains, the world stretching outward in every direction, your people whole and unbroken.
The ache in your throat grew too heavy. Happiness around you felt like salt pressed into a wound. You turned your eyes away, determined not to let tears rise.
A sudden rustle of movement drew your attention.
Neteyam appeared in front of you with no warning at all.
He wore a banshee costume, complete with painted wings and a crest of feathered spikes bound into his braids. He looked entirely too pleased with himself. The moment you registered his presence, a strangled noise escaped your throatâhalf gasp, half pathetic squeak.
His laughter erupted instantly, rich and loud. âYou should have seen your face. You nearly leapt from the walkway.â
âYou skxawng!â you shouted, shoving at his chest. âYou frightened me! Why are you here dressed like that?â
Neteyamâs grin only widened. âI have been looking everywhere for you,â he said, stepping close enough that you could see the glittering flecks of violet paint along his nose. âI knew you would skip the festival. I told Loâak, âShe will run like a startled paâli into the shadows,â and lookâhere you are, hiding as always.â
You kept your gaze fixed on the space behind him, refusing to meet his eyes. Your heart was beating far too hard again, and you cursed how easily he could draw emotion from you simply by existing. He noticed your avoidance immediately. His expression softened as he shifted closer, lowering his voice so the noise of the festival dimmed behind it.
âMa Sätareym,â he murmured, âwalk with me.â
You shook your head. âKehe. I do not want to be part of this chaos.â
âWe will not join the chaos,â he assured, reaching for your hand with gentle certainty.
You hesitated for a moment. Yet Neteyamâs mood was bright, his smile unguarded, his spirit raised by the celebrations around him. It was rare to see him so light-hearted; you did not have the heart to refuse him when he looked at you that way. You sighed and nodded once, offering a small, reluctant gesture of agreement.
His smile turned incandescent, the kind that cracked your ribs open in ways you could not describe.
He led you away from the noise of Hometree, guiding you down the spiraling walkways and into the cool hush of the forest floor. The moonlight filtered through the canopy in soft streaks, illuminating patches of glowing moss and drifting pollen. Neteyamâs banshee costume rustled with each step, wings fluttering lightly behind him.
âThe festival was becoming dull anyway,â he said, glancing at you with mischief dancing in his eyes. âI swear, if Tuk danced any harder, she would have set her mask on fire.â He shook his head dramatically. âAnd my parents are unbearable. Dancing together like two mated yerik who forget the entire clan can see them. So embarrassing.â
A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. The sound made him glance back at you with delight blooming across his features.
The forest embraced you both, each step taking you farther from the crowd, farther from the noise, closer to a stillness that made your heart erratic. The memory of your kiss hovered between your bodies. It remained unspoken, yet it lived in every glance, in every shared breath, in every time your hands brushed as you walked. The silence pushed against your ribs until you forced yourself to break it.
âWhere are you taking me?â you asked, trying to keep your voice steady. You focused on your tone, making it flat, not inviting, not soft enough to invite questions. You did not want him drifting toward that night atop Hometree. You were still not ready for that.
Neteyamâs mouth curved into a mischievous grin before he even answered. âIt is a surprise.â
A groan tore from your chest. âI despise your surprises.â
His grin only widened. âWould you rather be back at the festival?â
Your mouth snapped shut so fast it was almost comical.
Neteyam snickered, the sound rolling through the forest like warm wind. The tension dissolved, the awkwardness falling away the moment he heard your stubborn silence. His steps became lighter, more playful, his tail flicking behind him in amused rhythm.
Conversation resumed easily, though he steered it toward dangerous territory without realizing it.
âI have been thinking about your training,â he said, voice thoughtful as he stepped over a glowing root. âIt is time I take you on a hunt for your first clean kill. You will need it for your Iknimaya soon. When that day comes, you will walk among us fully as one of the Omatikaya.â
You hummed softly, the sound more evasive than affirming. You did not want to ruin his bright mood, but words like one of us pressed too close to wounds you were not ready to touch. Whether you wanted to be Omatikaya was a question that clawed at your thoughts every night. You were Sätareym to your bonesâyour dark skin marked with rosettes, your breath shaped by open plains, your rituals woven through your spirit. Becoming Omatikaya felt like turning away from the people you lost.
He continued without noticing your turmoil. âI must also teach you weaving. It is essential. Every warrior should know how to shape their own gear, how to repair their own harness. Your hands are strong enough for bowwork, but weaving demands patience. I suspect you will struggle.â
Your eyes wandered toward a patch of glowing flowers rising along the path. Their soft blue pulses drew your attention in a way his weaving lecture did not. You hummed again, hoping he would keep walking and focus on his own rambling.
Neteyam stopped.
You nearly collided with his back, catching yourself with one hand against his shoulder. âMa Neteyam, whatâ?â
Your words died in your throat as your gaze lifted past him.
The Tree of Souls stood before you.
Its tendrils draped like waterfalls of shimmering threads, each one pulsing with violet light. The air around it hummed with quiet energyâgentle, expansive, as though the ground itself breathed beneath your feet. Luminescent spores drifted like tiny spirits, carried on a breeze you could not feel. The forestâs colors deepened around the sacred place, every shadow tinged with purple glow.
Your chest tightened, breath stumbling.Â
Neteyam turned slightly, watching your reaction as if it were the very thing he had come to witness. âI wanted to show you this place properly,â he said, voice subdued beneath the treeâs glow. âWithout the noise of the clans. Without ceremony.â
Your throat felt tight, words stuck. The sacred energy of the place pressed against you and you felt so suffocated. The Sätareym worshiped beneath open sky, beneath stars with no branches to break them. Their rituals honored wind and horizon, not glowing roots whispering ancient memories. You had grown up hearing that Eywa moved in distance, in what could not be held. Yet here, Eywa felt nearâtoo nearâlike a presence brushing against your skin.
Neteyam took a slow step forward, his expression open and vulnerable in a way you had not seen since the flight above the plains.
âWalk with me,â he said, this time softer, almost hesitant.
Your eyes drifted to his outstretched hand. His skin glowed faintly in the violet light, a lighter shade of blue than yours, three fingers reaching toward you in invitation. The familiarity of that shapeâso like your own hands, so unlike his four-fingered siblingsâmade a strange ache pulse through your temples. A tightness gathered behind your eyes, as if your skull could no longer hold the conflict swirling inside you.
Your heart stumbled. You felt lost in a way that mirrored the night your clan first fled the plains; directionless, surrounded by shadows, unsure of which path led to safety. Words tangled in your throat like vines wrapped too tightly around a branch. You feared opening your mouth and sounding like a fool, or worse, revealing the depth of the hurt you carried. But you knew one truth clearly: you could not walk toward the Tree of Souls.
You lifted your gaze timidly, the motion small, like prey assessing danger. âMa NeteyamâŚâ you whispered. Your head shook once, barely more than a tremble. âI cannot.â
Neteyam tilted his head, ears angling toward you, curiosity and concern threading together across his features. âWhy not?â he asked quietly, no judgment in the question. Only genuine confusion, and beneath that, worry.
Your chest tightened painfully. The hum of the sacred place pressed against you like a memory trying to force itself forward. You did not want to explain that coming near the Omatikayaâs most revered place made grief coil in your stomach like serpents. You did not want to admit that the sight of glowing tendrils and living roots reminded you of every unanswered prayer, every night your tsahĂŹk whispered for protection that never came, every body buried beneath the plains when Eywa stayed silent.
You swallowed hard. Your voice barely rose above a breath. âI⌠just cannot.â You shook your head again, more frantically this time, the motion sharp with rising panic. Ngaytxoa, ke tsun oe (Sorry, I cannotâŚ)... I am sorry. I am so sorry.â
Neteyam lifted both hands immediately, palms open in a gesture meant to soothe. âKehe, ma tstkxe. Do not apologize,â he said softly. âWe do not have to go closer. This place should bring comfort, not pain. Sit with me instead, yes?â
He moved away from the glowing roots deliberately, giving your bodyâand your spiritâspace to breathe again. He settled onto a fallen log softened by layers of moss, his posture relaxed and inviting. He patted the spot beside him, offering a small, reassuring smile that brimmed with gentleness rather than insistence.
You walked toward him slowly, the distance between you and the Tree of Souls widening with every step until your lungs loosened enough to draw a deeper breath. You sat beside him but kept a careful gap between your bodies, the space shaped by caution and instinctive self-protection.
Neteyam either did not notice or chose not to comment. His attention shifted as he dug into the small woven pouch tied to his belt. His brow furrowed with growing frustration as he searched, muttering under his breath about misplacing things. After a moment, his expression brightened, and he let out a victorious hum as he retrieved something from the pouch.
You turned your head slightly, curious despite yourself.
He lifted the item between his fingers with pride. A beaded choker, woven in Omatikaya style. The cords were dyed deep forest brown, threaded with small beads shaped like droplets of polished amber and slender pieces of carved wood that glowed faintly under the treeâs violet light. The pattern mirrored the one he always wore, though the colors were altered subtly to complement your darker skin tone.
Neteyamâs face lit with excitement, though a shy undercurrent softened his usual confidence. âI made this,â he explained quickly, words tumbling out faster than he intended. âMy mother says a warrior should learn to weave meaning into every bead. So I did. This pattern is for strength. This oneâfor the path of riders. These beads here are for the plains and the forest meeting.â His voice dropped slightly. âFor where your steps and mine cross.â
Your breath hitched as he spoke. The meaning behind each bead wound tightly around your heart, pulling with a tenderness you were not prepared for.
His gaze flickered to your face, suddenly uncertain. âMa⌠ma Sätareym,â he said more quietly now, shoulders tensing with nerves, âmay I⌠put it on you?â
You stared at him, completely speechless, but not with joy. A heavy, complicated weight settled in your chest. You did not understand why he offered you something so intimate. You did not understand why he looked at you with such hope. You did not understand why receiving the choker, so thoughtfully made and so symbolic felt both beautiful and terrifying.
Your throat tightened. Words failed you.
All you could manage was a slow nod.
You turned around, giving him your back so he could tie the choker. Your braids shifted as you lifted your hair, exposing the line of your neck to the cool night air. Neteyamâs fingers brushed your skin as he fastened the cord. Each touch sent a quiet tremor down your spine.
He tied the final knot with precision learned from a lifetime of weaving and training. His breath warmed the top of your shoulder for half a second longer than necessary, as if he could not bring himself to step away.
When he finally released the ends of the choker, the weight of it settled against your throat
Neteyamâs breath caught. His expression froze in stunned silence, amber eyes widening as though the sight of you had momentarily stolen the world from under his feet.
He blinked once, regaining control of his voice. Lor (beautiful)⌠it is beautiful on you,â he murmured. His voice dropped lower, tender in a way that made your ribs tighten. âYou are beautiful.â
Your lashes fluttered, surprise flooding you so fast your body forgot how to move. âKehe,â you muttered, your voice small. âDo not jest with me, ma Neteyam.â
âI am not jesting,â he replied immediately, leaning forward with earnest intensity. âI swear it. You are the most beautiful being I have ever seen.â
Your throat constricted painfully. You opened your mouth only to close it again. No words felt safe. No reaction felt right. His next words pushed your heart into your stomach.
âThe moment I first saw you,â he continued, voice filled with emotion he had carried for months, âwhen the Sätareym walked into Hometree asking for uturu⌠I had never seen a beauty like yours. Not only in your face, but in the way you held your clan together. In the way you looked at my people with defiance. In the way you refused to bow even though you were afraid.â
The air lodged inside your lungs refused to move. Memories of that dayâyour clan exhausted, scorched by grief, seeking shelter with strangersâflooded back with stunning force. Your heart lurched violently. Heat crept up your cheeks, turning them near-burning. You managed a quiet, shaky, âIrayo.â The word came out small, barely formed, trembling beneath the pressure of everything inside you.
He mistook your overwhelm for shyness. His smile softened even further as he reached out and took both of your hands, lifting them between you. His fingers enveloped yours completely. His amber eyes searched your face with unwavering affection.
âMa tĂŹyawn (My love),â he said, voice rich with meaning, âI must speak this truth to you. Eywa guides our paths in ways we do not always see. Every day I trained you, every moment you laughed, every breath we shared⌠my feelings grew. I feel a pull toward you as strong as tsaheylu. I believe Eywa has placed you hereâto teach me, to strengthen me, toââ
Your lungs squeezed painfully. His words rushed over you like water crashing through a broken dam, each one striking deeper than the last. The kiss you had been trying so hard to forget now rose up like a specter between you, blazing into a moment you could no longer hide from.
Neteyam kept going, unaware of the way your fingers trembled in his grip. âI cannot ignore this. I feelâstrongly. Deeply. I know you do not see it yet, but this forest is your home now. Eywa willed it. Eywa brought youââ
Your head snapped up so fast your braids whipped across your shoulders.
You stood abruptly, almost staggering. Your breath shuddered in your chest, panic rising like a tightening coil inside your ribs. Neteyamâs face crumpled in confusion.
âMa Sätareym?â he asked, rising halfway. âWhat is wrong? Did Iâ?â
Your head shook violently as you tried to form words, any words, but your mind swirled with jagged memories; the plains burning, your parents falling, your tsahĂŹkâs prayers swallowed by gunfire, the knowledge that Eywa had never answered. All your clan had ever received was silence. A silence you carried like a scar through every day you tried to survive.
Neteyam stepped closer, reaching for you. âMa tĂŹyawn, pleaseâtalk to me. Tell me what hurts.â
You flinched away. He reached again, this time resting a gentle hand on your shoulder and the contact shocked you into panic. You shoved him backward with more force than intended. His feet stumbled on the moss, his expression flashing with hurt before concern quickly replaced it.
âNgaru lu fpom srak (Are you okay)? What is happening?â he asked, voice quiet, laced with fear he could not contain.
He tried again to understand, but his next sentence, obviously meant to soothe, splintered you completely.
âThis is your home now. Eywaââ
The sob tore from you before he could finish.
âMa Neteyam,â you choked, voice breaking apart, âI just want to go home. I need to go home.â
His face collapsed into raw pain. He stepped forward without hesitation, his arms circling your shoulders and pulling you into his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat pressed against your cheek as you sobbed uncontrollably, each cry hitting with the weight of all the grief you had refused to feel since leaving the plains.
âI do not belong here,â you wept into his skin. âI want to go home. I want to go back. I wantââ Your words dissolved into shattered breaths. âWhy did Eywa bring us here? Why?â
Neteyamâs arms tightened, his voice trembling. Fra'u-ru fpom lu (Itâs okay). I know, ma yawntu. I know you ache for your home. But thisâthis placeâyou are safe here. You are loved here. This is your home now.â
You stiffened instantly.
Your palms pressed against his chest, shoving him away hard enough that he stumbled. Air refused to enter your lungs. Your chest spasmed with rapid, uncontrolled breathsâtoo shallow, too sharp. You felt trapped inside your own body, drowning in panic that clawed up your throat.
He reached toward you again, terrified. âMa Sätareym! Waitâplease, I did not meanââ
Your feet turned before he could finish. You bolted.
Branches whipped past your face as you sprinted through the glowing underbrush, tears blurring the world into fragments of blue and violet light. Your lungs burned, your legs trembled, but you could not stop. You fled from him, from his words, from the choker on your throat, from the memory of his kiss, from the suffocating walls of a forest that would never be yours.
Behind you, Neteyamâs voice cracked through the night. âMAâ!â
Your nameâtorn from him, desperate, breakingâechoed after you as he gave chase, his footsteps shaking the soft earth.
You did not look back. You could not.
The forest around you pulsed, alive with the presence you had never believed in. Vines glowed like reaching hands. Spores drifted as if watching. The air hummed with a spirit you did not trust.
Eywa had never answered your people. Eywa had never saved your parents. Eywa had never stopped the fire that swallowed your plains. Eywa had chosen Jake Sully, not you. Not your clan.
No forest ritual, no glowing tree, no choker woven with love could change the truth etched into your very DNA.
pairings: neteyam sully x fem omatikaya reader
warnings: fluff, regretful neteyam
w.c: 5.6k
summary: neteyam plans to court you
Part 1
Side by side, Neteyam worked in comfortable silence beside you, arms brushing each other as you tended to your crafts. Although, Neteyam ignored his own his golden eyes focused solely on you. Watching your hand hover over the beads, scanning them until you finally found the perfect one. With practiced care, you wove it into the growing pattern, making it a part of the family on your top. Finally, you looked up from your work, feeling the weight of his gaze.
âWhat is it?â You smiled, holding back a laugh as you caught Neteyam watching you. His eyes widened, momentarily surprised before a soft giggle escaped him.
 âMânothing,â he lied, his gaze remaining fixed on you. âYou lookâŚpretty. When youâre focused on your weaving.â He gave a crooked grin that made you blush and immediately turn back to your work. With a soft roll of your eyes, you teased, âAlways the charmer, arenât you?â Your fingers graze over your craft before looking up, meeting his gold eyes again. âGiving up âthe mighty warriorâ title, I see?â Neteyam let out a scoffing laugh, âCan I not have both?â A giggled bubbled up, a smile lingering on your lips. âYou can, thank you Teyam.â His expression softens further, if possible, and he smiles tenderly at you.
When his father had told him to pick a time to spend with you, he chose thisâweaving with you or watching you do it. Sitting here, away from the clan, tucked away in this small corner, he felt at peace. This was his kelkuâ his home with you. Though he had never uttered the words to you. Sometimes he would nap here beside you, as your late-night outings had not stopped, but instead intensified. Walking through the bioluminescent forest at night, the moss glowing beneath your feet, fingers intertwining doing as you pleased. Even flying your ikrans, although you still flew close to home. Had learned your lesson from when you flew too far and made it back after sunrise. The scolding from both your parents was brutal, but it did not stop you two.
As you lifted your top, the soft firelight danced through the beads, colors changing with every slight movement. You smiled, eyes shining with a mixture of pride and bubbling excitement as they met Neteyamâs. âWhat do you think?â You asked, fighting back the smile. He gave a soft nod; eyes fixed intently on you. He swallowed, his lips parted to release a soft breath, âYou look beautiful.â You stilled, blinking slowly before a soft laugh escaped you. Neteyam ear twitched, his skin flushed that beautiful purple, as his gaze darted around the area before snapping back to his poor attempt at crafts.
 âI-I mean the topâŚit is beautiful.â He stammered, clearing his throat. His eyes on his knife, trying to fasten the casing with twine, but his technique was sloppy ruined by the sudden sweat on his palms.
Arms dropping, you rested your top against your thighs, tilting your head in his line of sight. âSo, I am not beautiful?â Your tone lilted with teasing. Neteyam tail fluttered behind him, his flush deepening. Closing his eyes, his words come out breathy âRäâä kem si fĂŹ ne oe. (Do not do this to me)â He mutters defeated. You giggle at his flustered state, hands moving slowly to take his knife and twine.
âIt will not be of use if you do it that way, Teyam.â You murmured gently, doing it yourself. His hands hovered near yours before dropping to the ground. He watched you work, fingers nimble, careful, and collected. âTake all my calm, will you?â His accusing tone was light. He moved his arm to his knee, resting his chin in his hand, golden eyes on you. As if he could not bear a second without looking at you.
âYes, you need to loosen up. Still stern as always, like anâ
Neteyam was quick, his finger pointing to you, âDo not call me an elder again.â You laughed double checking that the twine was properly wrapped. âBut itâs true, ask Kiri and Loâak.â Neteyam released a scoff once again. âKiri is the same as me, so she is not a reliable source.â He smirked, thinking of his little brother, âAnd Loâak is a skxawng. (idiot)â
âWho isnât a reliable source?â
âWho is a skxawng?â
The other two Sullyâs walked in, immediately accusing Neteyam. He let out a short laugh. âSeems I have spoken my siblings into existence.â Loâak trotted towards him, âIâm sure mother birthed only one idiot, and it is you big bro.â
Neteyam smirked, quickly leaving his spot, careful not to ruin your little area. He met Loâak halfway instantly locking him in a headlock. âYouâre always open.â Neteyam mocked as they tousled, their shuffling feet and grunting filling the previously quiet tent. Kiri rolled her eyes finding a spot beside you.
âWhat do you see in that bark for brains?â She playfully gagged muttering quick compliments as her eyes fell to your top. âEywa has blinded me.â You whispered to Kiri, though your eyes were on Neteyam. Hearing you, he immediately shot his head up towards you, his gaze locking onto yours.
âWhat?â
Loâak seized his brother moment of distraction, his leg sweeping out to catch Neteyamâs knocking him off balance. In a swift motion he brought his older brother to his knees. Leaping up Loâak hovered over him, hands resting against his knees with a grin. âHa!â he cheered. Neteyam chuckled, yielding with a raised hand, as Loâak helped him up. Brushing the dust from his legs and arms, Neteyam approached crouching in front of you. âEywa has not blinded you.â he murmured, gaze intense.
âShe had though,â you shrugged. âIt is by your luck that you are beautiful inside and out.â You teased flashing a smile. Neteyam just shook his head, a soft chuckled escaping him his gaze lingering on yours. âWell, yuck.â Loâak interrupted, breaking the moment with a groan. âAnd dad said itâs time to get back to work.â Loâak added gesturing to the entrance of the tent. Neteyam nodded, fully expecting that but his eyes returned to yours, soft and lingering for a few seconds longer.
âIâll see you later.â His hand reached for you, fingers curly softly around your bicep giving a brief squeeze, remaining there for as long as he could before he raising from his crouch leaving the tent with Loâak. You smiled, gaze downturned to hide it, then your eyes caught the brown twine of his knife, your head shot up. âOh, Neteyam!â You called, legs moving quickly catching him only a few feet from the tent entrance. His knife rested in your hands, outstretched to him. âHere you go.â
His eyes briefly went to his knife then to you, fingers brushing yours taking it from your grasp leaving that familiar lingering warmth. âThank you.â He took one step back, a faint smile on his lips. You nodded braids swaying softly as you mimicked him, steps slow and smile soft. You turned around entering the tent breaking eye contact. Neteyam eyes racked over the knife the casing a deep navy blue, the twine a hickory brown, his fingers grazed over it gently moving to sheath the knife at his waist.
âFinally started courting her?â Neteyam step faltered, his dreamlike smile falling away instantly at the question. âHuh?â The word left him like a stolen breath. âY/n. You finally started courting her.â Loâak repeated, smirk playing on his lips as he nudged his brother. Neteyam swayed a little, his smile replaced with a frown. His steps came to a halt. Loâak had gotten a bit further ahead before he noticed his brother was no longer beside him. Looking back, Loâak eyebrow arched as he saw Neteyam standing still, truly perplexed.
âIâŚhavenât.â Neteyam voice was barely above a whisper, uncertainty laced in his tone. His eyes remained staring at the ground, shifting his weight as if the question itself was heavy enough to anchor him.
âYou havenât started courting her?â Loâak reiterated, moving to stand beside his older brother. âThat is so like you bro,â his tone teasing but not unkind. Neteyam shook his head the movement subtle, as he lost himself in the river of memories of you. âI just hadnât thought of it because itâI donât know it feels like Iâve already started.â He murmured. For Neteyam, the lines between courtship and friendship had blurred, he did not know where he stood but he was aware that his heart beats for you. Whether he had spoken the words aloud or not.
Loâak nodded, hand tucked under his chin and lips pursed in a thoughtful pout. âRight. But have you, ya know given her anything?â
He had; there was never a moment when he wouldnât bring you gifts. Whether it was something you needed or not. Neteyam has always been attentive, but it seemed to intensify when it came to you. He always kept careful mental notes of every word youâve saidâor simply brought it because it reminded him of you. And he would be eager to show it to you, hoping to see that familiar spark in your eyes, and your gentle glowing smile.
He recalled countless moments where he would press treasures into your palm, woven bracelets, river stones, and small tokens heâd risk his life for while doing his duties beside his father. Yet, as these moments cycled through his brain behind those golden eyes filled with growing confusionânone of them were signs of courtship. Instead, it was instinct from friendship and adoration.
âI have,â Neteyam admitted, gaze leaving the ground to find Loâak. âJustâŚnot as courtship.â
Loâak arm swung around Neteyamâs shoulders, hanging loosely. âDonât worry, bro. Sheâll obviously say yes. Courting is just so other guys know to back off.â Neteyam's jaw tightened, eyes sharpening with a fierce blend of possessiveness. The mere thought of someone else competing for your attention made a tension coil inside him.
âWho tried to court her?â
The question was quick from Neteyam lips, sharp and simmering with possessive heat. Loâakâs arm slipped from Neteyam's shoulder hands raising aiming to calm his older brother. âNo one,â Loâak replied with a causal shrug. âI havenât heard anything, at least. Itâs just to prevent it broâchill.â.
Neteyam couldnât chill, it wasnât that he doubted Loâak but instead he couldnât fully trust it. His mind was plagued by scenarios, possibilities where you were continuously sought after and he stood aside unable to do anything. It sent a restless energy coursing through him fueling his determination. Neteyam's mind raced ahead, planning. He thought of what to make, how to craft it, and when he would find the time.
He mulled it over throughout the day, trying to find moments of time that were not just fleeting windows, and he found two. The only silver of time in his days that he didnât want to give up, yet he had to compromise. Neteyam stood under the gentle light of the sister moons, waiting. He shifted on the balls of his feet, ears twitching at every rustle of leaves and animalistic sound of the creatures. Then, the soft crunch of twigs reached his ears and his head snapped up. Moving into the path clearing, he found you standing there, bathed in the moonlight, your smile brightening the night.
âWell, this is a first, you're never here before me.â Your steps were light, almost dancing across the mossy forest floor as you closed the distance, your hand slipping into Neteyamâs. He answered your smile with a gentler one of his own, gaze lingering as if you were the only one worth admiring on pandora.
âReady to go?â You tighten your grip slightly giving his hand a soft squeeze. Neteyam ears flicked down, his heart tumbling like river stones against a harsh current in his chest. His golden eyes darted around the shadows of the forest, avoiding your hopeful ones, fearful that you would see right through him.
âUm, actuallyâŚwe canât go out tonight.â His words hung in the air between you, hesitant. You tilted your head, confusion flickering across your face. âBut we are already out here. Do you mean walking? Or riding our ikrans?â He nodded. âYeah. I just⌠need to do something.â His eyes finally met yours golden and pleading, searching for you to understand. âUntil Iâve finished, we can't go out at night.â You sat in your mind, thoughts swirling, then you nodded softly, your braids swaying with the movement.
âOkay. Okay, I wonât question you.â You said, as you turned home, fingers still interlaced pulling Neteyam along. He followed, ears pinned back reluctantly but grateful for your understanding.
âYou're not upset right?â
You shook your head, giving a warm smile, âNo, I understand you have something to do, I respect that.â You shrugged causal yet sincerely. Neteyam fanged grin appeared, relief washing over him. âAnd I still get to see you at the weaverâs tent. If you took that away, I wouldâve been upset.â Your fingers squeezed around his playfully, Neteyam feigned a hiss making you laugh.
âHush, you tsawl prrnen (big baby).â You teased. Laughter filled the quiet of the night as you walked home hand in hand. Arriving home you turn around reaching up, hand patting Neteyam cheek quickly and softly. âPromise me you will sleep, do not put it off to complete this secret mission of yours.â Your voice was quiet and playful but still carrying quiet concern.
Neteyam nodded, his hand holding yours lifting it gently to his lips for a tender kiss. âOf course, sleep well.â He murmured, adoration shining in his eyes. Your blush crept up, warmth spreading across your cheeks. âSleep well.â You replied, hands slipping apart, each returning to your kelku.
â
As promised, the two of you still had time together in the cozy sanctuary of the weaver's tent in that same familiar corner. Each day, Neteyam sat close beside you, his golden eyes following the grace of your hands as they worked. Quietly, he memorized the way you wove your crafts using your favorite pattern. He observed every detail, the soft curve of your fingers, the subtle twitch of your tail whenever you were proud of a stitch, and the serene concentration etched across your face. These moments were stitched into his memory, determined to replicate your artistry in the gifts he was preparing for you.
While the clan slept, Neteyam practiced the pattern, his hands moving with growing confidence in his corner. He would ask Kiri to help him search for the perfect materials, turning a simple request into a small sibling adventure through the forest before dinner. They gathered beads, vibrant thread, and supple leaves, their laughter and bickering echoing through the trees.
Although he had grown confident in practicing your pattern, when doing the real thing, he would frown in concentration as he unraveled a mistake for the tenth time and started again. His frustration only grew at his flawed attempts, eventually he sought his mother. Neytiri guided his hands with patience, her weaving experience shining through her teachings.
âDo not rush,â she would always tell him, voice reassuring. He never did, taking his mother's advice to heart he did not hurry, he wanted these gifts to carry the weight of his feelings, in every stitch. So, he took his time, although the urge to display his sign of forever to you crawled beneath his skin he pushed it down to a simmer, keeping it at bay.
Neteyam spent hours at night absorbed in the art of weaving. His fingers worked with deliberate precision, only stopping when exhaustion blurred his vision. Neytiri, the attentive mother noticed his slouching posture and sluggish movements and would coax him to bed, tucking the unfinished gifts away in his corner. That following evening, after dinner, Neteyam would resume his work, fingers carefully undoing the mistakes he made in his sleepy state and starting again.
His determination to finish your gifts blinded him, costing him hours of sleep. He tried to hide his fatigue around you, giving brighter smiles than usual or fidgeting to stay awake. And of course, you noticed. The drop of his ears whenever the silence stretches long, and the bags beneath those gold eyes.
âNeteyam.â
His name fell from your lips, carrying gentle reproach his eyes snapped open. He swore they had already been open, âYes, sevin (pretty),â he replied, voice lace honey sweetness a pitiful attempt to escape your scolding. Your eyes narrowed not budging. âYou havenât been sleeping,â you said voice soft but firm. Neteyam shook his head, âI have.â You frowned, giving him the classic âare you seriousâ look. âRight, so Iâm imagining the bags forming under your eyes.â
Neteyam nodded, âIâm pretty sure. Are you sure you're not tired?â He leaned closer, hand gently cradling your chin, guiding your face to his. You frowned deeper, âNeteyam, I am not sleepy.â He only smiled wider, fingers sliding higher up to squish your cheeks together. âTeyam,â you whined, swatting his hand away while he laughed low and bright. Your hand remained on his wrist, eventually intertwining your fingers through his, holding him close.
âNap.â
âAbsolutely not. This is our time together.â He refused.
âWhy are you so stubborn when it comes to your sleep?â You asked, rolling your eyes.
âWell, Iâm sorry, I love being around you. Is that a crime?â
Neteyam tilted his head, braids gliding across his shoulders. You huffed, âYou are still around me. Nap, lean on me all you want. Iâll be here.â
He pouted. âPut it away and sleep.â You released a soft giggle as he huffed in protest, but still complying shuffling closer. His head settled heavy against your shoulder, the weight of him familiar bringing comfort to you.
âOnly for a few minutes.â He mumbled, eyelids drooping as you hummed in agreement, âWake me in a few.â He insisted, eyes finally closing, you hummed again. âIâm serious.â He lifted his head, his warmth fleeting, you giggled gently guiding his head back to your shoulder, âAlright, mighty warrior, sleep.â
Your hand lingered in his hair for a moment before pulling away, feeling the way his body relaxed slipping into rest. He slept soundly against your shoulder, his breath steady and deep. You did not wake him until Jake came seeking him. Of course, Neteyam awoke with a pout scolding you, but he lacked real bite only affection with light teasing.
â
Finally, after countless days spent with anticipation and careful crafting, he had completed your gifts. To him they were perfect to finally share with you. Neteyam tried to keep his composure as he walked, but his excitement buzzed through his body causing him to break into a sprint straight to the weaver's tent. The place you were always waiting. Slipping through the entrance into the familiar dim glow of the tent, he walked to the very back. There he saw you, already finishing an outfit.
âIâve finished.â he announced, bright with pride. Neteyam's smile stretched wide as he crouched in front you gold eyes shining with delight. âFinally?â You teased, eyebrow-raising playful.
He nodded, eagerness poorly contained. âTonight, would you do me the honor of going out with me?â Your smile softened, eyes reflecting the same delight as his. âYes, I would be a fool to decline such an invitation.â
Promised made, date set both hearts pounded with impatience. You for the longing of venturing through the glowing, lush forest hand in hand with Neteyam. For him, after hours of pouring his love into his crafts, he finally could give them to you. Asking you properly to be his and seeing your reaction, he couldnât wait. Â
As he gathered the last of the training gear, the rough texture of wood pressed against his hands. Then a low rumble vibrated through the ground, gaining his attention. Neteyam's gaze drifted upward, noting how the sky shifted, heavy gray clouds blotted out the sun, hinting at rain. He shrugged off the worry, reminiscent of your love for rain, he smiled softly to himself lost in thoughts of you.
Later, as he shifted in his hammock, the sway bringing him comfort his amber eyes roamed his home. His family lingered, their soft conversations and laughter blending with the low crackle of the spent fire. He felt a pang of impatience and irritation; tonight of all nights their bedtime stretched later than usual.
Soft puttering filled Neteyam's ears; the rain had finally begun. The soothing sound calmed him, letting his mind wander, drifting off to thoughts of you. He pictured your smile, that smirk you always give him, and the mischievous glint in your eyes. The warmth of your touch, the way you would welcome him close, tail swaying happily behind you, showing your happiness at his presence. Lost in these memories, Neteyam drifted off to sleep, dreams carrying him into your arms
The sound of thunder rolled through the kelku. The deep rumble startled Neteyam from his sleep. Blinking rapidly, he struggled to clear his sleepy haze from his mind. The steady sound of the rain began to seep into his senses. Cold dread washed over him, the sensation chilling like a plunge in the cold ponds near the village. He overslept.
Neteyam slipped from his hammock hastily, his movements lacking his usual grace. He didnât know how long he had been asleep, but panic made his steps clumsy as he hurried to check his waist making sure your gifts were still secure. He crept toward the entrance until the shuffle of movement caught his ears.
Kiri stirred from her sleep, eyes going to Neteyam as he stood at the doorway. He brought a finger to his lips, pleading for her not to tell. Kiri gave that knowing smirk, but her face shifted quickly to concern as another thunderclap echoed through the kelku. Her gaze was stern but understanding, silently urging him to be careful. Neteyam nodded, slipping out of his home with Kiri right behind him, sealing the entrance so no rain entered.
The temperature drop was instant as Neteyam darted into the open. The rain hitting his skin, drenching him within seconds, intensifying his guilt. Each footstep squelched harshly against the muddy soil of pandora, his heart pounding as he pushed toward the clearing where he always found you. Stumbling once mud splattering against his deep blue skin, but he recovered quickly determined not to falter again.
Finally reaching the spot breathless and soaked. His eyes locked on you, beneath the pitiful shelter of leaves, water streaming down as the rain became too much for them. You held your hand beneath the rush of water, watching as it bounced off your skin. You wore a smile, in attempt to meet the situation with grace. Neteyam eyes caught the subtle tremble in your fingers and the shiver that ran through your shoulders.
Slowly, Neteyam stepped closer entering your line of sight. The smile you gave him grew brighter, your eyes shining through the gloom capturing his attention, his heart felt as if a palulukan (thanator) was tearing at it, the weight of remorse nearly unbearable. He closed the distance, standing before you under the relentless rain letting it soak him as a form of punishment.
âNgaytxoa (sorry).â He murmured, voice thick with apology.
His apologies continued, endless as the rain sliding down his back. Neteyam bent low, arms enveloping you tightly, holding you as if afraid you might slip away. His grip was firm, protective, the chill of his damp skin brushed against you, your gentle hands traced soothing circles along his waist. You nestled closer, chin resting on his shoulder feeling the shivers fade a little as his warmth encircled you.
âItâs ok Neteyam.â You whispered.
But he shook his head slowly, head still buried in your neck, regret etched deep in his skin. His frown deepened as he noticed your tremors ease against his body heat. Cursing himself, Neteyam shifted stepping back but still lingering close, shielding you from the rain. His sorrowful amber eyes searched yours.
âLetâs get out of the rain.â He murmured, voice low and guilt ridden. Taking your hand, Neteyam led you away from the clearing. Following him, you noticed the slouch of his shoulders, the way his head hung low heavy with guilt. Leading you to the ladder first, he watched you gaze never wavering from your every step as you climbed, ensuring your safety before following.
Entering the small shelter, you were instantly met by the familiar scent of woven reeds and drying herbs, the space was dim. Your belongings scattered across the floor, feathers, beads and smooth stones now mingled with Neteyam's belongings. His newly crafted gear leaned against the wall; hand carved wooden figures decorated the shelves beside your own trinkets. The soft merging of your worlds felt like a promise, quietly spoken for the future.
Neteyam moved with gentle urgency, his hand taking yours cool and rough from the rain and hours of training. Without a word, he draped a thick blanket around your shoulders, the fabric comforting. His hands, calloused and trembling slightly, brushed over your skin and hair, careful as he wiped away the rain clinging to you. His actions, a silent plea for forgiveness.
Once satisfied-ish with having dried you as best he could, Neteyam moved across the room, pulling the entrance flap close, shutting out the storm. Leaving the soft distant patter of the rain and clap of thunder. Crouching low, he began coaxing the fire, building it just high enough to provide warmth but not so high to fill the small room with smoke. As Neteyam gathered more blankets and brought them near, you watched the water continue to drip from his braids. He was completely drenched. He kept his gaze averted focusing on folding blankets for you. The lock of his jaw showed the regret turning in his chest. You reached out, hand finding his cold and stiff one covering it with your own warmth. Â
âYou are still wet Teyam.â You murmured.
His eyes remained glued to the sway of the fur blankets. âI overslept,â he said, voice thick with regret. âItâs ok.â You replied, but he only shook his head slowly, ears folding back in shame. âI left you in the rain, for Eywa knows how long.â
 âIâm fine.â
âYou were trembling, drenched.â
âYou know I like the rain.â
âWhat if you get sick?â
âYour grandmother remedies will handle it.â You teased, hoping to get a smile from him. But he didnât, instead his lips pressed thin eyes closed with guilt.
A soft sigh left you as you took the blanket from around your shoulders, ignoring his quiet protest you wrapped him in the blanket instead. Drying his soaked braids ruffling them until the water shook free in tiny sprays. The unexpected jerking gesture startled a choked giggle from him, the sound brightening the room for a moment. His hands reached up, stopping yours, finally meeting your eyes with a tentative soft smile.
âTheres that smile.â You whispered smiling at him softly. You tossed the now damp blanket away, pulling Neteyam down beside you, you wrapped a new blanket around both of you sharing warmth.
âI am truly fine.â You assured, âI am not angry, you were tired.â Neteyam's eyes remained troubled, brow still furrowed as he shifted closer, shuffling around your body until it was fully enveloped by the circle of his legs. He pulled you in, arms sliding around your waist pulling you flush against his chest, as if trying to shield you from the lingering chill.
Neteyam head rested against your shoulder, his hands gliding over your sides with careful slowness, warming you from the cold the fire have yet to chase away. Your hand came up to rest on his head, fingers combing gently through damp braids, your other found his forearm resting there, anchoring him. Neteyam was quiet for a moment, lips pressed together tight pondering over the words ready to leave him. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, the words fragile he finally spoke.
âI want to court you.â He confessed, the words trembling between you, but you caught every word.
âWhat?â The question slipped out, breathless. Neteyam moved closer, his face buried against the curve of your neck, his warm breath sending gentle shivers down your skin. He lingered there a moment longer before continuing. âThat is why I postponed our outings; I used that time to make your gifts. Beâ,â his voice wavered, swallowing hard before continuing. âBecause I wanted to do it properly, to create something form my heart.â
You blinked, lips parted brief surprise flitting across your face at the confession. Neteyam's arms slipped away, the absence of his touch palpable. Â He untied the pouch from his waist, bringing it forward for you. Your gaze followed his movements, watching as he opened it hand moving with a slight tremble that had nothing to do with the lingering cold. He revealed its contents, crafts just for you.
He rested it gently against your thighs as he tossed his pouch away. There in your lap were treasures of his heart, an armband woven in beautiful shades of blues, purples, and green, perfectly balanced. A single feather identical to the one Neteyam wore on his own armband. Beside it, a bracelet adorned with your own luminous beads surrounded by his beads, the ones he proudly wore threaded into his hair each day.
Your hands moved slowly, fingertips grazing the intricate weaving tracing the patterns. The careful craftsmanship spoke volumes of his affection and intentâhis heart. Adoration bloomed across your face, as you took in each detail feeling the love in every thread and bead.
It was then that recognition dawned and you couldnât help the radiant smile. âItâs my favorite pattern.â Neteyam nodded against your shoulder, his voice soft. âI watch you. All the times I sat beside you in the weaver's tent, even here.â His arms tightened around you, seeking courage in the warmth of you. âI see you.â Neteyam breathed, his words winding you with quiet devastating forceâso unmistakably Neteyam.
Gently tapping his forearm, his embrace loosened, allowing you to turn and face him fully. Your hands scrambled, eager to hold his face, thumbs brushing softly against his cheeks. âI love them, Neteyam. I see you.â You confessed, as you lifted his face from the ground eyes locking with his.
His eyes met yours glassy with the same deep aching regret that weight on him. You shook your head softly holding his gaze, âI see you Neteyam. No little rain changed that, and it will never change that.â You declared, making sure he heard you. âBesides if it did, I would be heavily worried about our relationship.â You giggled, light and genuinely chasing away the last of the tension. Neteyam smiled, his amber eyes shining with admiration, a look reserved only for you. He nuzzled into your palm, the contact grounding him.
âWant to put it on me?â You asked, his eager nod was boyish. His hands trembled slightly as he slipped the armband around your left arm mirroring his own and the bracelet onto youâre right forearm. His fingers lingered just a second longer against your skin.
Smiling happily, you stretched your arm out admiring how vibrant the colors danced against your skin. The evidence of his love clear. You leaned in, planting a soft kiss on his forehead before resting your own against it.
âDo not beat yourself up over this, okay? I love my gifts; I love you and Iâve forgiven you even though I was never really upset.â You whispered.
Neteyam exhaled, relief in the slump of his shoulders as his eyes closed. âI still feel you are too lenient with me.â He opened his eyes, those huge golden irises on you. You moved back only a little, just enough to see his face, teasing, âAs I told Kiri, Eywa has blinded me.â Neteyam chuckled as he pulled you close, covering your face in kisses until you squealed, âTeyam!â You giggled, face heating at his signs of affection.
He eased you down beside him on the woven mat, gawking at your smile bright and breathless. His hand reached for you fingers brushing his gift that now hugged your upper bicep. âNow everyone will know you are mine.â He murmured, the claim more to himself than to you. You nudged him playfully. âI think everyone already knew that Neteyam.â You replied grinning.
âLetâs sleep, yeah?â You suggestion softly.
Neteyam nodded, pulling you closer and tucking an extra blanket over the two of you. It was not like before, no distance tonight, and no hesitation. You pressed together, his arm wrapped securely around you, his head nestled against your shoulder. Legs tangled together, tails brushing in slow familiar arcs. Wrapped in each other warmth, letting everything fade away. That morning, neither of you rushed to awake nor to leave. Savoring the time, you have together choosing to stay in each other embrace.
Pandora can wait.
â
Meanwhile, back at home, Kiri sat unbothered in her corner while Jake paced muttering complaints to Neytiri. âGive him a little leeway, and he goes the whole mile.â He grumbled. Loâak smirked to himself proud of his brother and already plotting how he would claim his thanks later, he already began eyeing Neteyam best bow. Tuk sat wide eye, confused as she watched her father pace around.
âBaby girl, have you seen your brother?â Jake asked, exhausted from constantly searching for his eldest son every morning. âNo clue.â Kiri replied her lips down turned as she shrugged.
He turned to Loâak. âI slept like a rock.â Loâak smirk only grew, Jake eyes narrowed suspicion growing as he glanced between his children, then back to Neytiri.
âIs this aboutââ he pointed vaguely outside.
Neytiri giggled her hand resting against Jake chest giving a gentle pat. âNeteyam is fine maâjake. Leave him be.â She kissed his cheek leaving him standing there, grumbling but relenting. âAlright,â He complied. For now, he would allow Neteyam this time with you.
a/n: not made at this ngl but 'mine will come' I am struggling
Hey sweet (I couldn't find a name/nickname to address you as and I didn't feel right not acknowledging you as a person in some way).
I saw your reqs were open, would you be able to write one with Robby where a nurse quietly begins taking care of him, slipping him food, knowing what he needs for procedures etc and hey become like work mom and dad, without realising. If you feel up for it I'd love to read it no pressure though x N
Someone should take care of you too
tags: robby robinavitch x nurse!reader, medical inaccuracies (probably), work mom, work dad, fluff, the pittlings are their kids, robby neglects himself (cannon), thoughtful reader, ooc robby
notes: thank you anon for requesting! lowkey don't care what anyone calls me lol, thank you to everyone who reads this, and if you'd like to join my permanent taglist please comment on this post ! enjoy!
If there was one thing you knew about your attending, it was that he seemed to forget that he was human too.Â
Med students and the younger residents, you understood how their brains worked: canât take too many breaks and let someone else grab an intubation, canât sit down long enough to eat or your patient might go from stable to worse, canât show emotions or you might not be taken seriously.Â
In the grand scheme of things, Robby Robbinavitch was more over-worked med student than put-together chief attending. You couldnât remember the last time he actually sat down for a lunch in the breakroom for more than five minutes. So, he either hated eating lunch with coworkers, hated having to interact with them other than checking charts, or just hated giving his body the food it needed.Â
To your knowledge it definitely wasnât any of those.Â
Heâd eaten around the nursesâ station.Â
Heâd tease or joke with the rest of the residents and students.Â
And at Dr. Abbotâs yearly barbecue, youâd seen him go ham town on a triple-stack burger.Â
Maybe he hid the real reason well.Â
Robby wasnât the kind of person who tried to martyr himself for praise, nor did he wear exhaustion like some badge of honor the way younger doctors did. He simply moved through the Pitt like the people around him mattered more than he did.Â
Every. Single. Time.Â
You noticed it most in little moments when you werenât calling out BPs or supplying another blood bag.Â
One of the first times you noticed something, Robby was halfway through dictating notes when one of the interns drifted past the nursesâ station looking vaguely green and pale at the same time. Without even missing a beat, he stopped midsentence, arm reaching out to grab the intern by his shoulder.Â
âYou eat today?â he asked.Â
The intern, bless his heart, looked like a deer in headlights as he blinked up at the tall attending. âUh. Sort of?âÂ
âTry again.âÂ
âI had coffee?âÂ
He wasnât the first person to substitute a cup of that burnt garbage for a meal and certainly wouldnât be the last. You were somewhere on that list more times than youâd like to admit. You wondered if Robby would let the kid off and send him on his way. However, all he did was stare at him for a long second before digging into the pocket of his jacket. He pulled out a slightly crushed granola bar and handed it over.Â
âEat actual food before you pass out in one of my trauma bays.âÂ
The intern at least had the decency to look mildly ashamed as he took it. âThanks, Dr. Robinavitch.âÂ
Robby simply waved him off and returned to his charting discussion like nothing had happened, like you didnât just witness him looking at the kid like a disappointed father who had to bring by a forgotten lunch. Your eyes wandered from his face and down to the empty coffee cup beside his elbow.Â
You were certain the thing was cold; youâd seen him fill it up twenty minutes into the morning shift.Â
By noon, he still hadnât replaced it but sipped on it anyway without even making a face.
His actions happened constantly once you started paying attention. Robby always seemed to know when everyone else was reaching their limit before they did. He caught residents before panic spiraled too far, gently redirecting instead of humiliating them. He reminded your fellow nurses to switch out after rough codes. He pressed water bottles into med studentsâ hands during long traumas with an absent sort of efficiency that suggested habit rather than thought.Â
âYouâre shaking,â you heard him say to one resident softly after a pediatric arrest.Â
âIâm fine.âÂ
âYouâre not.â Robbyâs voice softened even further. âGo sit down for five minutes.âÂ
The resident hesitated. âButââÂ
âI wasnât suggesting.âÂ
And somehow, five minutes later, Robby was still standing in the trauma bay himself, shoulders heavy beneath a blood-speckled gown while he updated the grieving parents with a kind of exhausted gentleness that made your chest ache a little.Â
The realization settled slowly over a few shifts, piecing itself together like a puzzle while monitors beeped and gurneys rolled past and the ER swallowed another endless stream of patients whole.Â
Nobody ever told him to sit down.Â
Nobody ever handed him water.Â
Nobody ever gave him their own crushed up granola bar that had been sitting in their pocket for a suspicious amount of time.Â
Robby took care of everyone around him like it had been carved into his DNA. But no one really returned the favor because Robby never gave anyone the chance to think he needed it. He looked composed from a distance. Steady. Capable. The kind of chief attending who walked into the ER and made the room breathe a sigh of relief. But up close, if someone really looked closely, the cracks were easier to notice.Â
The forgotten bitter coffees.Â
The way he rubbed at the back of his neck in a self-soothing motion when he thought no one was looking.Â
The untouched food sitting in the workersâ fridge you knew showed up at the beginning of the shift and looked left behind twelve hours later.Â
The fact that he stood for so long during one shift that his knee visibly stiffened the first time he finally moved toward the ambulance bay. Even then, he only stopped because Perlah caught his arm, concern pinched into her face.Â
âYouâre limping.âÂ
âIâm not.â
âYouâre a horrible liar. I hope you know that.âÂ
He gave her a tired smile that looked like he practiced it every morning in front of the mirror like a mantra. âOccupational hazard.âÂ
You watched him disappear into another trauma before she could argue further. Your eyes stayed trained on him while your pen sat unmoving against a chart.Â
It wasnât dramatic exhaustion that Robby exuded. He wasnât collapsing or making mistakes or stumbling over himself. He was just quietly wearing himself down in ways small enough that no one felt urgent enough to stop him.Â
Or maybe everyone assumed someone else would before it got too bad.Â
Later that night, you found him standing along at the desk near trauma two, staring blankly at the tablet for several seconds without blinking, the glow of the screen highlighting how deep his eye bags had gotten. His eyes werenât scanning, werenât reading.Â
Just staring.Â
A resident approached beside him carefully. âDr. Robby? I can take the lac repair in four if you want.âÂ
Robby blinked once, twice, three times like his spirit had been pulled back into his body. âNo, youâve already got three patients.âÂ
âI can handle it.âÂ
âI know.â His voice stayed incredibly calm. âBut youâve been running nonstop since seven. Go eat something first and then check back in with Dana.âÂ
The resident relented with a sheepish nod, and just like hat, Robby moved toward room four himself. No break. No food. And absolutely no pause.Â
You glanced toward the clock overhead, its hands signaling nine hours into the shift.Â
Like a hypocrite, you were suddenly almost certain the man hadnât eaten a single thing all day.Â
Well, Michael Robinavitch had better be ready for what was coming his way.Â
_______________________
You didnât want to scare him at first. That would be the opposite of what you were trying to do.Â
The thought to bring Robby one of his favorite protein barsâthe ones that youâd never buy for yourself because a nursesâ salary didnât cover a $24 boxâhadnât been premeditative. You had seen them while standing in the grocery store checkout line after a miserable late-night shopping trip, half-awake and clutching a basket filled with frozen meals and energy drinks, when the familiar packaging caught your eye.Â
You recognized it because youâd seen Robby eat exactly two things over the last month: sad, soggy cafeteria sandwiches and those protein bars.Â
Not often, either, but just enough for you to notice.Â
So naturally, your brain had gone Oh, Robby likes those.
Thirty minutes later, a whole box sat in the backseat of your car waiting to be shoved into your scrub pocket before shift.
Which was how you found yourself leaning against the nursesâ station four hours into a chaotic Wednesday, trying to figure out how to casually hand food to your oddly attractive attending without making it look like youâd been studying his dietary habits like a creep.Â
But under his handsome, lithe stature, the man looked downright about to fall to the ground to take a nap. His hair was more ruffled than usual, like heâd dragged his hands through the strands one too many times, and for the first time, his stethoscope sat crooked along his shoulders.Â
Robby didnât ever do crooked, and thatâs how you knew that this was serious, that it was imperative you get that protein bar to him before a trauma completely derailed your plan to seduce him through food and love he didnât know how to accept.Â
The moment came as watched him finish explaining a discharge plan to an elderly patient with the patience of a saint despite the ambulance siren already screaming outside.Â
âIf you experience any lingering chest pain, you come back immediately, okay?â he said slowly and loud enough the lady could hear him.Â
She smiled up at him. âYou work too hard, doctor.âÂ
He gave her an absent hum of acknowledgment, already turning toward the ambulance bay before the woman had fully hobbled out of the room.Â
Typical.Â
You caught sight of him again maybe twenty minutes later when he stood at the main desk, reviewing labs while two residents talked over each other at his shoulder, both trying to ask separate questions that Robby somehow answered both without even looking up.Â
âHow worried are we about the potassium?â one asked.Â
âRepeat the test again first.âÂ
âAnd the CT on seven?âÂ
âPending read.âÂ
âDo you thinkââÂ
âPlease go eat something first,â he said automatically directed toward the youngest resident whose hands were visibly trembling from either stress or low blood sugar; usually, it was from both. âBefore your body stages a protest and passes out in the middle of the lobby and gets run over by a gurney. Iâm not interested in filling out that paperwork today.âÂ
âIâm perfectly fine, Dr. RobbyââÂ
âThatâs rarely convincing from someone whoâs physically swaying.âÂ
You bit back a smile as the resident obediently shuffled away toward the breakroom before you sighed loudly. There it was again; Robby noticing everyone except for himself.Â
Before you could think too hard about it or psych yourself out, your hand slipped into your scrub pocket. It was now or never. You crossed the station quietly and held the protein bar out beside his chart without any type of grand announcement. He looked down first, confused by the interruption more than anything else. His eyes landed on the wrapper, briefly widening in surprise before settling back into his fatigued stare.Â
The smallest hint of a smile graced his lips. âYou carrying emergency snacks now?â he asked.Â
âYou tell everyone else to eat,â you replied evenly. âFigured someone should probably say it too.âÂ
Unbeknownst to you, Trinity went dead silent, eyes darting between the two of you like she was witnessing something dangerously close to a meet-cute out of a romcom. Robby noticed too if the smile lines across his face had anything to do with it.Â
âI eat,â he said.Â
With the most unamused look you could musterâeyebrow raised and everythingâyou glanced from his eyes and over to the untouched coffee sitting beside him, the one you had seen him get three hours ago.Â
âSure. Letâs go with that.âÂ
He laughed quietly, and, unfortunately, it did something to your nervous system, core buzzing with excitement.Â
Robby took the protein bar from your hand carefully, almost like he wasnât used to people giving him things. âYou didnât have to.âÂ
âI know, but I wanted to.âÂ
For a moment, he looked at you, brown eyes almost blazing with a sunken thankfulness. You honestly could have stayed there all day, hoping that a connection would spark between you the longer you held eye contact.Â
But life was life, and the trauma doors burst open down the hall, breaking the spell instantly.Â
âDr. Robby!â someone shouted.Â
Robby was moving before their yell had even finished, protein bar still in hand as he headed toward the incoming patient.Â
But this time, you smiled softly when he at least tore it open and took a bite first.Â
Progress.Â
_______________________
At some point, you stopped being subtle.Â
Definitely not intentionally; you werenât trying to mother the man into an early grave by overwhelming him with concern, but somewhere between slipping protein bars onto his workstation and forcing him to split your lunch during doubles, the entire department had apparently realized what was happening before either of you did.
Which was how Robby found himself staring suspiciously at a hot coffee being shoved into his hand by Trinity at six-thirty in the morning.Â
âShe said you lookedâand I quoteâdead on your feet,â she explained with absolutely no shame.Â
Robby blinked, your name coming out with a question mark following the sound.Â
Trinity only smiled. âDrink your coffee, Dr. Robby.âÂ
She walked away before he could ask another question.Â
It only got worse after that.Â
Dennis cornered him outside trauma two with a bottle of water and two packs of crackers. Victoria started physically stealing charts out of Robbyâs hands around lunchtime while informing him that "your wife packed extra food."Â
"Sheâs not my wife,â Robby responded, cheeks blazing bright red.Â
The med student only snorted. âRight.âÂ
Meanwhile, you pretended none of this was happening. You simply continued operating as though it were perfectly normal to slide half of your sandwich onto his paperwork while he charted or quietly shove ibuprofen into his hands before headaches fully settled behind his eyes.Â
And the truly dangerous thing was that Robby started letting you. At first, there had been confusion every time you appeared beside him with something he needed before he realized he needed it himself. Then it was amusement. Then something softer that neither of you acknowledged out loud. Now, he barely looked surprised when you handled him coffee exactly how he liked it: cream and a hint of hazelnut.Â
âYouâre enabling me,â he told you one evening after you handed the hot cup over. âIâm going to get fat with all the extra calories.âÂ
You leaned against the counter beside him. âNah, Iâm keeping you alive via overly sweet coffee and concern for your wellbeing.âÂ
âYouâre being dramatic.âÂ
âYou forgot lunch until four-fifteen.âÂ
âI remembered eventually.âÂ
Your eyes caught his through your eyebrows. âYou literally ate three french fries in a span of 15 minutes.âÂ
Robby looked down at the cup. âI counted at least six.âÂ
You laughed loudly before you could stop yourself, the sound pulling something warm and unbearably fond across Robbyâs face so quickly it almost startled you.Â
That was also becoming a problem too.Â
Because Robby had been attractive before, objectively speaking. Half the nurses in the department had spent at least one shift developing temporary feelings for the exhausted chief attending with sad eyes and nice, large hands. But the version of himself that he showed you was worse.Â
That version smiled at you differently than he smiled at everyone else.Â
That version automatically looked for you after difficult cases.Â
That version saved his cherry Jell-O cups from meal trays because heâd overhead you mention once that the hospital somehow made them taste better than store-bought ones.Â
The thing you had going on was getting hazardously domestic for two people who technically werenât even dating, and apparently everyone noticed.Â
âYou know he follows you around now, right?â Dana asked one afternoon while restocking supply drawers.Â
You shook your head. âHe does not.âÂ
She gave you a look. âSweetheart, that man tracks your location in this department like a lost golden retriever.âÂ
âHeâs more of a hound dog,â you grumbled. âAll sad and droopy.âÂ
âMhm.âÂ
You rolled your eyes, but her comment lingered anyway because you had started noticing it too.Â
Robby gravitated toward wherever you were without thinking. If you disappeared into triage, somehow, he ended up checking charts nearby. If you were assisting a trauma case, he found reasons to dawdle after procedures finished. His attention caught on you constantly in small, unconscious ways.Â
He, in return, didnât realize how much heâd gotten used to you being there until the day you called out sick.Â
The flu hit fast and hard overnight. By morning, you could barely sit upright without feeling dizzy. You sent Dana one miserable text around five a.m. before collapsing back into bed.Â
Apparently, the same morning, Robby arrived forty minutes late.Â
âWhereâs your wife?â Victoria asked him casually while organizing discharge paperwork.Â
He frowned slightly. âWhat?âÂ
âYou know.â She gestured vaguely around the department, throwing your name into the air. âYour nurse.âÂ
Heat crept up the back of his neck before he could mentally push it back down his spine. âSheâs not myââÂ
âShe called out,â Dana interrupted, not even glancing away from her patient board. âFlu.âÂ
Something very unpleasant twisted in Robbyâs chest. âFlu?â he repeated stupidly.Â
Dana looked up, eyebrows lifting slightly at his curled expression. âYeah.â Her head tilted slightly, glassesâ chain swinging in the motion. âWhy do you look like someone just kicked your dog?âÂ
âI donât.â
âYou absolutely do.âÂ
Robby ignored that, but the rest of the shift felt wrong afterward.Â
Nobody handed him coffee during charting. Nobody appeared beside him during procedures already holding exactly what he needed. Nobody told him to sit down after hour ten or shoved food into his hands between patients.Â
And worse, he kept looking for you anyway.Â
Every few hours, his eyes drifted toward your usual spots before reality caught up again to tell him that you werenât here.Â
By the end of the shift, Robby found himself standing motionless in the grocery store pharmacy section staring at flu medicine with the same intensity he usually reserved for trauma patients. He felt completely ridiculous, and yet, twenty minutes later, he was standing outside your apartment door holding a plastic bag filled with take-out soup, electrolyte drinks, crackers, and the protein bars you always stole from him.Â
He almost talked himself out of knocking.Â
This definitely crossed some kind of line, didnât it?Â
The chief attending showing up at a nurseâs department with flu supplied sounded too close to the setup of an HR meeting.Â
But before he could spiral further, the door opened.Â
You, in the most respectful way he could surmise, looked terrible. You held a blanket that was wrapped around your shoulders, your hair was messy, all frizzed up, and your eyes were glassy with fever.
And somehow, Robby still felt his chest tighten at the sight of you.Â
âHoly fuck,â you croaked. âAre you real, or is the NyQuil hallucinating my attending as a boyfriend for me.âÂ
Robby laughed loudly, and the sound surprised both of you.Â
âYou called out sick,â he said, like that explained anything at all as to why he was suddenly at your doorstepÂ
You blinked at him for a moment before your gaze dropped to the grocery bags in his ridiculously large hands. âYou brought me supplies?âÂ
âYou force-feed me protein bars weekly. It felt unfair not to return the favor.âÂ
Your expression melted in slow, syrupy fondness, and Robby suddenly became acutely aware that he was here, at your door, after a fourteen-hour shift looking like you personally hung the moon just for him. Judging by the way you were looking back, you noticed too.Â
âYou wanna come in?â you asked suddenly, voice soft and raspy.Â
He did.Â
Oh how he did.Â
When you stepped back slightly, Robby followed inside carefully, setting the bags onto your kitchen counter while you hovered nearby wrapped in your blanket burrito, the fabricâhe noticedâlooking exactly like the print of a tortilla.Â
âYou didnât have to do all this,â you murmured.Â
âI know.âÂ
His answer hit you both at the same time because that was always what you told him too.Â
Robby looked down at you, really looked at you, and everything shifted like he was finally letting himself acknowledge something that had apparently become obvious to everyone but him weeks ago. Very gently, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair back from your forehead, his touch lingering against your warm face.Â
Your breath caught.Â
âSo, um, I guess this is the part,â you whispered, feverish and brave all at once, âwhere one of us probably does something stupid, and you end up sick along with me.âÂ
Robby smiled warmly, crowâs feet crinkling around his eyes. âProbably.â Â
His lips met yours soft and carefully like he was giving you every opportunity to pull away. Thankfully, you didnât, your hands catching lightly against the front of his jacket instead, grip pulling him closer while the kiss deepened warm and slow and incredibly overdue. Beneath the kiss, the taste of coffee and peppermint and cold medicine, Robby realized something almost embarrassingly simple.Â
Being taken care of felt nice, yes. But taking care of you?Â
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you agree to open your relationship after your boyfriend kept begging. at first he's on the apps getting absolutely zero matches, but then he gets a date. And the first time you go out with your friends with the full intention to find someone, you meet jack abbot. and he is hell bent on making sure you do not forget him.
genre: jack abbot x tattoo artist!reader, strangers to friends to lovers, best friend trinity, smut 18+ nsfw, lots of dialogue. sorry, i got carried away lmao
word count: 5500
(a/n: in writing this, i came to the unsurprising revelation that this character will have me in a chokehold for a while. and i'm okay with that. he's mine. that's mine. )
part 1
You had convinced yourself the guest room was a real contingency and not just a lie youâd been telling yourself to justify staying in this bed for as long as you had. Jackâs voice cut through the dark. "When did you stop?"
You turned your head, the friction of the pillow loud in the quiet. He wasnât looking at you, he was staring at the ceiling. "Stop what?"
"Choosing things for yourself."
You tried to find an answer, but your throat was dry, your mind a terrifying blank.
You had chosen Derek. It felt like a single, monumental decision at the time, but you realized now it was actually a thousand tiny surrenders. Incrementally, year by year, you had rearranged the furniture of your entire life to fit around the shape of him.Â
"I don't know," you said finally.
Eventually, you did go. You waited until his breathing evened out into sound of deep sleep. You lay there long enough to know that if you didn't move in this exact heartbeat, youâd be anchored there forever.Â
You gathered yourself, slipping out from under the covers and retreating to the guest room. The bed was cold. You lay there, staring at an unfamiliar ceiling, while his question sat open in the center of your chest.
When sleep finally pulled you under, you didn't dream about Derek.
...
It was Friday morning, two days after youâd got up and left Jackâs place early in the morning without a goodbye when he texted.Â
Jack: Hope your ceiling situation is getting sorted.
He was giving you an out, a way to be normal about it all. You stared at the blue bubble for a long time, the memory of his question still echoing in the back of your mind.
You: Ceiling is getting sorted. Thank you again.
His response came while you were in the middle of setting up for your first client of the day.
Jack: For you? Anytime.
An open invitation, or you guess, a door to him? You felt a traitorous curve of your lips before you could stop it.
"Stop smiling at your phone." Bella said. She was across the room, snapping on a pair of nitrile gloves.
"I'm not!" you said, quickly locking the screen and sliding the phone into your pocket.
âŚ
Just when you thought youâd finally managed to stop the constant loop of him in your head, the texts would come in.
They were always casual, aggressively so, but they still did something to you. They made a warm feeling stir in your belly.Â
Jack: How are you doing?
"Fine." you typed back. Then, you paused. "Fine" felt dishonest, and for some reason, he was the last person you wanted to be dishonest with.
You: Better than fine. How are you?
Jack: Just got off. Long night. Good coffee though. Small victories.
You: Very small.
Jack: The smallest. Get some sleep tonight.
It felt mundane. The assumption that you probably hadn't been sleeping. Which you hadn't.
You: you too.
Jack: Already on it.
âŚ
Then, a photo. A medium sized dog of indeterminate breed standing outside the hospital entrance, wearing a bright yellow raincoat.Â
You laughed out loud in your empty apartment.Â
You: Why is he dressed like that.
Jack: It's raining!
You: It is not raining enough for that.
Jack: Tell that to his owner.
âŚ
This one almost did you in. A voice note, which surprised you. You stood outside in the afternoon sun with your phone pressed to your ear, listening to his voice.
"I'm outside a bookshop. There's a display in the window. Botanical illustration, old prints, the kind with the Latin names at the bottom. It's on the block past the coffee place. Thought you should know it exists."
You listened to it three more times before replying.
âŚ
It was late Friday night. You were still up, not for any particular reason, just the insomnia of a brain that wouldn't stop moving, when your phone buzzed.
Jack: Are you awake?
You: yep. are you working?
Jack: I am. Thinking about food though. There's a place near my apartment that does breakfast at midnight. Eggs and everything. I've been going for years.
You looked at the text, the intimacy of the routine bleeding through the screen.
You: That's either the best or worst thing I've ever heard.
Jack: Best. Definitely best. You'd like it.
You: I do appreciate eggs at midnight.
Jack: I knew it. Then, sometime?
You: Sometime.
Jack: Good. Go to sleep.
âŚ
The last one before everything changed came on a Thursday evening. It was ordinary in every way except that it wasn't. You were locking up the shop, keys in hand, when the phone buzzed.
Jack: I know you said that it was one night, but I would be upset with myself if I didnât say this once. I'd like to keep seeing you. In whatever way you will have me. I just wanted to say it once. Just so you know.
You just stood there. Keys in hand. Mouth agape.Â
âŚ
Derek came back from Portland all smiles. He hugged you at the door, and the first thing you noticed was the scent. An unfamiliar floral of someone elseâs laundry detergent clinging to his jacket.
Over dinner, he talked about Sienna. He did it with an enthusiasm that was trying very hard to be considerate of your feelings, but his carefulness mostly just confirmed the obvious. His heart hadn't made the return flight. It was still somewhere in Portland, tucked away in a coffee shop or a rainy park with a girl you had never met.
For some reason, you did not tell him about Jack.
You were allowed to.
That was the whole point of the arrangement, the freedom you had both negotiated to keep the edges of your relationship from fraying into resentment. There was no rule against telling him. In fact, there was an implicit expectation of honesty. A pact that neither of you would have to carry the weight of a secret.
And yet, you still didn't tell him.
The words stayed locked in your throat, not because you were afraid of his reaction, but because telling him would make Jack part of the arrangement. It would categorize what was happening between you and the doctor, making it something manageable and defined. And for some reason, you weren't ready to let Derek touch whatever it was that was growing in those texts and shared photos.
âŚ
Jack asked you to lunch a week later.
Jack: I have a two hour window free before my shift. Lunch? There's a place near your shop I've been told has good noodles.
Jack was already there when you arrived, hair tousled and he had a little tiredness settling around his eyes.
"You look tired." you said, sitting down across from him.
"I am. But feeling better now for some reason." he said smiling, his voice seemed to settle right under your skin.
He slid a menu across the table toward you. "How many times have you been here?" you asked.
He picked up his own menu, his eyes meeting yours. "A lot. I'm a creature of habit when I find something worth repeating."
A thrill went through your spine at the way he said it. You were starting to understand that with Jack, almost nothing was a throwaway line.Â
The pho arrived, steaming and fragrant. It was extraordinary, and when you told him so, he looked quietly pleased, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
You ate for a while in a comfortable quiet that you still hadn't fully gotten used to. The fact that silence with him didn't require anything from you.
"Can I ask you something?"
He looked up. "Anything."
"The army." You kept your voice even, curious rather than probing. "How long?"
"Eight years." He set his chopsticks down. "Enlisted at twenty two. Medic."
"What made you stay in medicine after?"
"I didn't know how not to," he said finally. He looked down at his hands. Those large, careful hands, then back at you. "It wasn't a career decision, exactly. It was just the thing that made sense to do." He paused searching your face. "You understand that."
"Yeah," you said quietly. "I do."
"When did you know?" he asked. "That it was going to be tattoo work."
"Sixteen," you said, a small smile forming. "I watched an artist work at a shop near my mom's house. Just through the window, I never went in. I went back every day for two weeks." You could almost feel the cold glass against your forehead. "She finally came out and said, 'Are you going to come in or just haunt the place?'"
Jack laughed "And?"
"I went in. I watched her work for three hours. She let me try a practice stroke on a piece of fake skin and I was terrible at it." You turned your chopsticks over in your hand, lost in the memory. "I knew right then that I was going to do it until I wasn't terrible at it."
"How long until you weren't terrible?"
"Two years of being pretty bad. One year of being okay. Then something clicked." The afternoon light moved across the table between you. "Do you miss it?" you asked. "The army."
He turned his water glass once on the table. "Parts of it. The clarity of it, sometimes. Knowing exactly what the job was. The people, too."
"The SWAT shifts.." you said. "Whatâs that about?"
He looked at you, and his expression shifted, hardened slightly. "The ER is..it's good work. Important work. But you're always waiting for the thing to come to you." He considered his words. "The other work, you go to it. There's a difference in how that feels."
"You like going toward things." you said.
His eyes held yours across the table, dark and certain. "Yes."
âŚ
Outside, the afternoon was shifting into evening. His shift would be starting soon.
"Same time next week?" he said.
This was supposed to be a one time thing. You were not supposed to be in Jack Abbotâs orbit anymore. You were supposed to be safe in your own lane, tending to your own life. But as you looked at him, you found it very hard to come up with a single reason why you shouldnât.
And you could think of more than one reason why you should. The top one, the one that caused your heart to swell when you looked at him, was simply because you wanted to.
"Yeah." you said, the word feeling like a small, reckless surrender. "Okay."
He nodded once, his smile softening the hard lines of his face. "I'll find somewhere new."
âŚ
Trinity showed up at your apartment with a bag of groceries and the clear intention of spending her day off horizontally on your couch with bad television and zero obligations. You took one look at her and knew that you were going to tell her.
You waited until she was settled. Feet up, blanket appropriated. From the kitchen, you started the coffee. You kept your back to her, it felt safer that way. "I have to tell you something."
"Okay.." Trinity said. Her voice had shifted into that careful, neutral tone of someone who had learned in residency to assess a situation before reacting to it.
"I met someone."
"Define met."
"At the bar. The night we went to Dillonâs." You heard the rustle of the blanket as she sat up. "After you left."
"Y/N. That was six weeks ago."
"I know."
"You've known something for six weeks and you're telling me now?"
You poured the coffee into two mugs. Your hands were steady, which surprised you. "It wasn't..I didn't know what it was. I still donât entirely know what it is."
You brought the coffee into the living room and sat on the opposite end of the couch. Trinity had pushed the blanket off, her feet were flat on the floor, fully turned towards you. "Tell me." she said.
Trinity listened. She was very good at listening when she wanted to. When you finished, the silence in the room stretched out. Then Trinity asked, "What's his name?"
"Jack." you said. "Jack Abbot."
Trinity went completely still. "ER attending?"
You looked at her, something curious moving through your chest. "How did you.."
"Y/N." Trinity set her coffee down very carefully on the coaster. "Jack Abbot is an attending at my hospital."
"Heâs..what?"
"PTMC. Heâs been there for years." She stopped. She pressed her hand briefly over her mouth and looked at you with disbelief, hilarity, and something almost reverent. "How bad is it?" she asked. It wasn't really a question.
"I drew his hands." you said. "From memory. So do with that what you will."
Trinity closed her eyes briefly. "And Derek?"
"Derek is in love with someone in Portland," you said. "He doesnât know it yet. Or he does, and heâs waiting for me to..I donât know. Release him." You looked at your hands. "Itâs what weâve been doing for a long time, I think. Waiting for the other one to say it first."
Trinity remained quiet, letting you find the rest of it.
You turned the mug in your hands, feeling the lingering warmth of the ceramic. "I think Iâm the one who has to. I think Iâve been ready for longer than I want to admit, and I just didnât have a reason to know it."
"And now you have one."Â
âŚ
Derek came home in a mood you didn't recognize at first.
He came through the door, put his keys down, and stood in the entryway for a moment longer than necessary. It made you look up from the couch. "You okay?" you asked.
"Yeah." He came in, but he didn't sit next to you. He sat across from you at the kitchen table. "Sienna, uh.." He stopped, rubbing the back of his neck. "She met someone. Someone in Portland. So she ended it, with me."
"I'm sorry." You meant it. You were not a person who wanted Derek to hurt, even now, even with everything shifting beneath your feet.
He nodded, eyes fixed on the grain of the wood. "It's fine. It was.." he exhaled, a tired sound. "I don't know. Itâs fine."
Youâd ordered takeout earlier, optimistically, and the containers sat on the counter. You looked at Derek and he looked lost. Like someone who had reached for something and come back empty handed, unsure of what to do with his hands now.
The old version of you would have moved to fix it. You would have smoothed it over, sat beside him, and made it easier without being asked.
But you stayed where you were. "Derek."Â
He looked up.
"I need to tell you something."
A wariness arrived in his expression.
"I met someone," you said. "A while ago. Before Portland, before any of it got serious for you." You kept your voice even. "It started as one night. Thatâs all it was supposed to be. And then it just.." you paused, finding the honest word. "It grew. Into something I wasn't expecting. Something I realized I actually wanted."
Derek was very still. "Who?"
"That doesn't matter right now."
"Who." His voice was harder this time, an edge of demand bleeding through.
"His name is Jack. Heâs a doctor. I met him at a bar." You held his gaze. "He's a good man. He makes me feel like someone worth paying attention to."
"Thatâs what this is supposed to be." Derekâs voice snapped, tight and frustrated. "Itâs casual. Itâs just dating, itâs just.." he stopped, shaking his head. "We were always going to come back to each other. That was always the deal."
You looked at him, the word echoing in the small kitchen. "What deal?" you asked quietly.
"Thatâs..you know what I mean. Thatâs what this was. We try things, we come back. Thatâs how it works."
"Derek." You kept your voice gentle. This wasn't about winning. "That wasn't a deal we made. That was an assumption you had."
"Weâve been together for ten years."
"I know how long weâve been together."
"So you can't just.." he gestured, a frustrated, sweeping movement. "You can't just check out because you met someone at a bar."
"I'm not checking out because I met someone at a bar," you said. "I'm checking out because I spent ten years not knowing what I was missing, and then I found out. And what I'm missing isn't Jack specifically." You couldnât help but laugh a little. "Itâs being chosen. Itâs someone who notices me. Itâs feeling like I matter in my own relationship.â
Derek looked like heâd been slapped. "Thatâs not fair," he said. "I love you."
"I know you do," you said. "I love you too. But love isn't.." you started again. "You suggested this because you wanted the freedom to look around while keeping everything exactly the same at home. And I said yes because I always say yes. But I looked around, too. And what I found was a relationship that looks completely different from what we have. And I think I've wanted that for a long time."
Derek was quiet for a while. You let the silence take up the space it needed. "When did it go wrong?" he asked finally.
The honest answer was a thousand small moments where you had made yourself smaller to fit a shape that no longer fit either of you.
"I think it was over the moment you suggested this," you said gently. "Because that was the moment it became clear we were wanting completely different things."
His jaw worked. His eyes were bright, holding himself together like a man who intended to fall apart later, in private. "So thatâs it?" he said.
"I think so." you said.
You reached across the table and put your hand over his. He looked at it for a moment, then turned his over and held yours, briefly. Ten years, the good parts and the long middle and the quiet end, closing softly in a kitchen on a Tuesday night.
âŚ
Trinity: I need you to bring me my sweater. Itâs an emergency. The grey one. From your apartment.
You: Why is your sweater at my apartment???
Trinity: Y/N itâs an emergency. I'm freezing.
You looked around your apartment. You were in the middle of doing nothing in particular, which was a feeling you were still getting used to. The wide open quiet of an evening that belonged entirely to you. Just you and whatever you wanted to do with it.
You found the sweater draped over your desk chair. Grey, soft, unmistakably Trinityâs. She left things at your place all the time like breadcrumbs, a trail of her belongings scattered across your life.
You: fineeee Iâll drop it off.
At the ER, you saw her turn around the corridor and spot you. She was in her usual scrubs, stethoscope around her neck, looking not even remotely cold.
"You texted me for a sweater and it feels eighty degrees in here."
"I run cold!"
A sound came from down the corridor. A laugh that you were starting to know well. A laugh you loved in fact.Â
You turned slowly, and there he was. Thirty feet away, in scrubs, chart in hand, laughing at something the woman beside him had said. He turned, his eyes found you, and he went still. You could see the math happening in his eyes as he walked over.
His voice was even, but his eyes were warm and confused. "How do you.." He looked at Trinity.
Trinity extended her hand. "I hear we have a person in common. Y/Nâs best friend in the entire world, nice to meet you."
Jack looked at her. "Santos, I know who you are."Â
"She didn't know." Trinity said. "Until recently that you worked here. With me."
Jack looked at you. And you just tried to look as normal as you could. You could feel the heat crawling up your neck. "Small world," he said softly.
"Apparently." you managed.
Trinity finally took the sweater from you hands. "You're such a good friend!â Then she made it a point to speak directly to Jack. âWe're taking Y/N out tonight. She broke up with her boyfriend."
You watched Jackâs face. He didnât say anything at first. But the smile that broke across his face was quietly, deeply pleased. He absolutely could not hide it. "Have fun." he said.Â
Trinity was already taking your arm, steering you toward the exit. "Goodnight, Dr. Abbot!" she called.
You looked back once. He was still standing there, still smiling, and when he caught you looking, he didn't look away. You let Trinity pull you through the doors. "You are the worst person I know."
"I'm the best person you know," she said. "Also, you're welcome."
âŚ
Jack, true to his word, had let you be the one to come to him. Heâd been patient this whole time while your world shifted.Â
Finally, you decided youâd had enough of waiting, so you called him.Â
"Hi," you said. "Are you home?"
"Just got in. You okay?"
"Yes." You sat on your couch in your apartment. Fiddling with the loose fibers in the seats. "I want to see you.â
"When?" he said.
"This week. Whenever youâre free. I donât.." You paused, laughing slightly at the nerves you hadnât expected. "Iâm not usually like this."
"Like what?"
"Nervous."
"You're nervous?" he said. There was something in his voice, a smile that wasn't laughing at you, but with you. "I find that extremely reassuring."
"Youâre nervous too?"
"Iâve been nervous since the day I met you." he said.
You couldnât help but smile. Biting your bottom lip between your teeth. "Friday?" you said. "Dinner. Somewhere I pick this time. And Jack?"
"Yeah?"
"This isn't a one night thing."
"No." he said quietly. "It isnât."
âŚ
Dinner was the most fun you'd had in a long time and after, Jack walked you to your car. He reached up and tucked a piece of hair back from your face. "I'd like to take you out again." he said. "As many times as youâll let me."
"That could be a lot of times." you said.
"Good." His hand dropped to your jaw, warm. "I told you. Iâm thorough.â
âŚ
The door hadn't even fully latched before Jack had you pinned against it. The air in his apartment was cool, but his body was a furnace against yours. There was only the sound of your combined breathing and the frantic slide of hands over skin.
He guided you to the sofa, his mouth never leaving yours, tasting like the red wine from dinner and the promise heâd been making you with his eyes all night. He pushed you back onto the cushions and dropped to his knees, parting your legs with a force that made your heart hammer against your ribs.
"Iâve been thinking about this all night." he said, his voice thick and rough.
He didn't waste time. He stripped you and when he saw you, he let out a sound of approval. He leaned in, his hot breath ghosting over your sensitive skin. "Your pussy is so wet, sweetheart. So beautiful."
Then he moved in, eating you like a man starved. He used his tongue with a relentless, lapping intensity, broad strokes followed by sharp, flicking pressure that had you crying out and arching your back off the sofa. He didn't stop when you shook. He gripped your thighs tighter, drinking you in until you shattered against his mouth.
You were still gasping, your senses blurred, when he pulled you to your feet. He didn't lead you to the bedroom. He didn't want the comfort of a mattress, he wanted you right here.
"Lean over.â You obeyed, gripping the back of the sofa, your knuckles white. You heard the sharp sound of his zipper, and then the heat of him was pressing against your opening.
He drove into you in one steady, uncompromising motion. He filled you so completely it took your breath away. "You are mine." he said into your ear, his hands finding your hips to anchor you.
He began to fuck you slowly. It was deep and deliberate, each thrust a claim. He reached around to find where you were most sensitive, his fingers working in tandem with the slide of his cock, pushing you toward a second, even more delicious peak. You watched your own reflection in the darkened window, seeing the way he moved behind you, until the world narrowed down to just the friction and the heat.
âŚ
Two hours later, the adrenaline had faded into a delicious ache. You woke up in the master suite and followed the sound of hissing water to the bathroom. Jack was sitting in the shower, his built in chair positioned under the spray.Â
He didn't say a word, just reached out, his hand wrapping around your waist to pull you toward him. Joining him under the warmth.
Being seated gave him a different vantage point, his eyes level with your chest, dark and appreciative. He pulled you into the space between his knees, his hands sliding up your thighs.
He guided you to straddle his lap, your knees resting on the edges of the chair. As you lowered yourself, he reached down to guide his cock into you in one deep, unhurried slide.
"You feel even better like this," he moaned, his fingers digging into your hips.
He used his arms to pull you down onto him while thrusting upward, a dual pressure that made every nerve ending scream. The chair was solid beneath you, providing a grounded leverage that let him fuck you without worry.
The water sluiced over both of you, masking your gasps as he buried his face in the crook of your neck, his movements becoming faster and more urgent until he filled you completely.
âŚ
In the morning, Jack was at the stove, shirtless, the muscles of his back working as he moved. You were wrapped in one of his heavy button downs, sitting at the kitchen island.
He set a plate of eggs in front of you, but he didn't pick up his own fork. Instead, he watched you take a bite, his gaze dropping to your bare legs.
"Jack, eat your breakfast," you murmured, though your voice lacked any real conviction.
He pushed you to lay flat against the island and parted the hem of the shirt.
The cold air hit you for only a second before his mouth replaced it.
Right there in the morning light, with the coffee steaming and the sun rising, he went down on you again.
He was relentless, his tongue finding every sensitive spot with the ease of a man who intended to spend the rest of his life learning exactly how to make you come.
You gripped the marble edge of the counter, your breakfast forgotten, as he claimed you for the third time.Â
âŚ
one year later
You had tattooed a lot of things on a lot of people.
You had never once been nervous doing it, until now.Â
"You're holding my hand very tightly for someone who is about to put a needle in it." Jack said.
"I'm positioning you." You looked up at him. He was watching you with those eyes, completely unbothered, which was both reassuring and deeply annoying. "You're not nervous at all?"
"No."
"This is permanent, Jack."
"I know what a tattoo is, Y/N."
"I just want to make sure you've.."
"Hey." His free hand came up and tilted your chin gently. "I know what I want."Â
You looked at him for a moment. Then you looked back down at his hand in yours, his left hand, ring finger, the spot you'd cleaned and prepped and stenciled with a single clean letter. Your initial. Small and precise and permanent.
He didn't flinch. You hadn't expected him to, this was a man who had been through things that made a tattoo needle a deeply unremarkable experience, but still.
Something in your chest did the warm aching thing it did sometimes when Jack was being exactly himself.
You finished in two minutes. Clean lines, your steadiest work.
You wrapped it. Told him the aftercare instructions he didn't need because he was a doctor and knew perfectly well how wounds healed, but you told him anyway because it was your job and also because you needed something to do with your mouth that wasn't saying something embarrassing.
When you finished your own and wrapped it, you looked at your finger. His initial. Small and clean and permanent.
He brought your hand up and pressed his mouth to your knuckles, just above the fresh ink, careful not to touch it.
âŚ
Trinity and Dennis came over a few weeks later.Â
This had become a thing, somehow, over the past few months. A loose gathering at your apartment that involved whatever food Dennis decided to bring, which was always something excellent.
"These are incredible," Trinity said, around a dumpling. "Where did you get these."
"A place." Dennis said, a man who protected his sources.
"That's not an answer."
"That's the only answer you're getting."
You smiled at your drafting table. Jack appeared from the kitchen with two mugs and set one beside you.
When you reached for it, Trinity stopped and stared at your hand wrapped around the mug. "What is on your finger."
"Nothing," you said.
Trinity sat up fully pointing at your left hand "Is that a J?"
Dennis looked up. "Let me see."Â
Jack came out of the kitchen. Dennis looked at him. Looked at his left hand and then at yours.
"Is that.." Trinity started.
"Those are.." Dennis said.
"Y/N! Are you married to Jack Abbot?" Trinity grabbed your hand now, fully staring down at it.Â
You looked at your finger. The small clean J sitting there.
You looked at Jack and the smile that moved across his face was warm and held a mix of pride and mischief and you felt the matching one on your own face bloom and made no effort at all to stop it.
Never Craved Touch Til I Felt Yours - Jack Abbot x Reader
Description: Ending up in bed with her attending was one thing. It wasn't that, that had her heart racing the next morning. It was the sudden urge to get away from him. Old habits die hard, but Jack's not one to let go so easily.
Warnings: Sexual acitivities are implied, but no smut. Mentions of intimacy/touch issues. Use of y/n and she/her. Age gap present, but not specified. Y/n is a resident.
Notes: Nothing much to add except somehow writing about intimacy issues has kinda become somewhat of a specialty of mine (and apparently write it well enough), lol. I think Jack would be so sweet about it, though. Enjoy :)
________
Waking up was slow. She was warm and the bed had that specific comfort only reserved for mornings. Though she didn't have anywhere to be. It was her day off. It took a while for her to open her eyes. But when she did, they blinked open slowly. It was uncharacteristically dark for her bedroom. Normally light filtered in through the curtains one way or another. Still, she didn't question it in her tired, slightly fuzzy state. Perhaps it was cloudy outside or earlier than she thought.
But just as she went to close her eyes again, she felt movement beside her. And everything sort of hit her at once.
This wasn't her bedroom, nor her bed. The sheets smelled suspiciously like the man she had spent the night with.
She laid there, remembering how it felt to have his hands on her. The ghost of his gentle touches, soft kisses and whispered praises that quite frankly still had her reeling.
She was wearing his t-shirt because he had given it to her to sleep in. Such a gentleman.
What an asshole.
She sat up a little, rising to her elbow and looked beside her. Jack was still sleeping soundly, bare chest rising up and down with each steady breath. She hadn't strayed too far from him in sleep. She could feel the heat of him radiating under the covers.
She blinked, part of her hoping this was a dream. For a while, she just stared at him. Almost in disbelief. What happened last night certainly wasn't planned and she was under the impression that it was just a heat of the moment thing.
They were friends. More importantly, he was her attending.
It wasn't some drunken mistake, so she couldn't blame it on that. Both of them were sober and they both wanted it.
Intimacy had always been an issue for her. She wasn't the most experienced when it came to sex and relationships. It didn't come easy for her. And as much as she liked Jack, old habits died hard. And when the reality of what happened crashed into her, it was overwhelming. Not exactly regret, but there was this feeling of something like dread that washed over her and settled deep within her.
Her body reacted before her brain did, instinctively. Like a fight or flight response and she got out of the bed to try to find her clothes in the dark. Not an easy task, she discovered.
"What are you doing?".
She hadn't even noticed he was awake. She jumped a little, looking back at him as he switched his bedside lamp on.
"Oh." She muttered when she could see him properly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you. Go back to sleep."
He sat up, tired eyes moving over her like he was trying to figure something out.
"What are you doing?". He repeated, his tone a little softer than before.
"Uh...". She swallowed thickly, nervously. He noticed this and tilted his head.
"I was just gonna...". She motioned to the door, implying she was leaving.
"What?". That tone made her pause. He sounded a little hurt, making her furrow her eyebrows.
"Baby, what's going on?".
She froze a little at the pet name he used. "Don't... don't call me that."
Jack looked at her like he was observing a patient. He noticed her slightly laboured breathing and the way she kinda hadn't stopped moving even though she was standing still.
"Y/n." His voice gentled as he shifted on the bed, moving to sit at the end of it. "C'mere."
"I... I can't." She stepped back a little. He was kneeling at the foot of the bad, bearing most of his weight on his right leg.
"Please?". His hand reached out. She stared at it for a long moment, then took it. He guided her towards him, getting her to stand in front of him.
The hesitation was clear in her face.
"What's wrong?". He asked softly, squeezing her hand to soothe the shaking of her fingers. His thumb rubbed circles on the back of her hand.
It was almost too much, but she didn't pull away just yet.
"Jack, I can't stay."
He frowned.
"Why not?". His question was gentle. Not accusing. He just wanted to understand what she was thinking. She wasn't even sure herself.
Her eyes closed briefly as she tried to pull herself together. As he was waiting patiently, he brought her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. And that seemed to tip her over the edge.
She started to cry, hot tears flowing down her cheeks. Ones that she'd been holding back since he caught her trying to leave.
His expression fell. "Hey, hey."
She sniffled, trying to pull away from him. But he didn't let her.
"Jack, let me go."
"Can't do that, sweetheart. Need you to talk to me."
She sobbed, which made him pull her closer. Eventually she was sitting down, burying her face into his chest as she cried.
Once she calmed down a little, he made her look at him.
"Did I do something wrong? Please tell me if I did."
She shook her head. "It's not you."
He noticed that she was avoiding touching him as much as possible. Her hands at her sides, body faced away from him.
He then took his hands off her. "Y/n, is this... about last night?".
She sighed. "Not just that."
"You regret it?".
"No."
"Come on, honey. Help me out here. I can't read your mind, I need you to tell me what's going on."
She frowned, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "This shouldn't have happened, Jack."
He straightened, meeting her eyes. "Okay... yes, you're right. It shouldn't have. But it did. So how are you feeling about it?".
"Well, not great." Her voice wavered with nerves.
"Hey." He gently got her attention. "Easy. Take a breath for me."
She did as told, and it was quiet between them for a moment before he spoke up again.
"What are you nervous for, hm? Don't need to be nervous with me." He kissed her cheek, which made her flinch. He noticed. Of course he did. He froze and so did she.
Then he softened. Even more than before.
"Hey... it's okay."
Her hand was on his thigh and he noticed she was working herself into a pattern. Nothing remotely suggestive. He counted each tap of her fingers like it held the answer to what was wrong. Maybe it did. One, two, three. Then she'd stop. One, two, three, four. Then she'd stop and repeat. It was subconscious, she didn't even realise she was doing it.
"Talk to me, sweetheart. I can't help if you don't."
He brushed a strand of hair out of her face, tucking it behind her ear. She sighed quietly.
"I panicked." She admitted. "I woke up, and I could just feel you. I could feel you breathing, the warmth of your body. You weren't touching me, but I could still feel your hands on me and you kissing me. And I...".
Her breath hitched a little. He tilted his head, not understanding yet but listening patiently.
"I don't like people touching me."
He frowned, but didn't say anything. Letting her talk through it.
"Last night, I liked you touching me. But that's different because I trust you and I wanted that. Now I... I'm stuck in this weird place where I want you to touch me. Not sexually. But I also would rather die."
His eyebrows rose as his lips pulled up into a barely there smirk. "You would rather die than let me touch you again?".
"Pretty much."
He chuckled softly, amused. But his hands stilled, respecting the boundary she had placed. "So... you were just going to leave without saying anything?".
She shrugged. "Well, it was just a heat of the moment thing. Right?".
He pursed his lips. "Not for me."
This alarmed her.
He sighed. "I'm sorry, y/n. I should've told you before. But I like you. I thought I made it pretty clear last night. It wasn't a heat of the moment thing for me."
"Oh...".
He tilted his head, waiting for some kind of reaction.
"I like you too, Jack."
"Really?".
She nodded. "But I'm not very good at this."
"At what?".
"Well...". She hesitated to touch him and sighed. Her hand had hovered over his arm briefly, only to take it back.
Jack blinked. "It's okay. You can touch me. I'm not gonna break, sweetheart."
She didn't initiate, so he reached over and put her hand on his forearm for her. Then he leaned forward a little to meet her eyes, giving her a soft, closed-mouth smile.
She tried to avoid his hazel gaze, but he was persistent. "Hey... just stay here with me for a second."
The two of them sat in comfortable silence for a long time. There were birds chirping outside. The blackout curtains blocked the sun completely, but some light peaked out at the edges. Only the bedside lamp served as the soft morning glow. It was still early, though she had no idea what time it was.
It was his lack of overreaction that calmed her down. The softness of the moment, the way he treated her with such care and respect.
This was a side of Jack she only had a glimpse of before. She knew it was there under the gruff exterior, effortless confidence and sarcastic comments he presented at the e.d.
His care was subtle. It didn't make her heart race or take her breath away. It just sat there beside her, steady until she could breathe again.
Now that she was seeing it firsthand, just for her it was soothing. Not scary. It was gentle. Not overwhelming. It was safe.
After a while, he spoke softly. "You okay?".
She nodded, wiping at tears that were no longer there.
"Still feel like leaving?".
"No." She mumbled.
"Good." His thumb rubbed circles on the inside of her wrist. "I'll make us breakfast then."
"Jack."
"Mhm?".
"What, uh... what happens now? Like do we just go back to work, or...".
He chuckled softly. "You think too much."
"That's easy for you to say. You can't get fired."
His shrug was too casual for her liking. "It's me that'll get in trouble, sweetheart. Not you."
She frowned. "I don't think that's as comforting as you meant it to be."
He sighed. "We'll figure it out. Don't worry, okay?
She pursed her lips, but agreed. "Alright."
_
While Jack was making breakfast, y/n stood behind him watching absently. She was still in the walkway that connected the kitchen and living area. It was open plan, so much space to move and yet she stayed in the same spot. Not even moving to sit on a stool.
She admired the black marble covered counters and the dark wood accents. It was a nice space, done up pretty much how she had imagined.
Not that she had thought about it, of course.
His apartment was nothing flashy, though it was evident he'd still spent some amount of money on it. If the huge flatscreen tv and black leather couch were anything to go by.
She had been so lost in thought she hadn't noticed Jack had moved and was now standing in front of her.
"Y/n?".
She jumped, blinking a few times.
"Hm?".
"Hey... there she is." He hums. "Been trying to get your attention for ten minutes."
"Oh... I'm sorry."
"It's okay. What were you thinking about?".
She shrugged, making him soften. "Are you sure you're okay?".
"Yeah. I guess my brain's still processing."
"You can come in, you know. I don't bite."
"That's not entirely true." She muttered to herself, not intending for him to hear it. In fact, she was meant to say it in her head.
But he turned back to look at her, lifting an eyebrow. "What?".
She felt a familiar heat spread throughout her chest and into the roots of her hair.
She swallowed thickly. "Uh...".
His lips curled into a little smirk that almost made her dizzy because she knew it meant he had heard what she said.
"I said you do bite."
"Only a little." He winked at her, making her roll her eyes.
As he turned back to the cooker, she did as told and came further into the kitchen, taking a seat on one of the stools. Her eyes wandered a little, travelling over the expanse of his shoulders and arms. The muscles in his bicep flexed slightly each time he lifted the pan.
The smell of eggs and bacon filled her senses. But she was just thinking about how those arms held her last night. And she had a sudden, unexplainable urge to feel it again. That wasn't something she could say out loud, though.
Was she even allowed to?
His humming brought her out of her daze before he could catch her blatantly staring at him. He brought a plate over to her and poured two glasses of orange juice, giving one to her.
"Thank you."
He nodded, smiling as he sat down beside her. They ate in relative silence. His knee occasionally bumped hers. By the third time, she was suspicious that it wasn't accidental. And she risked a glance at him. He was already looking at her.
She frowned, confused. "What?".
He chuckled, lifting her hand to kiss the back of it. She didn't flinch this time. "What possible reason could I have for staring at you, hm?".
He seemed amused at her still confused expression. "You're wearing my t-shirt, honey. It looks good on you."
"Oh." She paused, looking down at herself. It was just the plain black t-shirt she had slept in last night (that still smelled like him). "Thanks."
After breakfast, he did the dishes, dismissing her offer to do them. He told her to go sit on the couch.
She wandered over, but didn't sit as once again she got lost in thought. With a quiet sigh, she looked out of the window mindlessly. She kept thinking about it. She couldn't remember the last time she just wanted someone to hold her, if ever. She hated it with anyone else. It was the main reason her previous relationships never lasted long.
She didn't like the feeling of being pressed against someone. And nobody talked about how long it had to last, she couldn't spend hours cuddling. It was awkward, and what did people talk about? It never really made sense to her.
But then again, no one else had looked at her the way Jack did when she told him.
"Sweetheart."
She turned her head, meeting the concerned gaze of Jack Abbot. "Yeah?".
He sighed. "Come here. Sit down."
He took her by the hand and led her to the couch, gently nudging her until she was sitting. Then he sat in the coffee table in front of her, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees.
For a few minutes, they just stayed like that.
Then he squeezed her hand, making sure he had her attention. "Y/n, last night... are you sure everything was consensual?".
"What? Yes, of course it was."
"And... everything felt good, right?".
She nodded. "Mhm."
"I didn't hurt you?".
She shook her head. "No."
"Was it-".
"Jack, everything's fine. I'm fine. What's with all the questions?".
"Well, I'm sorry. I'm just worried, you keep spacing out on me. If there's anything you're not telling me, I need to know."
"There's nothing wrong. I told you, it's not you."
"Then what is it?".
She sighed. "Would it be weird if I asked you to kiss me?".
He looked genuinely perplexed. "I think it would be weirder if you didn't."
"Jack, I'm serious."
"So am I." He chuckled, shifting a little closer.
"I just want to see something."
"Fine with me."
He pressed his lips against hers with a different energy to how he kissed last night, softly and unhurried. Not to say he wasn't that before, but now it was sweet and less passionate. Not until he felt her kiss him back. Only then did he moved closer and place his hand on her thigh. The other coming up to tuck her hair behind her ear, out of the way.
It only lasted a few seconds, but when he pulled away he rested his forehead against hers. "Find what you were looking for?".
Her fingers twitched, hesitant to touch him. "Maybe."
Pulling back, he tilted his head slightly. "Need a second opinion?".
Despite herself, she let out a soft laugh. "I don't know, Jack."
He smiled, moving to join her on the couch. Then he leaned in and kissed her again. She sighed into it, chills running down her spine and causing goosebumps to appear on her skin. This time, she didn't kiss him back, too in her head. She was busy trying to figure out what to do with her hands.
He didn't seem to mind.
But he stopped when he felt the slightest flinch from her when he touched her arm.
"Hey." His voice gentled. "You're okay, honey."
"I know." She sounded frustrated.
He gently guided her hand to his his clothed chest. She could feel the thrumming of his heart. It was beating a little fast, but not unsteady. It was comforting.
"Y/n, look at me."
She did as told, eyes flicking up to meet his. His thumb caught a stray tear falling down her cheek. "It's not a bad thing to want affection from me. It's okay to ask for it."
She sat up, a little frown pulling at her lips. "It is?".
"Of course it is, sweetheart. I wouldn't have had sex with you in the first place if I didn't expect it."
Her eyes closed briefly. "I didn't want to ask. I hate that I can't stop thinking about it."
"About what?".
"How badly I need you to hold me." She sniffled, wiping at her eyes.
His expression softened. "Hey, hey. It's okay. Come here."
She hesitated, but he pulled her closer to him and put his arms around her. Surprising both of them, she melted into him.
"I'm sorry." She cried.
"Shh." He stroked her hair, running his fingers through it. "Please don't be."
Once she had calmed down, she pulled back but he didn't let her go too far away. His thumb gently stroked her cheek, wiping away the sticky residue of her tears.
"Feel better?".
She nodded. "A little."
He smiled softly. "If I had known that's all you wanted, I would've done it sooner."
"Really?".
"All you had to do was ask."
After a few minutes, he took his prosthesis off and settled back into the couch, pulling her with him. He could still feel her hesitation. Her hands trembled slightly.
"Feel okay?".
She nodded, settling into his side and resting her head on his chest lightly. "Yeah."
"Let me know if it doesn't."
"Jack."
"Mhm?".
"What does one do when cuddling? You just lie here?".
He chuckled. "Pretty much."
"Sounds kinda boring."
"Well, it's not supposed to be stimulating." He took her hand and squeezed it gently. "S'posed to be soothing."
She giggled. "It kinda is."
He kissed her head, then sighed. "Good. Glad we're getting somewhere."
She nuzzled into him, craving his warmth. "How long can we stay like this?".
He shrugged. "I don't know about you, but I wasn't planning on going anywhere."
ęąá´á´á´á´ĘĘ âş bucky moves into your spare room expecting nothing more than four walls and a place to sleep. instead, he finds floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, sticky note conversations, late-night takeout, and a girl who always puts herself last.
á´á´ÉŞĘɪɴɢ âş roommate!bucky x female reader
á´á´É´á´á´É´á´ á´Ąá´ĘÉ´ÉŞÉ´É˘ęą âş roommates trope, post tfatws, sticky note communication, friends to lovers, roommates to lovers, slow burn, domestic fluff, many many hot dog mentions, anxiety, work stress/burnout, author has mini geek speak moments, anthropology reader, emotional intimacy, quiet romance, self-doubt, mild emotional hurt/comfort, sticky note love language, reader insecurity, loneliness, not beta read we die like men.
á´Ąá´Ęá´ á´á´á´É´á´ âş 11.3k
á´á´á´Ęá´Ęęą É´á´á´á´ âş and they were roommates.... oh my god they were roommates
The number sits in his phone for three days before he uses it.
Three days of bad apartments and worse brokers. Places with paper-thin walls and windows that looked directly into brick. Places that smelled like mildew and old cigarettes. Places so expensive they made his jaw lock before the realtor even finished speaking.
He tells himself he's only looking because he has to. Not because he misses hearing another person in the next room. Not because going back to the apartment in Brooklyn every night feels too much like walking into a museum exhibit dedicated to a man he doesn't know how to be anymore.
Louisiana had almost made sense for a second.
He can still picture the dock at sunset, the water catching orange light, the sound of Sam's nephews shouting somewhere down the road. He can still hear Sam leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, pretending not to look too concerned.
âYou could stay here for a while,â Sam had said.
âNo.â
âYou don't even gotta stay with me. The VA's offering assistance out here now. They can help you get your own place.â
âNo.â
Sam had looked at him for a long second then, the kind of look people get right before they decide whether or not to push.
âYou know, accepting help doesn't mean you're weak.â
Bucky had laughed once under his breath, sharp and humorless. âNot taking charity.â
âIt ain't charity.â
âFeels like it.â
Sam had sighed through his nose, digging through a kitchen drawer before pulling out a scrap of paper with a number scribbled across it.
âI know somebody in New York. Friend of mine has a spare room.â
Bucky remembers immediately opening his mouth to refuse, Sam had beaten him to it.
âYou won't be coddled or given the sugar treatment,â he said. âYou'll pay rent, keep your mess clean, same as anywhere else. I bet you'll like it too.â
That had been the only reason Bucky took the number at all.
Now, three days later, he stares at it again from the edge of a too-small hotel bed in Queens. The room hums around him. Old air conditioner rattling in the window. Pipes knocking somewhere in the walls. The smell of industrial detergent trapped in the sheets.
He types the message before he can talk himself out of it.
Sam Wilson gave me your number. He said you had a room for rent.
The response comes less than ten minutes later, not much text, no small talk. Just a picture. The room is simple. Bigger than he expected. A bed frame without a mattress, a dresser by the wall, a window overlooking the street below. Hardwood floors. Clean lines. Nothing flashy.
Underneath the picture is the address and rent amount. Reasonable, more than reasonable, honestly.
Then another message.
He told me you'd message. If you're interested, you can come look at it tomorrow. I work late tonight.
What would probably seem forward to others Bucky sees as efficient, Sam's recommendation is starting to make sense now. The building is in Brooklyn, far enough from the center of everything to be quiet but not isolated. The brick outside is old, the kind that has survived decades without anybody bothering to make it prettier.
There is a sticky note taped to the front door when he gets there.
Spare key is under the plant. Let yourself in.
He stares at the note for a second longer than he needs to. Something about it feels strangely normal. The kind of thing people do when they trust that the world isn't always waiting to hurt them.
The apartment is quiet when he steps inside, his shoes echoing off the walls. It's not empty per say, just still.
There are a pair of sneakers and loafers by the door lined up neatly on a tray. A light jacket tossed over the back of the couch, s mug sitting in the sink, a blanket folded over the armrest like somebody had smoothed it down before rushing out the door.
The place is nice. Not too fancy, not overly cluttered. There are soft colors everywhere. Cream walls. Warm wood floors. A kitchen with magnets on the fridge and a bowl of fruit on the counter. It feels lived in in small ways, like somebody exists here just hardly.
The bedroom at the end of the hall is bigger than he expected. Master bedroom with a bathroom attached, an amenity he hadn't lived with in too many years to count. Enough room for his duffel bags and the few boxes he still carries from place to place without unpacking.
But it isn't the room that makes him stop.
It's the hallway.
Bookshelves run from floor to ceiling along both sides of it, turning the narrow stretch between the living room and bedrooms into something else entirely. There are hundreds of books. Maybe more. Old hardcovers with cracked spines. Paperbacks with folded corners. New glossy editions wedged beside books that look older than he is.
His eyes catch on familiar titles. The Great Gatsby, A Farewell to Arms, The Hobbit. A worn copy of The Catcher in the Rye sits crooked on a shelf near the middle. Some of the older books have faded cloth covers, titles nearly rubbed away with time. He reaches out before he can stop himself, fingertips brushing the spine of one that looks like it has been opened a hundred times.
It reassures him in a way he can't explain. For the first time in weeks, maybe months, he can picture himself somewhere without immediately wanting to leave.
He pulls his phone out.
Nice place. I'll take it if it's still up for offer.
The reply comes before he even reaches the kitchen.
It's all yours. Lease is on the kitchen counter. Bring your stuff in whenever. I won't be back until late again.
He looks over at the stack of papers sitting beside the fruit bowl. A little strange and fast, maybe. But he isn't complaining. The lease is simple. Month to month, rent due on the first. No smoking inside, clean up after yourself. No coffee grounds down the drain.
That last one almost makes him smile.
He signs his name at the bottom then he goes back downstairs to start bringing his things in. Which, after a century of life, turns out to be less than he thought it'd be. It only takes him three days to move in.
Three days of hauling boxes up narrow stairs and carrying duffel bags that feel heavier than they should. Three days of unpacking only half of his things because there isn't much point in settling too deeply into anywhere anymore.
He never sees you once.
The first night, he hears the front door unlock sometime after midnight, quiet footsteps, the soft rustle of a jacket being hung up. Cabinet doors opening and closing in the kitchen. He stands frozen in the doorway of his room for a second, listening.
Then he hears the bathroom door shut down the hall and waits for some awkward introduction that never comes. By the time he wakes up the next morning, you're gone again.
There is a sticky note on the fridge.
Working late all week. Feel free to use anything in the kitchen except the leftover Chinese food. Learned that lesson already.
He pulls the note off the fridge after reading it, folding it once before sticking it in the pocket of his sweatshirt without really knowing why.
The second note comes two days later, left beside the coffee maker.
Heading upstate for work tomorrow. Back Friday night.
Then another on the kitchen counter.
If the sink in the kitchen makes that awful screeching noise again, jiggle the cold water handle.
It's strange, living with someone he has never met.
You exist in pieces to him. A mug left drying by the sink, a pair of shoes by the door one night and gone again by morning, a blanket folded on the couch in a different way than he remembers leaving it.
The faint smell of shampoo lingering in the hallway bathroom after he knows you've been home.
Sometimes he catches the sound of you moving around at night. The creak of floorboards in the hall. The soft thud of something being set on the kitchen counter. Once, half asleep, he hears quiet music drifting from somewhere in the apartment before it disappears again.
You are becoming something blurry around the edges, more presence than person, a ghost.
Not that he's one to complain. The arrangement works and for the first few weeks, he mostly keeps to his room anyway. He gets used to the attached bathroom. The way the pipes knock whenever somebody runs hot water. The patch of afternoon sun that lands across the floor by the window around three o'clock every day.
He unpacks slowly. One shirt at a time, one book at a time. He leaves most of his things in boxes because it feels safer that way. Temporary. Like if he has to leave suddenly, he can.
He still goes out most nights, he doesn't cook much.
The kitchen feels too personal somehow, like crossing into territory that belongs more to you than him. So he eats at diners, cheap takeout places, little delis with too-bright lights and menus that haven't changed in twenty years.
Eventually he starts stopping at the same hot dog stand three blocks from the apartment. The guy who runs it is older. Loud, talks too much, calls everyone sweetheart regardless of age or gender. The first time Bucky goes there, the guy takes one look at him and says, âYou look like you need two hot dogs and a nap.â
By the third visit, he doesn't even have to order.
âMustard, onions, no kraut,â the guy says, already reaching for the buns. âAnd a Coke.â
âYou're getting too comfortable,â Bucky tells him.
âYou keep showing up, that's on you.â
He reminds Bucky of Sam if Sam were louder and somehow even more annoying.
The guy asks questions constantly.
You got a girl? No. Job? Sort of. Why do you always look like somebody just kicked your dog?
Bucky never answers half of them, still, he keeps coming back. Mostly because the hot dogs are decent. Partly because it is nice, sometimes, to have somebody expect you to show up somewhere.
Back at the apartment, another sticky note waits for him on the kitchen counter.
Sorry for basically haunting the place. Work has been insane lately.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. A ghost with good handwriting, at least now he knows you know it too.
The first time he sees you, it feels a little like walking into the wrong apartment.
He comes back later than usual, the city already washed in blue evening light, a paper tray from the hot dog stand balanced in one hand and a soda in the other. The apartment door sticks a little when he pushes it open.
He hears your voice before he sees you. It's soft, firm yet an edge of exhaustion to it.
âYou can tell them whatever you want, but I'm not driving six hours for a meeting that could've been an email.â
He stops just inside the doorway.
You're standing by the living room windows with your back to him, one arm folded across your middle, phone tucked between your ear and shoulder.
For a second, he just stares. Because he had almost forgotten, not completely, but enough. Enough that your existence had turned into sticky notes and moving shadows in the hallway. Coffee mugs in the sink. A coat that appeared on the hook by the door and disappeared again before morning.
He had built you into something abstract in his head.
Not a real person.
Certainly not a woman.
Not because Sam had said otherwise. Sam hadn't said much at all.
Just because there had been nothing obvious about you in the apartment. No perfume bottles cluttering the bathroom counter. No makeup bags. No floral blankets or pastel throw pillows or whatever other lazy stereotypes his brain had apparently reached for without him realizing it.
The place is sparse, practical. Books and soft lighting and a single plant by the window that looks one missed watering away from death. He mentally scolds himself for the assumptions.
You don't turn around right away, you're still talking and Bucky begins to wonder if he should walk out. Keep to the ghostly sticky notes and mugs in the sink.
âYeah, well, that's not my problem,â you say into the phone, quieter now. âI sent everything over already.â
Then your eyes flick toward the entryway. Toward him.
You freeze.
It happens so quickly he almost misses it. The slight widening of your eyes. The way your mouth parts for a second before you catch yourself. It's clear you hadn't expected to see him either.
âHold on,â you murmur into the phone.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
You are not what he expected either. You're standing barefoot on the hardwood floor with your heels kicked off next to you, hair a little messy like you've been running your hands through it all day and a suitskirt that's been smoothed down one too many times.
There are tired shadows under your eyes that make you look⌠real. Not like the blurry version of you he'd made up from scraps. He realizes, distantly, that this is probably the first time you've really seen him too. Not just the sound of boots in the hallway or the evidence of him in the sink.
The metal arm. The size of him. The way he takes up space without meaning to.
You recover first.
âSorry,â you say, pulling the phone away from your mouth. âI didn't know you were coming home.â
âYeah.âBrilliant move.
You blink at him once, then glance down at the hot dog tray in his hand. âHope that's not dinner.â
He looks down too. âIt was the plan.â
You huff a laugh through your nose, small and tired. âYou eat like a divorced dad.â
He doesn't know why that almost makes him smile. Into the phone, you say, âI have to call you back,â before hanging up without waiting for an answer.
The apartment goes quiet, not awkward exactly. Well it's a little awkward but it's more unfamiliar than anything. Up close, he notices things he couldn't piece together from the notes. You look younger than he expected. Softer too, somehow. Not fragile, just... warm around the edges, like somebody people trust without thinking about it.
âSorry about that,â you say, gesturing vaguely with your phone. âWork call, you know. I, uh... didn't expect it to go like this.â
There's something awkward in the air still, that strange lingering feeling of two people trying to fit reality over the outline they'd already made of each other.
âDon't worry about it.â
You shift your phone into one hand and hold the other out toward him.
âI don't think we've actually been properly introduced.â You say, offering your name. He looks down at your hand for a second before taking it carefully.
âNo. I don't think we have.â His hand slips from yours after only a moment. âI'm Bucky.â
âI know. I suppose that's mainly my fault.â You give him a small apologetic smile. âI'm sorry. My job is very⌠time demanding and that won't really be changing anytime soon. But I'm glad to meet you, Bucky.â
âYeah,â he says. âGood to meet you too.â
Silence settles between you again, not uncomfortable, just unsure. Then both of you speak at once.
âSo what do you do?â
âHow are you liking the place?â
You stop. He stops.
âSorry,â he says, motioning for you to go first.
âI was just asking how you're liking the place.â Your arms fold loosely over yourself again. âHave you settled in well?â
âOh, yeah.â He nods once. âPlace is great. Thank you.â
And it is.
He likes the quiet. The neighborhood. The bookshelves. The fact that the apartment feels like somewhere a person could stay for a while without being swallowed by it.
You smile a little at his answer. âGood.â
More silence, then you clear your throat slightly.
âAnd you? Were gonna say...?â
âOh.â He glances down for a second like he'd forgotten his own question. âI was just wondering what you do... that's so...â He makes a vague motion with one hand. âTime demanding.â
âOh. Right.â You shift your weight against the windowsill. âI work in the anthropology division at the American Museum of Natural History.â
He blinks once. âWow.â
You laugh softly at the look on his face.
âThat sounds awesome.â
âIt used to be,â you say with a wry little smile. âNow it's mostly a thousand phone calls and endless trips upstate to deal with the collections.â
He leans back slightly against the doorframe.
âIf you work down there, why live in Brooklyn?â he asks. âNasty commute.â
You glance around the apartment like you haven't looked at it properly in a while.
âI got this place before I got that job,â you say. âAnd I liked it.â Then, quieter, âStill like it.â
Your eyes move briefly toward the hallway. Toward the bookshelves, the kitchen, the little corners of the apartment that feel soft even when no one's in them.
âThat's actually why I wanted a roommate,â you admit. âI love this place, and I want it to be loved, but...â You shrug one shoulder. âI just don't have the time to do that.â
Something in his chest shifts a little at that, because he understands. More than he wants to. What it feels like to care about something and still not know how to be present for it.
âWell,â he says, voice quieter now, âI'll... I'll do my best.â
You smile then, not the tired, polite kind you've been giving him all evening. Something warmer. Something that catches him off guard a little, like maybe you believe him.
âI'm sorry I've basically been living here like some weird cryptid,â you say. âWork's been insane.â
âYou leave good notes.â
The second the words leave his mouth, he wants them back.
Your eyebrows lift. âThat's maybe the weirdest compliment I've ever gotten.â
You open your mouth, like you're about to say something else, then your phone rings. The sound cuts through the room sharply. You look down at the screen and make a face.
âSorry,â you say, already answering it. âI have to take this.â
âYeah. Sure.â
You offer him one last apologetic smile before turning and disappearing down the hallway toward your bedroom.
A second later he hears your door close softly, then your voice again through the wall. Professional, calm and little tired. He stands in the entryway for another minute after that, hot dog gone cold in his hand. The apartment feels different now, smaller somehow. Not because there is less space. Just because now, finally, you are real.
The apartment feels different after he meets you.
Not immediately and nothing dramatic.
You still leave before sunrise some mornings, slipping out with your bag over your shoulder and your hair still damp from the shower. You still come home long after dark, moving quietly through the apartment like you're trying not to wake someone even when he isn't asleep.
But now there is shape to your absence. Before, the apartment had just been quiet, now it feels empty. Bucky notices things he shouldn't. Whether your shoes are by the door, whether the light under your bedroom door is on.
The difference between the sound of the upstairs neighbors moving furniture and the sound of you dropping your keys onto the kitchen counter.
He lingers in the kitchen longer now too. Sometimes with coffee growing cold in his hands while he leans against the counter pretending not to listen for the front door. Sometimes he catches himself glancing toward the hallway whenever the building creaks.
You still leave notes. One waits for him on the fridge Tuesday morning, tucked beneath a magnet shaped like a pear.
Upstate again. Back Thursday night. There's soup in the fridge if it hasn't gone bad.
He stares at it for a second, then longer than that. Before he can overthink it, he grabs a pen from the junk drawer and flips the note over.
Soup is still alive. I think.
He leaves it on the counter and immediately regrets it. Wondering if it's too weird, or too familiar. But when he gets back from a walk later that night, the note is gone.
Thursday comes, then Thursday night. He is standing in the kitchen making coffee he doesn't need when he hears the front door unlock. You walk in looking exhausted. Hair messy, tote bag slipping off your shoulder, coat half falling down your arms.
You stop when you see him.
âHey.â
âHey.â
Your eyes land on the counter and you laugh. It's quiet, tired around the edges, but real.
âSoup still alive?â you ask.
âBarely.â
You drop your bag onto a chair.
âWell.â You glance toward the fridge. âSoup can't technically expire if you're brave enough.â
Bucky blinks, you smile a little wider and something warm settles low in his chest.
After that, the notes become something else. Not just reminders but conversations. You leave one on the coffee maker.
Radiator makes weird banging noises around midnight. Ignore it unless it sounds haunted.
He leaves one by the fruit bowl the next morning.
Upstairs neighbors were fighting at 2 a.m. Pretty sure someone threw a lamp.
Another day:
Please water the plant by the window before it starts holding a grudge.
He forgets. Two days later, there is another note waiting beside the drooping leaves.
You had one job.
Bucky snorts to himself, then digs out a pen.
Sorry. It does kinda look like one bad day away from death.
You leave back:
So do I.
He folds that note into the pocket of his jacket and carries it around for three days. Slowly, without either of you meaning for it to happen, the notes stop being practical.
One afternoon he comes home to find one waiting by the sink.
New coffee filters are under the sink. Also, if you ate my leftover pad thai I forgive you because it was probably bad anyway.
He smiles before he can stop himself, then writes back underneath it.
Didn't eat it. Thought about it though.
The next morning there is another note sitting beside the coffee pot.
I appreciate your honesty in this difficult time.
And just like that, the apartment doesn't feel quite so empty anymore.
As great as everything else is, Bucky gets tired of hot dogs eventually.
Not completely. He still goes to the stand a few times a week, still listens to the guy behind the cart talk too loud and ask too many questions, but after a while the thought of another hot dog starts to make him feel vaguely ill.
So one night he cooks, nothing complicated. Just pasta.
Too much of it, because he has never quite figured out how to cook for one person and because some part of him has started thinking in twos without permission.
The apartment smells different afterward, warmer. Like garlic and tomato sauce and something softer underneath it.
He leaves you a bowl in the fridge with a note stuck to the top.
Made too much. There's pasta in the fridge if you want it.
You don't come home until after midnight. He's already in bed when he hears the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.
The fridge opening, a plate clinking against the counter. Silence. Then the microwave.
The next morning, he wakes up to a note sitting beside the coffee maker.
This is the first non-takeout meal I've had in two weeks. Marry me?
He stares at it for an embarrassing amount of time. Long enough that his coffee goes cold. Long enough that he folds the note once, then again, before sliding it into the drawer beside his bed with the others.
After that, you start seeing each other more. Not on purpose exactly. Just in the little spaces between everything else. Six in the morning in the kitchen while the city outside is still gray and quiet.
You standing in one of his sweatshirts that got mixed up in the laundry over leggings, blinking sleepily into your coffee cup while he leans against the counter waiting for toast to pop up.
Passing each other in the hallway at night. Your shoulder brushing his as you move around each other in the narrow space between the dining room and kitchen.
Once, on a rainy Thursday, you both end up home at the same time. You sit on opposite ends of the couch, you with your laptop balanced on your knees, him with a book open in his lap.
The television hums quietly in the background, something neither of you is actually watching. At some point, without looking up from your screen, you stretch your legs out until your socked feet bump lightly against his thigh.
You don't move them away. Neither does he and slowly, you become easier around each other. You stop apologizing every time you leave dishes in the sink. He stops retreating to his room the second he hears you come home.
One night he brings back burgers and fries from a diner down the street.
You appear in the kitchen halfway through, hair damp from the shower, looking at his takeout bag like it personally offended you that he didn't ask if you wanted anything.
âRude,â you say.
âYou weren't home yet.â
âYou could've texted.â
He tears the bag open and slides the fries toward you. You grin immediately and steal three before he even sits down.
âYou're lucky you're cute,â he mutters.
You freeze for half a second, then keep eating like you didn't hear him. He fixes the sink handle one weekend after it starts making that awful screeching noise every time you turn it.
You come home to find him under the sink with a wrench in one hand and his sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
âWhat are you doing?â
âFixing it.â
You lean in the doorway watching him for a second. âYou know, normal people usually just call maintenance.â
âNormal people don't have metal arms.â
That makes you laugh. âFair point.â
Then one evening he comes home and finds you asleep on the couch. The apartment is dark except for the lamp in the corner, there are papers everywhere. Open folders spread across the coffee table. A legal pad on the floor. Your laptop still glowing beside you, your glasses sit crooked on your face, one hand is still wrapped loosely around a pen.
You look exhausted. Like you've simply run out of steam halfway through existing. He stands there for a second longer than he means to, then quietly sets his keys down.
He grabs the blanket folded over the arm of the couch and drapes it carefully over you.
You stir a little, brows furrowing, but you don't wake up. His hand lingers for half a second near your shoulder before he pulls it back. Then he turns off the kitchen light and disappears down the hallway.
The next morning, the blanket is folded neatly over the back of the couch again. And beside the coffee maker, there is a note.
Thanks for the blanket.
Below it, in smaller handwriting:
That was very disgustingly nice of you.
A few nights later, Bucky wakes up thirsty. The apartment is dark except for the light over the stove.
He can hear pages turning before he even reaches the kitchen.
You're sitting at the table in one of your giant sweatshirts, laptop open, papers spread out around you in messy little stacks. There are sticky notes stuck to the edge of your screen, a half-drunk cup of coffee by your elbow, and your glasses are slipping down your nose again.
You don't notice him at first. Your mouth is moving slightly while you read through something under your breath.
He leans against the doorway. âDo you ever sleep?â
You jump a little in your seat, then you look up at him and huff out a tired laugh.
âSometimes.â
âYou sure?â
âNot particularly.â
He moves farther into the kitchen, grabbing a glass from the cabinet. âYou know it's two in the morning, right?â
You glance down at your laptop clock. âOh.â
âYou didn't know?â
âI thought it was maybe midnight.â
He shakes his head a little as he fills his glass. âWhat are you even doing?â
You look down at the folders spread around you and for a second, you seem like you're deciding whether or not to tell him. Then you let out a breath.
âI'm⌠up for a promotion.â
Bucky looks over at you. âWhat kind?â
âA curator position.â
He leans back against the counter. âAt the museum?â
You nod.
âIn the anthropology division.â Your fingers start absently straightening the edge of one of your papers. âIf I got it, I'd oversee acquisitions, exhibits, research trips. Most of the collections work too.â
As you talk, something about you changes, your shoulders loosen and your face softens. There is something brighter in your voice than he's heard before. You look almost younger like this, less tired, more like the version of you that exists underneath all the stress and late nights and rushed mornings.
âThat sounds...â He shakes his head once. âThat sounds awesome.â
âIt would be.â You smile a little, staring down at your notes. âI mean, it would be everything.â
You glance around at the papers spread across the table. âI've wanted it for years.â
Then, just as quickly, you pull back from it. You shrug one shoulder like it doesn't matter as much as it clearly does.
âBut it's probably unrealistic anyway.â
Bucky frowns. âWhy?â
You laugh softly to yourself.
âBecause you don't just get the job to be a curator at the American Museum of Natural History,â you say. âIt's something holy that gets bestowed upon you with the anointed oil they gave Queen Elizabeth II.â
That gets a surprised laugh out of him. You smile faintly, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
âIt's just wishful thinking,â you say quietly. âThen you die trying.â
He hates how fast you do that. How quickly you take something you want and turn it into something impossible before anyone else can.
He sets his glass down on the counter. âThat sounds like exactly the kind of job you'd be good at.â
You look up at him, really look at him. Like you're waiting for the joke, but there isn't one.
âYou know that, right?â he says. âThe way you talk about it.â
Your expression shifts a little, because most people do not usually say things to you that plainly. You look down at your hands.
âI don't know,â you say after a second.
âYeah, you do.â
The kitchen goes quiet, the radiator knocks somewhere in the wall. You sit there with your hands wrapped around your coffee cup, staring at him like he has said something far more important than he meant to.
Then you smile. âThanks, Buck.â
And for some reason, it feels like being handed something fragile.
A few days later, Bucky finds himself standing in the hallway again.
It happens more often now. He'll be on his way to the kitchen or coming back from the shower and suddenly stop in front of the bookshelves like he forgot where he was going.
The shelves are uneven in places.
Some rows are organized by author, others by size or color or absolutely no logic at all. There are books stacked sideways on top of other books, faded bookmarks sticking out between pages, cracked spines and bent corners and little slips of paper tucked into random places.
It feels lived in, it feels like you.
He stands there for a minute, eyes tracing over the titles. Then he grabs a sticky note from the kitchen and presses it onto the edge of one of the shelves.
You actually read all of these?
He forgets about it after that. Until later that night when he gets home and notices something tucked into the spine of a book halfway down the shelf.
He pulls it free.
Used to. A lot. Some are mine, some were my dad's, some I found secondhand. I used to collect old editions too before work swallowed my entire personality.
He reads it twice. Then, without really meaning to, he starts paying closer attention. Not just to the titles, to the books themselves.
There are old clothbound covers with gold lettering worn thin at the edges. Tiny notes scribbled in pencil in the margins. Bookstore stamps from places all over the city. One copy of a novel has a dried flower pressed between the pages.
Some of them are old enough that even he remembers when they were new. One night he pauses in front of a shelf near the living room and pulls out a familiar green book.
The cover is faded, the spine is worn soft from use. He turns it over in his hands, then glances down at the copyright page. 1942. He stares for a second, then reaches for another sticky note.
You have a 1942 copy of The Hobbit.
The response is waiting for him when he wakes up the next morning, tucked beneath his coffee mug.
I know. Found it in a shop upstate for twenty dollars because the owner didn't know what he had. Second greatest moment of my life.
He smiles despite himself, and there is another note beneath it.
You can read whatever you want, by the way. And if there are books you like, you can add them.
He stands there in the kitchen holding that note a little longer than he should. Because nobody has said something like that to him in a very long time. To make yourself at home, that there's room for you here. It's such a small thing, just books, just shelves.
But it feels like more than that. That night he pulls one of the older novels from the shelf and reads half of it sitting on the couch while rain taps softly against the windows.
A few days later, when he finishes it, he leaves it on the coffee table. When he comes back from a walk the next morning, there is a sticky note tucked inside the front cover.
Well?
He snorts quietly to himself and grabs a pen.
Liked it. Ending was more depressing than I remember.
The next day:
That's because you have bad taste and no appreciation for tragedy.
He leaves another book out after that, then another. And you start leaving notes inside all of them. Little questions in the margins. Favorite character? Did you cry? Be honest, did you skip the boring parts? And without really realizing it, the shelves stop feeling like just yours.
They start feeling like something the two of you are building together.
One evening Bucky comes back from a walk and stops in the hallway without meaning to. Something looks different. It takes him a second to realize what it is. Wedged between two thick hardcovers near the end of the second shelf is one of his books, old and worn.
A history book about the forties that he'd unpacked weeks ago and left sitting on the edge of the end table next to the couch because he never knew where to put it. Now it's there between the others like it has always belonged.
Like you made room for it without asking. He reaches out and pulls it from the shelf. Inside the front cover, there's a sticky note with your handwriting:
Thought this looked lonely.
Something in his chest aches a little. Because it's such a small thing, nobody has made space for him somewhere in a very long time, but it shifts something inside of him. Something warm and soft blooming beneath his ribs as he slides the book back onto the shelf.
After that, you start spending more actual time together. Not just in passing, not just in notes and hallway conversations. Real time. He brings home takeout and the two of you end up sitting cross-legged on the living room floor because neither of you feels like cleaning off the coffee table.
You steal pieces of chicken off his plate. He lets you. You start walking to get coffee together on mornings you're both free, slow and sleepy and still half wrapped in hoodies.
Sometimes you don't talk much, sometimes you talk about everything. The museum. His nightmares. Books. Childhoods. Things that happened too long ago and things that happened yesterday.
One afternoon he comes back from the hot dog stand carrying two paper trays instead of one. You're in the kitchen when he gets home.
âYou got me one?â
âYou looked tired.â
You smile at him in a way that feels dangerous.
The hot dog guy notices eventually.
âWhere's the pretty museum girl?â he asks one day while handing Bucky his usual order.
Bucky frowns. âWho?â
âThe roommate you said you have.â The guy grins. âI wanna meet her.â
âNo. Not happening.â
The guy laughs. âOh, so that's what we're doing now.â
Bucky grabs the food and leaves before he can say anything else. You notice his mood immediately when he gets back.
âWhat happened?â
âNothing.â
âMm.â
You take the hot dog from his hand. âYou have a very specific face when you're annoyed, you know.â
He mutters something under his breath that makes you smile. That night the two of you are sitting on the floor in front of the couch, books spread around you, some old movie playing in the background.
Bucky glances over at the shelf. âYou said finding that copy of The Hobbit was the second greatest moment of your life.â
You look up from your book. âYeah.â
âSo what was the first?â
You smile immediately.
âThere was this used bookstore in Queens,â you say. âI was seventeen. They had this old locked case near the register and inside was the first book from a vintage set of The Canterbury Tales.â
He watches your face change as you talk.
âThe cover was all cracked leather and gold leaf and completely falling apart. It was beautiful.â
You tuck your legs up closer to yourself.
âI used all the money I had to buy it.â
âAnd then?â
âAnd then I spent the next ten years trying to find the rest.â You laugh softly. âThat was kind of it. That was the start of the whole problem.â
âYou found all of them?â
âAlmost.â You shake your head. âNever found the last one.â
There's something quietly sad in the way you say it. Like it's less about the book and more about what it meant to give up looking. Bucky watches the way your face slowly changes, something in the edge of your eyes shifting until you're looking at the floor. It hurts, and it makes him think that he would do anything to see you smile.
In a weak attempt he pushes the last of his fries to you, claiming they're too salty for him. You both know they're not but the small quirk of the corner of your mouth makes it worth it. The rest of the night passes in between condiements and bubbled laughter at the QVC channel, listening in to the televised conversations like they're the next hit reality show.
After a few days Bucky notices the calendar in the kitchen. Not because he is looking for anything in particular. Just because he is waiting for the coffee to finish brewing and his eyes drift to the wall.
The square for next Thursday is crowded with your handwriting.
Your own birthday is written last. Small enough that it almost disappears between everything else. Something about that sits badly in his chest. Because of course it does. Because even on your birthday, you have managed to make yourself the least important thing on the list.
He knows immediately you're going to forget it.
And you do. The morning of, you're rushing around the apartment before sunrise with one shoe on and your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder.
âI already sent the file,â you say into the phone, trying to shove your arm through the sleeve of your coat. âNo, I know, but if they wanted changes they should've said that yesterdayââ
Your bag slips off your shoulder and your keys hit the floor making you curse under your breath. Bucky is standing in the kitchen holding a mug of coffee when he says it.
âHappy birthday.â
You stop and blink at him.
âOh,â you say after a second. âRight.â
You laugh softly, but it sounds tired. âI completely forgot.â
Then the person on the phone says your name and you hurry out the door with a quick apology before he can say anything else. It bothers him more than it should because birthdays are supposed to mean something. Yours especially.
So after you leave, he decides to do something about it. He remembers the bakery on the corner had a strawberry shortcake in the display case. Just something small, nothing flashy, whipped cream and strawberries layered across the top.
It reminds him of you somehow. Soft-looking and sweet to the core. He buys candles too. Then he spends the rest of the afternoon searching for the perfect gift. It takes him a few blocks of wandering around to think of what to get, but when it hits him he knew he found his mission.
He spends hours going from used bookstore to used bookstore. By the sixth one, he's almost ready to give up. Then, in a dusty little shop that smells like old paper and mildew, he finds it. Old leather cover, gold embossing faded at the edges a slight water stain on the back. Perfect.
That night, the apartment is dark except for the kitchen light. Bucky stands awkwardly by the counter with the cake in front of him, candles lit, the wrapped gift sitting beside it.
He has no idea what he's doing. But there's no going back now.
The front door opens a little after ten. You walk in looking exhausted, shoulders slumped, shoes dragging. Your hair falling out of whatever messy attempt you made to keep it back this morning. You stop dead when you see him. Then the cake lit with candles, the small box beside it.
Bucky shrugs one shoulder like he suddenly regrets all of it.
âYou forgot your birthday,â he says.
You stare at him for a second too long. Nobody has done something like this for you in a very long time. Maybe ever. You don't look like you know what to do with being cared for.
âBucky...â is all you manage.
He gets flustered immediately.
âIt's not a big deal,â he says quickly, motioning vaguely toward the cake. âI just...â He looks down for a second. âFigured somebody should celebrate you.â
The look on your face almost undoes him. You set your bag down slowly and walk over.
âYou got me a cake?â
âYeah.â
âWith candles?â
He glances at the little crooked row of them.
âThat's usually how birthdays work.â
You laugh then. A little watery around the edges. You walk farther into the kitchen like you're afraid if you move too quickly the whole thing will disappear.
The candles flicker softly between you.
âYou didn't have to do this,â you say quietly.
âI know.â
âBut you did anyway. Why?â
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he just shrugs again.
You look down at the cake then back up at him.
âOkay,â you say softly. âThen I guess I should make a wish.â
You lean down and hover there for just a moment, the golden glow of the flames casting a light across your face that highlights features he doesn't think he's ever seen. A small beauty mark tucked under your eyebrow, a slight jagged silver scar down the bridge of your nose. He'll never not see them now, a gift of his own he thinks. You close your eyes and hum quietly to yourself before letting out a short breath to blow out the candles.
The apartment goes dark for a second after the smoke curls up into the air. He flicks the stove light on, then Bucky reaches for the wrapped book beside him and holds it out awkwardly.
âAnd this is... also a thing.â
You blink. âYou got me a present?â
âYou don't have to sound so surprised.â
You take it from him carefully, with a growing smirk on your face. The paper crinkles softly beneath your fingers as you unwrap it. Then you go still. Completely still. He watches your eyes move over the cover. The old leather, the faded gold lettering.
Your fingers hover over it like you're afraid touching it too hard will make it disappear.
âThe last one,â you whisper. Your voice sounds a little broken around the edges. âThe last volume of The Canterbury Tales.â
Bucky shifts awkwardly on his feet as you look up at him. Your face is fallen with a joy he's never seen, as if he just hung the moon and painted the stars.
You shake your head in disbelief. âWhere did you evenââ
âJust found it.â He shrugs.
âBucky.â
âTook a couple bookstores. Made a deal with the owner once I found it, he was an old history buff on WW2 soâŚâ he admits.
You look up at him then. And there is something in your face he has never seen directed at him before. Something soft, something overwhelming as a clear line starts to well at your eyes. You clutch the book to your chest like you don't know what else to do with it.
"Thank you, Bucky," you whisper, shaky lip tucked betwen your teeth.
A warm silence blooms between you two and Bucky is stuck under your stare, watching the soft dialtion of your pupils. Entranced by them he didn't even notice you had gotten so close, not until he felt the gentle brush of your lips against his cheek.
Words have never failed him like now, stuck and jumbled in the back of his throat only to come out like a garbled hum.
âWhat'd you wish for?â Bucky asks abrutly as he starts pulling the candles out one by one.
You smile a little, wiping quickly beneath one eye.
âCan't tell you,â you say. âState secrets now.â
He snorts quietly and grabs two spoons from the drawer. You end up on the couch sharing the cake straight from the container, knees brushing every so often in the small space between you. The television is on, though neither of you is paying attention to it. You eat strawberries off the top first and work your way down and Bucky follows suit.
You stay on the couch long after the cake is gone.
The empty container sits forgotten on the coffee table, two spoons abandoned beside it. The book never leaves your lap. At some point, you curl your legs up beneath you and start telling him about the first time you found one of the volumes. How you were seventeen and awkward and had spent an hour pretending to browse because you were too nervous to ask the owner to unlock the glass case.
Bucky laughs.
âSo you've always been weird about books.â
âThat's rich coming from a hundred-year-old man who still reads history books for fun.â
âThose are different.â
âThey're really not.â
You grin when you say it. That soft, sleepy grin he thinks he could spend years chasing. Eventually the conversation drifts. To old bookstores, to the hot dog guy, to Sam, then to terrible movies. You insist he has never properly experienced bad cinema until he has seen Attack of the 50 Foot Woman.
He insists there is no way it can be as ridiculous as you are making it sound. Twenty minutes in, he realizes you were underselling it. By the middle of the movie, you're both laughing. Not polite little laughs either, real ones. The kind that make your stomach hurt and your eyes water and force you to pause because neither of you can hear the dialogue over the sound of the other person losing it.
He can't remember the last time he laughed like this.
By the time the movie is ending, your head is tipped against the back of the couch and your eyes are half closed.
He notices you fighting sleep before you do.
âYou're falling asleep.â
âNo, I'm not.â You yawn immediately after saying it.
He smiles. âYou absolutely are.â
You make a soft noise of protest, but it doesn't have much conviction behind it.And a few minutes later, when he glances over again, you're out completely. Your head has tipped against his shoulder at some point, one hand still loosely wrapped around the book in your lap.
For a second, he just sits there. Listening to the sound of your breathing, the soft hum of the television, the city outside the windows. Then he carefully takes the book from your hands and sets it on the coffee table. He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back.
You stir a little when he lifts you, brows furrowing for a second before you settle again against him.
âBuck?â you mumble sleepily.
âI got you.â
You make another quiet sound and let your head fall against his chest as he carries you down the hallway and into your room. The bedside lamp is still on, there are clothes draped over the chair in the corner and papers stacked haphazardly on your desk, everything is so utterly you.
He sets you down carefully on the bed and pulls the blankets up around you. You don't wake up, not really, you just shift a little beneath the covers and settle. He brushes a piece of hair back from your face and his hand lingers there for a second longer than it should.
Something overcomes him and he leans down, and presses a kiss to your forehead.
âHappy birthday,â he whispers.
As he walked out of you room he saw the book on the table, with a gentle hand he picked it up, brushing a thumb over the pages as he walks down the hall. The rest of the set is on the second highest shelf, lined up together. He slides in the last edition, eyeing the aligned spines with a ghost of a smile before walking off to his room.
The call comes on a Tuesday.
Bucky knows because you walk into the apartment looking vaguely shell-shocked, still clutching your phone in one hand.
You don't even make it all the way into the kitchen before blurting it out. âI got an interview.â
He looks up from where he's sitting at the table. âWhat?â
âFor the curator position.â You blink at him like you still don't believe it yourself. âNext week.â
For a second, all he sees is the excitement on your face. Bright and hopeful, then it disappears almost as quickly as it came.
âOh,â you say quietly. âOh no.â
The spiral starts immediately after that. By the end of the week, the apartment is covered in notes. Practice questions taped to the bathroom mirror, flashcards on the kitchen counter, museum reports spread across the couch cushions.
You pace while talking to yourself, you stop sleeping, you definitely stop eating properly. The night before the interview, Bucky finds you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor in sweatpants and one of his old shirts, papers spread around you in uneven piles.
Your glasses are slipping down your nose and your hair is a mess. You look like you're about ten minutes away from a complete breakdown.
âYou okay?â he asks, already knowing the answer.
âNo,â you say immediately.
He sits down across from you. âWhat's wrong?â
You stare down at the papers in your lap. âWhat if I embarrass myself?â
âYou won't.â
âWhat if they ask me something I don't know?â
âYou'll know it.â
âWhat if I freeze?â
âYou won't.â
You glare at him a little. âYou don't know that.â
He leans back against the couch.
âI know you.â
That quiets you for a second.
Only for a second. Then you start rambling after that. About the anthropology wing. About acquisitions. About field research and exhibit planning and the exact kind of curator you would want to be if anyone ever actually gave you the chance. You talk about preserving history, about wanting people to care. About how every object in the museum used to belong to someone. How every piece of history was once just somebody's normal day.
Bucky listens every time. He listens while you talk yourself into circles. Listens while you explain all the reasons you think you aren't good enough for this.
âI didn't go to the right schools,â you say finally. âI don't know the right people. Everyone else interviewing for this is probably smarter than me and more qualified andââ
âThey're gonna be lucky if they get you.â
You stop and the apartment goes quiet around you, scattered notes and pages from your journal fluttering in the air current. Bucky looks at you from across the floor, expression calm like he hasn't just said something that cracked you open right down the middle.
âYou mean that?â you ask softly.
âYeah.â He doesn't even hesitate. âI do.â
You stare at him for a second. Then you move before you can think too hard about it. You lean across the space between you and kiss him. It's quick and impulsive, your hand catches against his shoulder and your mouth brushes his once, soft and startled.
Then you freeze.
âOh my God,â you whisper, pulling back immediately. âI'm sorry, I shouldn't haveââ
Bucky cuts you off by kissing you again, this time slower. Deliberate. His hand comes up to cup your face and suddenly the whole world narrows down to the warmth of his mouth and the way he is holding you like you're something precious.
You melt into it, your hand tangles in the front of his shirt and a soft hum slipping past your lips against his as his thumb brushes softly along your cheek.
When you finally pull apart, both of you look a little stunned. Like neither of you knows what to do with the fact that this has been here all along.
âOkay,â you say softly.
âOkay,â he echoes.
After that, the air between you changes, not in some huge dramatic way. Just softer. He starts brushing his hand against your back when he passes you in the kitchen. You lean against his shoulder on the couch without thinking about it. He kisses your forehead when you leave for work. You steal his hoodies and stop pretending they're yours.
Sometimes you fall asleep together on the couch with the television still on and your legs tangled beneath the blanket. Somewhere in the middle of all of it, Bucky realizes he's stopped thinking of the apartment as somewhere he lives.
Now it just feels like home.
Bucky tries to wake up before you the morning of the interview.
He fails.
By the time he walks into the kitchen, you're already there in nice clothes, standing in front of the coffee maker with your arms crossed and that thousand-yard stare people get right before something important. You look beautiful, terrified and a little bit sick. Your hair is done. Your makeup is subtle. There is a necklace at your throat he thinks he's seen maybe twice before.
You don't notice him at first. You're staring at the coffee pot like if you look away it'll stop working.
âYou okay?â he asks softly.
You blink. âNo.â
He smiles a little. âYou're gonna do great.â
You snort quietly and reach for your mug. âYou legally have to say that because you live with me.â
âNo,â he says. âI have to say it because it's true.â
That makes you look down for a second as you take a sip of coffee.
âStill feels like I'm gonna throw up.â
âYou'll throw up after,â he says. âLike a professional.â
That earns him a small laugh. By the time you're ready to leave, you're standing by the front door shoving things into your bag with shaky hands.
âKeys,â you mutter to yourself. âWallet. Phone. Museum badgeââ
âHey.â
You look up. Bucky steps closer and reaches for the necklace at your throat.
âIt's crooked.â
âOh.â
His fingers brush softly against your skin as he straightens it and your breath catches a little. So does his. For a second, neither of you says anything. Then he leans down and kisses you. It's quick and soft but it leaves your cheeks warm when he pulls away.
âYou got this,â he says.
You nod once then you're gone.
The whole day, Bucky is restless. He tells himself he isn't waiting for you but he definitely is. He tries reading, and ends up readin gthe same page three times. He almost goes to the hot dog stand twice. He paces around the apartment, reorganizes the fridge for no reason, checks the clock so many times it starts to feel personal.
By the time the front door finally opens that night, he looks up so fast it nearly gives him away. You walk in looking different immediately. Not upset exactly, just strange and quiet. Very quiet. Like your thoughts are somewhere else entirely.
He assumes that means you got it. That you're in shock, that you're already halfway out the door toward whatever comes next.
âHey,â he says carefully from the couch. âHow'd it go?â
You stop in the doorway. You still have your bag over your shoulder, coat still on. You look at him for a second before letting out a slow breath.
âI didn't get it.â
The words land strangely between you, it makes Bucky sits up a little straighter.
âOh.â
You laugh softly, but there isn't much humor in it. âYeah. They said they wanted to move in a different direction.â
He doesn't know what to say to that. Because he knows how badly you wanted it, knows how much time and sleep and pieces of yourself you've poured into this thing.
But then you shrug one shoulder.
âBut...â You look down for a second. âThey gave me a raise.â
He blinks, surpised. âOkay.â
âAnd they're opening a new assistant position to âlessen my workload.ââ
That takes him a second to process.
âSo...â He leans forward a little. âYou still got something?â
âI guess.â You look exhausted more than anything. âI don't know if I'm supposed to be happy or devastated.â
Bucky nods slowly.
âYeah,â he says quietly. âI get that.â
Because he does. Because sometimes life gives you something almost-good and you don't know what to do with that. He watches you for another second, then he stands.
âCome on.â
You look up. âWhat?â
âLet's go get hot dogs.â
You stare at him for a second. Then, finally, you smile.
âOkay.â
The hot dog guy takes one look at the two of you and immediately points his tongs in your direction.
âUh oh,â he says. âThis feels emotional.â
You laugh for the first time all day. Real laughter. Bucky feels something unclench in his chest at the sound of it.
âDon't encourage him,â he mutters.
âToo late,â the guy says. âI like her.â
Bucky rolls his eyes and you smile into your sleeve. He pays before you can argue about it, and when you open your mouth to protest, he just gives you a look.
âYou had a bad day.â
âSo?â
âSo let me buy you a hot dog.â
You don't fight him after that.
On the walk back, you stop for ice cream too. Now you're both carrying melting cones down the sidewalk, the city quieter around you than usual. Streetlights glow gold against the pavement. Somewhere in the distance, somebody is playing music with their windows open.
It feels a little like being kids. Or maybe just people who don't know exactly where their lives are going yet. It warms your chest either way. You walk beside him in comfortable silence for a while.
âHey, Buck?â
âYeah?â
âYou ever hear that whole ârejection is just redirection' thing?â
He glances over at you. â...No?â
You laugh softly under your breath. âIt's just this thing people say.â
âOkay.â He nods once.
âBut that's not what I was getting at.â
He waits as you look down at your ice cream for a second before looking back up at him.
âYou know on my birthday you told me to make a wish?â
âYeah?â
Your smile is smaller now.
"I think it just came true.â
He frowns a little. âYou⌠wished to get passed up on the promotion?â
âNo,â you say with a breath of laughter. âNo.â
You look at him then, really look at him.
âI wished...â Your voice goes quiet. âThat I could spend more time with you.â
Everything in him goes still.
The city. The sidewalk, the half-melted ice cream in his hand. All of it. For a second, neither of you moves. Then Bucky smiles, small at first then bigger.
He ducks his head, shaking it a little.
âState secrets, huh?â he teases softly.
You blush immediately. âShut up.â
But you're smiling too. You slip your arm through his as you keep walking and Bucky thinks maybe this is what happiness feels like. Small and warm and a little sticky from melted ice cream.
A week later, you come home before sunset.
Bucky is in the kitchen making coffee when he hears the front door open.
âYou're home early,â he says, glancing over his shoulder. You lean against the doorway with your bag still hanging off one shoulder.
âI know. Weird, right?â
He smiles a little. âYou get fired?â
âNot yet.â You step farther into the kitchen. âI actually have tomorrow afternoon off.â
âWow.â
âI know,â you say again. âI'm trying not to be overwhelmed by all the free time.â
He laughs quietly and you watch him for a second, seemingly contemplating.
âDo you wanna come by the museum?â
He looks up. âThe museum?â
âYeah.â You shrug one shoulder, suddenly looking a little shy about it. âI could show you around. My favorite exhibits and stuff.â
He tries to act casual. âSure.â
But secretly, he's thrilled. Because this is your world. He's seen pieces of it before in papers spread across the table and half-finished stories told at two in the morning, but this is different. This is you handing him something important.
The next afternoon, he meets you outside the American Museum of Natural History.
You're waiting near the steps in your work clothes with your ID badge around your neck. You look different now, more awake than he has seen you in weeks, more comfortable.
Like this place fits around you in a way most things don't.
You smile the second you spot him.
âHey.â
âHey.â
You take him inside to see the old fossils first. You tell him which dinosaur skeletons kids always lose their minds over and which exhibits people walk right past even though they're some of the coolest things in the building.
You talk with your hands when you're excited.
You move quickly from one thing to the next, almost tripping over your own thoughts because there is so much you want to show him.
âAnd this one,â you say, pointing toward an old display case, âpeople never pay attention to, but it's one of my favorites.â
Inside are old tools and worn pieces of pottery. Tiny, simple things. You tell him where they came from, who used them, how old they are. Every exhibit comes with a story.
Bucky spends half the time looking at the displays and the other half looking at you. Because you light up here. Your voice gets faster, your smile gets bigger, you stop apologizing for caring too much. It's the happiest he has ever seen you.
At one point, you take him into the giant blue whale room. The enormous whale hangs suspended overhead, casting soft shadows across the floor below. You tilt your head back to look up at it.
âEvery museum employee has a designated crying-under-the-whale moment at least once,â you say.
Bucky looks over at you. âYours probably happened after a meeting.â
You scoff. âNo. Mine happened because somebody mislabeled a Bronze Age artifact.â
He laughs harder than he should an you grin.
âI'm serious. It was humiliating.â
âYou cried over a label?â
âI care deeply about accuracy.â
âYou're insane.â
âMaybe,â you say, smiling up at the whale. âBut I'm right.â
He shakes his head, still laughing quietly, standing there beneath the whale with you smiling beside him, he thinks he has never seen anything more beautiful. Eventually, you take him into the Milky Way exhibit.
The room is dark and cool, lit only by thousands of projected stars stretching across the ceiling and walls. Soft bands of white and blue curve overhead, and everything echoes slightly. Your footsteps, his breathing, the sound of the door shutting quietly behind you.
You lead him to one of the benches in the center of the room and sit together. For a while, neither of you says anything. The quiet feels different here. Not empty but peaceful. Bucky leans back and looks up at the stars overhead.
They're beautiful.
But not as beautiful as the look on your face when you stare up at them.
âI used to come here when I first got the job,â you say softly.
He looks over at you, your eyes stay fixed on the ceiling.
âI'd get so stressed and overwhelmed and convinced I wasn't cut out for it.â You smile faintly to yourself. âSo I'd come sit in here.â
You lean back a little farther against the bench.
âIt helped me remember how small I am.â A pause. âHow insignificant everything is.â
You glance over at him. He looks down at his hands for a second before looking back up.
âYou're probably the most important thing...â He swallows a little. âTo me.â
The room goes quiet again. You blush immediately and turn your face back toward the stars and Bucky does too. For a second. Then he looks back at you, the way the light from the projections catches in your eyes and across your face. It softens every edge of you.
You turn toward him slightly, feeling the gaze from him.
âIt's pretty, huh?â
He smiles.
âYeah...â
But he isn't looking at the stars, you realize after a second, and the mood shifts. Like all the air between you changes. He leans in first this time, a soft breath fans across your face before you meet him halfway. The kiss is slow and gentle, the kind that feels like something settling into place. Your hand finds his without thinking about it, his thumb brushes softly across your knuckles.
When he pulls back, you're both smiling a little and he looks up at the stars again, then back at you.
âWhat are you gonna do now?â
You blink. âWith what?â
âNo promotion on the horizon. New assistant to keep you free. What's the future have in hold now?â
You let out a quiet breath, thinking.
âYou know,â you say, âI have no idea.â
You lean your head against his shoulder. âFor as long as I've been doing this, all I've ever wanted was that job.â
He tilts his head lightly against yours. âWhat do you want now?â
You look up at him and smile softly.
âYou.â Then, after a second, "and a hot dog.â
He laughs and the sound echoes quietly through the stars, you both lean into each other, and suddenly the future doesn't feel so frightening. Because whatever it looks like now, you'll be in it together.
â the smartest thing â Ë・âŕ¨ŕ§â Ë・ââ§âË (dr. jack abbot x dr. f!reader)
ao3 | cdupdates | ko-fi
â summary: After transferring to the Pitt General, your only goal was stability. But when your car breaks down and Jack Abbot offers you a ride, a simple favor quickly becomes a daily routine. The smartest thing to do starts to blur. wc: 9.5k
Tags: reader is a doctor, she's 32 and has a complicated past, mature content, mentions of family trauma, miscommunication and all dat.
A/N: Hellooooo <3 This is my first time writing about this man, so please let me know what you think!!!! Hope you like this ;) if you want to be on my Jack Abbot one-shot taglist, please let me know!
Exactly twenty days ago, your car gave up in the Pitt parking lot. And exactly twenty days ago, Jack Abbot decided his new post night shift thing was being your unsolicited driver. That arrangement lasted seventeen days.
âYou good over there?â
When you heard his voice, you didnât even look up. You were exhausted, head half buried under the hood and shining your phone flashlight at anything that looked remotely broken which, to you, was⌠all of it. Cars werenât your thing. Not even close.
You didnât clock him until he stepped closer.
âNeed a hand?â
Oh. Abbot. You straightened up, brushing a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. He stood there with his brow furrowed and his left hand hooked under his backpack strap. His chin tipped up just enough to peer past you into the engine.
âYou know anything about cars?â you asked.
He gave a small tilt of the head. "I can take a look."
With a polite tired smile, you stepped back and he took your spot, leaning in where youâd just been. You flicked your flashlight back on, bathing the engine block in a harsh white glow.
Jack hummed. âWhatâs it doing?â
âIt wonât start. No idea why,â you said, letting out a breath. âItâs been acting up all week. Usually kicks in on the second try. Makes this weird noise.â
He didnât answer right away, just focused. Brow furrowed, lips pressed together and all. And after a beat, he reached in and felt along the side of the engine.
"Get in," he directed. "Give it a crank."
You scrambled into the driverâs seat and turned the key; the engine answered with a dry, metallic groan and then... nothing. Just silence.
âAgain?â you called out.
âGo on.â
You gave it another go, then two more just for the hell of it. Nothing but silence.
âIâs not the terminals. Itâs got battery,â he said as you stepped back out and joined him. He rubbed his hands together and nodded toward the engine. âBut that noise⌠either the starterâs shot or worse, youâve stripped the timing belt. If itâs the belt and you keep pushing it, youâll bend the valves. At that point... yeah.â
"Are you serious?" You ran a hand through your hair, staring at the open hood like it was a coffin. "Isn't there anything you can... I don't know, tighten?"
Jack let out a short soft laugh and and slammed the hood shut.
âEven if I had tools on me, you want me to make it worse?â he said. âThingâs not going anywhere until someone who actually knows this opens it up.â
You exhaled, glancing around the parking lot, letting it sink in: you werenât driving home tonight.
âIs it done for? Like⌠one of those things where it breaks and youâre better off selling it?â
âI donât know. Could go either way,â he said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. âHad something like that happen a few years back; car died in the middle of an avenue. Thought itâd be a quick fix. Mechanic kept me circling for ten days.â He shook his head, brushing it off. âBut hey, take that with a grain of salt. Not my lane.â
Up until that moment, you didnât know much about Dr. Jack Abbot.
You were new at the Pitt. Two months ago, youâd finally survived the move from New Jersey to Pittsburgh. After a mountain of red tape, endless paperwork, psyching yourself up for evaluations, and the gauntlet of the USMLE, the path finally cleared. A PGY-3 spot had opened up, and your previous program director had practically gone to bat for you with a recommendation that sealed the deal. Some might call it luck; you preferred to think of it as the universe finally paying its debts. It owed you that much.
You started on day shifts for the first three weeks, but scheduling snags meant someone had to pivot to nights. It was an easy call. You were the new hire still paying your dues, and besides, youâd always been a night owl. You functioned better when the sun was down anyway, so you stepped up before anyone else had to.
It worked. People here were chill; they didn't know your history, didn't ask awkward questions, and were actually really nice. The day shift people were nice too, but nights had a different energy.
Night people. The night crawlers, as they called themselves. At first, it made you cringe. Then, somehow, it didnât.There was a level of backup you never had at your old workplace.
Youâd crossed paths with Abbot plenty of times when you were doing day shifts, but it never went past a "yes," "no," an âon it.â Still, your first impression of him was burned into your brain.
It was a chaotic afternoon like so many others; an accident involving a truck and a bus had the ER in a total tailspin. Heâd shown up early for his shift. Black T-shirt, dark gray cargos, backpack slung over one shoulder. You looked up when he walked in through the doors, and without meaning to, your eyes followed him as he crossed the room. Thatâs when he caught you; he locked eyes with you, and his pace hit a brief hitch.
"Hi," he said. That was it. He kept walking, but his gaze didn't break. You managed a polite smile and glued your eyes to your phone before you could see if he was still looking. Not that it mattered... you were out the door ten minutes later.
Abbot was good, really good. You liked the way he led his people, the zero nonsense efficiency of it all. He was, if nothing else, a competent man. But until now, your interactions had been strictly tactical: a few passing words in the hallway or clipped instructions mid shift. Strictly professional. He kept his distance, and you appreciated that.
"Like I said, not an expert," he continued, "but based on the look my mechanic gave me and the sound yours is making..." He clicked his tongue. "You got a way home?"
You nodded. "Iâll just grab an Uber."
"Right." He pulled a face, his mouth twitching to the side and into a slight pout as he considered that. "Whereâs home for you?"
"I'm in Shadyside, a couple blocks from Walnut."
He nodded, shoving a hand into his pocket. He tilted his head toward the far end of the lot.
"Iâm headed that way. C'mon," he gestured with a quick jerk of his chin. "I'll give you a ride."
"No, really, itâs fine," you said, trailing after him as he started heading toward his own car, parked just a few spots over from yours. "Iâll just call a car."
He spun around fast, fast enough that you had to plant your feet to avoid walking straight into his chest, and shook his head. "Nah, nah, câmon. Itâs no big deal. You got your stuff?"
Behind him, the morning sky was finally starting to bleed into a pale gray, the first hint of light catching the silver strands at the crown of his head.
"My bagâs still inside."
"Okay," he said with a single nod. "Go get it."
You spent about two seconds weighing your options before deciding that saying no again would just be awkward and rude. So you jogged back for your bag while he waited by his car, and heard the chirp of his alarm deactivating just as you made it back to his side.
âI usually stop by Zoyaâs before heading home, if you donât mind,â he said once you were both in the car, tossing his backpack into the back seat and stretching across the wheel. âCoffeeâs good. Itâs two blocks away.â
You let out a soft huff of a laugh as you buckled in. âYou drink coffee after a night shift?â
He smiled, glancing at you sideways. âMorning coffeeâs still morning coffee. You donât?â
âNot usually.â You watched him start the engineâmust be nice. A car that actually worked. âI just drive home, take a hot shower, and pass out.â
Jack nodded, still smiling as he shifted into reverse. He stretched his arm behind your seat, and your eyes dropped to his bicep before you could stop them. A second later, you caught yourself. Guilty. You looked back up at his face and felt your cheeks heat.
Shit. You were exhausted. You were clearly more exhausted than you thought. You looked out the window, anywhere but at him.
He sighed. âYouâre missing out, doc.â
All you managed was a small smile. Jack turned on the radio, switched it to a playlist from his phone, and, just like he said, drove you to Zoyaâs for his morning coffee. He got one for you too.
Maybe you were missing out. Maybe he was right. Because the first sip was actually⌠really good. You had to give him that. He seemed pleased about it.
He drove easy while the sun slowly climbed into the sky and the conversation stayed light: You used to live in Jersey, right? How was it there? How are you liking it here? How are you settling in with us?
You answered as briefly as you could and he didnât push; seemed to pick up on the fact that you werenât exactly in the mood to chat after a night like that. Still, you were polite. You tried to sound open, even if it didnât come naturally most of the time.
When he dropped you off in front of your apartment building, he waited until you were inside before pulling away.
That was the first morning of many.
Jack was right. Your car was beyond a quick fix, and the mechanic told you it would be at least a week before the parts even arrived. When you mentioned it to him during the next shift, he didn't make a big deal out of it. He asked if you wanted a second opinion, handed you his own mechanicâs number and left it at that.
Hours later, as you headed for the exit with your phone out to hail a ride, a light touch on your elbow made you snap your head around.
"Iâm heading out. Câmon." Jack didn't linger; he caught your eye for just a second before continuing his stride toward the doors.
You followed. Honestly, what else were you going to do?
The following night, it happened again. A light tap on your shoulder, a quick wink, and a tilt of his head toward the exit. Jack didnât seem bothered in the slightest about the detour to your place; if anything, he looked quietly pleased about it.
Then, one morning, he upped the ante.
"I can swing by and pick you up before your shift, too, if you need."
The offer caught you off guard. You tried to play it cool, but your brain hit a snag.
You shook your head. "Oh, no. You're doing enough just getting me home. I'm good, thanks."
Jack tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly as he kept them fixed on the road ahead.
"I pass right by your place. Iâm serious, itâs zero hassle," he said, darting a quick sideways glance at you. "Besides, you've still got a few days before your carâs back, right?â
You huffed a laugh, your gaze lingering on his profile. "Thatâs a pretty convincing argument."
"Is it?" He looked at you again, quietly smirking. "Good."
After that, it became routine. Heâd pick you up in the evenings and drive you home in the mornings. He parked his car out front of your apartment building and got out every time; sometimes leaning against the hood, sometimes by the driverâs door, scrolling through his phone or just watching people pass by on the sidewalk. And when you walked up, heâd open the door for you.
A total gentleman. It was a look that fit Abbot a little too well.
Sharing rides to and from work with someone means youâre bound to learn a thing or two about them. Jack was the one who did most of the asking. It wasnât that you didnât want to know about him, you did, you just weren't sure where the boundaries were. Besides, youâd already picked up a few things here and there from coworkers. Nothing too personal, nothing off limits; just small details you didnât let yourself dig into any further. And that didnât mean you werenât curious. There was plenty you wanted to know.
Heâd fill you in on his routine, usually dropping details when he picked you up in the evening. Jack would tell you about his day; how heâd found a new place near his house with a pastrami sandwich that was âreally fucking amazingâ, how heâd started watching some cop show that was predictable as hell but still had him hooked, or how he was trying to take art classes because heâd always wanted to be good at something tactile. Clay, maybe. Something in that vein.
When you laughed at that, he shot you a sideways look and furrowed his brow in mock offense.
âWhat?â he asked. âWhatâs so funny?â
âNothingâs wrong with it,â you said, raising a hand. âItâs a great hobby.â
âThen what?â
You pressed your lips together, failing to hold it in. âSorry, I just pictured you in that scene from Ghost.â
Jack scowled, letting out a huff as if the idea was totally ridiculous, but a second later the expression melted into a amused grin.
As the days went by, you started letting him in on a little more of your life. You told him that moving from Jersey to Pittsburgh had been a pre-meditated move even if it felt impulsive at the time, and that finally pulling it off had been a massive weight off your shoulders.
"So what went down back there? Why the rush to leave?" he asked, his tone curious rather than nosy.
If Jack noticed the way you stiffened, even slightly, he didnât show it.
"I just needed to get out, thatâs all. There wasn't exactly a reason to stay."
"None at all?"
He pulled up to a red light.
"Zero," you said, meeting his eyes. "After my mom passed away, there wasn't anyone left to keep me there. Honestly, it was the opposite. My family tends to have that effect."
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel as he gave you a gentle look.
âItâs okay,â you said with a small smile. âSheâs better off now. Her last years werenât good.â
âWhat happened? If you donât mind me asking.â
âAlzheimerâs. It started when I was thirteen, so⌠that was most of my life.â You gave a faint nod.
Jackâs brow stayed furrowed. "Was it just you and her?"
"No. I mean... sort of. My dad was always working so the house was on me. And my brother was never around."
"You have a brother," he repeated. "Older or younger?"
"Older. By five years."
"How's that dynamic?"
You let out a quiet breath. âWeâve never gotten along. Heâs complicated. Always has been. Pretty aggressive too,â you added, your voice dropping. âAnd my dad never stepped in.â
Jackâs jaw tightened slightly as he looked ahead again.
âSo you were basically on your own with your mom,â he said.
You let out a humorless huff. âYeah. You could say that.â
âAnd your dad, heâs still there?â
âNo. He passed when I was seventeen. Heart attack.â
âOh.â His expression softened. âIâm really sorry.â
The light turned green, and Jack eased the car forward.
"Itâs okay," you said, staring straight ahead at the road.
"So, the brother, heâs still in Jersey?"
"Yeah. Or at least he was the last time he called to ask for money."
Jack hummed. "Did you send it?"
You pursed your lips, feeling a sudden wave of self-consciousness. You nodded. "I did."
âWell, I donât know his situation,â Jack said, âbut heâs a grown man. Doesnât he work?â
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. âNot a day in his life. I think he had a couple of shady gigs when we were younger, but no. After my dad died, I was the one working so we could eat. He never contributed anything, unless you count trouble.â
Jack glanced over at you for a beat. He wasn't smiling, and he didn't seem to buy into your nervous laugh.
"Don't let him get close to you again," he said.
The sheer gentleness in his voice caught you off guard. Your own smile began to fade as you watched him, unable to find a quick comeback.
âYou got something good here,â he went on. âYouâre good at your job. I can see it, and so can everyone else. You donât have to take care of anyone but yourself right now.â
Your mind went blank.
"Thank you," you whispered after a moment, the words coming out much quieter than you intended.
Jack offered you a soft smile and studied your face for a few seconds. For the rest of the drive, he didnât bring it up again. He didnât need to. With ease, he steered the conversation elsewhere and lifted the mood in no time. He had a knack for that.
Over the next few days, you found yourself looking forward to those twenty minute drives more and more; forty minutes a day, total. It added up quickly. He was funny, easygoing, and, above all, comforting to be around.
You started to notice a shift in yourself, too. Talking to Jack did that. Somewhere between those car rides, you loosened up and opened up in ways you never really had before. He made it feel safe; you could say anything and it would stay right there, between the two of you. He didnât strike you as someone whoâd judge, either. And it showed. At work, you were different; that new confidence bled into your shifts. You were suddenly more present, actually laughing at your coworkers jokes and jumping into the banter in the breakroom or the hallways.
And Jack, Jack was always there. Even on the roughest shifts, catching sight of him across the hall made your night a little better. He was so casual about it, too: a faint smirk, a wink only you were meant to catch, or that intense eye contact he seemed to favor. Sometimes, after youâd been with a patient, heâd come up beside you, brush his fingers lightly against your arm, and ask how it went. Other times, he was just the boss giving orders. A top-tier attending.
And he was like that with everyone. Or at least, thatâs what you kept telling yourself when you caught your eyes searching for him more and more. Kind, a great mentor, empathetic. But you couldn't ignore the way your heart hitched every time he leaned in to talk to you and looked at you with that specific gaze.
Like he looks at everyone. Thereâs nothing special about it; you made sure to remind yourself.
But one morning, after Jack had helped you wrangle a particularly stubborn elderly patient, Ellis cornered you in the breakroom.
âWhatâs going on between you and Abbot?â
You buried your surprise as deep as it would go. "Nothing. Why?"
"You guys arrive together and leave together, right?"
You smiled. âMy carâs in the mechanic. And my place is on his way home. Heâs doing me a favor,â you said, lifting your eyebrows.
Ellis shot you a sideways look, leaning against the counter as she reached for a mug.
âIs that why you two make eyes at each other in the halls?â
Your cheeks flared instantly. "Parker! That is not happening."
She just grinned and shook her head. "Sure."
âJack is my superior.â
âJack,â she echoed, moving toward the coffee machine. âAlright. Just curious.â
âNothingâs going on. You know him. Better than I do, actually.â
âExactly why Iâm asking.â
You shook your head, swallowing the sigh that threatened to slip out, even as your mind kicked into overdrive.
âYou going to Gianniâs thing?â she asked then.
Right. Gianniâs thing.
After twenty years at the Pitt, Gianni, one of the hospitalâs veteran orderlies, was finally calling it quits to move out of state and be closer to his kids. As luck would have it, his birthday hit during the same week as his retirement.
It had been a nightmare to coordinate but a few of the staff had managed to pull together a celebration at the bar right down the street from the hospital. It was set for Friday at 8:00 PM, a.k.a your night off. Normally, youâd spend it in bed; sleeping in, eating something good, maybe putting on a movie. But you were making a conscious effort to be a social human being, and you genuinely liked Gianni, even if youâd only known him for a fraction of his twenty year tenure.
"Yeah, Iâll be there," you said. "You?"
Ellis shook her head. "Doubt it. Iâll try to swing by, but itâs looking like a long shot."
Just then, the breakroom door swung open and Shen hurried in with a groan. Ellis laughed at the sight of him, and you seized the opening to make your escape.
You rubbed your cheek, trying to cool the lingering flush, and spotted Lena popping a piece of candy into her mouth. You started toward her.
"Heâ"
"There you are. Câmon, I need you with me," Abbot interrupted, his hand grabbing your arm and leading you next to him.
By the time Friday rolled around, staying in and hibernating sounded far better than going out. Honestly, you couldâve spent the entire day in bed. Youâd been watching Abbott Elementary since two in the afternoon and now, nearing five, you had no real interest in moving. On your nightstand sat an empty mug from the berry tea youâd just finished and a crumpled chocolate wrapper; your fridge held more sweets and a magnet with the number for the deli on the corner. You had everything you needed and still, you couldnât stop thinking about tonight.
Would Jack be there? It seemed likely. In the group chat Princess had set up, heâd reacted with a thumbs up when the bar details were confirmed. But that was it. And it had been a week ago, so there was nothing that actually guaranteed heâd show.
Look at you. A grown woman. An adult. Why the hell were you spiraling over a man?
This wasnât like you. You didnât let yourself fantasize, or dwell, or overthink things like this, things that made no sense. Youâd spent too many years building your career to let anything shake it now.
College hadnât come easy. It took years before you could even start; most of your early twenties went into working, saving, and taking care of your mom. If you were here now, it was because you earned it. You couldnât afford distractions like this. Things. People. Men like Jack Abbot.
What the hell were you doing?
Three hours later, you walked into the bar wearing a black off the shoulder top and a black skirt with dark stockings. To keep it from feeling like too much, you threw on a charcoal denim jacket and slipped into black boots with a modest heel.
Everyone was there. Everyone except Jack.
The last time you saw him was yesterday morning, when he dropped you off at home. It followed the usual routine: he picked up a coffee for you at Zoyaâs, and you spent the drive chatting about the night. The conversation remained casual, touching on nothing out of the ordinary. You didnât ask if he was planning to attend Gianniâs party and he didnât bring it up either.
He had just come off a particularly grueling shift. Though he wasn't quite his usual self, he remained as nice as ever. Still, you could tell. His voice carried a certain flatness, and you saw it in his expression; the slight weight in his eyelids, the peculiar weary glint in his eyes.
You knew it wasnât your business, but when the car came to a halt in front of your apartment, the question slipped out anyway.
"Are you okay?"
Jack seemed caught off guard. His eyes flickered for a microsecond.
He offered a faint smile. "Me?"
You smiled back. "Yes, you." You opened your mouth to speak, then hesitated. "Sorry, I don't mean to be nosy."
"Itâs fine. IâmâIâm okay. Really. Why do you ask?"
You gave a small shrug. "Just a feeling."
"Did what I said about Big give me away?"
Fifteen minutes earlier, as you were leaving the cafĂŠ, youâd mentioned watching the Tom Hanks movie the previous afternoon. Jack had made a surprisingly poignant comment about how heâd change a few things if he could be a kid again. I know my adult self would appreciate it, heâd said.
"No," you smiled. "It wasn't that. Just curious."
He nodded, and you wished you could read his mind. Something was off, you were sure of it, but you werenât about to push where you werenât invited.
"Take care, alright?" he told you a few minutes later, as you finally stepped out of the car.
"You too, Jack. See you."
Now, the bar was full with familiar faces, but Jack was nowhere to be found. Most of the day shift crew was there: Perlah, Princess, Whitaker, Mohan, Donnie, even Mckay in a corner talking to Robby. There were members of Gianniâs family, or perhaps friends, you werenât sure. A few from the night shift had shown up, too. You quickly took a seat among them and ordered a beer.
Gianniâs retirement party was exactly what youâd expect from the Pitt team: loud, chaotic, and deep in a dark humor only people who live shoulder to shoulder with disaster and tragedy can get away with. Gianni himself? The life of it.
âRemember that time the elevator got stuck with the patient who thought he was Elvis?â McKay yelled over the music, setting off another wave of laughter. âDidnât even flinch, just started harmonizing Canât Help Falling in Love to keep the guy calm till maintenance showed up!â
You were there among them, perched on the edge of it all and feeling a little like youâd crashed someone elseâs party. You hadnât been around long, so you played it safe; polite, low profile and listening more than talking. Stories around the table from here to there: babies delivered in elevators, sedated patients making ridiculous escape attempts, endless shifts fueled by vending machine coffee and the promise of a decent bed and a cold pillow at the end of it. You agreed with just about everything, especially the complaints.
About an hour and a half in, Whitaker turned toward you. Youâd liked him from the start; there was something endearing about him, even the rumor that he practically lived at the hospital at some point. You werenât sure if it was true, and you hadnât asked. Still, he seemed genuinely kind.
Leaning in, elbows on the table, he asked, âSo, howâs Pittsburgh treating you?â
âI like it,â you said, smiling, meaning it. âItâs got its charm, though the bridges still win most days.â
He grinned. âThat your car they towed the other day?â
Jesus, what a scene that had been. A tow truck hauling your car up in the middle of the parking lot, in broad daylight, like it was putting on a show. Necessary? Yes. Annoying? Absolutely. Youâd caught more than a few dirty looks, as if it had been your idea to stage the whole thing. Still, you had to move the car, didnât you?
âYeah, Oh my god,â you said, shaking your head.
You were seated facing the entrance and had a clear line of sight across the whole place. So, you were just about to add something else when the bar door swung open. And then, you saw him.
Jack had just walked in. He looked put-together; black longsleeve sweater hugging his shoulders, dark pants, nothing flashy. The second he crossed the threshold, he went straight for Gianni and pulled him into a tight hug.
âHey, wasnât gonna let you disappear without one last round,â Jack said into his shoulder. âOr without seeing your favorite doctor.â
Gianni laughed, thumping him on the back, and when Jack pulled away, his gaze started sweeping the room. There, there, there, there... and then it landed on you, and stayed there. Not a passing glance, not polite acknowledgment; it lingered. Long enough to make something in your chest shift and make you wonder, for the first time, if youâd been imagining it all along.
Jack smiled.
Small, almost a smirk, invisible to anyone else. But to you, it hit like heat straight to the sternum. Your heart flipped, then kicked into something embarrassingly intense; you could feel it in your throat.
No, stop, you told yourself. Not now!
Your cheeks burned, and in a near desperate grab for composure, you turned sharply to Whitaker, who was busy watching Abbot as well.
âYouâre from Nebraska, right?â you asked, your voice just a notch too high.
You focused on him like your life depended on it. He started telling you about Broken Bow; how the cold here hit harder, but he missed summers by the lake back home. You nodded, tossed in occasional comments, played your part well enough, but your senses had already betrayed you, stretching thin and thin and pulled toward a table a few seats over.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Jack move. He grabbed a chair beside Dana and McKay. They ordered beers, clinked bottles. Even with the music cranked up, you could pick out his laugh through the noise and through the clatter of glass, through Gianni shouting over everyone, already a few drinks in. Good for him. Heâd earned it. Retirement still felt like a lifetime away for you.
ââŚand thatâs why, when I got here and saw how heavy the snow was, my feet were frozen all day,â Whitaker was saying, laughing at his own story.
âCanât blame you,â you said. âJersey weather isnât all that different, though. Maybe a little colder, sometimes.â
âWhich part?â
âNorth Jersey.â
Right then, Javadi pulled up with an empty chair and slid into the table.
âAre we talking about how much we hate Pennsylvania winters?â she asked.
âYouâre not from here?â
She shrugged. âDoes it matter?â
A second later, she was already teasing Whitaker about how wildly unprepared heâd been his first winter, and you took the chance to take a long pull from your beer; anything to drown out the restless irritating feeling in your chest that had been there since Jack smiled at you. You tried not to look his way, but it was like there was a magnetic pull in that direction. And he wasnât even that far.
Bits of his conversation with the group drifted over. They were talking about an admission from the night before, your day off. Something about a trauma case that had them running for hours and ended badly. Thatâs when it hit you: you were eavesdropping. And somehow, that made it worse.
Thirty two years old. Thirty two, and here you were acting like a teenager with a crush.
As the clock crept toward ten, the mood started to dip. The buzz of Gianniâs happy hour was fading and getting replaced by the weight of twelve hour shifts catching up with the day crew.
âWell, family, Iâm tapping out,â Dana announced from the next table, pushing to her feet. She stretched, letting out a yawn she didnât bother hiding. âI am officially exhausted. If I donât get to bed now, my entire sleep schedule is done for.â
You watched as she made her way over to Gianni and pulled him into a tight hug.
âWeâre gonna miss you, old man,â Dana said into his ear but loud enough for you to catch it. âEnjoy your freedom. No oneâs earned it more.â
That was the starting gun for the exodus. A handful of day shift staff grabbed their coats and started making the rounds, saying their goodbyes one by one. The bar felt emptier all at once, the voices dipping just enough for the sound of cars gliding over the wet street outside to slip in every time the door opened. What remained was a mix of family, close friends, and a few night shift stragglers.
You stayed put, nursing the last of your beer caught between following the tide out or lingering a little longer, fully aware the only reason you hadnât stood up yet was the man still seated in a booth a few feet away. Ridiculous.
You took one last sip. Javadi and Whitaker had launched into a heated debate about the best place in the city for pierogis. Their hands were flying, their voices overlapping, momentarily forgetting you were even there. Not that you minded; you were, admittedly, a little curious about that answer.
You listened for a few seconds more, then took advantage of the distraction. Sliding out of the booth, you slipped away toward the back hallway, where the restroom sign flickered under a dim green light.
When you closed the door behind you, the noise from the bar dimmed. You faced the mirror and stayed there, still, watching the woman staring back at you. You felt strange.
You adjusted the edges of your blouse, smoothing the fabric over your shoulders with restless fingers. You ran a hand through your hair; it wasnât pulled back into the practical, messy ponytail you usually wore, nor clipped up with loose strands falling everywhere. It hung freely instead. You took out your lip gloss and carefully reapplied it, watching the pale bathroom light catch the shine.
For a second, a flicker of insecurity cut through you; you wondered if maybe it had been too much. You were used to seeing yourself in pijamas, in your worn jeans and tees, or dressed for the hospital, and this more polished version of you felt almost like a disguise. It intimidated you a little.
You were overthinking it, like you always did. Your mind started spinning: why did this detail matter so much? Why did Jack being in the bar throw off your usual rhythm? Why were you letting it? Why were you allowing someone else to affect your pulse like this?
You turned on the faucet, and cold water rushed out; It was mechanical. You felt it slide over your fingers, around your wrists, and the steady sound against the white porcelain began to quiet your thoughts. Washing your hands had always calmed you, somehow.
Ever since you were a child, you had craved order. And you never really had it. Your house was too much for you to keep under control; large rooms, high ceilings, people who didnât cooperate. Still, you did what you could, even if it wasnât enough. And it showed in your bedroom, which, unlike the rest of the house, was always neat and clean.
Then it extended to your body: your feet, your face, your hair, your hands. Even your clothes, your shoes. Cleaning yourself relaxed you; removing the dirt, keeping everything in place.
Something as simple as washing your hands slowed your pulse. It always had. Because in the middle of all the chaos that surrounded you, your body was the only thing you could control. The only thing. The only form of autonomy you could truly claim.
And now, years later, you rubbed your palms together, focused on the sensation, in the cold dulling your fingers slightly and the clean scent of the soap. It still calmed you, maybe out of habit, maybe because you still hadnât let go of that underlying feeling of not being in control. And right now, you didnât have it. Not over your emotions, at least.
You turned off the faucet, shook your hands a couple of times to get rid of the excess water, and grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser. The dry sound of it against your skin made you exhale softly, and when you looked down at your hands, they were slightly affected from the cold.
That was it. You took one last deep breath, tossed the paper towel into the bin, and rested your hand on the doorknob, knowing that the second you stepped out, Jack would still be thereâ
You barely made it two steps before you saw him.
He wasnât at the bar, or the booth, or anywhere else. He was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and eyes on the floor, until the sound of the door pulled his attention to you.
âHey. Thought youâd already left with the others,â he said. His voice was oddly soft.Â
âNo, not yet.â
You stopped in front of him. Jackâs eyes moved over you.
âYou look different tonight.â
You let out a small laugh. âI hope thatâs a good thing.â
He smiled, dipping his head slightly, like he was conceding.
âCourse it is. You look pretty. Prettier.â
Was that⌠a compliment?
You went quiet for a second. There was a knot in your throat, but you managed, âThank you, Jack. You look good too.â
He didnât answer right away. His lips pressed into a shy sort of smile, and you caught it; the faint flush climbing up his neck. He was blushing. The realization landed between satisfying and oddly tender, and for a second, you let yourself enjoy it.
âOh, my mechanic called me today,â you said, trying to smooth the moment out.
âOh, yeah?â
âMy carâll be ready tomorrow,â you nodded.
Jackâs eyes flickered just for a split second and he gave a slow nod. He let out a breath and said,
âThatâs too bad.â
You frowned, thinking maybe heâd misheard you.
âNo, itâsâ itâll be ready tomorrow.â
âI know.â
You stilled.
You let out a low confused laugh. âToo bad my carâs ready?â
Jack nodded once, then again. âYeah.â
You tilted your head, searching his face for an explanation. âWhy?â
He pressed his lips together and lifted his chin, locking his eyes onto yours. The intensity of it made your skin burn.
âI was getting used to you.â
Your smile faltered, fading little by little. The noise of the bar blurred into white static.
What you felt was unsettling; something electric, running through every inch of you. You werenât imagining it. Jack Abbot was really looking at you like that; in this dim hallway, in this bar, at Gianniâs retirement party, with half your coworkers just a few feet away.
Then, suddenly, a loud burst of laughter from the other side shattered the moment. Jack turned his head on instinct, and when his gaze came back to you, youâd already taken a step closer. It was the alcohol, you told yourself. That one single beer had made you braver than usual.
His breathing visible hitched.
You tipped your face up toward him. âJackâŚâ
His jaw tightened hard enough for you to see the muscle flex. His eyes traced over your face, stopping at your mouth with conflict and desperation. Then, without warning, he stepped forward, forcing you back. The force of his body drove you until your back hit a wooden door behind you.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached for the handle; his hand brushed your hip as he pushed it open. You didnât question it, you just let yourself be guided into the dark of the small room, his body keeping you pinned as he followed you inside.
Jack shut the door behind him and the silence of the supply closet dropped over you both at once. The space was barely big enough to breathe in; there was hardly any distance left between you. You caught a brief glimpse of everything; metal shelves stacked with disinfectant jugs, a mop slumped in the corner, a couple of buckets... but none of it really registered. Your focus was locked on him.
He flicked on the light. It was so dim, almost useless. And when he turned to face you, you noticed the tension around him. You thought you knew what was running through his head. At least, you told yourself you did. Truth was, you didnât have a clue.
He took a small step closer and swallowed hard.
âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have done that,â he said at last, voice rough. âDragging you in here. It was⌠impulsive.â
âWhy?â you whispered. âWhy did you do it, then?â
He didnât answer. Just set his jaw again.
So you tipped your head and smiled faintly. âDid you just want to talk about my car in private? That it?â
A short dry laugh left him and he dropped his head for a second, then a real smile broke through, lighting up his face.
You let yourself take him in properly now. No harsh hospital lighting in here, just that low glow catching in his salt and pepper curls, teasing out the reddish strands hidden in places. The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened with the smile, and for a second, you had the urge to reach out, trace them with your thumb; right there and there, where time and pain had left their marks, along with a hundred smiles just like this one.
You didnât. Of course you didnât. You just looked. Hands off. For now.
âNo,â he said after a beat. âHonestly, I donât even know why I did it. I justâ I was sitting there, trying to listen, and all I could think about was how many minutes were left before you got up from that table. Before you walked away.â
He leaned in, just close enough for his breath to graze your cheek.
"I spent all day trying to convince myself I was just being a good person by driving you home," he murmured, the words sounding like they were being torn out of him. "But then I saw you out thereâŚ" His gaze dropped to your lips, then surged back to yours with a searing intensity. "If we walk out that door right now, we can pretend this neverâ"
Jack didnât get to finish; the sentence died in the air as you silenced him the only way possible: by crashing your mouth against his.
It was an electric collision. He let out a choked gasp against your lips before his hands found your waist, hauling you into him with a sudden breathless force. His body felt so solid and scorched with heat that you pressed closer, desperate for it, and when you finally broke the contact by a mere fraction of an inch, you both hung there, eyes locked and lungs burning, acknowledging the point of no return.
Then, you collided again with raw desperation. Raw, because there was no room for hesitation. A low moan vibrated deep in Jack's throat, echoing right into yours as his hands slid hungrily down your hips. He gripped you there, fingers digging in your tenderness with a possessive urgency that made you gasp. You clung to his shoulders, your fingers sinking into the soft wool of his sweater and moaning into his mouth as your body arched into his because you could not help it.
Jack broke the kiss to descend upon your throat, leaving a trail of damp kisses that forced your head back against the wall.
"Jack..." you gasped, your voice fracturing as his mouth branded your skin.
He didn't falter. His hands were molten as they mapped your body; one palm surged up your side while the other swept down your thigh, sliding with intent beneath the hem of your skirt. You obeyed instinctively, parting your legs to grant him the space he demanded, and he used the opening to pin you firmly against the cold stone at your back.
Your mind dissolved into a beautiful haze. You felt dizzy, utterly drunk on his scent and the friction of his warm skin. Jack nipped at the curve of your shoulder, wrenching a sharp moan from your throat, and that was when you felt it; his broad and firm palm pressing directly between your thighs.
The contact was so precise you trembled violently. Instinct took over; you arched downward, seeking the heavy pressure of his hand against your aching silk covered pussy. At that, Jack let out a low growl of pure need; he reclaimed your mouth with a desperate hunger, devouring you as his touch made the rest of the world vanish into nothingness.
His fingers moved with expert precision over the lace of your underwear and the fine texture of your stockings. And sure, you already knew he was capable; his hands were his livelihood, and his talent clearly extended beyond his profession.
You kissed him back with everything you had, your tongues tangling and claiming every inch of space and your body melting under his weight and the relentless pressure of his palm where you needed it most.Â
Fuck.
He pulled away from your lips just enough to pepper your jawline with hot little kisses, his ragged breath hitching in needy whimpers against your ear. And then... like a plunge into ice water, your eyes snapped open.
Reality hit you. The clinical scent of disinfectant, the flickering yellow light, the rows of chemical bottles surrounding you... You were in a supply closet, in a bar, at ten o'clock at night, with your superiorâs hand between your legs.
Wake up.
"Jack..." you managed.
Your chest heaved in a frantic rhythm as logic began to pierce through the thick fog of desire.
"Jack⌠no."
You pressed your palms against his chest, feeling the wild runaway thrum of his heart beneath his clothes. He recoiled instantly; his eyes, usually so clear, were now so dark as obsidian; deep and flooded with a lust that flushed his face and burned across his cheekbones. He looked incredible like this: unraveled, human, and so damn attractive. God, you could hardly believe you were about to say it. You wanted him so badly your womb ached, but the crushing weight of the consequences suddenly felt too real.
"We canât do this," you told him, fighting to keep your voice from fracturing. He watched you in silence, his jaw clamped tight. "Iâm sorry⌠no⌠no. Iâm sorry."
You gave him a small shove and slipped through the narrow gap between his body and the wall, feeling one final graze of his heat before you broke away. Jack didn't try to catch you; he remained there, motionless in the shadows of the closet, his hands still partially open.
Without another word, not daring to look back for fear that a single glance would pull you straight back into his arms, you bolted from the room.
The noise of the bar hit you like an unbearable song but you didn't falter. You headed straight for the exit, your pulse still thundering in your ears and the phantom sensation of his hands branded into your skin like fire.
Exactly twenty days ago, your car gave up in the Pitt parking lot. None of this wouldâve happened without that. So... thanks for that, car.
Going back to the hospital after the bar night wasnât exactly a walk in the park. But hey, at least you had your car back now. That had to count for something, right?
When you pushed through the glass doors, your heart was lodged somewhere up in your throat. You already knew there were two possible outcomes waiting for you on the other side.
Option one: Jack would ignore you. Not completely, he couldnât, not really, given he had to interact with you one way or another. But he could keep it clipped, professional and distant. That was entirely possible. You didnât know how that made you feelâno, that was a lie. You knew exactly how it made you feel. Like crap. Bad. A little sick, if you were being honest. Because whatever happened two nights ago aside, your relationship with him was one of the closest you had in Pittsburgh. Kind of pathetic, wasnât it? That one of the people you were closest to, maybe the closest, was your attending.
Option two, and letâs be real, the more likely one: Jack would want to talk. Of course he would. Heâd already tried over the past two days. Three texts; one the night of the bar, one the next day, and another later that same evening. Yesterday, nothing. And you hadnât answered any of them. You didnât even know why. You just⌠couldnât. For some reason, you couldnât.
So yeah, this was the most probable scenario: an awkward but necessary conversation, somewhere quiet but not too far from the ER. Heâd tell you it was a mistake, that it didnât mean anything, that you could just forget it ever happened. Or maybe heâd soften it, ask you not to read into it, say you both got carried away, thatâs all. And youâd nod, play it cool, say donât worry about it, Iâll forget it too. Weâre good.
Were you good, though? Itâs not like youâd spent the last two days overthinking every second of it, spiraling just a little because, after finally landing somewhere that felt nice and calm and far from all your personal chaos, youâd gone and wrecked it. Thoroughly. Because your relationship with him wasnât going back to what it was, and if you couldnât get past this, youâd have to do something about it. Switch back to day shifts, keep your distance, do whatever it took so your day to day didnât turn into something you dreaded walking into.
Thatâs what you were stuck on as you walked into the hospital with fingers tightening around the strap of your backpack on your right shoulder. Eyes down, you greeted Lena and Dana (still there) and headed straight for the lockers. You tried, really tried, not to look for Jack. And you didnât see him anywhereâ
âHey.â
He was right behind you.
âHey,â you echoed, sliding your things into your locker, though your eyes stayed on him.
When the hell had he shown up? He wasnât in scrubs. Had he come in after you? You hadnât seen him in the parking lot either.
âDid you get my texts?â he asked quietly, opening his own locker and tossing his backpack inside. There was a crease between his brows. âIt said read.â
You sighed, pulling off your hoodie. âYeah.â
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him nod. âCan we talk for a minute?â
Of course. Option two.
You turned your head toward him. âYeah. Give me a second.â
Jack nodded, watching you as he unzipped his backpack, pulled out a small pouch, then zipped it back up.
âSee you outside in five minutes.â
When he shut his locker and walked off, the nerves lit up under your skin.
You needed to get this over with. Fast. Best case; do it now at the start of the shift, instead of dragging it through twelve hours of working side by side, wondering what was going on in his head.
You changed into your scrubs, splashed cold water on your face, then dried off and fixed yourself up before heading out to find him. Outside, the sky was shifting; pink and orange giving way to an oncoming night, and the crisp autumn air hit your still damp cheeks.
You didnât have to look long. Jack was waiting just around the corner from the entrance, in a spot quiet enough that no one would overhear. At least, thatâs what you figured.
âHey,â you said, stopping a couple of feet away.
Jack turned toward you. âHow are you?â
âGood,â you answered, even if your pulse begged to differ, stepping closer. âYou?â
âIâm good.â
Silence stretched between you. Jack pressed his lips together, ran a hand over the back of his neck then let out a breath.
âListen, about the other nightâŚâ he started.
You stayed quiet, bracing for it.
He dropped his gaze, shaking his head faintly. âI didnât mean to make you uncomfortable. Iâm sorry. I really am.â
âJack, noâdonât worry about that,â you said quickly, brushing it off, trying to make it smaller than it felt.
"How could I not? You looked more than a little shaken when you left. You practically made a run for it."
"Yeah, well... it was unexpected," you admitted, shifting your gaze toward the parking lot. "And itâs fine. Really, itâs all fine. Don't worry about it."
"Is it?" Jack tilted his head, his eyes locked onto yours. "Because Iâd hate to make you feel uncomfortable at your workplace. My job isâ"
"Seriously, it's okay. We were both a bit tipsy andâ"
"I wasnât drunk."
The words died in your throat. You stared at him, searching for any sign of exaggeration, but his expression was dead serious.
"Iâd barely finished half a beer," he continued, making an almost imperceptible move toward you. "Were you drunk?"
You didn't answer. You knew perfectly well you weren't. Youâd stretched that one drink over nearly two hoursâyouâd been perfectly aware when his hands touched you.
Seeing your silence, Jack let out a heavy sigh. For the first time, he looked genuinely frustrated with you.
"What happened in there..." he started, reaching for the right words, his voice fracturing slightly. "That wasn't the alcohol, and it wasn't a lapse in judgment. I don't want you thinking I put you in that position because I didn't know what I was doing or because I was just being reckless."
A wave of nerves hit you. "Itâs fine. We can just forget it, really. I get it, okay? I know this wouldn't be good for our jobs and IâŚ" You huffed a nervous, soft laugh, shaking your head.
Jack stiffened visibly. His shoulders squared as he met your gaze with an intensity that forced you to hold it.
"Putting the job aside, what Iâm trying to say is... I'm sorry it happened like that, okay?"
He took a small step toward you, invading the very space you had been trying so hard to protect.
"Iâm sorry for cornering you. Iâm sorry for dragging you into a closet like it was something to be ashamed of, or... something like that. I never meant for you to feel trapped," Jack sighed, pressing his lips together and shaking his head slightly.
He opened his mouth to say more but hesitated. His eyes searched yours with a sudden surge of urgency and need. He wanted to tell you that heâd been dying to kiss you for weeks, that his car felt impossibly small every time he drove you homeâbut the looming shadow of the hospital behind him, the look in your eyes, and his own fumbling words were holding him back.
"What Iâm trying to say is that my intention... it wasn't to disrespect you, but it also wasn't..." He trailed off, his jaw tightening. "Shit, Iâm not explaining this well at all."
You felt your nerves betray you again, your fingers beginning to fret with the hem of your jacket.
"Itâs okay," you started, but your voice came out thin and unsteady. You cleared your throat. "I mean it. I understand what youâre saying; you donât have to... you don't have to explain yourself so much."
"I feel like I do."
"You really don't. I know you aren't that kind of man, Jack. I know you're respectful and I... Iâd hate to let this ruin the good thing we have. I like working with you. I like how we get along. I don't want this to break that."
Jack went perfectly still. You saw him stiffen, and then he gave a single, sharp nod.
"Youâre right."
"Please, don't feel guilty about any of it," you added quickly, desperate to erase that look from his face. "I was just as active a participant as you were, okay? Thereâs no blame here, and I'm not judging you. It was just⌠a moment."
He crossed his arms over his chest, nodding as he fixed his gaze on the pavement.
He went quiet for a moment.
âJack,â you called.
His head snapped up.
"No. You're right. Itâs the smart thing to do. Let's just forget it happened, right?"
That forget it hit you in the chest unexpectedly. Noâit wasn't unexpected. Deep down, you knew exactly why it stung. A sharp ache bloomed right beneath your ribs, but you forced a smile and nodded, mimicking his posture by crossing your own arms.
Jack took a step back, his eyes avoiding yours. "Anyway, we got a busy night ahead of us. We should probably get inside."
He turned without waiting for a reply and headed toward the hospital entrance, leaving you standing alone in the parking lot with the hollow haunting sensation that you had just lost something.
âLike a Moth. Or a Plant. Or Something.â - Andrew âPopeâ Cody x Reader
Summary: After noticing you on your daily jog outside of his skatepark, Andrew just has to intervene to save you...maybe more than once. Once your lives have maybe-too-literally crashed together, you both feel the undeniable lightness of a new relationship.
Tags/Notes: fluff, meet cute, getting together, reader has a pomeranian, oral (f), piv (a condom?? in an rr-after-dark fic??), protective andrew
Content: minor sexual harassment, andrew punches a guy, reader is mentioned as having spent time in juvie as a teenager
A/N: happy wip wednesdays loves! this is set after smurf dies and basically the boys have gone straight and pope is in therapy and runs a full skate park he built from the ground up. theyâre Good Boys now. this is just soft fluff time. original format was a 5+1 but as usual five is too many <3
Word Count: 12.7k james' 10k one shot disease strikes again
Pope notices you the very first night you move to the area. How could he not? You jog by the skate park when he's doing evening security and the breeze of your passage feels like an angel descending from heaven. Popeâs not like Craig; he doesnât notice you because of the delicious jiggle of your ass in those bike shorts or the way your sweat-soaked cropped tee clings to your curves, the skate park being at the end of your route, near your apartment, your long run finishing.
No, he notices the way youâre singing along to your music.
Headphones in, chin up, enjoying the setting sun glowing over your skin. Singing. Loud enough for him to hear you across the street about to drop into the ramp for his final few runs before it gets dark. He vaguely recognizes the tune as some pop song that plays sometimes at the grocery, but it sounds so different coming from your mouth. Youâre breathless and joyous. Even the tiny ball of fluff attached to you by a leash is caught up in your sun rays, looking so happy as she pants toward the finish line of home by your side.
You do the same thing the next night. And the next. Soon enough, he realizes this is your daily routine. Maybe you just moved to the area. Maybe you made some new summer resolution. Some days you run in ratty sweats and others in sleek legging sets, but youâre always vibrant when you go by.
He likes watching you. Itâs his little indulgence between running the skate park and running his brothers. From the moment you turn onto the block a ways up the street until you cross the street into the neighborhood where he assumes you live, the houses obscuring his view, Pope keeps his eyes trained on you. When youâre close enough, his ears perk up to listen to that voice of yours lilting through whatever song you have on that evening. His usual schedule was watching the door as security after dark anyway, but you do your runs at sunset, so he starts justâŚgoing out a little early. Nothing wrong with that.
After a while, you notice him, too. The handsome-in-an-intense-way stranger whoâs always there during your runs, another statue you run by like the handful of art installations in the park. You figure heâs a security guard, out by nothing but the virtue of his job, so you start waving at him. A tiny moment shared each night from across the street. You donât pause your music or slow your pace, but you lift your eyes in his direction, give a gentle wave of your hand, wait for him to nod or give a flat smile or (rarely) even wave back, and continue on your way. And those moments are everything for Pope. Just a tiny instance of being seen as another person, uncomplicated, amid the chaos.
That harmless little ritual breaks into something else one muggy night in the heat of summer.
Youâre running fast tonight. No singing. The dog is in your arms, not trying to keep up with you in those tiny legs. Pope notices the change right away and finds himself taking a few steps away from the door to get more information.
Then he notices the guy running just a step behind you. At first Pope figures heâs just another jogger out circling the park, but when he gets a bit closer he can hear the threats coming from his mouth. You mustâve rejected him or ignored him or whatever sets off guys like that earlier in your jog, maybe at the corner when you had to wait at the crosswalk. Now the guyâs chasing you, going between negging you and begging you. Itâs not like heâs waving around a gun, but Pope feels the threat of his presence. He could corner you, pin you, follow you home.
Even if he doesnât do any of that, even if he âjustâ follows you like this, you donât feel safe. That matters to Andrew.
Heâs sprinting across the street before he can even process, the primal part of his brain taking over when he sees danger encroaching. Pope is faster than both of you, his form like Apollo tracking across the sky, and itâs a matter of seconds before heâs plowing into the guy whoâs harassing you, knocking him into the sidewalk with so much force itâs a wonder the sound barrier doesnât break.
You stop in your tracks as Pope wrestles him to the ground, pinning him and giving him one quick, sharp punch to the nose to get him to quit squirming. Pope holds his jaw and snarls, âWhat the fuck are you doing talking to her like that? Scaring the shit out of her?â
The guy wheezes as his eyes dart around. âJesus fuck, man, what are you, her bodyguard?â
Pope squeezes his jaw hard enough to bruise as you watch from a distance, sizing up the situation. âSecurity at the skate park across the street. Donât need you scaring people on my home turf.â Pope stands up, wrenches the guy to his feet by the center of his shirt, which rips, and shoves him in the opposite direction. Heâs fighting to keep his composure because he doesnât want to scare you, so he just taps his holstered gun and growls, âIf I see you in this area again, itâs gonna be more than a punch. Got it?â
The guy touches the back of his hand to his nose, winces at the contact, and nods. He spits blood onto the sidewalk and mutters, âNot worth it anyway.â
Pope doesnât let go of his shirt. He nods over in your direction and âsuggests,â âNow how about you apologize to her and get the fuck out of here?â
Sensing that Pope isnât the kind of guy he should mess with, he glances briefly in your direction, mumbles âsorryâ like a caught toddler, and skulks off in the opposite direction through the park.
Pope gives a sharp nod, a tense not-quite-smile, and turns on his heel to go back to the skate park, back to the regular routine of the night.
Your brows furrow. Before he can get more than a couple steps away, you reach out and grab him by the forearm. The feeling of your fingers jolts him like jumper cables. âWait! Hold on, you canât save me all heroically and then just walk off.â
âOh, sorry.â He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns back to you. Unsure what to say to your expectant expression, he lies,â I wouldâve done it for anyone.â
âI donât think thatâs true,â you reply with a cheeky little smirk that he stares at with longing, intense eyes. That look of his might bother another woman â it feels possessive, almost, like he wants to eat you â but you donât mind. To you, itâs attentive and desirous, something worth stoking. Setting your nervous dog back on the sidewalk, you sheepishly ask him, âWould you mind walking me home? A pomeranian isnât exactly a protection dog and Iâm feeling kindaâŚ.â
As your voice drifts into unspoken nerves, Andrewâs world goes quiet for a second. He notices the way the sun lifts the color of your irises as you try to blink back the light. He notices how you worry your thumb with your first finger, picking at a hangnail, hesitant as you wait for his response. He notices your hairline, your earlobes, your peach fuzz. Every single thing there is to notice.
Nodding tightly, he replies in a gravelly voice, âYeah. Yeah, of course. No problem.â He unhooks his walkie talkie from his belt and clicks it on, âCraig, watch the door for a few minutes.â
Another manâs voice, annoyed but accepting, comes through the grainy speaker. âWhat the fuck are you doing that you canât?â
Pope rolls his eyes and cuts back, âJust do it.â
âFine.â
Gesturing to the walkie before clipping it back in place, he says, âOne of my asshole brothers. Helps me out sometimes.â
You start walking toward the end of the block and Pope follows you, slowing his naturally long stride to match yours. To keep away the silence, you ask, âHow many brothers do you have?â
His hands slide into his dark jean pockets and he trains his eyes on your dogâs swishing fluffy tail, terrified to get caught staring at your side profile. âAh, two who are still alive.â
âOh.â God, your voice sounds too sympathetic for him to be worthy of. âIâm sorry to hear that.â
With a shrug, he murmurs, âIt was a long time ago.â
You shrug, too, but thereâs an openness to it. âStill.â
âRight.â He remembers thatâs a normal thing to be upset about and awkwardly adds, âThanks.â
You stop walking in front of a cute, tiny townhouse in a row of them, all pastels with flower boxes in the front window. Yours is pale yellow and he decides that suits you. For some reason, you seem reluctant to go inside as you announce, âThis is my place.â
Pope gives the spot a long look. All he sees is the total lack of security, but he knows that wouldnât be an appropriate thing to comment on, so he says simply, âItâs nice.â
You sigh, âItâs affordable.â
âThatâs good, too,â he replies a bit too fast. Too eager. He wants to punch himself in the gut. Why doesnât he know how to talk to you? Itâs not like youâre anythingâŚspecial. Dammit. You are, arenât you? The way you nibble your lower lip waiting for him to speak. The way your dog looks up at you like youâre the center of the universe. The way you shift your weight from foot to foot to soothe yourself. Youâre special. Of course you are. He swallows hard and puts his hand out in front of him, stiff but trying his best. âIâm, ah, Iâm Andrew, by the way. Andrew Cody. Everyone calls me Pope around here, at the park and my family and everything, but you can call me Andrew, if you want.â
âOkay, I will.â You introduce yourself with a smile that almost makes him forget your name (and his own) right away, but he commits it to memory by mentally repeating it over and over. You pick up the dog again and tell him, âAnd this is Billie, my running buddy.â
Andrew tentatively offers the orange fluff his hand the way heâs seen people do on TV. She sniffs his fingers and then gives him one solitary lick that makes him tilt his head to the side. Is that a good thing? He admits quietly, âI donât have much experience with dogs.â
Youâre beaming at him as he carefully interacts with Billie, using the most tender touch youâve ever seen from a man, especially one so obviously strong and imposing. You give his bicep a completely un-selfish squeeze and affirm, âWell, she definitely likes you. She usually growls at any man who comes near me.â
Andrew smirks and gives her a small, tentative scratch behind the ears that she leans into. âThatâs a good girl.â
Your mouth waters a bit when he says it. Heâs really, really handsome. More handsome than you expected when he started running toward you like a guardian angel. You swallow hard, playing with your keys as you stall in the doorway, and offer up, âItâs good to finally meet you â for real, I mean. More than a wave. Itâs nice knowing a friendly face in my neighborhood.â
A friendly face. Popeâs not sure heâs ever been called that. It makes him smile. Actually smile. He looks down at the sidewalk and shakes his head and, Jesus, even his teeth are painfully cute between those dimples and that cupidâs bow. You really, really debate inviting him in for a drink or something, but you know thatâs not a good idea. He has to get back to work and you have to, well, not get yourself entangled with a handsome, gun-carrying stranger so soon after moving to a new town. Youâre here to focus on yourself, not throw yourself at the first man who sprints to your defense like a sexy comic book hero with arms youâd love to bite down on and-
âGoodnight, Andrew,â you say abruptly, cutting off the drawn-out silence of you both staring at the other. âThanks again for stepping in. Most people wouldnât do that.â
He shrugs modestly. âIâm not most people.â
âYeah, I can tell.â
Usually that kind of comment would send Popeâs head spinning â what had he done wrong in the conversation to come off as abnormal? â but when it tumbles from your lips he doesnât mind it. âWell, ah, Iâll see you around, I hope.â
With a warm smile, you assure him, âYou will.â
And, starting the next night, you always jog on Andrewâs side of the street instead of across. It makes Popeâs heart clench in his chest and it takes him another few nights to understand why: He made you feel safe. Thatâs all heâs ever wanted â for someone to trust him to keep them safe instead of thinking heâs too crazy, too intense, too much and not enough at once.
Another couple weeks pass and sometimes you even trade small talk. Even the quick âhi, how are you?â exchanges are enough to send Andrewâs mind into candy-coated daydreams like he hadnât felt in a long, long time. Cresting past 35, he can barely remember his last hookup, much less his last girlfriend, much less the last girl he actually liked and didnât just acquiesce to.
Popeâs on his fourth day of getting his confidence up to ask for your number when fate decides to push the two of you together again.
The douchey red sportscarâs windows are tinted way too dark and its music is way too loud as it screeches down the street, racing with a similarly douchey Jeep. Street racingâs a huge issue in Oceanside and itâs particularly annoying to Pope because most of the culture is his brothersâ fault. His sense of danger perks up immediately. When he sees you stop in the crosswalk, tangled up in Billieâs leash with your headphones still blaring music in your ears, completely unaware of any external threats, he curses under his breath. If you donât hear those carsâ fart cannons, you definitely wonât hear him shouting at you to get out of their way.
He sighs and gets moving. Just how often is he gonna have to sprint into the street for you?
As he does it, though, he realizes heâd be happy to throw himself in front of a car for you every night if it means heâll get more of those precious moments where you say his name or touch his arm.
Heâs fucked.
Pope manages to sweep you fully off your feet and get you to the curb with maybe half a second to spare. The force of his impact knocks you both to the ground, but he knows how to bowl someone over, so youâre on top of him instead of the other way around, saved from the scrapes heâs taken to the elbows to stop you from slamming to the concrete.
You swear, loud and disoriented, as you watch the sportscars whiz down the street without a care in the world.
Andrew gives you a cocky kind of smile and chuckles, âYou shouldnât stop in the middle of the street like that, sweetheart. People are fucking crazy around here. Are you okay?â
âYouâre asking that like you didnât break my fall with your body,â you scoff as you check him over, noticing his scraped-up palms.
âHumor me.â
âIâm fine, but- but my-â At the realization, you scramble up to your feet, unsteady on them, and tears brim at your waterline. You start to walk away from Andrew, hastening into the nearby park, calling out, âBillie! Where are you, baby girl?! Come here!â
âShit.â Andrew scans in a circle around himself and catches the orange puff running toward the skate park. With a huff, he starts jogging after the dog, calling over his shoulder, âI see her!â
With a relieved breath, you follow him, a pace behind, through the parking lot and into his world. The moment youâre inside the propped-open heavy metal door and into the huge main room with a deep sloping bowl and various ramps, pipes, and rails artistically arranged around it, it feels like youâve stepped into an alternate dimension. The place isnât at all what youâd expected â maybe too many years of playing Tony Hawk video games â and it makes you wonder more and more about Andrew. First of all, the place is occupied mainly by kids, mostly teens but some as young as eight or nine. Itâs dinner time on a school night, but theyâre all congregating here, laughing and skating on boards or skates, eating handheld foods from a small built-in snack stand off in one corner. Some of them are even doing homework or reading. The only adults seem to be helping them out with learning tricks or checking in on them.
As Andrew walks through with a purpose, heâs given lots of smiles and greetings that he returns with awkward nods and tight-lipped smiles. He walks straight up to a super tall, long-haired guy and slaps him on the back to get his attention. âYou see a dog run through here?â
âUh, yeah,â he answers, eyes going right past Andrew and toward you in your curve-hugging shorts-length bodysuit. âRan right through and into your office. Figured that was kind of a you problem. Whoâs the chick?â
âShe lives in the neighborhood; itâs her dog,â Andrew says simply, looking over his shoulder at you and nodding towards the office, its door propped open by a fan doing its best to circulate the teen-boy-scented air. âCâmon, sheâs probably hiding under my desk or something.â
Heâs right about that. Billieâs curled up beneath a desk so meticulously organized it could be an office supply store display, her ears back from nerves.
âThere you are,â Andrew mutters, reaching under the desk. When Billie doesnât growl or bark, he scoops the ball of fluff into his arms, which look especially buff as he turns to you with the tiny dog perched safely against his broad chest, calming down at his presence. He eases her into your grateful embrace and chuckles, âShe just wanted to skate at my park like all the other cool kids around here.â
You cut him a sideways glance in between giving Billie a million kisses. âYour park?â
âYeah,â he replies. You think heâs not going to say anything else, that maybe heâs giving you a cue to leave, but then he swallows and furrows his brow and tells you, âI, ah, I work with my family, too, but this is sort of my day job now. Started with just one ramp. Bought the lot after a while. Took my time putting up the walls and everything, but, yâknow, it worked out.â
You give him what you hope is a flirtatious smile even though that isnât your strong suit. âHow much does it cost to get in? Maybe you can teach me to skate or something.â
That idea? Having his hands on your waist while you get balanced, seeing your proud smile when you get it, looking at him like heâs teaching you something important? Itâs like his brain itches and he needs to scratch it.
So he gives you a bashful almost-smile and replies, âFor you? No charge. Come by any time.â
âYou saved my life; I should at least pay to get into your business.â
He shakes his head and insists, âYou donât have to pay me back for anything. I wasnât gonna stand there and watch a pretty girl get flattened.â
You raise an eyebrow. âYou wouldâve watched an ugly girl get flattened?â
âShit, thatâs not what I-â
You touch his freckled forearm gently. âIâm teasing you, Andrew.â
He takes a deep breath. âIâm not good at that.â
âThen Iâll stop.â
His voice cracks. âPlease donât stop.â
âThen I wonât.â
After one of those soda bubble pauses, not wanting to let you go yet, Pope stammers out, âWould you, ah, would you want a tour or anything? Iâll show you around the place if you want.â
You almost whine under your breath as you tell him, âI have to get Billie home for dinner and-â
âNo worries,â he quickly adds, âI wasnât trying to-â
âBut I can come by tomorrow without her, maybe even wear some real clothes,â you interrupt lightly, needing to stop him before he tries to back off of the offer. âWhat timeâll you be here tomorrow?â
Andrew straightens up and tries not to smile too much. His mind reels imagining what you wear besides all your running clothes. Itâs not like he knows anything about that stuff, but it feels like unlocking a new layer of you. Willing himself not to blush as you look at him expectantly, he clears his throat and says, âI have some work with my nephew in the morning, but Iâll be here maybe three or so. Unless that doesnât work for you; I can move things around so I-â
âIâll come by at four,â you assure him, all sweet and innocent. Like you arenât reorienting his entire brain. Then you step onto your toes, kiss him on the cheek, and tell him gently, âGoodnight, Andrew.â
The whole time you and your dog walk out of the place, Andrew watches you, his first few fingers touching the place where your soft lips graced his evening scruff. Even when Craig punches him hard on the arm and cracks some joke about your presence, Andrew doesnât feel anything but the ghost of your kiss.
Craigâs just lit up his third or fourth joint of the day at the skate park when Pope pushes through the door with a bug up his ass. Heâs got that serious, intimidating stance like heâs just noticed he has muscles for the first time. Craig knows that stance â whatever he says, he means business. The first thing Pope does once heâs inside is point right at Craig, snap his fingers, and demand, âPut that shit out. I donât want it stinking like smoke in here.â
Craig raises his hands innocently, stubs the joint on the concrete floor, and sticks the remainder of it behind his ear. âSince when?â
Pope grunts back, âWeâve got kids in here all day.â
Craig scoffs, âYou split joints with me when I was twelve.â
âOkay, whatever, I just-â
âWait, wait, wait.â Craig stands up, already laughing through a shit-eating grin. âIs this about that girl who was here yesterday? She coming by to suck you off in your office for saving her puppy?â
Pope shakes his head, pretending his cheeks arenât turning red, and mutters, âShut the fuck up.â
Craigâs eyes widen. âOh, fuck, she is coming here, isnât she?â
âJust for a tour.â
âUh-huh. Sure.â
Pope just retreats into his office, pretending to be busy while he waits for you to arrive. He canât actually concentrate on any of the work he should be getting done when heâs thinking about how much he wants to memorize the shape of you in the skate park so that he can keep looking at you even after youâre gone.
The park is buzzing when you show up, like it usually is in the couple of hours after school lets out. The moment youâre inside, all eyes are on you. Itâs not that there arenât girls in the space, but theyâre all in ripped jeans and tees and helmets, blending in with the boys. So when you swish into the hard-rock-blasting, graffiti-covered, skinned-knee space wearing a floral babydoll sundress that does nothing to conceal your ample thighs, the ties on the sheer ribbon straps looking like an invitation, you steal attention.
You walk right up to Andrewâs brother, whoâs an absolute giant in a white tank top, tap him on his buff shoulder, and ask, âIs your brother around? He should be expecting me.â
Craigâs eyes rake over you, slow and disbelieving. âYeah, heâs in his office. Heâs been acting weird â even for him â so heâs definitely waiting for you.â
Heat crawls into your cheeks. âYeah?â
âGo easy on him,â Craig says with half a smile, eyes trained forward on the ramps, a mix of serious and joking. âPoor guy hasnât been with anyone but his right hand in a decade.â
You snort out a laugh and stifle it with the back of your hand. âThanks, Craig. Iâll see you around.â
âYouâd better.â
You walk up to Andrewâs office door, closed today, and knock gently. âHi, itâs me.â
When the door opens, you canât help but smile. Youâve only ever seen Andrew in black tees, but today heâs in a cream linen short-sleeve button-down tucked into a pair of jeans. He looks much softer, more approachable, the edges of him smoothed out. Touchable.
For Andrew, seeing you in something so damn cute and feminine and sweet turns his knees to spaghetti. Itâs been a long time since a girl caught his attention and the lovely, unfamiliar feeling that twists around his throat when he tries to speak is downright addictive. He gives you a nervous smile, shuffling from foot to foot as he tries not to get hard from seeing a goddamn sundress. âYou came.â
âOf course I did.â
Once his desire to squish you in his arms has faded out, Andrew nods back toward the huge main room and says, âCâmon, Iâll show you around.â
âItâs all teenagers in here,â you say under your breath, like itâs some secret. âThey come here right after school?â
âYeah,â Andrew explains, trying and failing to make it sound unimportant, âI set up this youth program thing when we opened for real. Theyâre mostly system kids or have deadbeat parents. Half of them spent time in juvie. They get in for free and can eat whatever they want, stay whenever they need to, as long as they show me every semester theyâre staying in school.â
âWow, Andrew, thatâsâŚâ Your voice trails off as you see the chaos in a new light, seeing it through Andrewâs eyes and Andrew through fresh ones.
Like he needs to fill your reverent quiet, he goes on, âI was a foster kid for a long time. Didnât do great in the system. If Iâd had a place like this where I couldâve stayed out of trouble, I probably wouldâve turned out better.â
You give him a warm smile that feels like a blanket in the winter. âSeems like you turned out fine from where Iâm standing.â
âTook me a hell of a long time to get here, though.â He gives you a sideways glance and you can tell before heâs even opened his mouth that heâs testing you. âIâve got a record. Served some time at Folsom. And I wasnât some dumb kid on a weed charge; I knew what I was doing when I held up the bank. Knew it was wrong.â
As he leads you around the different ramps and rails, you press him, beyond curious, âSo whyâd you do it?â
He shrugs and tries to sum it up in understandable terms, âMoneyâs money no matter where it comes from, I guess.â Then he shoves his hands into his pockets and, looking particularly boyish, like heâs expecting you to run off, asks, âDoes that freak you out?â
âNo, it doesnât,â you reply as you study his stiffness and his vulnerability alike. âIâm not an angel either, Andrew.â
âYeah?â He gives you a charming smirk. âYou sure look like one to me.â
Despite the heat rising in your cheeks, you donât take the bait of the compliment, instead pushing back, âLooks can be deceiving.â
He bites. His eyes scan up and down your body, not objectifying but like an X-ray, trying to see beneath the sweet pastel surface. âHow deceiving?â
You pause for a long time, debating. You donât talk much about your life before moving to Oceanside at 21 and thatâs for very good reasons. Youâve got one of those histories that tanks job interviews and scares off dates. But Andrew seems different. Like heâs not going to shy away from you just because of the dualities you hold. So you shrug your shoulders and admit it.
âThe only reason I donât have a record is because a judge took pity on me and had my time in juvie expunged.â You meet his eyes seriously. âI knew what I was doing, too. I hurt someone. Bad.â You swallow, shake your head, and tell him pointedly, âI always make sure I know what Iâm getting into. So donât go around underestimating me.â
His next smile comes with a laugh so lovely you could listen to it forever. âYes, maâam, understood.â
âGood.â You nudge him with your hip and press, âNow show me around all the backrooms so I can psychoanalyze you.â
He gives a not-entirely-teasing smirk and replies, âAs long as you donât ditch me because of what you find.â
Thereâs a lot of truth in your joke, though, as much as in his. Youâre much less interested in the skate park as in Andrewâs words as he takes you through it. The thing that strikes you most is how pride simmers out of him when he talks about the place, the most animated youâve seen him with eye contact that seeks reassurance and small laughs that feel sweet and intimate.
As he leads you around, he introduces you to some of the teens who are clearly interested to see Pope walking around with an actual real-life human woman. Youâre surprised that theyâre all incredibly respectful and polite; Andrew must set a certain standard for them. Once youâre through the main space, he takes you through a swinging door into a sort of kitchenette with one side as a cut-out counter that overlooks the center space.
Andrew gestures around and explains, âWe just opened the food thing a couple months ago. One of the kids told me he started stealing extra food at school because his parents were strung out and never got groceries and I just-â He flexes his fingers at his side and lets out a sharp breath. âYeah. Itâs not much, but itâs something. My brother â not Craig; heâs fucking useless, the other one, Deran â heâs got a bar/restaurant with his boyfriend on the shore and they donate food every night that we stock in the fridge for the next day. I wanna bring in appliances, hire a cook or something, maybe even a free pantry, because right now itâs a stupid system that means Iâm driving to and from the bar all the time and-â He cuts himself off and gives an apologetic smile. âSorry. I, ah, I spend all my time thinking about this place. It comes out all at once sometimes.â
âDonât be sorry,â youâre quick to reply. âI like hearing your thoughts.â
Something glitters in his hazel eyes. âYou do?â
You nod, lower your voice, and tell him, âI think youâre kind of amazing, Andrew. Everything youâve built here just shows how much you care.â
Heâs too stunned to come up with a response to your plain and simple honesty, blotchy blush creeping up his neck.
âIâm a pretty good cook,â you add quickly, shy, cute, hesitant. âI donât know if you take volunteers, but I could come by sometimes if you end up putting in a stove or something.â
If it means youâll be here, Andrew will go buy one tonight. He doesnât say that because he doesnât want to freak you out, but itâs the truth. He just likes having you around, seeing your softness contrasting with his world, hearing your gentle laugh and lilting voice. Swallowing down his desire to be way too fucking eager, he just says, âThat would be great. Youâll have to give me your number so I can keep you updated on the stove situation.â
âVery slick, Mr. Cody.â You take your phone from your pocket, unlock it, and hand it to him. âI was having trouble coming up with an excuse to ask for yours, so Iâm glad you did first.â
He makes a happy little sound under his breath as he inputs his number and sends himself a text. âYou wouldnât need an excuse; Iâd give you my social security number if you asked nicely. Or not nicely.â
Giggling a bit, you nudge him and reply, âIâll keep that in mind.â
And he wants your laugh tattooed in his ears.
Finally, Andrew shows you his office, where you were briefly last night when Billie ran off. This time, you actually take a minute to observe the details. Unlike the youthful chaos in the main space, the office is a tidy sanctuary with soundproofed walls and blinds that close the space off. You can tell Andrewâs someone who needs a place to escape from the noise. Like you.
On the wall above his desk, thereâs a framed full-page newspaper profile with a half-page photo spread of the skate park being built. Andrew and his brothers with shovels and concrete. Andrew shirtless (mouthwatering) as he puts up walls. Then thereâs Andrew in the air on his board, the sun silhouetting him before the building was put in around the bowl and ramps. The last picture is a group of middle schoolers all holding up boards toward the camera, Andrew off to the side with a half smile.
A Real 180: Ex-Conâs DIY Skate Park Carves Kidsâ Futures
Andrew reminisces as he watches you read the article, âNot the best headline â itâs from some community college paper â but it was the first time I got recognized for something good.â
You wrinkle your brows at the article and observe, âYou donât have a sign out front with the name on it. Whyâs it called that â Lenaâs?â
Andrewâs expression tightens and he takes a long, deep breath. âI mentioned I had a brother who died, right?â
Beyond curious, you nod.
âWell, he had a daughter. Lena. My niece. I took care of her a while after he died, but she- they-â Shaking his head, he gets choked up for a second. You can tell he doesnât talk about this often. âI couldnât take care of her, so she ended up in the system. Like I was. She got adopted by some nice family, though, so thatâs good. I guess. Anyway, I, ah, I wanted to- to not forget her. What all happened to her that she couldnât control. My therapist liked the idea.â
And thatâs that. You officially have a big fat crush on him. The tenderness in his voice, the honesty on his tongue, and, yeah, the bulge of his muscles and masculine edges of his features and pretty auburn curls. With an admiring lilt to your tone, you muse, âSo this place is, like, you.â
With a laugh, he agrees, âYeah, I guess it is. Built the ramps, dug out the bowl, poured the concrete and everything myself over one summer. Had to boss my brothers around some, but most of it was me after our mom died.â
Your eyes flicker to him as you try to read his far-away expression. âWere you two close?â
âItâs complicated. Really fucking complicated,â Andrew mumbles back. âBuilding out the park was kind of my way of grieving, I guess.â He chuckles almost fondly, âBack-breaking labor gives me lots of good time to think.â
Meaning it in so many ways, you tell him, âYou must be pretty strong, stud.â
You say it with your eyes positively objectifying his arms, so he preens a little, standing up straighter and maybe flexing a tiny bit. He smirks and stares down at his shoes, mumbling, âIf youâre gonna be dumb, you gotta be strong.â
For a second, you purse your lips. You can tell he believes it and you arenât sure if you know him well enough to argue, but you canât resist. You hate hearing him talk down about himself, even if itâs part of a backhanded compliment. âYouâre definitely not dumb if you can run your own business. Youâre observant and handsome and strong and Iâm sure thereâs more than elevator music behind those hazels.â
âHandsome, huh?â
âVery.â
Then, as his cheeks flare neon pink, you reach out and touch his cheek. His eyes snap upward. For a second, youâre scared you fucked up by breaking the touch barrier, but then he sighs into your hand, practically nuzzling your palm for a second.
After a second, Andrew shakes his head and sighs, âDonât go stroking my ego; I didnât even make it to high school.â
After nibbling your lip a second, you decide to say fuck it and tease, âIs that supposed to make me want to ask you out less?â You didnât think it was possible, but even more blush blooms on his features, down his neck and collarbones now, so you quickly add, âIf you wanted to, of course, no, um, no obligation or whatever. I mean, if anything, I owe you for having my back out there on the mean streets and-â
âDo you like the beach?â
You grin and try not to smile too stupidly. âOf course I do.â
âThereâs a spot I go to over by my house,â he says, clearly an offering. âItâs nice and private and- Shit, not like Iâm trying to get you alone by my house or- I just meant-â
âThat sounds nice,â you cut him off, reaching out to squeeze his arm so heâll stop second guessing himself. âI could put together a picnic. Unless thatâs, like, really lame and silly and-â
âPerfect. Itâs perfect.â He takes the hand thatâs lingering on his arm and winds it with his own fingers. âIâd really like that. A lot. How about Saturday evening? I can get my nephew to watch the place for the night shift; he owes me after some shit he pulled this morning.â
Pope knows heâs done for as soon as you step out of your small car in a sheer coverup over a white swimsuit with a plunging neckline and high-cut sides that show off your hips. Heâs leaning against his front porch, holding a picnic blanket, waiting for you to pull up for the last eighty-one minutes because he couldnât sit still, and heâs just thankful that his dark sunglasses disguise the way his eyes devour every inch of you.
Youâre definitely too lovely to be walking toward him. Him in his white tee and five-inch inseam swim shorts that Adrian had made him buy after seeing him wearing too-long ratty trunks heâd had since he was fifteen, feeling exposed by the amount of his thigh showing. Him with his slightly sideways smile and slightly overgrown curls and slightly nervous feet, weight shifting side to side during your approach.
When you give him a huge smile and an enthusiastic wave, he nearly passes out.
Needing something to do with all the energy buzzing around his body, he jogs down the steps and up the driveway to meet you (partially because he wants to make it abundantly clear that heâs not trying to get you inside his house [even if he would really, really like to have you inside his house]). Youâve got one of those soft-sided gingham coolers slung over your shoulder and the very first thing Andrew does is take the weight from you for himself. Heâd never let you carry something when his arms are open and available.
âHi, Andrew.â With your sweet voice curling in his ear drums, you drape your arms around him and kiss his cheek warm and slow. âIâm so happy to see you.â
On the verge of catatonic shock from the tenderness of your Chapstick lips on his skin, Andrewâs stiff arms go to your back, so fucking careful not to grab your waist or land too close to your ass. With his voice earnest and low, he murmurs against your ear, âMe too.â
The way his voice rumbles against your neck makes your toes curl in your sandals. You pull away reluctantly and, with one hand still lingering on his chest, say, âAlright, show me your secret beach spot so I can ask you to put on my sunscreen as an excuse to feel me up.â
Gulp.
Before he can overthink it, Andrew takes your hand in his and leads you down the side of his house and into the sand. Glancing up at the ultra-modern house built effortlessly into the shoreline, you squeeze his hand and say, âYou really live this close to the water? You spoiled brat.â
He lets out a low laugh at that. A real one. Heâs never been teased by a girl and it settles comfortably over him. You donât see him as too harsh or too intense; you can be light and joking with him. ThatâsâŚnice. Yeah, nice. With a shrug, he half-explains, âI like to go for jogs on the beach in the morning.â
You scoff and cut him a glance. âWhich, of course, justifies buying a five-million-dollar house.â
He mumbles, âIt was only three and a half.â
You stop in your tracks. âWhere the fuck did you get three and a half million dollars?â
âAh, my mom left me a lot of money when she died.â
You gesture to the floor-to-ceiling windows on the back half of the house that look straight out onto the sea. âThis kind of money?â
âThis isnât the half of it. You should see my nephewâs place,â he says like it isnât insane. âI mostly picked it because I can walk to the skatepark from here. Iâd be happy in a shoebox.â
âLike my house.â
He vomits out, âWell, yâknow, you can stay at mine whenever you want if you donât like it there.â
You donât give him a second to doubt his own words, taking one last look at the house and replying cheekily, âBe careful or Iâll take you up on that.â
âThen Iâm gonna have to be reckless as hell,â he says, talking directly to his feet. But thereâs a cute smirk toying with his lips, one that turns into a smile as he squeezes your hand and tilts his chin toward a small outcropping peninsula, more like an islet connected by a shoal. Itâs half rocky, the algae-covered stones cropping up far enough to cast dappled shade over the white sand on the other side. âThereâs my spot.â
You follow him dutifully down the shore, kick off your sandals when the sand gets wet, and walk through about an inch of water up the shoal to the small islet. Andrew walks you up to a cozy spot where the rocks are jutting out so thereâs total privacy from the handful of people milling around the shoreline. He spreads out the green plaid picnic blanket, so old-worn and soft itâs like fur beneath your fingers, and weighs it down on the corners with nearby stones before setting your cooler down at its center.
Without drawing any attention to it, you strip off your cover-up and grab the tube of sunscreen from one of the coolerâs outer pockets. Before heâs even turned around from adjusting the blanket just so, you tap him on the shoulder and extend the sunscreen.
And, exactly as youâd hoped, his eyes are all over your body. Frankly, it looks like heâs a computer rebooting, blinking rapidly as blush creeps up his neck. After a minute, with his eyes locked on how the swimsuitâs high cut shows off the indent where your hips and thighs and stomach merge. Itâs the most delicious few inches of skin heâs even seen. Realizing that heâs staring and that youâre definitely catching him, he mutters, âI like your bathing suit.â
With a cheeky smile, you take a step forward, close enough that he could so easily touch you if he managed the confidence to. Swaying a bit with your hands behind your back, you ask him, âSure itâs the suit you like?â
He takes the sunscreen from you, gives you a devious smirk, and says, âI like that itâs protecting your skin from the sun. Arms out.â
You raise your eyebrows and comply. âYes, sir.â
âCareful.â
Andrew isnât sexy about applying your sunscreen like youâd expected. Not when he has an important task to do. Instead, with furrowed brows and narrowed eyes, he thoroughly lathers your skin, moving around your bathing suit to get underneath the hems without any agenda or eagerness, even when heâs palming your ass or the sides of your breasts beneath your armpits. Itâs serious to him. The fragility of your soft skin compared the brutality of the sunâs afternoon rays.
As he swipes the sunscreen gingerly around your face, Andrew murmurs, âStop smiling or youâll get burn wrinkles.â
âStop being cute and Iâll stop smiling.â
Under his breath, he mutters, struggling to sound offended when heâs so smitten, âIâm not cute.â
âThen Iâm not smiling.â
âYouâre ridiculous.â
âAnd youâre already getting a sunburn,â you reply as he finishes off by doing your ears and the back of your neck, totally thorough with your safety. You know heâs not burning, just blushing, but you donât want to make fun of him too much for it. You snatch the bottle from his hands, click the cap off, and order, âYour turn. Shirt off.â
His eyebrows fly up. âYou donât need to-â
âI want to, Andrew,â you assure with total confidence in your voice. âI promise I donât bite.â
As he takes his shirt off and tosses it onto the picnic blanket, he replies, âThatâs a shame.â
Openly ogling his chest because itâs a date and you can, you laugh gently, âMaybe if you ask me really, really nicely I could give you a nibble.â
âI can be very nice when I want to.â
âIâve only seen you be nice.â
âYou saw me punch someoneâs face in.â
âYeah, but you were doing that to defend me.â After squirting sunscreen into your palm, you press your hands carefully to the top of his chest and say, âThat might not be everyoneâs version of nice, but it was really sexy, so thereâs probably some overlap there.â
He hums absently, brain now completely occupied with the feeling of your hands on his skin. You notice the immediate effect â the way his shoulders drop in comfort and his eyelashes flutter â and it kindles something in the base of your gut. Heâs touch-starved and you can feel it in every muscle tensing and relaxing beneath your fingers. So you slow down. You work the knots in his bulky traps and drag the pressure down his back, which is firm and strong and freckled and so, so nice beneath your thumbs. When you press into the small of his back with your thumbs, slipping just under his shorts to the dimples at the top of his ass and rubbing in slow deep circles, he hangs his head and groans down low, âJesus Christ.â
You donât respond, deciding to just enjoy yourself. Moving around to his front, you spread sunscreen over his pecs and down his abs. His abs. You give them some extra attention because, yâknow, how terrible would it be for him to get a sunburn on them? The whole time, you find yourself singing under your breath, pretty unabashedly feeling up his obliques and sides because the V of his hips is just so offensively delicious.
When he hears your soft voice complimenting the moment, Andrew smiles and tells you, âThatâs what made me notice you in the first place. Your singing.â
You laugh and scoff, âDo I sing that loud?â
He nods and chuckles, but itâs affectionate. Heâs definitely not making fun of you or judging you. âI can always hear you across the street. The way it starts all soft at the far end of the block and then gets louder when you pass by and then soft again. I look forward to it all day.â
Your hands still on his sides. He opens his eyes at the sudden stop, tilting his head to the side and examining you with careful hazel eyes. Biting your lower lip, you press, âReally?â
âAre you kidding?â Andrew laughs in disbelief, his confidence growing when he realizes you need to see it firsthand. He tugs you close by the waist, stealing your breath a moment, and says, âEvery time you run by, I feel soâŚI donât know. Iâm not good with words and the feelings stuff. But I feel alive, I think is the right word, and thatâs- thatâs a new thing for me. Completely new. You have this light, I guess, that Iâm drawn to. Like a moth. Or a plant. Or something.â
You lean forward, hug him close, and nuzzle into his neck. âThatâs actually really beautiful, Andrew. Youâre better with the feelings stuff than you think. It doesnât matter how you say it; what matters is that you feel it.â
âI usually feel too much.â
âNot too much,â you reply sweetly. âMost men pretend they donât feel anything at all.â You nod toward the picnic blanket and suggest, âIf weâre gonna have lovey-dovey-deep-feelings-talk time, do you wanna sit down and eat?â
âThatâs probably a good idea.â Andrewâs palms are clammy as he sits down first to give you the choice of where to sit, so scared to overstep or assume with you. With his legs out in front of him and his back against one of the large stones, he jokes, âExpressing a feeling burns a lot of calories for me.â
âDonât worry; Iâll make sure youâre well fed so you can bear your soul to me.â
You plop down on his lap, weight back on his thighs, facing him, without a care in the world, and reach over to open the cooler. You pluck out a fat, ripe strawberry and press it to his lips, which part open on instinct. When his lips wrap around the fruit and he bites down, a bead of pink juice trails from the corner of his mouth. You catch it with your thumb and lick it off without thinking; a shiver goes down Andrewâs spine as he watches your tongue.
While you eat a strawberry for yourself, he breathes out slowly, âYouâre way too pretty. Itâs distracting.â
âYouâre not so bad yourself,â you tease as you feed him a handful of grapes next, nabbing a few off the stem to eat. âIâm sure you get that all the time, though, with that handsome face of yours.â
Trying to hide his smile, he mutters, âFlatterer.â
âTruth teller,â you correct. âYouâre cute; you should know about it.â
He doesnât respond, but his cheeks flush a sweet shade of pink that reveals his thoughts. The two of you eat and joke and talk for a while as the sun climbs down toward the horizon over the mountains on the opposite side from the sea. As his walls come down, his soft smile comes out and heâs able to meet your eyes every time you laugh. The waning sun softens Andrewâs features, brightens the auburn in his curls to fiery orange, and turns his hazel eyes golden.
Once the coolerâs been zipped up and the sunâs throwing shades of lavender and pink over the water, you rest your hands at the back of Andrewâs neck and take a slow, serene breath. Being around him has become easy and simple since you met him, a calm but protective presence you can turn to. As you admire him during a content lull in the conversation, you brush your thumb over his cheek and say, barely above a whisper, intimate and for just him, âYou really are beautiful, Andrew.â
Beautiful.
The word sings around Popeâs mind. He doesnât care if other guys would find it emasculating; itâs everything to him. So he doesnât joke, deflect, or deny. He just says through the blush, âThank you, sweetheart.â
Then you nibble your lower lip, flick your eyes up to his, and ask tentatively, âCould I kiss you?â
Andrew, very simply, canât speak at the idea that you want to kiss him. So he nods eagerly, eyes widening and pupils dilating, and stares at you. His focus goes to your lips, a silent invitation, and he tries to will himself to close the gap first. But he canât. Heâs frozen in pure desire.
He manages to nod.
Thatâs enough for you.
Trying not to be too tentative, you wind your fingers in his curls and lean so your lips press to his. Itâs gentle and delicate, like you, and Andrewâs melting into a puddle of adoration under you. He makes a low, almost groaning sound as he carefully places his hands on your waist. Itâs greedy. It urges you forward. You break the kiss only long enough to smile and giggle quietly. When you scoot forward so he can feel your breasts pressing against his chest, Andrew takes the back seat and Pope comes out. He surges forward and wraps his arms around you, one on your lower back and the other on the back of your head, clutching you tight.
The small, certain show of dominance causes you to moan into his mouth, embarrassing and desperate. But when you instinctively start to pull back to apologize, Andrew shakes his head and tugs you in closer. Kisses you harder. Needs you more. He takes charge even further, tongue swiping the envelope of your lips, parting them, insisting against yours. You drag your hands down his arms, squeezing his biceps, letting yourself be positively hungry as you grab his muscles. And he matches you. Guides you backwards with so much care until youâre flat on your back against the soft blanket, Andrew pinning you down in a way that doesnât make you feel trapped but protected. Like nothing could get to you while heâs got you there.
Breathless and squirmy, you search his face to find pupils blown wide and lips trembling with lust. So you feel nothing but confidence as you suggest, âWould you want to, um, show me your place?â When he gets that cute kind-of-confused look, you raise your eyebrows and press, âYour bedroom, maybe?â
âOh. Oh.â His cock twitches and he backs off of you reluctantly, extending his hand to help you to your feet. You press a soft kiss on his lips and collect your things again, which, again, Andrew insists on carrying for you. As he leads you up the shoal and to the side door of his house, he nervously tells you, âJust so you know, I wasnât expecting for us to- I didnât want to assume that- Itâs, ah, itâs kind of messy.â
Once heâs invited you through the door, where you leave your sandals in the mud room you walk into from the side door, you gaze around the pristine, modern space in wonder. âThis is your version of messy? Good thing we arenât back at mine.â
âI can be kind of a neat freak,â he admits solemnly. In his tone, you can hear a lifetime of internalized judgment.
So you give his bicep another squeeze and say, âHopefully youâll rub off on me, then. I could use some pointers.â
He pulls you toward him and, completely serious, says, âIâll clean your whole place on my knees with a toothbrush if you kiss me again.â
Youâre giggling as you lean in. âIs that a promise?â
Grabbing you by the waist, he presses his lips to your again, just as good as the first, and groans, âAbsolutely.â
In between fevered kisses, âBetter invest in a cute French maid outfit because Iâm not gonna stop kissing you any time soon.â
He smiles and it tastes so good against yours. âIs that a promise?â
âShow me your bedroom and you can find out.â
Andrewâs dizzy from the honesty of your desire, so he takes your hand and leads you through his minimally decorated, neat home and up the stairs into a massive lofted suite. Itâs a total bachelor pad, the whole top floor gutted into a huge bedroom with a sprawling bathroom including an in-floor jacuzzi tub and a walk-in shower the size of your bedroom with built-in benches and shelves. Itâs definitely the sanctuary of a single man who values his alone time.
Andrew stiffens up a bit in his bedroom, feeling a bit too exposed all of a sudden, and asks bashfully, âWould it be alright if we showered before getting into my bed? I kind of have a thing about-â
âOf course it would be okay; I donât want you to be uncomfortable,â you tell him simply, not realizing how much it matters to him. Then you bite your lower lip and ask him with a slight sway in your step, âBut could I use that insanely gorgeous tub of yours instead?â
Andrewâs tight lips turn to a smile at the thought of you naked and relaxed in his bathroom. âYeah, absolutely. Let me show you how to use the jets.â
The tub is at the center of the bathroom suite, the shower offset behind a divider on one side and the sinks on the other with the toilet set off in its own large water closet behind a door. Andrew walks ahead of you and draws the bath, his simple domesticity lighting a fire inside of you. As he places a few different bath products on the edge of the tub for you to choose from, you easily strip out of your swimsuit, knowing that Andrewâs eyes will make you feel nothing but secure,
When he straightens up and sees the slopes and curves of your nude form, Andrew lets out a slow, long breath. âFuck, youâre gorgeous.â
Carefully stepping down into the hot water, you recline and gaze up at him. âAnd you have an excellent bathtub.â
He bends down and kisses your forehead. âHopefully thatâll convince you to stick around.â
With the jets punching into your back just right, you hum, âYouâre definitely racking up points like crazy here.â
He glitters at that. âYeah?â
âMmmhm,â you croon slowly as you melt into relaxation. âYouâre sweet and handsome and kind. I have a feeling you like to spoil a girl rotten.â
Giving you a gentle spiderman-style kiss, he grins. âDamn straight.â
You kiss him back and then reluctantly push him upward. âNow go and have you shower so I can get you off.â
With a play shiver, he shakes his head and says, âYes, maâam.â
Disappointingly, you donât get a good look at his naked body as he disappears behind the divider and into the steam of the shower. Damned delayed gratification. Your pussy is definitely aching for him already, keeping your mind activated. With the mild bergamot soap collection Andrewâs left by your side â an incredibly sexy choice for a buff, masculine guy â you wash the sea and sweat from your skin until you feel completely relaxed and smooth.
By the time you hear the shower turning off, youâre totally blissed out from the jets and the aromatherapy (and the way Andrew sometimes grunts as he scrubs himself down. You donât even notice him stepping out, wrapping his hips in a towel, and standing over you with a content expression, imagining what it would be like to have this sight in front of him on a regular basis.
Sounding amused, Andrew asks in that gravely voice of his, âYou wanna dry off and let me eat you out now or should I leave you alone with your new best friend a while?â
With a serene smile, eyes still closed, you reply, âHmm?â
âGotcha, Iâll head out, then,â he chuckles. âIâve got some projects I should get working on, anyway, and-â
You flick some water at him as you slowly stand up, stretching your arms above your head in a way that drives Andrew clinically insane. He offers a hand to help you out and you take it, glowing under the way his eyes trace the droplets that cascade over your breasts and down your soft stomach.
Then he bends down and drags his tongue from your bellybutton, up your sternum, and over your neck, not stopping until his lips meet your softly gasping mouth. Every nerve in your body shocks to life as he kisses you urgently, snapping a towel off the nearby rack to hastily dry you off. The soft towel in his rough hands energizes all of your muscles. Youâre still a little unsteady on your feet from the warm bath, so you grip onto him, arms around his neck, and he groans in response.
Unable to resist, Andrew guides you backwards, toward the countertop, and begins to feel you up in earnest, the way he wouldâve on the beach if he werenât scared of being too possessive too fast. The truth is that heâs already obsessed with you. He has been for longer than heâd ever admit to you, his brothers, or even his therapist. He wants to devour every part of you as often as he can, to bring you into his life, to build up all the good in you and let it wash over his darkness.
With you giggling and moaning in tandem, Andrew hoists you up onto the counter and kneels down in front of you. Before you have time to think, much less question, heâs spreading your legs and diving between them. Water drips down your shins and lands on the floor, but Andrew canât bring himself to care with your tart juices coating his tongue. His name slips out of your mouth in a needy cry and his eyes roll back, closing with ecstasy.
Andrewâs greedy hands travel to your hips to hold you tight against his mouth as you grapple for balance on the counter, one hand gripping its edge and the other fisting in Andrewâs damp curls. He grunts at the sting on his scalp, nodding to encourage you to be even meaner with it. So you do. Itâs not your usual style, but you grind down against his tongue, showing him exactly where he needs to use his tongue. When you manage to rasp out a whimpering, âright there,â Andrew nods happily and gets to work, lapping at your clit like itâs an oasis in the desert of his life. Like your body can baptize him.
You canât rip your eyes from his rapturous expression as pleasure warms your belly. Youâve never seen a man looking so at peace between a womanâs legs. His thoughts turn into a gentle breeze and he focuses on your every little sound and twitch. Youâre not loud, but youâre constant, sounds feminine and breathy and music. And the way you squirm under his hands, involuntarily twitching and bucking. He wonders absently how long itâs been since a man made you cum like this because you seem barely in control of yourself, tumbling headfirst into overwhelming pleasure.
With you on the verge of losing yourself down his chin, his cock is agonizingly hard. It truly borders on painful, red and angry and leaking. When your thighs start to tighten around Andrewâs head, your moans going even softer from the intensity, Andrew canât resist giving himself some relief by pumping his cock with his right hand. The contact makes more groans vibrate against your pussy and, all of a sudden, you canât take it for another second.
Your orgasm hits you like a freight train, thighs completely muffling Andrewâs hearing, but he keeps his hand tight on your hip, clutching you close so that you canât wriggle away. Toes curling, chest heaving, and eyes pinching shut, your pussy begs to be filled as it clenches against itself. Andrew drinks in every bead of your arousal that drips down when you cum.
Andrew places soft, loving kisses on the sensitive insides of your thighs as you come down from the orgasm. When he straightens up, heâs got a self-satisfied grin on his lips. An orgasm is concrete, undeniable proof that heâs done good work. Then you lean forward and kiss him with an unfamiliar fervor, so adoring it steals his breath for a moment, and itâs cemented in his mind.
In between bruising, demanding kisses, you beg, âWant your cock. Want you to fuck me.â
âWrap your legs around me, angel,â he murmurs, lips only a millimeter from yours. When you obey without question, he smiles, scoops you up below your ass, and carries you back into the bedroom. He spins you around sweetly and youâre able to get a proper look at his bed for the first time. Itâs not the pristine linens and carefully arranged pillows that catch your attention.
You gawk, âJesus, this bed is gigantic.â
Andrew flops you down onto it to make you laugh, shrugs, and replies modestly, âWhen in California, get a California king.â He opens up his bedside table, removes an unopened box of condoms, and fishes one out. You give him a cheeky look at the new box and he mutters, âDonât make fun of me; I donât get a lot of action.â
You give him a warm, affectionate smile. âGood; I want you all to myself.â
Andrew huffs out a chuckle as he rolls on the condom. He joins you on the bed and kisses you hard. before murmuring, âYou have me.â Then, poising the head of his cock at your soaked entrance, chest blotchy red and eyes black and breaths heavy and lips shiny and swollen, Andrew asks gently, âAre you sure?â
You bite your lower lip and nod. âCompletely and totally.â
But his eyes still search your face for any signs of doubt, any proof that he isnât good enough for this, any reason to stop and save you from him. So he holds your cheek and whispers, âSwear?â
âPlease.â With your hands on his hips to encourage him forward, you assure him, âIâve never been more certain I want someone to fuck me.â You pull his head down by his curls and kiss him. âJust let go, honey. I want you.â
So, after a shaky nod, he sinks inside of you in one slow, deep thrust. Itâs the first time heâs been grateful for a condom slightly dulling the sensation because your cunt is gripping him so perfectly he wouldâve cum seconds after slipping inside of you. He still shudders and grips his headboard so tight it nearly splinters when he bottoms out and you give him a breathless moan. At least that thin barrier lets him savor you. Itâs not really about getting his dick wet for Pope, anyway. Heâs not like Craig or Baz. For him itâs the way your breath catches in your throat, the way your nails dig into his strong ass, the way you lean up to get him to kiss you if he stops looking at you for even a second.
The whole time heâs inside of you, Andrew holds you close. One hand on the back of your head, the other on your waist to steady you against his hard thrusts. Soon enough, itâs not close enough, and heâs got you on his lap, trying to make sure you have as much control as you want, cradling your back with his large hands, pressing your chests together as you whine into his neck. He can only bear to move one of his hands when you plead, âTouch me, Andy.â
Pope shivers. He canât remember the last time someone called him that. The last time he felt so wretchedly and perfectly seen. His hand slides from between your shoulder blades to your neck, briefly stopping to feel your pulse beneath his thumb, down the soft swell of your stomach, and finally between your legs. He never stops touching you the whole way.Â
Hovering his thumb right above your clit, the lack of contact driving you crazy, Andrew murmurs, âYou called me Andy.â
You bite your lip and start to ask, âIs that not-â
Then his thumb lands on your clit, knowing and thunderous, and your question dies in your throat, replaced by a hard moan. He kisses you hard and admits a little too earnestly, âI liked it.â
With your greedy walls pulsing around him, you swear against his lips, âIâll call you anything you want if you always fuck me like this.â
The only word he can growl is, âAlways.â
That word turns your brain to happy mush. Everything gets more intense at the idea that youâve got Andrew for as long as you want. This isnât a one-and-done thing for either of you. Andrew bucks his hips up into you with animalistic force. Your tits bounce in his face and he catches one of your nipples in his mouth. Your toes curl into your mattress and your hips falter, stuttering on either side of him.
Andrew doesnât even give you a second to collect yourself. He wraps his arms around you and flips you onto your back, sinking his cock deeper as your legs get pushed back, nearly to your head. His thumb goes to your clit, precise and firm, and you start to whimper and gasp more than moan, overwhelmed by how good it feels to be with him. Yes, him, specifically, because of the way his body conforms to yours, every inch of him responding to every inch of you. When he feels your second orgasm tightening up around his cock, he has to bite down to stave off his own. He barely even registers that heâs biting down on your neck, sucking hard and digging in. It makes pleasure spark up your spine as you let out a harsh cry.
When your walls grip down on him like a vise, Andrewâs body hurtles over the edge, vibrant and intense and overwhelming after holding himself back for your pleasure. The whole time, heâs grunting praise in your ear. So beautiful. Fucking perfect. Canât believe I get to have you.
The two of you stay tangled up together long after he goes soft. He only briefly moves to tie off the condom and lob it into the nearby trash. Heâs pretty much laying on top of you and, honestly, itâs really nice. Like a weighted blanket you can time your breaths and heartbeats with. A weighted blanket that litters gentle kisses over your face and chest and shoulders and tells you how lovely you are over and over.
You separate naturally, neither of you really initiating it. Then, as you stretch your arms above your head and prepare to stand the rest of the way up, Andrew asks tentatively, âWould you want to stay over? You can borrow some of my clothes.â
Your grin spreads wide and easy; Andrew doesnât really strike you as the kind of man who offers to share his living space lightly. So you stand, drape your arms around him once more, and reply, âIâd love that. I gave Billie dinner and her evening run before I left, so you just have to have me home before breakfast.â
Kissing up your neck, he murmurs, âIf you want, I could join you. Make you some real breakfast and go on your morning run with the two of you.â
âYeah?â Your smile lights up into Megawattage territory. âYouâd do that?â
Andrew shrugs like itâs not a huge deal to either of you. âIf it wouldnât be too much of an imposition. Wouldnât wanna cramp your style.â
âCan I still sing?â
âWouldnât want it any other way.â
âWould you sing along?â
He kisses you and laughs, âDonât push your luck, angel.â
You peck the tip of his nose and bat your eyelashes teasingly. âI always do.â
Andrew just shakes his head and goes to his closet to grab pajamas for you both. Once youâre cozy in one of his 800 soft, worn black tees (you forego panties), he finds a brand new toothbrush for you in his bathroom, not that itâs hard since heâs one of those people who actually replaces his toothbrush every three months. While you brush and wash your face, Andrewâs eyes rove along your body, cataloguing the myriad of small marks heâs left on you. Most are small and forgettable, but heâs left a few possessive, intense hickeys over your neck and breasts. But you just keep smiling at him every time you catch his eyes in the mirror. Youâre not upset with him. In fact, you love looking like you belong to him already.
While Andrew goes through the house to shut off the lights and lock the doors, you make yourself comfortable in his massive bed and absently scroll on your phone. When he comes back up the stairs, he lingers to watch you for a moment. He definitely likes the look of you in his bed.
After a minute of wrestling with it, debating if heâs just too crazy for his own good, Andrew asks softly, âWould you mind sleeping on the other side?â
You shake your head, scoot across the bed toward the wall, and reply, âDidnât mean to steal your spot. 50/50 chance.â
âItâs not that,â he replies. He sits next to you and sighs, sounding embarrassed, âNot gonna be able to sleep unless Iâm between you and the door. Just in case. I know thatâs stupid, but-â
âItâs not stupid,â youâre quick to interrupt. The truth is that it makes you feel so safe you could explode with adoration, but that might be a little much to say on your first night together. So instead you tell him, âIâll sleep better knowing youâre watching out for me.â
Andrew kisses your temple, unable to quite voice how much your easy acceptance means to him. âThatâs what I like to hear.â
You kiss him for another minute, just slow and lazy, until youâre both relaxed and sleepy. He canât stop himself from shaking his head and smiling in between. Even when heâs turned the lights off and closed his eyes, Andrewâs mind is soft and light. Hell, he might actually sleep more than a few hours.
As you slowly drift toward unconsciousness, you turn onto your side and instinctively rest your head on Andrewâs shoulder. When he moves his arm, you tuck onto his chest, your eyelashes brushing his bare skin and your breath prickling his nerves. Then you sling a leg over his hip, too, and he brings his hand to rest on the curve just above your ass, arm settling like it was made to be there with you.
This is all new for Andrew. Heâs never had a woman curl into him like this, nestling into his chest and treating him like a body pillow. Showing him trust at her absolute most vulnerable. He breathes in the scent of his own shampoo on your hair. With slightly trembling hands â the weight of your trust is heavy â he cradles you, one arm around your lower back and his dominant hand on the back of your head. When you coo gently and press a kiss to his bare chest, Andrewâs heart pounds like heâs run a mile.
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Request - Can you write a scene when there is hostage situation at The Pitt. There is a man with a gun, a criminal who wants to make sure his girlfriend has a healthy baby. The reader agrees to become the hostage while the rest of the people are evacuated. Her and Robby are a couple. The reader delivers the baby, both the baby and it's mother survive. Then, there are a few gunshots Heard. The man is dead, the woman is also hurt and the reader is also hurt. The reader survives and she and Robby don't hide their relationship in the moment when Robby learns she's alive and also very hurt. (God it is long)
The first thing Robby registered was the sound of your name coming out of his own mouth, sharp and unrestrained, louder than anything he had said in that building in a long time, because the second the shots rang out whatever line he had been holding himself behind shattered completely, leaving nothing but instinct and something far more dangerous underneath it.
âMove,â he snapped, and this time when security tried to hold him back he didnât stop, didnât slow, his shoulder driving forward just enough to break through the hesitation, through the protocol, through the thin barrier that had kept him outside while you were in there alone, because the only thing that mattered now was getting to you.
The doors flew open again under the force of it, the scene inside hitting him all at once, too much and not enough in the same breath, the sharp smell of gunpowder still hanging in the air, the echo of chaos folding in on itself as officers shouted over one another and staff rushed in with stretchers and supplies, the carefully controlled environment of the ER completely undone.
He saw the man first. Down. Motionless. Blood pooling in a way that left no question, no ambiguity, no room for interpretation, and Robbyâs gaze slid over him without stopping, because that was not what he was looking for, not what his brain had locked onto the second those shots rang out.
Maya.
Curled around the baby, her body twisted protectively despite the blood seeping through her side, her face pale and streaked with tears as she clutched the newborn close, the infantâs cries cutting through the noise in sharp, frantic bursts, alive, alive, and that mattered, that mattered, but you.
He found you a half second later, and the world narrowed so violently it almost knocked the air out of him.
You were on the floor. Too still. Your body twisted at an angle that made something in his chest seize, one hand braced weakly against the tile like you had tried to catch yourself, the other pressed to your side where blood was already spreading, darker than anything he wanted to see, too much, too fast.
âNo,â he said, but it didnât come out like a word, it came out rough, broken, the kind of sound that didnât belong to the man who kept control in trauma bays and crisis situations, the kind of sound that came from somewhere deeper.
He was moving before anyone could stop him. Kneeling at your side, hands already on you, already assessing, already doing what he had done a thousand times before except this time it wasnât just another patient, it was you, and that changed everything in ways he didnât have time to process but felt anyway, sharp and overwhelming and impossible to ignore.
âHey, hey, look at me,â he said quickly, his voice dropping into something urgent and steady all at once as his hand came up to your face, grounding you, keeping you with him as your eyes struggled to focus. âStay with me, you hear me? Stay with me.â
Your gaze found him through the haze, unfocused at first, then sharpening just enough that recognition flickered, and the smallest, faintest exhale left you like you had been holding it until you saw him.
âRobbyâŚâ you breathed, your voice barely there, your hand twitching where it pressed against your side.
âIâve got you,â he said immediately, the words firm, certain, even as his other hand moved with practiced efficiency, pressing harder against the wound, assessing depth, entry, exit, his brain firing through protocols while his chest fought against the rising panic threatening to break through. âYouâre okay, youâre okay, just stay with me.â
âGurney!â someone shouted behind him, and footsteps rushed closer, but Robby barely registered it, his focus locked entirely on you, on the way your breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, on the way your grip weakened just slightly under his hand.
âDonât close your eyes,â he ordered, sharper now, leaning closer as his thumb brushed lightly against your cheek, grounding, anchoring. âYou do not get to check out on me right now, you understand?â
A faint, strained huff of something like a laugh ghosted past your lips, though it was more breath than sound. âBossyâŚâ
âYeah,â he shot back immediately, the edge in his voice cracking just slightly as he adjusted his grip, applying pressure, keeping his hands steady even as everything inside him screamed at the sight of your blood soaking through. âAnd youâre going to listen for once.â
Hands moved around him, controlled chaos reforming as the team fell back into motion, someone checking Maya, someone else carefully taking the baby, voices overlapping in a rhythm that should have grounded him but didnât, not this time, not when you were the one on the floor.
âSheâs hit in the side,â he called out, forcing his voice into something more clinical, more structured, even as his gaze never left you. âWe need to move, now.â
âOn three,â another voice answered, close, ready, and Robby nodded sharply, adjusting his hold so they could lift you without losing pressure.
âOne, twoââ
They moved together, careful but fast, lifting you onto the gurney, your body shifting with a small, pained sound that tore through him more than anything else in the room, because it meant you felt it, it meant you were still there, still fighting.
âStay with me,â he said again, walking alongside as they started moving, his hand never leaving you, his eyes locked on yours like if he looked away for even a second something would slip, something would be lost. âYou hear me? Stay with me.â
Your fingers caught weakly at his sleeve, barely enough to hold, but enough that he felt it, enough that it anchored him just as much as he was trying to anchor you.
âDonâtâŚâ you started, your voice faltering, breath catching.
âDonât what?â he pressed immediately, leaning closer as they pushed through the doors into the trauma bay, the familiar space suddenly feeling anything but routine.
âDonât⌠let them⌠send you out,â you managed, each word taking more effort than it should, your gaze flickering, struggling to stay focused.
His jaw tightened, something sharp flashing across his face before he forced it back, forced control over it, even as the meaning of what you were saying hit him hard and fast.
âIâm not going anywhere,â he said, low and certain, and this time it wasnât just reassurance, it wasnât just something to keep you calm, it was a promise.
They rolled you into the trauma bay, lights too bright, voices too loud, hands already moving to take over, to do what needed to be done, and for the first time since he had reached you, someone tried to pull him back.
âRobby,â Langdon said, firm but careful, âweâve got her, you need to stepââ
âNo,â he cut in immediately, the word sharp enough to stop them for a second, his hand still on you, his body still angled toward yours like he physically couldnât move away. âIâm not stepping out.â
âRobbyââ
âI said Iâm not stepping out,â he repeated, lower now but more dangerous for it, his eyes flicking up just long enough to make it clear he was not budging, not this time, not with you on that table.
Because this wasnât just a patient. And he wasnât pretending it was.
The trauma bay exploded into motion the second the wheels of your gurney locked into place, hands moving with practiced speed, voices overlapping in clipped commands as the team fell into rhythm, but there was something different in the air, something sharper, more fragile, because everyone in that room knew exactly who you were and exactly who he was, and the line that usually held everything together had already been crossed the moment Robby refused to step back.
âVitals dropping,â someone called out, the monitorâs rhythm uneven, stuttering in a way that made the tension spike instantly as oxygen was adjusted, lines were placed, pressure reapplied with more urgency.
Robby didnât move. He stayed exactly where he was, one hand still braced against your side helping maintain pressure while the rest of the team worked around him, his other hand hovering near your shoulder like he needed the contact even if it wasnât strictly necessary anymore, his focus split between the clinical and the deeply, painfully personal.
âEntry wound right lower quadrant,â he said, forcing his voice into something steady, something that belonged in this room, even as his eyes kept flicking back to your face, tracking every flicker, every breath. âWe need imaging but sheâs not stable enough to wait.â
âBPâs tanking,â another voice added, sharper now.
âStart fluids, wide open,â someone else responded, the rustle of movement quick, efficient, controlled chaos snapping into place.
Your head shifted slightly on the gurney, a small, involuntary movement that shouldnât have meant much but did, because it meant you were still there, still responding, still fighting, and Robby leaned in immediately, his voice dropping low again, cutting through the noise just for you.
âStay with me,â he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly against your arm in a grounding motion that had nothing to do with protocol. âYouâre not done yet, you hear me? Not even close.â
Your lashes fluttered, your focus trying to lock onto him again, your breathing shallow but present, and he held onto that like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
âPrep for OR,â Jesse said quickly, glancing between monitors and your wound. âSheâs bleeding too much, weâre not stabilizing here.â
âAgreed,â Robby answered instantly, no hesitation, no room for debate, because he knew it too, could see it in the numbers, in the color draining from your skin, in the way your body was starting to compensate in ways that wouldnât hold much longer. âWe move now.â
âRobby,â Al-Hashimi said, quieter this time, more careful, stepping closer just enough to be heard without disrupting the flow, âyou canât go in there with her.â
The words landed, heavy and expected, and for a split second everything in him tightened, the reality of that line, the one he had already ignored, being drawn again in a place where it mattered even more. He didnât look away from you when he answered.
âYes, I can.â
There was no room in his voice for argument, no uncertainty, just a quiet, dangerous certainty that made a few heads turn, made the tension in the room shift again in a way that had nothing to do with the medical emergency unfolding in front of them.
âYouâre too close to this,â Al-Hashimi pressed, softer now but firm, because it had to be said, because it was true. âYou know you are.â
Robbyâs jaw tightened, the muscle jumping once as he finally glanced up, his gaze sharp, unyielding.
âSheâs bleeding out on my table,â he said, his voice low but cutting, every word deliberate. âSo unless someone else in this room knows her case better than I do right now, Iâm not stepping away.â
Silence hit for half a beat.
âOR is ready,â someone called from the doorway, urgency overriding everything else.
That decided it.
âMove,â Robby snapped, already shifting with the team as they unlocked the gurney and started rolling, his hand sliding briefly from your side only to find yours instead, gripping it tight enough that you could feel it even through the haze.
The hallway blurred past in a rush of movement and noise, wheels rattling against the floor, voices calling ahead, doors opening in quick succession as the urgency rippled outward, clearing the path. Your grip on his hand was weak, barely there, but it was enough, enough that he tightened his hold instinctively, anchoring you, grounding both of you in something that felt steadier than the chaos surrounding you.
âYouâre not getting out of this that easy,â he said quietly, leaning closer as they pushed through another set of doors, his voice just for you despite everything happening around them. âYou hear me? You donât get to pull something like that and then leave me to deal with it.â
Your lips moved, something like a response trying to form, but the words didnât quite make it, your breath catching instead, your focus slipping again, and his chest tightened hard enough that it almost knocked the air out of him.
âHey,â he pressed, sharper now, squeezing your hand just slightly. âNo, stay with me, donât do that, not now.â
âRobby,â someone called, louder this time as they reached the OR doors, a final attempt, a last line being drawn. âYou need to scrub in if youâre coming in.â
He didnât hesitate.
âThen Iâm scrubbing in,â he shot back immediately, already moving, already letting go of your hand only because he had to, because this was the only way he stayed with you now, the only way he didnât get forced out completely.
The doors swung open. Bright lights. Sterile air. A different kind of battlefield. They transferred you to the OR table with careful precision, the team shifting seamlessly into a new rhythm, sharper, more controlled, the chaos of the ER condensing into something tighter, more focused.
Robby scrubbed in fast, movements efficient, mechanical, muscle memory taking over where his mind threatened to fracture, because this was the only way he could hold onto control, the only way he could keep from thinking about anything beyond the next step, the next move, the next second. By the time he stepped back in, gowned and gloved, you were already prepped, monitors adjusted, anesthesia moving into place, the room settling into that tense, anticipatory quiet that always came before something critical.
He stepped up to the table. To you. And for just a second, just one, the room faded again, the noise dropping away as he looked at you lying there, too still, too pale, and something in his chest twisted hard enough to hurt.
Then he pushed it down. Buried it. Because he didnât get to feel that right now. Not yet.
âLetâs go,â he said, his voice steady again, controlled, back in place even if everything underneath it was anything but.
The first cut was always the hardest when it mattered, not because of the motion itself but because of what it represented, the moment where there was no more waiting, no more debating, only action, and Robbyâs hands did not hesitate even as everything inside him strained against the reality of who was on that table.
âScalpel.â
The word came out clean, controlled, and someone placed it into his palm without question, because whatever anyone else in that room felt about him being there, they trusted his skill, they trusted his instincts, and right now that was the only thing that mattered. He positioned himself, breath steadying as muscle memory took over, the world narrowing to the field in front of him, to the precise placement of his hands, to the rhythm of the monitors that he forced himself to listen to instead of the echo of your voice in his head.
âPressureâs still low,â The anesthesia called out, tension threading through the words as numbers flickered on the screen. âSheâs not stabilizing.â
âShe will,â Robby answered, not looking up, not breaking focus, because doubt did not belong here, not now, not with you bleeding out under his hands.
He made the incision. Clean. Controlled. Exact. Blood welled immediately, more than he wanted, more than he liked, and suction moved in, quick and efficient, the team falling into sync around him as he worked, each step deliberate, each movement measured.
âRetractors,â he said, his voice steady, the cadence familiar, grounding, and they responded without hesitation.
Inside, everything sharpened. The noise faded. The room disappeared. There was only the problem in front of him, the source of the bleed, the damage that needed to be controlled, fixed, stopped, and he moved through it with precision, his mind cataloging, adjusting, adapting in real time.
âFound it,â he muttered, more to himself than anyone else, as he identified the source, deeper than he would have liked, messier than it should have been. âShe took it through the abdomen, weâve got internal bleeding, suctionâno, more, keep it clear.â
âClamp,â Robby said immediately, his hand already out, already anticipating the next move, because he could feel the clock now, ticking louder, faster, each second stretching thin.
The instrument hit his palm, and he worked quickly, isolating, controlling, his movements efficient even as his jaw tightened, the muscle there jumping once, betraying the tension he refused to let show anywhere else.
âCome on,â he murmured under his breath, barely audible, not meant for the room, not meant for anyone but you.
For a split second, something flickered across his mind. You on the floor. Your voice, weak but still trying to argue with him. The way your hand had grabbed his sleeve like you werenât done yet.
He pushed it down. Focused. Because thinking about that now would break him, and breaking was not an option.
âPressureâs responding,â someone said, a hint of relief threading through the words as the numbers steadied just slightly, not enough, but enough to keep going.
âGood,â Robby answered, already moving to the next step, his hands steady, precise, unshaking even as sweat gathered at the back of his neck, even as his chest felt too tight.
They worked like that for minutes that felt like hours, the rhythm of the OR settling into something tense but controlled, each small improvement hard-won, each step forward fragile but real.
âBleedâs under control,â he said finally, the words carrying more weight than he let show, because this was the turning point, the place where things could finally start to shift back in your favor.
âBPâs coming up,â the anesthesia confirmed, the tension easing by degrees, not gone, not yet, but less sharp, less immediate.
Robby exhaled slowly, a breath he hadnât realized heâd been holding, his shoulders lowering just a fraction as he moved carefully, methodically through the rest of the procedure, repairing what he could, stabilizing what needed it, making sure there were no surprises left waiting.
No more damage. No more bleeding. No more things that could take you from him. The room began to breathe again, the urgency softening into focus, into precision instead of panic, and for the first time since he had stepped into the OR, Robby let himself glance up.
Just for a second. Just long enough to see your face. Too pale, still too still, but alive. Still here.
âClosing,â he said, his voice quieter now, but no less steady, the final steps falling into place as he finished, each movement deliberate, careful, like he was sealing something fragile back together.
When it was done, he didnât step away immediately. Didnât move. Didnât speak. He just stood there for a second longer than necessary, his gaze fixed on you, on the rise and fall of your chest, on the steady rhythm of the monitors that now sounded like something close to relief.
âSheâs stable,â someone said, gentle, like they understood what this was, what it meant.
Robby nodded once, sharp, controlled, but he still didnât move, his hands resting lightly on the edge of the table like he needed the contact, like he needed to be sure you were still there.
âYou did good,â he said quietly, the words barely above a whisper, meant only for you even though you couldnât hear them.
Then, finally, he stepped back.
******
They moved you to recovery with the same controlled urgency that had carried you through the OR, monitors steady now, lines secure, your body finally out of immediate danger even if the aftermath still lingered in every careful step, and Robby stayed with you through all of it, ignoring the looks, the quiet attempts to redirect him, the unspoken understanding in the room that he had crossed every professional boundary that usually kept things clean and distant, because none of that mattered anymore, not after what had just happened.
âSheâll be under for a bit,â the anesthesia said as they settled you into the ICU room, voice calm, routine, like this was just another patient being handed off instead of someone who had just held an entire department together at gunpoint and nearly died doing it. âVitals are stable, surgery went well, but she lost a lot of blood, so weâll keep a close eye.â
Robby nodded once, sharp, his gaze never leaving you as he adjusted something at your bedside that didnât need adjusting, his hands needing something to do even now, even after everything.
âWeâll take it from here,â a nurse added gently, not pushing, just offering, because they all knew what this was, knew what he was to you even if it had never been said out loud before today.
He didnât move.
âIâm not going anywhere,â he said quietly, not confrontational, not defensive, just certain, and something in the room shifted at that, the last pretense falling away as no one argued, no one insisted, because it was clear he wasnât asking.
So they let him stay. Time blurred after that, stretching and folding in on itself in that strange way it always did after adrenaline burned off, leaving behind exhaustion and something heavier, something quieter, and Robby sat at your bedside through all of it, one hand resting loosely over yours, his thumb brushing against your skin in slow, absent motions like he needed the contact to keep himself grounded. At some point, the noise outside filtered in, fragments of conversation passing through the partially open door, updates, explanations, the kind of things that always followed something like this.
âThe suspectâs dead,â someone said, voice low, factual, and Robbyâs jaw tightened slightly, his gaze flicking up for half a second before returning to you.
âAnd the girlfriend?â
âAlive,â came the answer. âGrazed, nothing life-threatening, babyâs fine.â
A breath left him then, slow, controlled, the tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction more as that piece settled into place, because you had done that, you had held everything together long enough for that outcome, and even now, lying here, you were still changing how this ended. He looked back at you, his hand tightening slightly around yours, careful, mindful of the IV, of the fragility of the moment.
âYou always do that,â he muttered under his breath, not quite a complaint, not quite anything else, his voice rough at the edges. âYou walk straight into the worst possible situation and somehow make it better.â
There was no response, not yet, just the steady rhythm of the monitors and the slow rise and fall of your chest, but he stayed, watching, waiting, his body finally starting to feel the weight of everything that had just happened now that he didnât have to keep moving through it. Minutes passed.bThen more.And then came a shift. Small and subtle. But unmistakable.
Your fingers moved against his. Just barely, just enough that he felt it, enough that his head snapped up, his focus sharpening instantly as he leaned closer, his free hand coming up to rest lightly against your arm.
âHey,â he said, his voice softer now, gentler, the edge gone but the intensity still there, still unmistakable. âHey, come on, stay with me.â
Your lashes fluttered, your breathing catching slightly as consciousness fought its way back through the haze, through the weight of everything your body had just endured, and slowly, slowly, your eyes opened. They didnât focus right away. Didnât settle.bBut then they did.
On him.
Relief hit him hard enough that he had to exhale through it, his grip on your hand tightening just slightly before he caught himself, easing back just enough to not hurt you.
âThere you are,â he murmured, something almost like a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, though it didnât quite reach his eyes yet. âTook you long enough.â
Your lips parted, your voice rough, barely there. âYou⌠stayed.â
âYeah,â he said immediately, the answer automatic, certain, like there had never been another option. âI wouldnât leave you.â
You blinked slowly, your gaze flicking over him like you were taking him in, making sure he was real, and something in your expression softened just slightly before your eyes drifted, your body still too tired to hold onto full awareness for long.
âBabyâŚâ you whispered faintly, the word slipping out like it had been sitting at the front of your mind even through everything else.
âTheyâre okay,â Robby answered right away, leaning closer so you didnât have to strain to hear him, his voice steady, reassuring. âYou did it, both of them made it, momâs stable, babyâs healthy.â
A weak, breathy exhale left you then, something like relief loosening the tension that had been holding you together, your eyes closing again for a second before forcing themselves back open, your focus settling on him once more.
âGood,â you managed, the word soft, but full.
Robby huffed a quiet breath, something like disbelief threading through it, his hand brushing lightly against your arm again, slower this time, more deliberate.
âYeah,â he said, quieter now. âGood.â
There was a pause then, not empty, but full of everything that hadnât been said yet, everything that had been pushed aside in favor of survival, of action, of getting through the moment, and now that the moment had passed, it was all sitting there between you, heavy and undeniable. You shifted slightly, a small wince pulling at your expression as pain caught up with you, and his hand immediately tightened again, his posture straightening.
âEasy,â he said quickly, his voice slipping back into that protective edge without thinking. âDonât try to move yet, youâre going to tear something.â
You huffed weakly, something like a smile ghosting across your lips despite it. âStill⌠bossyâŚâ
âYeah,â he repeated, softer this time, but there was something else in it now, something more open, less guarded, the lines between professional and personal completely gone. âAnd youâre still not listening.â
Your eyes lingered on him a second longer this time, clearer now, more aware, and something shifted in the space between you, something that had been there all along but had never been allowed to sit out in the open like this.
âYou came in,â you said quietly, not a question, just a statement, your voice threaded with something deeper, something that carried more weight than the words themselves.
âI wasnât staying out there,â he replied just as quietly, his gaze holding yours without hesitation. âNot with you in there.â
A beat passed. Then another. And neither of you looked away. For once, neither of you tried to hide it.
******
A week later, the hospital had settled back into something that resembled normal, at least on the surface, the kind of carefully reconstructed rhythm that came after something big enough to shake everyone but not big enough to stop the machine entirely, because The Pitt never really stopped, it just adjusted and kept moving, even if the people inside it carried the weight of what had happened a little differently.
Your room was quieter than the ER, quieter than the ICU had been, the steady beeping of monitors now more reassurance than alarm, your body finally on the right side of recovery even if every movement still reminded you exactly how close things had come, the soreness deep and lingering, the exhaustion heavier than anything you had felt in a long time. You were propped up slightly in bed, a blanket pulled over your legs, one hand resting carefully against your side where the bandages still felt too tight, too present, your gaze drifting toward the window more out of habit than anything else as the late afternoon light filtered in.
The door opened without a knock. You didnât need to look to know who it was.
âYouâre supposed to be resting,â Robby said as he stepped inside, though there was no real reprimand in it, just the same low, familiar tone he had used on you more times than you could count, the one that always carried more concern than authority.
âI am resting,â you replied, glancing over at him, your voice still a little rough but stronger than it had been days ago, stronger than he had expected, if the slight flicker of relief in his expression was anything to go by. âIâm just doing it with my eyes open.â
He huffed quietly at that, setting a coffee down on the side table before moving closer, his eyes scanning you automatically, taking in your color, your posture, the way you were holding yourself, the small things that told him more than you ever would out loud.
âYouâre sitting up more,â he noted, like it was both an observation and a question.
âYou told me to try,â you said, one brow lifting slightly, and something almost like a smile tugged at his mouth before he caught it, before it fully settled.
âI did,â he admitted, stepping closer until he was at your bedside, one hand resting lightly against the railing like he needed the contact point. âDidnât think youâd actually listen.â
You let out a quiet breath that might have been a laugh if it didnât pull just slightly at your side, your hand instinctively shifting to brace there, and his gaze dropped immediately, the shift so fast it would have been easy to miss if you didnât know him.
âIâm okay,â you said softly, catching it, catching him, your voice steady enough to mean it.
âI know,â he answered, but there was something in the way he said it that suggested he was still convincing himself of that, still replaying things he hadnât said out loud yet.
A silence settled between you then, not uncomfortable, but heavier than the ones you used to share in the middle of shifts, the kind that came with everything that had changed, everything that had been forced into the open whether you had been ready for it or not.
âYou havenât slept,â you said after a moment, your eyes narrowing slightly as you took him in properly, the faint shadows under his eyes, the tension still sitting in his shoulders like it hadnât fully left since that day.
He shrugged it off automatically. âIâve slept.â
âRobby,â you pressed, softer now but more certain, because you knew him, because you could read the things he didnât say just as clearly as the things he did.
He exhaled slowly, his gaze dropping for a second before lifting back to yours, something shifting behind his eyes like he was deciding whether to keep it in or let it out.
âItâs fine,â he said at first, defaulting, but the word didnât hold, didnât land the way it usually did, and after a beat he shook his head slightly, his jaw tightening. âItâs just⌠been a week.â
âA week where you havenât left,â you pointed out quietly, your gaze softening just slightly, because he hadnât, not really, not in any way that mattered.
He didnât deny it. Didnât try to brush it off this time. Instead, he stepped closer.
Close enough that you could feel the shift in the air between you, the distance that had always been there, carefully maintained, carefully respected, completely gone now.
âYou almost died,â he said, low and unfiltered, the words landing heavier than anything else he had said since he walked in, because this wasnât him deflecting, this wasnât him redirecting, this was the truth sitting right there between you.
You held his gaze, didnât look away, didnât soften it with humor or reassurance like you might have before, because you knew he needed this to be real, not minimized.
âBut I didnât,â you answered gently, your voice steady, grounding, even as your hand shifted slightly on the bed between you.
His eyes flicked down to it. Then back up. And something in him gave. Not all at once, not dramatically, but enough that you saw it, the crack in the control he held so tightly, the way his shoulders dropped just a fraction, the way his hand lifted like he wasnât entirely sure if he should, if he could.
You made the decision for him. Your fingers curled slightly, a small, deliberate movement, an invitation. He took it immediately. His hand closed around yours, warm and solid, his grip careful but firm like he needed to feel you there, needed to confirm you were still real, still here.
âI keep seeing it,â he admitted, his voice quieter now, rougher, his thumb brushing slowly against your knuckles. âYou on that floor⌠not moving⌠and I canât get to you fast enough.â
Your chest tightened at that, not from pain, but from the weight of it, from the way he said it like it was still happening, like he was still stuck there in that moment.
âRobbyââ
âI hear the shots again,â he continued, cutting you off softly but not harshly, like he needed to get it out before he lost the nerve. âAnd every time I think⌠this is it, this is the time I donât make it in time.â
The room felt smaller suddenly, quieter, the outside world falling away as everything narrowed to the space between you. You shifted slightly, ignoring the pull at your side, your free hand lifting slowly, carefully, until it found his wrist, grounding him the same way he had grounded you.
âIâm here,â you said, your voice steady despite everything sitting underneath it. âYou did make it in time.â
He shook his head once, sharp, like that wasnât the part that stuck with him.
âI almost didnât,â he said, the words barely above a whisper now, his gaze locking onto yours with something intense, something unguarded.
âAnd I donâtââ He cut himself off, exhaling roughly, his grip on your hand tightening slightly. âI donât know what I wouldâve done ifââ
You didnât let him finish. Your hand slid from his wrist to his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, pulling him closer in a motion that was slower than you wanted it to be, more careful than it used to be, but just as intentional.
He didnât resist. Didnât hesitate. He moved with you, leaning in until the space between you disappeared, his free hand coming up instinctively to brace against the edge of the bed beside you, careful of your side, careful of everything, but still close, still there.
âYou donât have to think about that,â you murmured, your voice softer now, closer, your breath brushing against his. âBecause it didnât happen.â
His gaze dropped to your mouth for a second, then back up to your eyes, something shifting again, something heavier, something that had been building since the moment he saw you on that floor and hadnât had anywhere to go until now.
âI thought I lost you,â he said quietly, the admission sitting right there between you, unfiltered, unhidden.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.
âYou didnât,â you answered, just as quietly.
A beat passed. Then another. And then he kissed you.
It wasnât rushed. Wasnât careless. It was careful and deliberate and just a little bit desperate, like he needed to confirm something he still wasnât entirely convinced of, his lips pressing against yours in a way that was softer than the tension building in his chest, his hand tightening around yours as he leaned in just enough to deepen it without hurting you. You responded immediately, your hand shifting from his shirt to his shoulder, holding him there, grounding him as much as yourself, the kiss deepening just slightly, just enough to make it real, to make it something that existed outside of fear and adrenaline and everything that had led up to it.
When he pulled back, it wasnât far. Just enough to look at you. His forehead resting lightly against yours, his breath still a little uneven as his eyes searched yours like he was still checking, still making sure.
âIâm not doing that again,â he murmured, his voice low, almost a warning.
You blinked softly, a faint, tired smile pulling at your lips. âKissing me?â
âLosing you,â he corrected immediately, his hand tightening just slightly around yours. âNot even almost.â
Your expression softened, something warm settling in your chest despite everything else, your thumb brushing lightly against his wrist.
âThen I guess Iâll have to stick around,â you said gently.
âYeah,â he breathed, the word quieter now, steadier, like he was finally starting to believe it.
And this time, when he leaned in again, it wasnât out of fear. It was because he could.
******
Three weeks later, the world had softened into something slower, something steadier, the sharp edges of what had happened worn down just enough that you could move through your days without feeling like everything might tip over again at any second, though the reminders were still there in the quiet moments, in the careful way you shifted when you got out of bed, in the way your body still asked for patience you werenât always good at giving.
Robbyâs apartment had become your in-between space, not quite work, not quite home, but somewhere that felt anchored, somewhere that held both of you in a way that made the recovery feel less like something you were enduring alone and more like something you were moving through together.
âSit,â he said, nodding toward the edge of the couch as he set the supplies down on the coffee table, his tone familiar, bordering on bossy in a way that had become almost comforting.
You rolled your eyes lightly but did as you were told, easing yourself down carefully, one hand bracing instinctively at your side even though the pain had dulled into more of an ache now, something manageable, something that reminded rather than overwhelmed.
âI can do this myself, you know,â you said, watching as he moved with quiet efficiency, unpacking gauze, antiseptic, everything he needed laid out with the kind of precision that came naturally to him.
âI know,â he replied without looking up, his voice calm, matter-of-fact. âBut youâre not going to.â
You huffed softly at that, but there was no real argument behind it, not when you could see the way his hands moved, careful and deliberate, not when you could feel the undercurrent of something deeper in it, something that had less to do with necessity and more to do with needing to take care of you in a way he hadnât been able to before.
âShirt,â he added after a moment, glancing up finally, his eyes softer than his tone.
You shifted, fingers catching the hem as you lifted it slowly, carefully, the motion still a little stiff, a little cautious, and his gaze followed the movement not in a way that felt clinical, not entirely, but something quieter, something more aware, more present.
âEasy,â he murmured as he stepped closer, one hand hovering near your side like he was ready to steady you if you needed it, even if you didnât.
âIâve got it,â you said softly, though your voice lacked any real edge, your focus more on the way he was looking at you than the movement itself.
He nodded once, but he didnât step back. Didnât create distance. Instead, he moved closer. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, the steady presence that had become something you leaned into without thinking.
âOkay,â he said quietly, his attention shifting fully to the bandage, his hands gentle as he began to peel it back, slow and careful so he didnât pull too much, didnât cause more discomfort than necessary. âTell me if it hurts.â
âItâs fine,â you answered, watching him instead of the wound, watching the way his focus narrowed, the way his jaw relaxed just slightly as he worked.
The bandage came away cleanly, and his expression shifted, not into concern, but something closer to relief as he assessed the healing skin, the way the edges had begun to knit together, the absence of anything alarming.
âLooks good,â he said after a moment, quieter now, more to himself than anything else. âReally good.â
You let out a small breath you hadnât realized you were holding. âYeah?â
âYeah,â he confirmed, glancing up at you, and this time the hint of a smile actually landed, soft but real. âYouâre doing everything right for once.â
You huffed a quiet laugh at that, your hand lifting to nudge his arm lightly. âRude.â
âAccurate,â he shot back, but there was no bite in it, just familiarity, just ease.
He cleaned the area carefully, movements steady, attentive, the kind of care that went beyond routine, and you found yourself watching him again, not because you needed to but because you wanted to, because this version of him, quiet, focused, close, felt different from the chaos you were used to sharing.
âStop looking at me like that,â he said after a moment, not looking up but clearly aware.
âLike what?â you asked, a hint of a smile in your voice.
âLike youâre thinking too much,â he replied, glancing up finally, one brow lifting slightly.
You held his gaze, something softer settling there. âMaybe I am.â
His hands stilled for just a second. Then resumed.
âAbout what?â he asked, quieter now.
You didnât answer right away. Didnât need to. Because whatever it was, it was already there between you, in the space that had closed, in the way neither of you stepped back anymore. He finished rebandaging, smoothing the gauze carefully, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary before his hand dropped away, though he didnât move back.
Didnât create space. Instead, he stayed right where he was. Close. Your hand lifted almost without thinking, fingers brushing lightly against his wrist, grounding, familiar, and his gaze dropped to the contact before lifting back to yours, something shifting again, something quieter than before but just as real.
âYouâre healing,â he said softly, like it mattered in more ways than one.
âSo are you,â you replied, just as softly.
That did something. You saw it. The way his expression changed just slightly, the way something in his shoulders eased, like he hadnât fully acknowledged that until you said it out loud.
âYeah,â he admitted, barely above a whisper.
The moment stretched. Not heavy. Not tense. JustâŚfull. Your fingers curled slightly around his wrist, pulling him just a fraction closer, not enough to be dramatic, just enough to close the last bit of space between you, and he let you, stepping in without hesitation, his hand coming up to rest lightly at your side, careful, always careful.
âCareful,â he murmured automatically, his thumb brushing near the edge of the bandage.
âI am,â you said, your voice softer now, your gaze dropping briefly to his mouth before lifting back to his eyes.
He noticed. Of course he did. His breath shifted slightly, something tightening and softening all at once as his hand slid just a little higher along your side, still cautious, still mindful, but no longer pretending there was distance to maintain.
âYeah?â he asked quietly.
You didnât answer. Not with words. You leaned in instead.
The kiss was softer than the last one had been, slower, less urgent but no less real, your lips brushing his in a way that felt like testing something that had already been decided, his response immediate, his hand tightening just slightly at your side as he leaned into it.
One kiss turned into another. And then another. Deeper this time, slower, the space between you disappearing completely as his other hand came up to your shoulder, steadying, grounding, his mouth moving against yours with a quiet intensity that had been building for weeks now. You shifted closer instinctively, your hand sliding up into his shirt, fingers curling lightly into the fabric as the kiss deepened, as the careful restraint gave way to something warmer, something that felt less like recovery and more like returning.
His breath caught slightly as you moved, his forehead brushing yours for a second before his mouth found yours again, slower this time but deeper, more certain, his hand sliding carefully along your side, stopping just short of the bandage, always aware, always holding that line even as everything else blurred.
And then, you twisted. Just slightly. But enough. A sharp inhale broke the moment, your body tensing instinctively as pain flared quick and bright, and everything stopped immediately. Robby pulled back at once, his hands shifting to steady you instead of hold you, his expression snapping back into focus, concern overriding everything else in an instant.
âHey,â he said quickly, his voice softer but edged with worry, his hand bracing gently at your side. âEasy, easyâdid you pull something?â
You shook your head slightly, breath catching as you tried to ride it out, the pain already fading back into that dull ache you were learning to live with.
âIâm okay,â you said after a second, your voice a little breathless but steady enough. âJust⌠moved wrong.â
His jaw tightened, not in frustration, but in restraint, in the effort it took to not let that moment turn into something heavier, something more protective than it needed to be.
âYeah,â he murmured, his thumb brushing lightly near the bandage again, gentler this time. âLetâs not do that.â
A small, tired smile tugged at your lips despite it, your hand still resting lightly against his chest. âNoted.â
He huffed a quiet breath, something softer settling back into place as the tension eased, though he didnât step away completely, didnât put the distance back.
Instead, he stayed close. Forehead resting lightly against yours again. Not rushing. Not pushing. JustâŚthere.
âYouâre getting there,â he said quietly.
You nodded slightly, your eyes closing for a brief second as you leaned into him, into the steadiness of it.
âSo are you,â you echoed softly.
And this time, neither of you rushed past that. You just stayed there.
Summary:Â When Jack met you, his world shifted. He began to speak in plurals, in groups of three. It was him, and then it was you, and then it was Penny. Heâd do anything for his girls, and he wanted to make that clear. Official. Concrete with titles and questions and the ring he kept mulling over. And then life happened.Â
Word count:Â 5.1k
Warnings: Angst!, injury, inaccurate medical happenings, accident/crash
a/n: GIRL DAD JACK đŁď¸ This was fun to write let me know if you'd like something without so much angst for this little family đ but you all voted angst in my last poll so this is the outcome. Heheheh anyways love you bye <3
~~
Jack Abbot had stopped assuming children were in the cards for him. In another lifetime, another decade, he had considered the possibilityâhim as a father, his wife a mother. But life changed, time passed, and Jack Abbot had given up on that notion. Instead, he lived vicariously through his coworkers and told himself that he liked the freedom of a childfree life. He volunteered his time to dangerous proclivities in the name of the greater good and sat in the silent hum of his apartment.
And then he met you.Â
And he met what came along with you.Â
You had been dodgy about your daughter at first, sharing the information as if it were a combination of landmines and wincing as if he were already edging up from the table to run. It made sense that he didnât know about her. He had met you in a coffee shop after a fourteen-hour shift and still thanked whatever higher power was responsible for the delirium-infused confidence that led him to you, but he didnât know much. He just knew you were beautiful and you were in front of him and you stared up at him with eyes that made him blink faster, so he asked you out.Â
You told him about her on the third date, and Jack couldnât stand the way you flinched, so he held your hand across the table, rubbed his thumb along your knuckles, and said, âWhenever youâd let me, Iâd love to meet her.âÂ
âAre you serious?â had tumbled out of your mouth directly after, and Jack couldnât take that either, knowing that so many people had missed out on you and told you that that reaction was warranted. So he pressed your fingers to his lips and quirked his mouth into a smile despite his uncovered frustration.Â
Jack Abbot fell in love with Penny almost as fast as he fell in love with you. Middle-of-the-night illnesses frequently tainted his exposure to children, so Jack had almost forgotten how energetic and full of life a four-year-old could be. Penny was shy, bashful in ways like her mother, but she was also intelligent and loved squids (you said it was a phase) and asked Jack questions about bones because you told her he was a doctor and she had just learned about bones in preschool.Â
âHave you ever seen a bone?âÂ
âIâve seen lots of bones,â Jack had whispered back to her, eyes flashing wide for emphasis.Â
âThatâs literally crazy,â Penny had gasped, looking over her shoulder at you as you paid for a snack at the farmerâs market stall. âMy mommy says that if I ever see one of my bones, I need to tell her right away.âÂ
Jack knelt beside Penny on the grass. âYour mommyâs right. You want to see something cool? I donât have a bone in my leg.âÂ
âWhat!âÂ
It hadnât taken long for Penny to become accustomed to Jackâs presence. She asked about him when he wasnât around. She joined calls when you checked in early during his shifts. She saved a book full of stickers to show him when he came over for dinner, which he did often. Said stickers also somehow appeared on his prosthetic, something your daughter still had a hard time believing to be real.Â
And Jack hadnât been expecting it, but he had begun to think of children againâthinking of his life in squid stickers and irrational questions and a weight on his lap as he sat on your couch and watched an animated dog teach him a life lesson.Â
He had begun to enjoy getting out of work. He got to bring bagels to your place early in the morning and kiss you against your kitchen counters and fix Pennyâs wild hair as she tumbled into the living room. His hobbies had changed; adrenaline was replaced with soccer games and sticky fingers and lying in bed with you right up until he had to throw his scrubs on.Â
Everything had become simple in Jackâs life. There was work, there was you, and there was Penny. And in a few weeks, he would ask you to make his life even simpler.Â
~~
A gratefully unfamiliar dread pulsed through Jackâs chest as he turned the corner of the Pitt and saw you. He took inventory instantly, cataloging the tone of your skin, each of your limbs, the small smile on your face as you spoke casually to Mateo. You were fine, you looked to be fine, but Jack still picked up the pace because you were in the emergency department, and you never came to visit without Penny.Â
Jackâs eyes shot to your legs, and more panic filled him at the empty space.
âHey,â Jack breathed, his mouth twitching into a smile that did not reach his searching eyes. He placed a hand on your cheek and tried not to furrow his brows. âYou okay? Whereâs Penny?âÂ
Your smile was much warmer. You gripped his wrist, and Jack felt the almost imperceptible way you leaned your face into his touch. âIâm fine, and Pennyâs fine. I did late pickup so I could see you before we take the train upstate.â
Upstate. Upstateâright. Jack had primed his brain to work a double, so that often meant blocking the shifts with tasks. He was just about finished with the day shift, and your trip to see your family was a night shift event. Your train was leaving at 7:30 pmâan in-between-shift event, then.
âYou coulda brought her by, too,â Jack quietly replied, brushing his thumb along your cheek as Mateo swiveled his stool to the other side of the nurseâs hub. Relief was slowly trickling through the shock of seeing you unannounced.
âOh, I see. If I donât bring Penny, I shouldnât come at all?â you teased.Â
Jack moved his hand down to fix your scarf, tucking it closer to your neck. âDidnât say that,â he argued. âI just wanted to say goodbye to both my girls.âÂ
Your face heated furiously, an outcome Jack had been hoping for. He loved to get you flustered, and that was the quickest way to do it. Never failed.Â
âWe wouldâve missed our train if I brought her.â You poked Jackâs chest. âYou two always get into it, and then I have to drag her away because she gets too upset to leave you.âÂ
âCanât help it. Iâm just so much fun to be around.âÂ
âYeah, well, youâll have to be fun over FaceTime for the next few days, Dr. Abbot.â
Jack tsked, looking off to the side to tamp down his disappointment. Youâd had this visit planned for a few months now, but it didnât make watching you go any easier. He had wanted to go with you, eager to meet your family, but the Pitt needed an attending on doubles, and Jack was the only one available. Youâd assured him several times that it was fine, and there would be more opportunities to come. He knew it was fine. What wasnât fine was watching his family leave and feeling incomplete.Â
He needed to ask you that question.Â
âYou sure you canât wait until tomorrow so I can drive you up?â Jack tried. He moved his fixing touch to the zipper on your jacket, tugging it up to keep in the warmth. âNo train that way.âÂ
You brushed his hand off and stepped closer, raising your brows. âRight. Have you drive that far after working a double? Just for you to drive back home, sleep for 45 minutes, and then work again? Not happening, Jack. The train is fine. Weâre fine.âÂ
âYou keep saying that,â he murmured under his breath. He placed his hands along your jaw, holding you again, even though he knew several eyes watched on. âCall me when you get on the train. And have Penny bring that spray hand sanitizer she made me spend ten dollars on. Itâs flu season. AndââÂ
âJack,â you gently interrupted. âI love you. So much. But when I say weâre fine, I mean it. And stop buying her everything she sees in Sephora. She doesnât even need to be in Sephora. Sheâs five.âÂ
âI love you more,â was how Jack decided to respond. He tilted his head back and looked at you fully, his hands moving your face to one side and then the other.Â
âMemorizing me?â you teased.Â
âSomething like that.âÂ
Continuing his shift was difficult. Jack had already felt the weight of the double being exacerbated by your departure, but then you FaceTimed him on the train, and the night got heavier. Penny held up her hand sanitizer with a mouthful of marshmallow muffling her words, and Jack just wished he could be sitting beside you on that stupid train. Heâd paid more for the two of you to have a private compartment, and it was nice knowing you were cared for, but he had become the one taking care of you.Â
He felt his back stiffen as the night went on.Â
âYou gotta loosen up, Dr. Abbot,â Mateo called out after five minutes of Jack scrolling through his camera roll. Heâd stopped on a picture of you and Penny on the hood of his truck. âYou knew they were leaving all day. We still got nine hours before you can go home and make scrapbooks.âÂ
Jack hooked his chin over his shoulder, placing his phone face down on the charting station. âMind your business.âÂ
Mateo put his hands up in surrender. âTheyâre coming back in three days. You work all three of those days. Itâll be quick.â The younger man patted Jackâs shoulder. âThen maybe you can finally fish that ring out of your locker.âÂ
âWhat do you know about that, huh?â Jack accused, crossing his arms in a show of intimidation that didnât match his almost-smile.Â
âNothing you didnât just confirm,â Mateo quipped back. âIâve babysat at her place enough times to catch a vibe.âÂ
âCatch a vibe?âÂ
âYeah. Itâs emanating from you.âÂ
Dr. Shen passed by the pair, settling into a stool and logging into the computer. âWhatâs emanating from him?âÂ
âMy vibe, apparently,â Jack spoke to the ceiling.Â
Mateo cut in, resting his arms on the counter. âThat heâs gonna propose.âÂ
âI did not say that,â Jack shot back.Â
âYou donât have to say anything if itâs a vibe,â Shen informed him, gaze focused on his notes. He took a casual sip of watered-down coffee. âCan you do it within the next three months, though? I want to win the pool to pay off my car.âÂ
Mateo let out a hiss, resting his head on his elbows. âDude. He wasnât supposed to know about the betting pool. Now heâs gonna be weird about it.âÂ
âHeâs not going toââÂ
âOkay, what?â Jack almost sighed, head jolting back. âThereâs a betting pool? Since when?âÂ
âSince you started wearing that little bracelet with the sea creatures on it. It got bigger after y/n came by that one time with lunch and you practically ran down the hallway.âÂ
Jack stared at Shen as he recounted the betrayal happening under his nose. âAlright. Whoâs in it?âÂ
âWho isnâtââ
 âGot incoming traumas. The T Line crashed. Unidentified number of casualties, but weâre getting at least a dozen wounded.âÂ
It took a moment for the humor to dissipate from Jackâs body. He heard the charge nurseâs calls to clear the trauma bays and could recognize the movement in the room. Mateo was staring at the side of Jackâs face and Shen had shot up from the charting computer to do⌠something, but Jack was swimming in a state of thick confusion.
He did some math in his head.Â
It might not have been your train. You FaceTimed him thirty minutes ago, and the train hadnât left yet. You were just sitting with Penny. You had said there was a small delay, but you both were settled into the âstupidly-priced private seats,â and Penny was eager to watch Bluey during the wait. You were wearing an old college sweater heâd left at your apartment.Â
But that was thirty minutes ago.Â
It could have been your train.Â
âDr. Abbot?â Mateoâs call was a jumbled haze. âDr. Abbot, what can IââÂ
âMy girls are on the train,â Jack muttered to himself.Â
âWhat?â
âMy girls are on the train,â he said again, clearer this time. His gaze shot to the board as if heâd see your name, a pinpoint focus washing over him. If he were calm enough, nothing could happen.
Mateo said something else, maybe a reassurance or a passing encouragement, but Jack couldnât register it. He took his shaking hands and donned the PPE needed for a disaster of this magnitude, drowning out the orders ringing through the ED. Shen had taken over as head, and Jack couldnât remember if heâd told him to do that. He probably hadnât.Â
The first patient wasnât you. Neither was the second. Or the third. At some point near the beginning, Jack had texted youâa quick text, asking if you were okay, even though that was a ridiculous question. But if you werenât a patient, and if you didnât answer him, then the unidentified number of casualties Lena announced was a harrowing reality.Â
But it couldnât be you.Â
Jack was doing everything right. He was calm and working doubles and he had paid for you to have better seats. Penny wouldnât get the flu and he was going to have the lattice on your balcony fixed before you got home.Â
You couldnât be an unidentified casualty.Â
âHey, you good?â Dr. Ellis barked at Jack as he blinked hard in a trauma bay. The man lying in the bed had his arm in the wrong direction, bruises already covering the left side of his body.Â
Every moment he wasnât checking the incoming patients was a moment he couldnât be sure of you. A moment Penny could be wheeled by.Â
Jack cleared his throat harshly. âIâm good. Roll him on three.âÂ
You werenât the fourth patient he saw, either.Â
But you were the fifth.Â
He had prepared himself for it, but nothing would have been enough, he soon realized. No amount of grounding or breathing exercises or visualization would have made it easier. Your eyes were open, but they couldnât focus on him, not even as he stuttered out a breath and shot to the side of the gurney, his feet quick beside you.Â
He said your name, repeated it, but your eyes kept flashing past the overhead lights. An EMT was shouting out your vitals and Jack heard them, but his waterline was burning and the collar of your sweatshirt was rimmed red with blood. His sweatshirt. Heâd left it at your place a few days ago.Â
Crush injury. Fully conscious but lacks verbal response. Jane Doeâyou werenât Jane Doe. You were his.Â
As they landed you in trauma one, Jack began to assess. He ignored that his hands had begun to shake again. âI need you to hear me, baby,â Jack called as he moved meticulously through his assessment. âI just need to know that you can. Can you do that for me? Let me know if you can hear me?âÂ
A nurse was untangling an ultrasound machine as Jack moved to palpate your abdomen. You flinched. He felt himself unravel.Â
âI needed that yesterday!â he shouted, ripping the machine from the older womanâs hands. It wasnât her fault. Jack would apologize later if he could ever form words again. âWhy isnât anyone giving me info?âÂ
Dr. Ellis entered the trauma bay, confusion laced with apprehension at the sound of Jackâs anger. All the confusion was wiped clear when she saw who was on the bed. When she saw the blood sticking to the cracks in Jackâs hands and the sheen of sweat on his forehead.Â
âYou need me to take this?â Dr. Ellis asked, but it was hardly a question. She was direct when she needed to be, even towards an attending, but Jack was not in the mind to be overpowered by reason and level-headedness.Â
âNo,â he simply replied, eyes glued to the grainy screen of the ultrasound.Â
âAre you sure you shouldââÂ
âFree fluid in the abdomen. I needââÂ
Jack stopped cold when a sound escaped you. It was breathy, barely even there to make out, but he felt his gaze drop to your face before his mind could even register it. Someone took the Doppler from his hands and the room erupted in movement and calls and beeps from machines, but Jack had his hands on your face as he had just a few hours ago, begging your eyes to focus on him.Â
âWhat was that?â he breathed back, eyes racing over every inch of your face. He cataloged four bruises before you finally found his eyes. âThere you are. Thereâs my girl. Youâre doing so good, and we got you, okay?âÂ
âP-Penny,â you uttered. Your hand twitched up to grasp Jackâs arm, and he silently thanked god that you could move it. âPenny.âÂ
Jack had been thinking about Penny since you entered the Pitt. He had hoped, in some unreasonable way, that she would be with you. That you both would be fine, maybe with minor injuries, and he would sweep you away into the break room while he managed the crisis. But you were the crisis, and Penny wasnât here. He had no idea where she was.Â
âI know, baby. I know. Iâm gonna find Penny. Sheâll be just fine. Both my girls will, okay? Promise. Promise on everything.âÂ
He was speaking so low, his hand on the top of your head and his face close. He felt the dread pool in his gut at the lies he was telling. Jack had no way of finding Penny. He couldnât leave you and search the wreck for a little girl. They probably wouldnât let him past the police tape.Â
âF-find. Her. Jack, please,â you pleaded. Your nails dug into his arm and Jack had to move his jaw to stop from crying. Your face was becoming pallid and someone was calling surgery.Â
âIâll find her,â he smiled. A sad smile. A waning one. âYou donât worry about a thing. Iâll find her and bring her right to you.âÂ
âJack.âÂ
It was Robbyâs voice that tore Jackâs face from yours. He had to have ridden fast to get there. His hair was swept back and he still had his jacket on and Robby was supposed to be out on vacation for another few days, but he was there. He was there, and he shook his head when Jack turned to find him.Â
âLet them take her. You gotta back up.âÂ
They must have been asking for a while. Jack hadnât registered a single request for him to move; he had been too caught up in tracking each minuscule twitch of your faceâin remembering you before life changed, because it still felt the same, just more urgent, more scary. If he stopped looking at you, if you were taken away, there was the chance that you wouldnât come back. That he would look up and find that Penny was gone.Â
He hadnât been ready for the after.Â
Robby forced it, anyway.Â
Jack felt like he was going to throw up as they wheeled you away, Dr. Walsh sending worried looks to each person in the trauma bay who wouldnât meet her eye. Your blood was on the floor in free-flowing streaks that Jack couldnât look away from, and he felt like he was going to throw up. The bay felt stagnant. The walls moved when he did not. His back hit a hard surface, and Jack let it hold him as he sank to the floor.Â
He went to press his face in his hands, but stopped when he saw your blood filling the lines in his palms.Â
He hadnât told you he loved you. He let them take you, and he hadnât reminded you.Â
Robby crouched in front of Jack, hands flexing between his knees. âSheâs gonna be okay.âÂ
Jack felt his head roll against the wall as his jaw trembled. âWhatâre you doing here?â he croaked out.Â
âMateo called me. Said your girl was in the crash. I was already home, so I came as fast as I could.â Robby paused, scratching his jaw. âIs PennyââÂ
âI donât know where Penny is.âÂ
âOkay. Okay, we wait then. We wait and see, and we fix what we canââÂ
âI canât just fucking wait, Robby,â Jack finally sobbed, the adrenaline from keeping you awake and talking wearing off in a hard crash. âI canât wait to hear that she didnât make it. Or that y/n doesnât get out of that surgery. I canâtâI have to do something, and thereâs nothingâthereâs nothing I can do.âÂ
Jack's hands were raised in a helpless motion, his eyes fixed on the back wall of the trauma bay. He couldnât see much through the tears, couldnât feel much past the all-consuming fear, but he would try for you. For Penny. If the two of you were gone, he wasnât sure if he could.Â
âTheyâre all I got,â Jack nodded to himself, hands hanging over his tented knees. âAnd if I have to walk out there into a world where Iâm alone again?â Jack pointed towards the door, finally meeting Robbyâs pinched expression. âNot sure what Iâd be doing it for.âÂ
âDonât say that,â Robby cut through. âYou donât know that they wonât make it. You donât. Stop giving up before you have to.â
âI donât even know where my little girl is.âÂ
âSo we find out. But we canât do that from in here. We canât do that when youâve given up already.âÂ
So, Robby hauled Jack up from the floor of trauma one, and Jack followed him to the nurseâs hub. He washed his hands, he cracked his neck, and he let the central heating dry the stickiness of his tears as he stared up at the news reports of the crash. He wouldnât be able to work; that was why Robby came in, but he could make calls. Jack knew people who knew people, and those people were in law enforcement. Those people would know more than he did.Â
Jack was glued to the red phone in the Pitt for fifteen minutes, asking about a little girl that no one could find. Lena had sent him a concerned look one too many times and had yet to scold him for using the emergency line, but Jack hardly noticed. Robby was popping in and out of rooms in the role he was supposed to fill, but Jack hardly noticed.Â
âSorry, Abbot. Havenât gotten the list yet. Iâll send you the info as soon as I get it.âÂ
Jack squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed the growing ache above his nose. He shot out a quick thank you that didnât sound genuine, and jumped out of his skin when a hand met his shoulder.Â
âAnything I can do?â Lena asked.Â
Jack only shook his head and went through his contact list in his head once more. It was all looking bleak. Jackâs world was looking bleak. And then the ambulance bay doors burst open, a bed being shoved down the hall, and Jack dropped the phone onto the counter. And then he was sprinting.
âStraggler from the crash. Says sheâs five and asking for her mom, but mom couldnât be found on scene. No obvious signs of trauma other than some cuts and bruises, butââÂ
âOh, fuck. Penny,â Jack gasped out, reaching for her on the bed that was far too big.
To her credit, it was only then that Penny started crying. She had been strong-faced when she got in, fear a shadow on her innocent face, but the moment she saw Jack, that was gone. Penny threw her arms around Jackâs neck and let out a wail he hoped never to hear again. She was trembling against him, retelling events no one could make out, and Jack pressed his nose to her temple as he rocked her where he stood.Â
âI know, baby,â he shushed, words so similar to the ones he had spoken to you. âBut you were so brave, you hear me? So brave. Your momâs gonna be so proud of you.âÂ
Through hiccuping breaths, Penny asked, âWhere is mommy?âÂ
Jackâs chest caved. âSheâs getting fixed up upstairs. Mommy got hurt, but theyâre fixing it.âÂ
âI didnât get hurt because mommy was holding me.âÂ
âWhat was that, baby?â Jack asked, tucking Pennyâs hair back from her face as he continued to sway.Â
Penny looked up at him with big, watery eyes. âWhen the train started making noises, mommy grabbed me and held me really tight. I didnât get hurt, but she did.âÂ
And of course you did. Of course that was why Penny was safe in his arms, and you were fighting for your life upstairs. Jack couldnât imagine a world where that wasnât the outcome. You would do anything for her. You were always going to do anything for her.Â
Jack looked for you in Pennyâs face as he offered the best smile he could muster. âSheâs gonna be alright. She was protecting you, Penny. Mommy always protects you.âÂ
âLike how she used to check for monsters?âÂ
âJust like that. But I check for the monsters now. Safer that way.âÂ
âI wish you were with us on the train,â Penny choked out, clutching Jackâs scrubs in her tiny fists. âTo make mommy safe, too.âÂ
Jackâs chest hurt. He pressed his forehead back to Pennyâs temple, collected himself with a tight scrunch of his eyes, and grounded. âCâmon, sweetheart. I gotta check you over, okay? Make sure nothingâs wrong.âÂ
Jack cared for Penny in the same meticulous way he did you. He cleaned her scrapes and assessed her bruises, relishing the small giggle she let out when he prodded around to make sure nothing was happening internally. He felt the weight of the day in a lopsided, confusing uneasiness, one part of his life complete, the other in the balance. He would start to think of you, start to feel the dread, but then Penny would lay her head on his chest as he held her in the break room, and he had to snap back.Â
You would want your daughter to feel safe.Â
He needed to be a safe place.Â
So Jack held Penny, bumping his knee to help her sleep, and he considered what he would have done a year ago. If he had been inundated with a tragedy, he would have thrown himself into work as a distraction. He would have thrown caution to the wind and taken case after case until his leg ached too much to continue. They would have had to tell him to stop, forced him to go home, and Jack would have done so only when he knew he would fall dead asleep the second he hit the mattress.Â
Because that was what his life used to be.Â
Today, no one had had to beg Jack to slow down. No one pulled him from patient rooms and gave him a stern talking to. They had called Robby as soon as they knew you were involved. They had expected him to slow down for youâfor his family.Â
Jack pressed a kiss to Pennyâs head and enjoyed the difference.Â
It was another hour before any news of you came. Penny had finally dozed off, and Jackâs left arm was dead from the weight of her head, but he was alert when Dr. Shen poked into the dim room and smiled softly.Â
âSheâs out. Asleep, but in recovery. They said she can have visitors, but I donât know ifââÂ
Jack gazed down at Penny, still knocked out on top of him. âCan you get Mateo?âÂ
The pass-off was seamless, Jack running a hand over Pennyâs head as Mateo nodded to the older man and promised to take care of things. It would be better for her to wake up with someone she knew, and Jack wasnât going to leave her with anyone he didnât trust. He trusted the entire staff, but Mateo was different. Mateo loved Penny.Â
Jack cleared his mind on the elevator ride up, and then cleared it again as he walked through the maze of the ICU to find your room. He would bring Penny up when you were more stable, when he had a better idea of the state you were in. You hadnât looked scary, but you were her mom. You were her mom, and Jack wasâ
âJack?âÂ
He hadnât been expecting your voice; Jack felt the breath knock from his lungs at the sound of it. His tears were fresh as he rounded your bed, checking vitals in a quick sweep before putting his hands anywhere they could reach. Your eyes were hazy as he leaned over you, but you had said his name, and something in him righted.Â
âHey,â he practically cooed, brushing your hair back as his eyes traced the shape of your face. âDidnât think youâd be awake.âÂ
âPennyââÂ
âPennyâs okay. Sheâs not hurt, sweetheart. Mateoâs got her.âÂ
Jack wasnât sure heâd ever spoken so low before, so soft amidst beeping machines and the footsteps of nurses in the hall. You let out a breath, and your lashes fluttered shut, and it was clear to Jack that you shouldnât be awake. That you had fought through exhaustion just to make sure your daughter was okay.Â
Pride swelled in his chest, the first emotion to override the fear. âIâm so damn proud of you,â he softly stated. He fixed the blanket around your shoulders and felt his mouth twitch. âProtecting our girl like that. Making it through.âÂ
In response, Jack saw your own lips form a tired smile, hoarse voice asking, âOur girl?âÂ
âYeah, our girl.â Jack kissed your forehead, then your cheek, and then checked the vitals again. âIâll make it official soon,â he said, almost under his breath.Â
âWhatâdoes that mean?âÂ
You were losing the fight to sleep, relief palpable in the room and lulling you off. Jack swung a chair by your bed, clicked his phone ringer on low for any texts about Penny, and waited for you to sleep. Waited to be there when you woke up.Â
âYouâll see,â he affirmed, ignoring the wetness still on his cheeks. âI love you. Sleep. I got you.â
@dilfrobinavitch you have made so many of these beauties for me and I will love you forever for it. <3
Status: COMPLETE
Summary: A newly transferred trauma resident finds herself irresistibly drawn to her sharp-tongued, charismatic night-shift chief, Dr. Jack Abbot â a widower with a reputation for emotional unavailability. After months of flirtation, they finally give in to their chemistry, only for the night to end in heartbreak when he whispers another womanâs name in his sleep. Determined to stay professional, sheâs blindsided when sheâs promoted to work directly under him â just as the woman from his past arrives at the hospital. Now she must navigate ambition, jealousy, and lingering feelings while deciding if Jack is worth the risk.
Word Count: 4k
Author's Note: Oh man. Thanks for joining me on this wild ride. I LOVE the people I have met through this fandom! If you like my writing #1 thank you #2 have you tried therapy (jk jk jk) and #3 I have an epilogue planned but it might be a bit before I get to it. Love you mean it now go listen to Shawn whimper and moan on the Quinn app! :D
Link to Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9
A03 Link: thegingerjameson
Jack doesnât sit when he gets to his therapistâs office the next day, he paces. Three steps toward the window, turn, three steps back toward the couch. His hands are buried in his pockets like heâs trying to keep them from doing something reckless.
Mia waits until the third pass before speaking. âYou donât have to stay in motion for this to work.â
âI kind of do,â Jack mutters, continuing his ministrations. âIf I sit, Iâll overthink it.â
âAnd pacing keeps you from overthinking?â
He exhales, stops mid-turn, and drops onto the couch with a defeated thud. âFine. Iâm overthinking it either way.â
âDid something change this week?â Mia asks gently.Â
Jack exhales sharply. âI told her I needed space.â
âOkay,â Mia nods. âHow did you come to that realization?â
âShe got sick. Flu. Knocked her flat. I checked on her, made sure she was okay. I stayed longer than I meant to.â
âHow did that feel?â
âNormal?â He pauses, shakes his head. âNo, it felt easy. Thatâs the problem. Like I didnât have to think about it. I just took care of her. I knew what she needed before she asked, and Iâve done that before.â
âWith your wife.â Itâs not a question. Jack nods once.Â
âAnd that scared you,â Mia ventures.Â
âIt should scare me.â
âWhy?â
âBecause thatâs not something you just transfer to someone else. You donât just swap people out and keep going like nothing happened.â
Mia cocks her head to the side gently. âIs that what it felt like? Swapping her out?â
âNo,â he admits. âIt didnât feel like that. It felt - different, but not wrong.â
âSo if it didnât feel like replacing Natalie, what did it feel like?â Mia asks.Â
Jackâs hands flex against his knees. âIt feels like something I wasnât supposed to ever have again.â He shifts again, restless now. âAnd she makes me feel like itâs worth it.â
âWorth what?â Mia cuts him off quietly.Â
âWorth starting over.â He lets out a breath, almost a laugh, but it fractures halfway through.Â
Mia lets the words settle, doesnât rush to fill the silence.Â
âI had that life. I had my person, and I lost her. So what does it say about me that I can feel this way again?â
âIt says youâre a human who is capable of connection.â
Jack shakes his head vehemently. âIt feels like betrayal.â
âTowards your wife?â
Jack nods again, then lets out a frustrated groan. âAll the work we did, together, Mia. I thought I was past this.â
âThis is the first time youâve had feelings like this for someone since Natalie died, Jack. Itâs normal that youâre struggling with them.â
Jack leans back in the chair like the answer physically weighs on him.
âI know what I want to do, and I still keep tripping over myself.â
Mia watches him steadily. âThat doesnât mean youâre back at the beginning.â
âIt feels like I am,â he mutters.
âWhat about her?â Mia asks after a beat.Â
Jackâs brow furrows in confusion.âWhat about her?â
âYou told her you needed space,â Mia says gently. âWhat do you think that felt like for her?â
Jack exhales on a sigh, considering the question.Â
âLike I was pulling away. Like she did something wrong,â he finally says.
âAnd did she?â
His answer is immediate, a reflex. âNo.â
Mia leans forward slightly. âSo if she didnât do anything wrong, what are you protecting her from?â
Jack doesnât answer right away. His gaze drops back to his hands.Â
âShe deserves better than this version of me,â he mutters.Â
âThen be better,â Mia says simply.Â
Jack huffs out a laugh. If only it were that easy.Â
**********
Jack is already at the central desk when you walk in that night, sleeves rolled, half-focused on a chart, chatting with Lena. He looks up when he hears you, and for a secondâjust a secondâhe smiles, wide open and uninhibited.
âHey,â he says.
âHey.â You smile back.
Then, just as quickly as it came, the moment is gone. His attention drops back to the tablet in his hand, shoulders tightening as he visibly recalibrates.
Space. Right.
The shift starts there, and it doesnât stop. Itâs the way he keeps appearing at your side like he forgot he wasnât supposed to, the way his voice drops when he says your name, like it still belongs to him, the way he catches himself halfway through every almost-moment and steps back before it becomes anything real.
âRoom twelveâs labs are backâ he says, appearing beside you with a tablet already in his hand.
âAnything interesting?â you ask.
âOnly if you enjoy being right,â he says.
You glance up at him with a coy grin. âIâm always right.â
The hint of a smile that used to come so easily between you flickers, then tightens again, like heâs physically pulling it back into place.
âWhatever you say, hotshot,â he says, and then he steps away,.
Later, you reach for the same tablet at the same time. Your fingers hover near his, close enough that you feel the heat of his hand. He pauses, too long, like he's forgotten for a moment what heâs supposed to be doing, then he pulls back first.
âSorry,â he says automatically.
âYou donât have to apologize,â you reply before you realize the weight of your words.
His eyes lift to yours, careful now. âThatâs not what Iâm doing,â he says.
âAbbot, got a minute?â Ellis calls, and you separate like nothing happened, immediately retreating into the ever-present chaos around you.Â
Itâs not the distance that wears on you, itâs the almosts. The way he still looks at you like he forgets, sometimes, that he asked for space at all, the way it flits across his face before he remembers and pulls it all back into safer territory.
Towards the end of the shift youâre leaning against the central finishing notes when he comes up beside you again.
âYou okay?â he asks quietly.
The question catches you off guard, and you glance over at him. âAre you?â
âWorking on it,â he says with a faint smile.
You look back down at your tablet, because looking at him too long feels like wanting something you canât have.
âYouâre really bad at space,â you tell him lightly.
âYou make it difficult,â he replies.
âIâm not trying to.â
âI forget,â he admits, barely audible, âwhen Iâm around you.â
The words land quietly, but they donât feel quiet, sitting between you like something neither of you is allowed to touch. You finally look at him, and thereâs something in his face you recognize too well, something pulled tight between restraint and wanting. His posture is controlled, but itâs a control that looks practiced, like it hurts him to hold it in place.Â
âI know,â you say softly.
Thereâs a version of this moment where something happens, where the distance collapses, but this is not that version.Â
Jack steps back again, glancing up at the board. âCTâs back on your patient in ten.â
You nod, swallowing hard.
Yeah, the almosts just might kill you.Â
**********
This time, itâs Robby whoâs absent at shift change.Â
âLet me guess,â Jack says to Dana, who raises an eyebrow at him and nods slightly.Â
âYou two couldnât have picked a less precarious place to have your heart-to-hearts?â
Jack tosses her an easy grin. âWhereâs the fun in that?â
He passes you on your way in; you look tired, and a little sad, and he hates that itâs his fault.
âHey, hotshot,â he says softly.
âJack,â you nod with a quiet smile, and thereâs an awkward silence replacing what would normally comes so easy between you before you turn and head towards Dana, and it kills him a little inside.Â
The roof of the hospital is colder than Jack expects for early evening, the kind of cold that seeps through his scrubs and settles into this bones. He finds Robby sitting, back against the railing, elbows on his knees, staring out at the city with the kind of rage that can only be built on the foundations of grief.Â
âYou look like hell,â Jack tells him.
Robby doesnât turn, doesnât look at him. âTen-year-old,â he mutters, and Jack goes still.
âPost-op complication. Clean surgery, textbook recovery, then everything just fell apart in under five minutes. We couldnât pull him back.â
âFuck,â Jack breathes, low and guttural.
âYeah.â
Jack leans on the railing beside him and they sit with it for a moment, the city, the wind, the echo of something that doesnât belong to either of them but still lives in both of their chests.
âAlright. Your turn,â Robby finally says.Â
Jack kicks at the gravel at his feet, watching it scatter. âIâm seeing someone.â
Robby looks over at him carefully. âI know.â
Jackâs brows lift in surprise, and Robby shrugs.
âLivvie slipped. Swore me to secrecy. I knew youâd tell me eventually.â
âDamnit, Livvie,â Jack swears under his breath.Â
âWhy is dating her a problem?â Robby asks.
âItâs not a problem. Itâs just complicated.â
âYeah, well, thatâs kind of your M.O.â
âAsshole,â Jack mutters under his breath with a hint of a smile.
âAccurate,â Robby shrugs again.
Jack chuckles low, then exhales, scrubbing a hand across his face. âI asked her for space, because I couldnât figure out how to be around her without feeling like I was replacing Natalie.â
Robby leans back against the railing. âYou arenât.â
Jack frowns at him. âThatâs it? Just, âYou arenâtâ?â
âWhat do you want me to say? Youâre not replacing Natalie, Jack,â he repeats.
âI know that.â
âNo,â Robby cuts in quietly. âYou think that. Thereâs a difference. You canât isolate your way into being okay with living again.â
After a moment, Jack says quietly, âI think Iâm in love with her.â
Robby exhales through his nose, a half-laugh, half-sigh. âNo shit.â
âThat complicates things.â
âYou donât get to opt out of life because itâs complicated.â
âPot, kettle.â Jack says.
âTouche,â Robby nods.
A beat passes.
âI donât want to mess this up,â Jack continues.
âYou will,â Robby says simply, and Jack shoots him a look.
Robby shrugs. âYou will, but thatâs not the point.â
âThen what is the point?â
Robby nods toward him. âThat youâre still here.â
For a moment, Jack feels things shift, like he isnât being forced to choose between surviving and feeling again; like heâs allowed to exist in both spaces at once. He straightens and extends a hand to Robby, who takes it without hesitation, letting Jack pulls him to his feet.Â
âYou gotta find someone to help you dance through the darkness, right?â Jack says.
Robby snorts. âIsnât that a song lyric?â
âSomething like that,â Jack answers with a small smile.
Robby clasps a hand against Jackâs shoulder. âAlright, thatâs enough therapy. Letâs go pretend weâve got our shift together.â
**********
Girlâs night is Livvieâs idea, but sheâs the one who arrives almost thirty minutes late, flustered and out of breath in a way thatâs so unlike her. She pushes open the door of the wine bar, hair slightly messy, cheeks flushed, nervous energy radiating off her.
âIs it just me or are you glowing?â Dana asks, raising an eyebrow as she watches Livvie slip into the chair across from her.
Livvie avoids both of your gazes, looking down at her phone like sheâs trying to hide the blush creeping up her neck.
âOkay, spill. Who is he?â you demand, leaning forward with a smirk.
Livvie groans, covering her face with her hands. âWe just became friends and now youâre going to hate me.â
âOh shit,â Dana chuckles, her eyes dancing with amusement as she catches on. Your brow furrows in confusion.Â
âWhat am I missing?â you ask.Â
âItâs Hunter,â Livvie sighs finally.Â
It takes you a few seconds to process, and then a grin spreads across your face. âHoly shit.â
âAre you mad?â
âWhy would I be mad?â you scoff.
Livvie squints at you like she doesnât quite believe you. âBecause you went out with him.â
âTwice. And heâs great. And you look like you just ran here from a rom-com montage, so why wouldnât I be happy for you?â
âHeâs a really good man,â she says after a beat. âLike, annoyingly good.â
âI know,â you say with a sly grin, and Livvieâs cheeks turn an even deeper shade of red.
âOh my God,â she mutters into her palms, clearly mortified. Dana snorts a laugh into her glass of wine.Â
Livvie lifts her face, her cheeks still flushed but trying to recover her composure. âItâs not funny.â
âOh, itâs hilariousâ Dana retorts, her grin wide and playful.
Livvie glares at her, but the smile she tries to suppress gives her away. You snort-laugh, shaking your head as you lean back in your chair, letting the warmth from the wine and the company youâre with spread through your chest, reveling in the kind of normalcy you havenât felt in a while.
As the laughter fades, Dana leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest, and glances over at you, her gaze sharp, perceptive. She doesnât say anything at first, but you can tell sheâs already zeroing in. Livvie, meanwhile, has shifted closer to the table, her elbows resting on the wood.
âSo,â Livvie starts, her voice deceptively casual. âHowâs Jack?â
Dana doesnât even blink at the question. She already knows the answer. So does Livvie, for that matter. They just want to hear it from you.
âJackâsâŚâ you trail off, your voice faltering slightly. âListen, you both already know he asked for space.â
âSpace,â Dana scoffs.
Livvie studies you for a moment. âAre you okay with space?â
âI am,â you answer, but it doesnât feel as definitive as it should.Â
âI am,â you repeat, though youâre not sure whether youâre trying to convince them of yourself, âI just donât think he realizes how much space heâs already taking up even when heâs trying not to.âÂ
Itâs a confession you didnât know you needed to make until youâve said it out loud. Jackâs shifting between absence and presence is an almost you can never quite seem to grasp. Even when heâs not there, it feels like heâs everywhere.
âYouâre in love with him,â Livvie says quietly. Itâs not a question.Â
You flinch at the words, but the moment they leave her mouth, the dam finally breaks. Youâve said it without saying it a hundred times over, but hearing someone else say it out loud makes it real in a way you can no longer ignore.Â
âIâve been trying to ignore it, trying to push it away, because Jackâs not ready for this. Heâs not ready for me, not like this, and I canât make him be ready, but I donât know how to turn it off either. The way I feel about him. I canât just switch it off, Livvie,â you try to explain, wiping at the tears that are threatening to spill down your cheeks.Â
Livvie reaches across the table, her hand landing on yours in a simple gesture of solidarity. âJack can handle a lot more than you think. Iâve watched him come back from losing his leg, from losing his wife. Heâll find his way back to you, too. You just have to make sure you donât lose yourself in the waiting.â
Dana watches the two of you, her expression soft but guarded, like sheâs weighing her words carefully before speaking.Â
âSo what happens now?â she asks. Sheâs always been good at cutting through the bullshit to get straight to the heart of the matter.
âHe figures it out,â you say slowly. âOr, he doesnât.â
**********
The bar is dim, the kind of place that doesnât ask questions and doesnât care about rank or titles. Jack sits hunched over a glass he hasnât touched in ten minutes, thumb dragging across the condensation like heâs trying to erase something that wonât disappear.Â
âJesus,â Livvie says as she drops into the seat next to him and shrugs out of her jacket. âAre you always this fun now, or did I catch you on a special brooding discount day?â
Jack chuckles low in his chest but doesnât look up. âHow was girlâs night last night?â
âSheâs fine,â Livvie answers the question he hadnât asked. âSheâs more resilient than you think. You, however, sounded like crap on the phone.â
âYouâre abandoning Hunter tonight because I sounded like crap?â
âI once dragged you out of a burning vehicle while rounds were still popping off around us,â she say evenly. âForgoing sex is nothing.â
Jack squeezes his eyes shut and shakes his head. âThings I donât need to hear. And you donât need to keep doing that, you know.â
âDoing what?â
âSaving me.â
Livvie rolls her eyes. âRelax, hero. Youâre way less dramatic now. Back then, you at least had the decency to be unconscious.â
Jack smiles at that, throwing a playful elbow into her side.
âGod, you remember that convoy outside of Kandahar?â she continues. âYou insisted on taking point because you, and I quote, had a good feeling.â
âI did have a good feeling.â
âYou had a death wish,â she corrects. âAnd then, boom, IED takes out the road right under you. You disappear in dust and fire and Iâm thinking, great, Iâm going to have to tell this idiotâs future wife he died doing something stupid.â
Jackâs jaw tightens, but he stays silent.Â
âYou were pinned, bleeding out, but still conscious enough to tell me to leave you.â
âI remember,â he says quietly.Â
âYeah, well, I didnât listen then, either.â
Jackâs thumb continues its circles across the condensation on his glass. âI lost my leg.â
âYou lived,â she counters. âAnd then you married Natalie, so Iâd say things worked out about as well as they could have.â
Jack is quiet for a moment, then he says, âAfter she died, I thought that was it for me. Like that part of my life was just done.â
Livvie takes a slow sip of the beer heâd ordered for her, watching him over the rim. âYep. Thatâs what you told yourself.â
âIt made sense.â
âIt made you feel safe,â she corrects. He doesnât argue.Â
âSheâs not going to wait forever, Jack.â
Jack exhales, long and rough. âI didnât even realize it was happening until it was too big to ignore.â
Livvieâs gaze sharpens. âAnd instead of dealing with that like a functional adult you pushed her away. Classic Jack move, right? Retreat, regroup, pretend feeling something is some kind of tactical error.â
âIâm not pretending,â he snaps. âIâm trying to figure out how to do this without feeling like Iâm just replacing something I lost.â
âYou think loving her erases Natalie?â
âNo, but-â
âBut nothing. I loved her too, and you donât get to use her as a shield.â
Jack shoves his glass to the side. âYou make it sound simple.â
âItâs not. But itâs not wrong, either.â
âI care about her. More than I should,â he admits.
âThatâs not a thing.â
âIt is when it feels like Iâm betraying-â
âStop.â Livvieâs tone is sharp. âYou are not betraying a dead woman by being alive.â
Jack glares at her, and true to form, Livvie glares right back. Jack looks away first.Â
âShe deserves someone less complicated, Livvie.â
âChrist, Jack, you think she doesnât already know youâre complicated? Youâre a one-legged chief attending with control issues and a martyr complex. Spoiler alert: she knows. And she chose you, anyway.â
Jack scrubs a hand across his face. âI think Iâm in love with her.â
âI know. So what are you going to do about it, soldier?â
âI donât know yet,â he sighs. âBut Iâm tired of trying to outrun it.â
âGood,â Livvie says. âBecause if you donât fix this, I will make if my lifeâs mission to ruin yours.â
âYou already have,â he grins at her.Â
âLove you too, Jackass.â Livvie nudges his phone towards him. He picks it up slowly, then types out a quick text to you.Â
If youâre up for it, hotshot, Iâd like to try for that third date.Â
Your replay is simple and practically instantaneous.Â
Only if you promise not to slurp your soup.
**********
Itâs been another long shift, made even longer by the absence of Jack, though youâre not sure at this point if thatâs a blessing or a curse. The elevator doors open and you step out into the parking garage. Itâs quieter than usual during that strange in-between hour where the night shift is bleeding into morning, and youâre so exhausted that youâre halfway to your car before you see him.
Jack.
Leaning against your driverâs side door like heâs been there longer than he plans to admit. He looks up the second he hears your footsteps falter, and for a second, neither of you speaks, the space between you filled with too many unfinished conversations.
âHey,â he says. The rasp in his voice, stubble along his jaw and unruly mess of salt-and-pepper curls on his head make it clear he hasnât gotten much sleep.Â
Your brow furrows. âJack? What are you doing here?â
âAmbushing you in a dimly-lit parking garage,â he deadpans with a soft smile. âProbably not my best plan.âÂ
A tired laugh escapes you. âDepends. Are you here to murder me, or talk to me?â
âTalk. Definitely talk,â he says. Thereâs something restless behind his eyes, though, that sets you on edge.Â
âOkay,â you say slowly, heart pounding inside your chest. You set your bag down on the hood and settle against the car next to him. He exhales on a sigh, dragging a hand over the back of his neck, and for a second, it looks like he might fall back into the kind of retreat thatâs become all too familiar over the past few weeks.Â
âI owe you an apology,â he says finally. âI was scared of what this is. Of what you are to me. I kept telling myself it was about my past, about not wanting to replace Natalie. But thatâs not what it was.â
âItâs not?â you ask softly.
He shakes his head. âIt was about the fact that this, between us, is real, and that means I donât get to control it. I donât get to keep it safe and contained, and thatâs fucking terrifying, but I didnât lose anything by feeling like this. I just⌠started living again.â
âJack-â
âIâm in love with you,â he says, so quickly you almost miss it. You blink, snd then a snort-laugh slips out before you can stop it, your hand coming up to cover your mouth too late.Â
âYou ambushed me in a parking garage to tell me you love me?â
A tentative grin spreads across his face. âIn my defense, I was going to wait until I took you to breakfast.â
âThatâs incredibly on brand for you.â
âYouâre not wrong.â
âYouâre an idiot,â you shake your head.Â
âStill not wrong.â
âI love you too.â
That stops him cold.
âYeah?â he asks carefully.Â
âYeah.â You shrug. âI have for a while now. You just took your sweet time catching up.â
âStory of my life,â he mutters.
You reach for him without thinking, your thumb ghosting along the edge of his jaw, and when he kisses you this time, it feels like something finally settling into place. He pulls back after a moment, resting his forehead against yours.Â
âBreakfast?â he asks
You grin up at him. âYou are determined to make it to that third date, arenât you, Dr. Abbot?â
Something flashes in his eyes, dark and dangerous in all the right ways. âYouâre going to be the death of me, arenât you, hotshot?â
Pairing: Dr. Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x fem!resident!reader
Category: fluff, grumpy x sunshine
Summary: A trail of love notes on Valentine's Day leaves Robby both frustrated and intrigued.
Warnings: implied age gap (reader is 20s, Robby is 50s), power imbalance, medical inaccuracies, harassment from an aggressive patient, Robby is sad and lonely, Robby yearns (though he doesn't realise it), kissing, pet name (sweet girl), reader is shorter than Robby, fluff, reader is a sunshine lover girl, Robby is a total grump, Robby's POV, let me know if I missed anything
Word count: 6.2k
A/N: The sad, middle-aged, greying, brown-eyed doctor has captivated my soul.
Holidays were always bad in the ED. Most of them usually reserved their worst cases for the night shift though, much to Robby's delight. Halloween nights were always particularly crazy, according to Abbot. The Fourth of July tended to get pretty wild once the fireworks started too. Luckily for Robby, he got to avoid most of it. But one day a year was always unhinged from the moment he set foot in the building.
Valentine's Day.Â
He dreaded it every year, knowing how long and hard his shift would be and anticipating that he'd have to work overtime. Something about the romantic holiday really set people off. It tempted those who were alone and single to start drinking early - usually setting off a chain of alcohol poisoning cases. Those in happy relationships used it as an opportunity to explore new sides of their physical relationships - he had seen many embarrassing cases of people hurting themselves in the middle of sex. Groups of friends would take part in rituals to banish their bad luck when it came to their love lives - he couldn't even count how many singed-off eyebrows he'd seen after people had decided to burn old reminders of exes.Â
So, yeah. Dr. Michael Robinavitch hated Valentine's Day. And that definitely had nothing to do with the fact that he always seemed to find himself single around the holiday.
Dana was already waiting for him behind her desk when he walked into the ED that morning. She looked at him over the top of her glasses, already sensing his foul mood.
"Lighten up. It's not even seven yet." She chuckled, shaking her head in amusement.
Robby exhaled roughly, dropping his bag. "You know what day it is, correct?"
"Oh, I'm aware." Dana kicked his bag softly under the desk, out of the way so people didn't trip on it. Forever the considerate mother hen of the Pitt. "We manage every year. We'll do it again today."
He didn't know what to say to that. She was right, as she often was. So how was he supposed to argue? He reached for the pump of hand sanitiser that sat in its usual spot on the desk. But froze when he saw a yellow post-it stuck to the front.
Our love is like hand hygiene - 100% essential.
Robby ripped it from the bottle and waved it at Dana. "What the hell is this?"
The charge nurse squinted at the piece of paper, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Looks like a love note to me."
He huffed, about to scrunch it up before she stopped him.
"Hey, wait. Leave it. We could all do with some cheering up today, I'm sure." She pried it from his fingers and carefully stuck it back to the bottle of hand sanitiser. "Just because you're the Grinch of Valentine's, doesn't mean other people can't enjoy it."
Really, he knew his frustration at the note wasn't rational. But he also found himself already done with his day, and it hadn't even started yet. "Where's Abbot?"
"Roof, I think."Â
Before Robby could say anymore, Dana was swept away into a conversation with one of the nurses from night shift asking about handover. He took that as his cue to leave, striding towards the doors to the stairwell that would take him up to the roof. But before he could get there, he found another one of those sticky notes plastered to the double doors to the stairs.
Are you tachycardia? Because you make my heart race.
He frowned at the sight of it but left it there, pushing through the doors and racing up the stairs. Well, as much as he could race at his age. His knees didn't quite have it in them to go too quickly anymore.
The door to the roof creaked on its hinges as he emerged into the crisp morning air, slamming shut behind him again. It didn't take more than a second before his gaze landed on Abbot standing by the railing opposite him. The noise of the door and a few heavy footsteps clued the night shift doctor in on his friend approaching him.
Abbot turned, leaning back against the railing. "Happy Valentine's Day, dear."
Robby snorted, already so tired of the holiday. "You know anything about those notes floating around my ED?"
"You mean those cute, little love notes designed to make people smile?" Abbot stifled his own smile, tucking his hands into the pockets of his scrubs. "No, not a thing."
"Liar."
Abbot shrugged. "Perhaps. Does it make a difference?"
"I'd like to know who's responsible for being so immature." He huffed and planted his forearms on the railing, looking out over the sunrise.Â
"I forgot how grumpy you get on Valentine's Day."
"I'm not grumpy." But could he really deny that? Dana had already called him the Grinch of Valentine's Day. There was some truth to it, he supposed. "I just know what today is going to be like. And I don't need to be distracted by some stupid puns."
"If you get distracted by a medical pun scribbled on a post-it note then I think that's more on you than the pun." Abbot slapped him gently on the shoulder. "Let it go, brother. Those love notes might be the difference between someone having a terrible day and an okay day today."
Robby hated to admit that his friend was probably right. He knew nobody in the ED today would want to be there. It was either a reminder that you weren't with your significant other or a reminder that you didn't have a significant other. He could only imagine the amount of sappy couples he was going to have to talk to today.Â
So he nodded and stood up straight again, gesturing for him and Abbot to head back downstairs. "Well, I'm going to need a cup of coffee before I can bear to read one of those notes again."
"That's the spirit." Abbot teased softly, following close behind.
Only Robby wasn't so lucky. He found himself staring at one of the notes in the break room before he could even reach for a cup. Right there on the coffee pot. Another one.
You must be serotonin because you make me so happy.
"For fuck's sake." He grumbled, snatching the pot out of its spot and pouring himself a generous cup. It was okay. It really was. Only another twelve hours before his shift was over. Only another twelve hours before he got to go home to his empty house. Only another twelve hours until he got to wallow in how lonely he was.
"Good morning, Dr. Robby!"
The upbeat chime of your voice knocked him out of his miserable daydream. He turned quickly to look at you, almost slopping his freshly poured coffee everywhere. "Shit."
"Oh, sorry." Your shoulders hunched to your ears. "I didn't mean to scare you."
"It's fine." He snapped, watching as you turned away from him and buried your head in the refrigerator to avoid eye contact with him. He'd made you feel bad. Nice work, Robinavitch.Â
"So..." You trailed off, softly closing the refrigerator door and sending him a glance that showed you were cautious about being on the receiving end of his wrath. "Wanna place a bet on how many sildenafil related issues we're going to see today?"
Robby took a slow sip of his coffee, ignoring how it scorched his throat. "At least a dozen."
You nodded, agreeing. He couldn't tell whether you actually agreed or whether you were too nervous now to argue. That didn't sit right with him, a frown creasing his brows.
"I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm sorry." He mumbled, hoping that would clear the air. He wasn't really in the mood to apologise much more. But that wasn't your fault. "You just... startled me."
It didn't help that he couldn't quite understand how you could possibly be so chipper on a morning like this. This wasn't your first Valentine's Day as a resident in the Pitt. You knew what it had in store.
"Sorry about that." You scratched nervously at your arm, a trait Robby had gotten to know too well over the course of your residency. Only he hadn't been the one to make you do it since your first ever shift. He'd made you nervous your first day, he knew that, but he also knew you'd grown to realise that he wasn't actually all that bad by the end of it.Â
"It's okay. No harm done." That was true. How could he actually be mad when nothing had really happened? You'd made him jump with your greeting, he'd almost spilled his coffee, he'd almost burned himself. But that was more on him not being aware of his surroundings. It was the break room. Of course other people would be coming and going. Maybe Dana really was right about his status as the Grinch of Valentine's Day.Â
"Uh, somebody left pastries for us." You pointed at a box on the table in the corner of the room, trying to change topics. "I think it's supposed to make us feel better about having to work Valentine's Day. I'd get in there before they're all gone if I were you. I've already eaten two croissants."
Robby's head tilted to the side. He'd assumed you'd only just arrived, heading straight to the break room after dumping your stuff in your locker. But you'd already been here long enough to know about the pity pastries and eat two croissants. "When did you get in?"
"Oh." Your eyes widened, like you'd been caught doing something you weren't supposed to. "A little while ago. I figured some of the night shift team would like to get home as soon as possible to see their loved ones today."
How fucking considerate of you, he thought bitterly. God, he really was a grouch. "That's a nice thing for you to do."
You shrugged, easing up at his careful tone. "It's not like I've got anyone at home who's going to miss me today."
Robby watched as you processed what had just come out of your mouth, appreciated the way your face screwed up.
"Too much information." You huffed, shoulders slumping. "I'll- I'll go see if anyone needs me."
And then you zoomed out of the break room, as fast as your legs would carry you without actually running. He quietly exhaled something of a laugh to himself. At least he had you to amuse him today, your positive attitude and general nervousness around him made you entertaining at times. Always so eager to please.
The box of pastries called to Robby. Well, the rumble of his stomach did. So he allowed himself to take a peek at them, see what was on offer. What he found was another one of those damn notes.
Call me glucose because I can't help being sweet on you.
At least this one made sense being stuck to the pastry box. He snatched a chocolate Êclair and bolted from the room.
As predicted, it didn't take long for the craziness to set in. Before nine, Robby had seen three sets of singed eyebrows, two Viagra problems, and one guy who had cut off circulation to his penis by wrapping a ribbon around it too tightly. The latter's girlfriend had not been impressed by what was, apparently, her only Valentine's gift from him.Â
The only thing stopping him from going insane was your bright presence. Every time he felt like he was about to lose it, and go and have a breakdown in the bathroom, you would appear at his side. Whether it was to present a case, offer your assistance with something, or just to quip something clever in his ear. You were always there. Like you could sense how far he was teetering on the edge. It was somewhat welcome. On the one hand, he appreciated your ability to talk him down. But he also wondered if you actually knew what you were doing, if it was obvious on his face how depressed the whole romantic holiday made him. He'd only found one more of the love notes in the first two hours of his shift.Â
I have a concussion from falling head over heels for you.
He had found it on the bottom of his shoe. How it got there, he wasn't entirely sure. The assumption was that it had been stuck to something else but had gotten knocked to the floor and then he'd just walked over it. The inconvenience of it being stuck to his shoe had bothered him. But the actual note itself hadn't set off that flare of irritation that the previous ones had. Was he getting used to them? Was he softening a little as the day wore on? That was an analysis of himself that he didn't have time to make.Â
An itch of curiosity scratched at the back of his brain, a part of him wanting to know who was the culprit writing them all. He debated asking someone else what they thought of it all. But he'd already caught a couple of nurses positively beaming when they'd read the note that was stuck to the hand sanitiser. So he decided to leave it. If it was making people in his ED happy, then why would he poke at the situation. Ugh, he was going soft.
Before he could dwell on that too much, you appeared at his side again.
"Hi, Dr. Robby." You rolled your shoulders back as you prepared to say something.
"Spit it out." He sighed, glancing down at you.
Your lips puffed out as you exhaled an annoyed breath. "I've got a patient that's being a little aggressive."
"Then take Whitaker for backup. I saw him wandering around a minute ago."Â
You swallowed a giggle. "No disrespect to Whitaker but I don't think he's all that intimidating. I think my patient would be better behaved with you in the room. Because you're, y'know, tall and in charge."
"Tall and in charge." Robby repeated, eyebrows raising.Â
"Authority figure vibe. Because you are. An authority figure, I mean. Put a white coat on and you'd be prime for the Milgram Experiment." You winced at yourself. "Anyway, I'd appreciate your help. Only if you're free though. Obviously. If not, I'll try with Ahmad first. But I don't think my patient is going to listen to what I have to say. If you don't support me at least."
"Alright, what's the diagnosis?"
"He crushed up a bunch of Viagra and snorted it." You chirped, like it was the most normal thing in the world.
"Jesus."
"Yeah. Only he didn't crush it all that well. Little shards of it have torn up his sinuses so he's essentially choking on a mixture of blood and Viagra." You watched as Robby's face crumpled. "Only he's denying that it's the Viagra and that there must be another problem."
"Did he admit to the Viagra snorting?"
"Not at first. But when I pointed out the blue dust all over him, he stopped arguing."Â
"Okay, I'll be there in a minute."
"Thank you." Your voice was grateful, tone light with the promise of his backup in your mind, and you practically skipped your way back to the patient.
True to his word, Robby took only a minute to compose himself before he made his way over to the examination room you were in. There, it only took a few seconds for Robby to understand why this particular patient had made you feel uncomfortable.
"Brought Daddy with you this time? Aw, was the little girl too scared to deal with me by herself?"
Daddy?
Any other time Robby might have been insulted at the implication that he was old enough to be your father, the fact that he was in fact old enough to be your father was besides the point, but mostly he was just focused on the predatory look that the guy laid out on the bed was giving you. It was enough to make even his skin crawl.
"I'm Dr. Robinavitch." He rubbed hand sanitiser into his hands vigorously, not bothering to offer up his nickname. "I'm the attending physician here today. Can you tell me what the problem is?"
The guy's eyes didn't leave you as he talked Robby through his symptoms. They even stayed trained on you as Robby examined him and as Robby gave a diagnosis. The same diagnosis that you had given. When he told him that, he finally managed to gain the patient's attention. Only for a brief moment though before he was looking back at you again, sat in the corner.
"Hey, you're talking to me." Robby snapped, careful to try and keep himself together. This was not the day for him to be dealing with difficult patients. He knew how close he was to completely breaking and taking it out on someone. An aggressive patient with an unhealthy fixation on you would be an easy target for him. He turned to look at you, to find you already looking at him. "Could you go get Dr. Langdon for me please?"
There was a flicker of admiration in your eyes as you dipped your head once to agree. "Of course, Dr. Robinavitch."
And then you were gone. Robby looked back at the patient in the bed. He was flopped against the bed with a smug smile on his face. Like he'd won. Robby watched him for a moment, mentally debating the pros and cons of saying something. He knew if he got started then he probably wouldn't be able to stop. He also knew that he was too tired to be getting into something like this. Before he could make a decision of his own, Langdon did it for him by appearing in the doorway.
"You called for me?"
Robby gave the senior resident a brief rundown of the situation, explaining what he wanted him to do, and then left him to treat the patient before snapping the gloves off of his hands and disappearing into the bathroom to cool off.
The hours dragged by at a glacial pace and Robby stopped finding those post-it notes everywhere. He figured they must have only been a few dotted about the place and he'd managed to come across them all. He couldn't help but realise that he could probably do with finding another one. At least it would momentarily distract him from the snail speed that the day was going. He wasn't bored by any means, as usual Valentine's Day had him hopping from room to room with the most bizarre of cases, but he did find himself coming face to face with too many happy couples. It was an odd concept to him how so many people could find themselves so happy despite being in the emergency room. Love was a curious thing. Maybe seeing you would also cheer him up.
It didn't help that he was hungry. The only thing he had eaten that day had been the chocolate Êclair that morning. The protein bars he usually kept in his pockets for spare moments had been forgotten that morning in his sad haze to get to work before the sorrowful emptiness of his apartment managed to lodge itself in his brain. His stomach growled at him for food. So loud that he'd risked looking for Dana's secret stash in the break room, to no avail.
But then a moment of hunger-induced clarity hit him.
There was a protein bar in his locker. He was sure of it. It was months old, and probably crushed right at the bottom, but at least it would be something. He made sure that nobody needed him in that immediate moment before rushing off to the lockers. But he was barely around the corner before he stopped dead in his tracks. Even from a short distance he could see it. On his locker. Another yellow sticky note.
Robby took slow steps towards it, unsure whether he was bothered or not by the sight of it. He squinted at it as he got closer, trying to read it from a safe distance without his glasses.Â
You must be hypoglycemia because you make me weak in the knees.
A soft breath, not quite a laugh, escaped him. Whoever was behind all of this, had to be given credit for their dedication to romantic medical puns. He wondered if they had been coming up with them all themselves or had taken inspiration from elsewhere. He shook himself out of the thought and went back to his original mission of searching for the protein bar. It was old and crumbled just like he predicted. He didn't let himself think about it too hard when he peeled the sticky note from the front of his locker and tucked it inside with the rest of his belongings.
Making his way back to the central hub, munching on the ancient protein bar, he found you talking to an elderly woman with a paper pharmacy bag clutched in her hands. He rounded the desk and took a seat a few feet away from you, noting how Dana was listening intently to the conversation, and pretended to occupy himself with something on the computer in front of him.
"It's all written down in the bag, Mrs. Cody. Step by step instructions that you can refer to if you need." You nodded reassuringly at the woman, voice slow and collected like you had already explained this a couple of times before. "And if the problem persists then just come back and we'll have another look, okay?"
"Okay, dear. You've been so helpful." Mrs. Cody reached out and gently tapped you on the shoulder. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." You smiled at her, like it was your pleasure to be helping her with whatever the problem was.
"I'm sorry for ruining your Valentine's Day."
"You have nothing to apologise for, Mrs. Cody. This is exactly what we're here for."
She didn't look too convinced. "Do you have any plans for tonight at least? Like a date with a nice man, perhaps?"
Robby found himself straining to listen closer, not letting himself acknowledge why.
You laughed softly and shook your head. "No, I'm going home to spend the evening with a tub of ice cream and a horror movie."
The elderly patient appeared confused. "But you're such a pretty, young thing."
Robby couldn't help but agree.
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Cody." You smiled at her, like you genuinely appreciated her words.
Mrs. Cody looked briefly sad for you, before a light bulb seemed to turn on in her head and a sly smirk overtook her weathered features. "Well, my gardener is a very sweet man. And single. Maybe I could set the two of you up."
Oh, god. This was why Robby shouldn't have been listening in. Because suddenly his stomach felt tight, like it was twisting up, and he found himself hoping that you would say no. Please, say no.
A slightly uneasy giggle escaped your lips. "Once again, very kind of you. But I'm not looking to meet anyone new at the moment."
A wave of relief rushed over Robby. He was such a selfish man. Just because he was sad and alone didn't mean that everybody around him had to be as well. He should be happy that the people he worked with had happy lives outside of the Pitt. And he was. To an extent. He liked knowing that McKay managed to find time to spend with her son doing fun activities. He liked that Santos and Whitaker lived together and had clearly become good friends while being roommates. He liked that Javadi had found a hobby in being a content creator, although he didn't actually fully understand what that meant. He had been so delighted for Donnie when he became a father.Â
But he also found comfort in knowing that there were people like him, people like you, who didn't actually seem to have anybody outside of work. What an asshole he was.
Snapping back into listening in on the conversation between you and Mrs. Cody, he found that the older woman was finally leaving and you were turning to Dana with an amused look on your face. At least you seemed unaware that he had been listening in on your entire conversation.Â
"Get used to it. You'll get a lot of ladies trying to set you up with their sons, grandsons, nephews, neighbours..." Dana waved her hand around as she trailed off. "Especially on days like today."
"She kept mentioning her gardener when I was examining her. 'Oh, he's such a handsome boy.' 'He's so attentive with my flowers.' I thought she liked him. I didn't realise she was trying to set me up on a blind date." You groaned and buried your face in your hands. "And I kept asking questions about him to keep her at ease with conversation."
"Hey, maybe you should've taken her up on the offer. Then he could have been attentive with your flower." Dana glanced at you over the top of her glasses, one eyebrow arching.Â
You snorted into the palm of your hand and Robby felt the urge to crawl into a hole and die.Â
"Let's keep the chatter work appropriate." He said gruffly, trying not to act like he was hooked.
"Sorry, Dr. Robby." You mumbled, eyes widening in embarrassment as you realised he'd been listening. "I'll, uh, I'll get back to my patients."
"Yeah, you do that." He huffed, massaging his temple with two fingers.
You shot Dana a look of pure mortification before scurrying off.
The charge nurse turned to him, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "Let the girl have some fun. It's Valentine's Day."
"That doesn't change the fact that she's on the clock and we have patients in need." Though he did feel bad about how much he revelled in the notion that he wasn't the only one suffering on the romantic holiday. He was at ease knowing that you were going home to an empty apartment just like he was. He was a horrible person.
"There's an hour left before the night shift gets here." Dana said, calmly. "She's been on top of it all day. Probably only got some charting to do before she can leave at seven. Pronto."
"Not the point." He replied, gruffly.
"Jeez, and I thought all those love notes would've warmed you up." She mumbled, walking off to where a group of nurses were hovering to break them up before he could even question what she'd meant by that.
The time seemed to tick by quickly after that and, before he knew it, Abbot was strolling through the doors for the night shift. He took one look at Robby before a knowing smile tugged at his mouth. "Tough day, huh?"
"You don't even know the half of it." He groaned, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I'm sure you're in for something special tonight."
"I'm sure." Abbot continued to smile at his friend before turning in the direction of the lockers and walking off.
Robby sighed to himself, glancing around the room to see that it had calmed down a little. He knew that it wouldn't last long before the nightly rush started. He had to make sure he was out of there before it began. Reaching down to where his bag had been tucked under the desk by Dana at the beginning of his shift, he thought about how he would spend the evening. He could get drunk. But then that would mean being hungover for his shift the next day. He could follow your idea and eat ice cream and watch a movie. Not a terrible plan.Â
Halfway through another thought, he was distracted by the sight of his bag as his picked it up. It was half unzipped. Robby never left his bag open. Never. Cautiously, he opened it all the way and peered inside. He didn't exactly know what he expected to find in there but a pink envelope wasn't even on the list of possibilities. He slowly eased it out of his bag, somewhat surprised to find his name written on the front.
Dr. Robby.
Huh.
With a gentle finger, he eased the envelope open and pulled out a card. A Valentine's card with a cartoon heart on the front. The cartoon heart was drawn with a big smiley face in the middle. It was kind of ugly.
Robby scanned his surrounding area to see if anyone was watching him, nobody was, before he opened the card.
Dr. Robby,
You've given me the love bug. The only antidote is your smile. Will you cure me today?
And a little heart was drawn at the bottom beneath the message.
It was the same handwriting as all of the other notes. Only this one was written in an actual card, addressed to him specifically. Was this all connected? A plan to wish him a Happy Valentine's Day? But who would do that? And why?
His musings were interrupted by Abbot's reappearance. "Figure out who wrote those love notes yet?"
Robby shoved the card back into his bag rapidly, hoping Abbot didn't notice. "No. Why? Do you know?"
"Nothing happens during the night shift that I don't know about."
Robby wished he could say the same thing about the day shift. "So it was someone on the night shift."
Abbot smirked. "No. I just said it happened during the night shift."
A frustrated chuckle tumbled from Robby. "You're not going to tell me?"
"Now, where's the fun in that?" And then Abbot was gone, pulled into the nightly routine of handover.
Robby finished up his work, filling in charts and typing up emails, and said goodbye to nurses and other staff members as they walked by him to leave for the evening. He could see the joy on so many of their faces as they left to go join loved ones for a romantic night. The ache of jealousy settled deep in his bones. He could feel Dana sending him pitying looks every now and again, but he just ignored her. He didn't need to have that conversation with her.Â
The last dash of joy he was potentially able to drain from the day appeared when you collapsed onto the desk in front of him and Dana. Your elbows propped on the surface and your face buried against your arms.
"I've dealt with enough sildenafil to last me a lifetime." You groaned lowly, glancing up to find Robby side-eyeing you. You immediately straightened up. "Of course, nothing wrong with it. Perfectly normal thing for men to use."
He continued to stare at you for a moment before a smile cracked across his face, softening his features. It was so easy to make you nervous. "Relax."
You grinned back at him. "Wow, there's that smile. It's been absent all day and I was wondering when it would turn up for its shift."
Something snapped tight in Robby's chest. But before he could say anything you were spinning on your heel and heading toward the exit.
"Patients dealt with. Charts done. I am off home to nobody." Your voice was mock-excited as you punched a fist in the air. "See you tomorrow, love bugs."
Robby floundered around with a lack of words to say as he watched you leave. He looked around him to see if he was the only one suddenly having an epiphany, only to find Dana looking at him like he was an idiot. Which wasn't completely unusual for her.
"D'ya finally figure it out?" She huffed, shaking her head. "And I thought doctors were supposed to be intelligent."
"The notes? Her?" He pointed vaguely in the direction you'd left in. He didn't know why that prospect seemed so unbelievable to him. You were totally sweet enough to do something like leave love notes lying around for people to find to cheer them up. But you also didn't quite seem confident enough to do something so bold.
Dana looked over the top of her glasses at him. "Chase her, Robinavitch. While the night is still young. I've got everything handled here."
"Why would I-?" He cut himself off. Surely Dana didn't know about the card addressed to him.
"You think it's just a coincidence that all the notes were placed around to follow your routine. Hand sanitiser, door to the stairs, coffee pot?"
Holy shit. She was right. And the card was just the cherry on top of it all.
Robby shot out of the chair, knocking it back so it drifted away on its wheels. "You're sure you've got everything covered here?"
"Not my first rodeo." The nurse sighed, practically shooing him away. "See you in the morning."
He didn't dare question her further, just grabbed his bag and his jacket before practically running for the exit. Running after you.
By the time he managed to track you down, you were halfway across the park. His old knees just didn't let him keep up so well anymore. He called your name a few times, noting the headphones over your ears that were blocking him out. But one yell of your name seemed loud enough as suddenly you were tugging the headphones from your head and turning around to look at him.
"Dr. Robby?" You looked perplexed. "Is everything okay? Did something happen?"
"No." He wheezed, stopping a few feet in front of you to catch his breath. Sometimes he missed his youth.
"Oh. Did I forget something?" You glanced down at his hands as if he might suddenly hand something over to you but found them empty.
"No." He repeated, pulling in deep inhales.Â
"Then what?" You looked nervously over his shoulder at the dark park behind him.Â
"I know it was you."
Your jaw snapped shut. "Know what was me?"
Oh, you were going to play innocent? Funny.
"The love notes everywhere. The card."
You lit up in two ways. One in absolute panic that he had managed to figure it out and was calling you out on it. And the other that you were proud of your work and happy that he was acknowledging it.
"Oh. That." You traced a line on the path beneath you with the toe of your shoe, hands clasped behind you. "Yeah."
"I'm not mad." He clarified. "In fact, I'm sorry it's taken me all day to realise it was you. I might've been in a better mood if I'd known sooner."
You frowned up at him. "You didn't like them?"
Robby couldn't lie to you. "I've been told I'm a grumpy bastard on Valentine's Day."
You snorted a laugh but said nothing.
"Can I ask why?"
"Why I wrote them?" You asked and he nodded. "You've seemed so sad recently. And I thought maybe it would make you feel better."
Oh. That pang of disappoint in his chest was unmistakable.
But then you carried on. "I mean, doesn't everybody like to know that they're loved?"
Oh?
"Loved?" He repeated, staring down at you intensely.
"Did- did I say that?" You pointed at yourself, avoiding eye contact with him. You swallowed thickly and let your eyes land on him again, defeated. "Yeah, I guess."
"You guess?" He laughed, hard. "You guess you love me. So romantic."
You shrugged. "I wrote you love notes and came up with puns. I think that's the most romantic I've ever been in my life."
He shook his head in disbelief. Suddenly he was striding toward you, closing the few feet of distance with large steps. A hand landed on either side of your face, big palms spanning the expanse of your cheeks. He used the positioning of his hands as leverage to hoist you up to meet his lips halfway. A low, breathless mumble ghosted over your mouth. "Oh, sweet girl."
And then Robby was kissing you.
A surprised squeak escaped you, you hadn't been quite prepared for that. But once it seemed to register in your mind what exactly was happening, your eyes fluttered closed and you relaxed. Your hands curled in the fabric of his jacket, fingers appreciating the feel of the fleecy material.
His mouth devoured yours, hungry for everything you could give him. Robby pressed himself as close to you as possible, tongue pushing at the seam of your lips as soon as he felt you reciprocating the kiss. He sighed into your mouth as soon as it opened and his tongue met yours. This was what had been missing, this was the thing that had been making him so sad. Kissing you. Specifically you. How he hadn't seen it sooner, he didn't really know. He was an idiot, he knew that now. But he also knew he'd never let himself be an idiot again.
When you both broke away for air, he was surprised to hear you laugh.Â
"What's funny?" He asked, nudging his nose against yours. He liked the little sound you made in the back of your throat as he did. He made a note of that.
"Thinking that maybe I should have written you some terrible puns sooner if this was going to be the outcome."
You gazed up at him with such warmth in your eyes that Robby considered the possibility of a heart attack at the mere sight.
"I think the puns were great. Very creative." He tilted your head to the side so he could plant an open mouthed kiss on your neck.
"Robby, we're in public." You whined, despite how you pulled him closer to you. "Also, don't lie to me. Dana told me you hated them this morning."
"I was stupid this morning." He liked the way you shivered as his teeth grazed your skin. "My sweet, sweet girl."
You hummed lowly. "Wanna come home with me and eat ice cream?"
He pulled back from you, already missing the feel of you on his lips, surprised by the offer. He wasn't sure why. You were already making out in the middle of the park. Going home with you wasn't exactly a much bigger step. In fact, it was a pretty natural progression. So, of course, his answer was simple. "I couldn't think of anything better."
With the way you grabbed his hand and started dragging him behind you, Robby couldn't remember how he had ever started the day so miserable. Look at the way it was ending. Maybe Valentine's Day wasn't so bad after all.
A/N: Ooh, my first attempt at diving into The Pitt fanfic... I hope you enjoyed.
Summary: Youâve been Lenaâs nanny for years. Now, with both of her parents gone, you and Pope Cody have been doing your combined best to take care of her. And yet, as much as you both love her, itâs not enough. Social services has already been sniffing around, and it wonât be long before sheâs going to be taken into foster care.
But when Smurf tells you that married couples have a better chance of adoption⌠well, sheâs right. And whatever scheme she may be planning doesnât matter as long as Lena is safe.
Besides, itâs just paper. Right?
Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drug use, Gun use, Alcohol use, Violence, Smut!!, It's Animal Kingdom so buckle up its kind of got everything, Angst (lots and lots of angst), Married-to-lovers trope, Pope yearns A LOT, Spoilers!! (The timeline follows season 3ish), Craig has his own house and never moved into Bazâs, Mental illness (it's Pope), Smurf is manipulative of course, Brief mention of a traumatic childbirth, Please let me know if I forgot anything!!
Author's Note: We did it! The giant Pope Cody fic is here! Special thanks to our queen and bestie @flowersforbucky for proofreading as always! I honestly loved writing this one so much that I'm gonna miss it now that it's posted but hoo boy am I excited for you guys to read it! Please please let me know what you think!
-
âAre you sure about this?â
âNot really, no.â
Craig Cody runs both hands through his hair. Rests his elbows back on his knees. Stares at the pool, rather than at you.
You stare at the pool, too. You think, if you keep looking hard enough, you might see the stars twinkling on the surface of the water, despite the soothing blue lights shining beneath.
âThen why are you doing it?â
âFor Lena.â
-
âWhat the hell are you talking about, Smurf?â Pope Codyâs voice is a low growl, but thereâs shock behind the suspicion in his eyes.
You canât hear anything through the thick glass wall, but you can see Smurf enunciate the words when she says âhand the phone to herâ.
Her eyes are locked on you, something almost chillingly sure in her gaze. Youâd wondered, when sheâd demanded that Pope bring you with him to visit her, what she could possibly have been planning. Whatever it is, itâs Smurf, so you know it canât be good. And with the way Pope has gone pale, something like shock cracking through his usually stoic demeanor, your fear seems to have been confirmed.
Pope doesnât look at you when he passes the phone over. The plastic is cool on your ear.
âMarried couples have a better chance at adoption.â
You look at her. She doesnât even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.
Still, you find yourself echoing Popeâs words.
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â
âIâm talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.â
You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isnâtâŚ
âOne day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.â Smurfâs words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesnât need to be said. Canât be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.
Adoption because youâre married.
âOkay.â Your voice doesnât sound like your own, but it soundsâŚfirm. The decision isnât hard, though it probably should be.
Just a piece of paper. Thatâs all. Itâs just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.
Pope does look at you now, but you donât break your gaze from Smurfâs. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.
Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.
And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.
âOkay.â
-
âYouâre gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?â
âYour niece.â
âYour whole life.â
âItâs not my whole life. Itâs justâŚpaper.â
Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.
âYouâre gonna be raising her. With Pope.â
âI donât know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.â Itâs not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.
Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldnât get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, butâŚthere. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isnât even yours.
Pope was there, and heâll be there now. You have no doubt about that.
-
The ride back is dead silent.
So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.
âYou donât have to do this.â
He doesnât take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.
âI know.â You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.
But even despite that, itâs for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.
His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. âIf you donât want to-â
âI want to.â You interrupt, finally turning to him. âItâs Lena. If you think for one second that Iâm going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, youâre insane.â
âSmurf-â
âI donât care about that. Sheâs right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isnât exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then thatâs what we have to do.â
Pope doesnât speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.
-
âThis is different. This is⌠this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-â
âCanât be too hard, with your lifestyle-â
âStop joking. Iâm not kidding.â
You look at him, now. âIâm not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.â
âYou really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isnât yours with fucking Pope.â
âI want her to be safe.â You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. âWhy the fuck donât you get that? Why doesnât anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?â
âWhy do you care about her so much that youâre going to throw away your life?!â
âWhat life? Iâm already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-â
âYou canât trust Smurf.â
âShe likes me. Iâm not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.â
âShe always has a reason to lie.â
âNot about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.â
Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.
âIâve watched this kid grow up. I love her.â
âMore than yourself?â
âI meanâŚyeah.â Isnât that what love is? You donât think you know any other kind. âItâll be the same as it always was. Iâll just have a rock on my finger, right?â
âThis is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, itâs gonna be a whole lot of lying.â
âOh yeah, Iâm really not used to lying. Where would I even start?â
Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.
-
Itâs a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf forâŚobvious reasons.
There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Popeâs intense eyes donât leave your face for a second.
It isnât that you donât like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You arenât sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. Thereâs something about him thatâs real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.
But Pope. Youâve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.
Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed toâŚwell, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, youâve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Bazâs couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.
So maybe this wonât be so bad. Itâs for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.
You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but itâs surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.
When itâs time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. Youâre really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because youâve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.
Itâs a simple, gentle kiss - he doesnât slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.
You donât, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.
And then youâre married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And youâre justâŚmarried.
-
Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.
He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.
Wife. Wife. Wife. Youâre his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that youâre only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.
And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up toâŚpretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.
That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it justâŚhappened. The fantasy heâd kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.
Youâd visited him, too. You hadnât taken Lena, but youâd come. Just a few times, always against Smurfâs wishes, but youâd checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasnât just your friend, he wasnât just Lenaâs uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.
This is for Lena. Youâre both here for Lena.
And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that sheâs going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. Sheâll see this arrangement as her âgivingâ you to him, as horrible as it may be. Heâll owe her for it.
But Lena will be safe. Youâll be safe. He can make sure of that.
And you wonât ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they wonât be weapons. Theyâll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.
And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.
He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.
Heâd chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.
And then he would see you again the next day. Heâd buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. Heâd feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.
And now youâre his fucking wife. Youâre going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?
And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, heâll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. Heâll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.
But he will be your husband. Youâll be his wife.
And maybe, secretly, horribly, heâll pretend.
-
The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.
Itâs loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You donât mind parties. You know Pope doesnât like them. Even now, heâs sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isnât about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. Itâs about optics. Itâs about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.
For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Popeâs. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.
You arenât drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deranâs jokes.
And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.
âYou okay?â He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know youâre the only one who can hear him.
âAnd finally,â Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, âhere comes the blushing groom!â
The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You donât imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, âdo you think we did enough? Can we leave?â Leave isnât a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but youâll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.
Pope smiles, and it doesnât look entirely fake.
In a second, heâs reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and youâre followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.
-
âAre youâŚokay?â He keeps asking you that. You still donât know how to answer.
Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.
âIâm in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesnât get forgotten by the system. Iâve had less weird days.â
âI meanâŚwith me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?â
âWould you? If I asked?â
âYes.â
âSounds uncomfortable.â
âIâve slept in worse places.â Right. Prison. Shit.
âI didnât know you even slept.â
He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. âDo you want me to move?â
âIâŚno.â You donât. It surprises you how much you donât.
You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. Youâre both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and youâre pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks youâre going at each other like bunny rabbits.
Itâs quiet in here. Itâs comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely donât get why people are always so unnerved by him. Heâs quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way youâve never felt with anyone else before.
âDo you think this was a bad idea?â
He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.
âNo. It was for Lena.â He pauses, brow crinkling again. âDo you regret it?â
âNo.â For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you canât help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.
After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.
Youâre not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.
âPopeâŚâ you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.
âAndrew.â He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. âMy name is Andrew.â
âAndrew.â You repeat, and youâve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your âvowsâ, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.
And then he kisses you.
Itâs slow, careful like heâs worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like youâre a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like heâs dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something heâs never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it heâs going to cherish every fucking moment.
You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourselfâŚfeel.
Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until youâre pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.
âAndrew.â You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.
Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.
âTell me to stop.â He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like heâs trying to keep himself still above you. âIf weâŚI donât think I can hold back.â
âDonât.â You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. âDonât stop. Donât hold back.â
He pauses, like heâs trying to collect himself.
If he is, he fails at it.
His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.
You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.
âIâll do it.â
You meet his eyes, and theyâre fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They donât. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.
His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until heâs pulling you up with him and youâre straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.
And then heâs kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.
Heâs usually soâŚawkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like heâs desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and youâre not sure what kind of human connection heâs had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like itâs a form of fucking worship.
The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where itâs covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.
âDonât. Let me hear you.â He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.
His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, âsorry. Iâm sorry. Iâve got you.â
You forget everything that isnât him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadnât made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.
And when itâs over, after youâve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you canât remember how to pull yourself back to earth.
âThatâŚâ you try, and fail, âIâmâŚwoah.â
Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until heâs on his back and your head is resting against his chest.
âYour legs are shaking.â He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.
âShut up.â You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.
Youâre asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.
-
You wake before him.
You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.
Youâve never seen him sleep before.
Youâre about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.
There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.
Married. Youâre married. For Lena.
What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesnât work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror sheâs endured in her young life, and she would just beâŚabandoned again.
Shit.
You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.
His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesnât even notice that heâs doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that youâre awake, too.
For a moment, heâs silent. It isnât uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.
âDo you want toâŚborrow clothes?â He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isnât exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.
His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.
âI donât think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.â You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.
âI have t-shirts.â
You do laugh, now. âI know. Just kidding.â
âDo youâŚlike the shirts?â
âI do, yeah.â You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like heâs an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.
And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.
He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it werenât for Lena. If it werenât for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.
âI thinkâŚâ his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you canât think. âWeâŚshit, we shouldnât do this.,â you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.
âAre you okay?â
You nod. Swallow. âI donât⌠if we start something, and it doesnât work, Lena will get hurt. Sheâll feel abandoned again.â
He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like heâs just trying toâŚtouch you. Somehow. Any way he can. âYou think it wonât work?â
âIâŚno.â You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. âBut we canât know for sure. I donât want to risk it. Not right now.â
He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. âOkay.â
And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.
He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.
And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.
-
Pope Cody isnât sure if heâs living in heaven or hell.
Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, heâs absolutely convinced itâs heaven. Because youâre with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equallyâŚpeaceful. Itâs peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. Thereâs still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.
And sometimes, itâs hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music heâs ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing heâs ever known swelling in his chest.
And he canât have that again. Because youâre right. He loves you so, so much, but youâre right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. Heâll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.
But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lenaâs teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurfâs house and feel you smile in response.
And he wants to kiss you. When youâre laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when youâre showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and itâs selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.
So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.
-
Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.
âShe doesnât need a therapist.â Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.
Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. âYes, she fucking does.â
âSheâs fine.â He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. âSheâs got us.â
He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lenaâs lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like heâs performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you donât even notice that heâs made you one too until heâs handing you a little brown paper bag.
You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.
âShe needs more than just us.â
âWhat does that mean?â Heâs still scrubbing the same plate.
âHer parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now sheâs being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-â
Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.
âA what?â
You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but youâve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and youâre honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.
âCome on, of course I know what you do. Iâm not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.â And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. âBut thatâs not the point. The point is that Lena-â
âHow much do you know.â He doesnât say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.
âEnough, but not everything. I donât want to know everything.â
He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than youâve ever seen them as he repeats the question. âHow much do you know?â
You donât back down. âNot. Everything.â You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. âI donât need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I donât need to know anything else.â
âWhy not?â
âI donât want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.â You snap, frustrated. âI donât need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if youâre gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.â
âYouâre not the nanny anymore.â His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.
âAnd what am I then? Because the adoption process isnât exactly going our way.â You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. âSafe and okay are two very different things, Pope. Sheâs neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isnât tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.â
To your surprise, Popeâs eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.
âAndrew.â
You blink. His gaze does not falter.
âMy name is Andrew.â
For a moment, you canât remember why youâre mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasnât Andrew.
âShe needs therapy.â You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you canât remember how to breathe right.
âShe doesnât.â
âShe will be taken away from us.â Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesnât flinch. He doesnât look away from you.
He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.
âIt didnât work for me.â
âBut it might for her.â You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, heâs beautiful. âAndrew, we can love her, but we canât help her. Not like that. Itâs not enough.â
He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.
You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.
âStop that.â Your voice is firm, and he doesnât look up again. âPlease.â
His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.
âFight with me.â Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you donât care. âI need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.â
His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.
âI donât want to get angry.â
âYouâre already angry.â You donât break his gaze.
âI donât want to hurt you.â
âYou wonât.â Youâve never been more confident of anything in your life.
He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if thereâs something wrong with you because you donât feel afraid.
âI donât want to lose Lena.â When did the air in here get so thin? Why canât you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until heâs face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. âI donât want to lose you.â
âYou wonât.â You swallow. âYou wonât. She just needs-â
His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.
âShe needs help.â
âSheâll think something is wrong with her.â He presses even closer, like heâs not aware that heâs doing it, and you canât tell if heâs frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you arenât sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.
âDid you think something was wrong with you?â
His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesnât answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.
âThereâs a lot wrong with me.â
You want him so badly it hurts. âThis isnât what I meant by fighting.â
âI canât fight with you.â His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. âI want to. Iâm trying. I canâtâŚâ
You canât remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest youâve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but heâs usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesnât linger. You wonder now if heâs been doing that on purpose. If this is what heâs been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.
The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like youâre on fucking fire.
âIâŚâ you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.
âCan I watch TV?â
Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.
You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Popeâs hands on your skin.
âNightmares again?â You ask, and she nods.
And just like that, itâs over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.
And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck youâre going to manage this marriage.
-
Lena is gone.
And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didnât cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.
And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. Youâll figure it out, because you love her, and youâre going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.
And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.
âWhyâŚâ you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesnât even like pink. Why is there so much pink? âWhy is itâŚhere?â
âItâs just for now.â Smurf answers, flippant. âYou just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.â
You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.
âBut weâreâŚâ married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.
She doesnât even look up from where sheâs folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. âYou know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.â
Oh.
Oh fuck, youâre an idiot.
And then Lena is dropped off, and sheâs miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.
And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.
This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone elseâs schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.
Sheâs gonna be okay. Itâs gonna break your fucking heart, but sheâs gonna be okay.
So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.
The car ride back to Smurfâs is silent.
It takes six minutes for you to break.
âPull over.â
He does.
You lurch out of the truck, wondering if youâre going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.
And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you canât.
âThis was all so fucking stupid.â You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.
âDonât say that.â
âWhy not?â You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. âThis whole fucking thing was justâŚwe were justâŚâ breathe. You canât breathe right. âShe tricked us. Donât you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-â
âAndrew.â
You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. âWhy do you do that?â
He doesnât answer.
âWhy do you correct me when weâre fighting? OrâŚâ Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.
He doesnât answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.
âIt makes me feel better, when you say it. I donât like it when youâre upset with me.â
âWhy the fuck arenât you upset?â
âI am.â His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, âI am.â
You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.
âIt didnât work.â You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. âIt didnât work, and Iâm⌠Iâm not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.â
âI wonât let you.â Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. âI wonât let her hurt you.â
âShe already has. All of this shit isâŚitâs tooâŚâ you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. âItâs over. It didnât work. This is done. It needs to be done.â Because youâre all thatâs left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you canât let that happen.
It needs to be done.
-
You show up, of all places, at Craig Codyâs place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.
âOh shit.â He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. Heâs shirtless, and there are people inside.
âIâmâŚinterrupting.â You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But thatâs why youâre here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that wasâŚgood. Lost, of course, but good.
You turn to go.
âNuh uh. Hey, câmere.â He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.
âYou smell like sweat.â You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.
âJust got back from the water.â His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.
âWant me to beat Popeâs ass?â
You shake your head.
âWant some coke?â
You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.
âOkay, okay.â He pats your back, and pulls back a little. âHow âbout a shot?â
You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.
âThere ya go.â You sputter a little, and he pats your back. âCâmon. You stayinâ here for a bit?â
You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.
âYouâre lucky Iâve got a guest room.â Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. âMy couch is uncomfortable as fuck.â
âWell, better than - wait, what are you - hey!â
He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ânew roommateâ, you decide that maybe the Codys arenât all bad.
-
âOw. Ow. Ow.â You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craigâs kitchen with your head in your hands.
âPopeâs freakinâ out, by the way.â
âThank you. Youâre really helping.â You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. âHowâre you not hungover?â
âIâm hungover as shit.â You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craigâs voice as he examines whatever is inside. âWe should get something delivered.â
âWe should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.â
âYou sound like your husband.â
âDonât call him that.â
You donât lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. âDamn, I knew you didnât party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.â
âShut up.â It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.
He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.
âGotta go to Smurfâs in a few.â He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. âWant me to tell Pope that youâre here?â
You frown, and shake your head.
He frowns back. âHeâs freaking out.â
âWhy? Lenaâs gone. Doesnât matter.â
âYou know youâre being a dick, right?â
âRude.â
âAnd you know heâs like, obsessed with you.â
Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. âHeâs not.â
He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. âSure, sure.â He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.
âDamn, you still look hot hungover.â He says, grinning, and you glare harder. âShoulda got to you first. You wouldnât have gone for me, though. Youâre fuckinâ perfect for Pope.â
âMânot-â
âGo back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like youâve got anything to do if youâre gonna be in hiding.â Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.
âYouâre a tool.â You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.
âYou came to me.â He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.
-
You donât talk to Pope Cody for two months.
You donât take the ring off.
Deran gives you a job at the bar, and youâre good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.
Weirdly enough, living with Craig isnât too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.
But even when heâs fucked up, even when heâs acting like an asshole, heâs always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.
One day, he comes home, and doesnât joke. Doesnât comment about you being a neat-freak (youâre not, but youâre not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.
You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.
âYou gotta go over there.â His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. Youâve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if itâs a familial trait.
âTo Smurfâs?â You frown. âWhy?â
âHeâs fuckinâ losing it, thatâs why.â Craig doesnât snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. âAll he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. Itâs fucking creepy.â
âYou always call him creepy.â And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.
âI donât get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than Iâve ever seen him get along with anyone. Heâs obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you havenât done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!â
You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. âHow the fuck did you know that?â
âJesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?â
âCraig!â
âDude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.â
âThat and the pounds of coke.â You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.
âThatâs never been a problem. Iâm built different.â
âYouâre the fucking worst. Seriously, Iâm gonna-â
âSmurfâs got him fighting.â
And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.
âWhat?â
âYeah. Boxing matches and shit.â Craig looks genuinely earnest. âHeâs fucked up, dude. Somethingâs not right. Heâs got this look in his eyes likeâŚlike he doesnât give a shit what happens to him.â
Thatâs all it takes.
Youâre out the door in five minutes.
-
When you find him, heâs sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.
You donât think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if heâs been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.
His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you canât hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.
âHoly shit.â You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesnât move. Doesnât tear his eyes away from you. Doesnât even blink.
âAre you real?â His voice a whisper of gravel, and heâs looking at you like youâre an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like heâs living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.
You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.
You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until youâre straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.
âIâm real.â You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. âIâm real, Andrew.â
His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you donât vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.
His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.
You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.
âDonât leave again.â He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.
âI wonât.â You murmur. âNot tonight.â
âDonât leave ever. Please. Please, IâllâŚIâll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.â He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.
âAndrew...â You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.
And you kiss him back.
The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.
This is a bad idea. Heâs clearly out of his mind. Youâre both hurting too much.
And yet, it feels so fucking good you canât think straight. Like this, this is everything youâve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.
But you canât. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you canât do this. Not now. Not like this.
You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.
âP-Pope-â you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.
âDonât. Donât make me stop. Please.â His voice is low. Desperate. âLet me touch you. I-Iâll make it better. Iâll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.â
Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and heâs just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.
âStopâŚâ You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.
He hears it, and he doesnât stop.
âYou want me. I know you do. I know you. I canâŚI can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.â
Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.
This isnât right. Heâs out of his fucking mind right now. This isnât right.
âPope.â You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.
âCall me Andrew. Say my name.â He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.
âStop.â You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. âPope. Stop.â
Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. âDonât make me.â One last, desperate plea.
âStop.â You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.
You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. Heâs breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.
âDid I hurt you?â
No. God, no. Youâre about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But heâs asking, because heâs so out of it that he doesnât know. And youâre fucked up for letting it get this far.
âI have to go.â You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. âIâm sorry. IâŚI have to go.â
He doesnât reach for you. He doesnât follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until heâs out of sight.
And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.
-
Youâre shutting down the bar when he comes in.
âWeâre closed.â You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and youâre a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that theyâll âjusâ be here fâr one.â
You look up.
The man before you is smiling. And it isnât a good smile.
âCody.â He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. âRight? Youâre Popeâs wife.â
You donât back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. ââŚYeah. I am.â
On paper, yeah. But youâve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Codyâs wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-
âGood.â He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.
Youâre out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you donât even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.
-
Your head is pounding. You taste blood. Thereâs warmth trickling down from your temple.
Youâre on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.
Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.
âThe fucking CodysâŚâ the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. âThey fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out weâll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckinâ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckinâ dog.â
You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.
âGotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.â
Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.
âKnew youâd be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.â
You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know thatâs not a good sign. That itâs gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.
He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you canât breathe.
Heâs still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.
âThinkinâ I break those fingers first, sugar.â You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you werenât already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how youâll wake up after that. âThen we work down to that pretty little-â
Your fingers close around something metal, and you donât think before you slam it hard into his neck.
He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.
You donât move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.
You sink to the floor.
You canât look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. Thereâs no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?
Shock is cold and numbing. You canât feel your fingertips. You canât think. You donât think youâre breathing, either.
He definitely isnât breathing. Heâs dead. You killed him.
Oh, fuck.
-
You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.
You donât. You donât even think to.
You call your husband.
He answers on the first ring. Heâs on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when theyâre on a job.
The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.
âHey.â He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. âIâll call you back in-â
âA-Andrew IâŚâ Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. âIâm s-sorry. I didnât mean to-â
âWhat happened?â Popeâs voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.
âI-I donâtâŚIâm at the bar. IâŚheâŚâ you shouldnât say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You canât confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.
âAre you safe?â
No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he canât actually see you. âI think so.â You canât stop staring at the body. You might be sick.
âIâll be there.â Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. âDonât move, okay?â
You nod again.
It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You havenât moved. Youâre not sure if youâve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You donât remember when he hung up.
But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than youâve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.
âThe body.â You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.
âDonât look at that. Look at me.â Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. Heâs wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. Itâs probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you donât want to know.
But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isnât directed at you, but itâs burning so deeply that you canât make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.
Oh. Thatâs why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? Youâve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldnât be less afraid of him if you tried.
You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you donât think you ever want him to stop touching you.
When you inhale, he nods, like heâs acknowledging that youâre doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.
âWhere else did he hurt you?â He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the manâs fingers around your throat.
Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-
âHey, hey. Look at me.â And you do, and you swallow.
Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and youâre the one that killed him.
âCan you stand?â
You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.
He presses gently on the back of your head. âHere?â
You shake your head.
Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.
He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.
You canât see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.
âIs it bad?â You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. Heâs breathing too shallowly. Heâs holding you too tightly. Heâs trying to keep himself calm, and it isnât working.
âThereâs a boot print. On your back.â He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.
You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.
For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.
Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.
âIâm gonna call Craig, okay? Heâs gonna take you home, and then Iâm gonnaâŚtake care of this.â The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.
âNo.â You feel soâŚweak. You fucking hate it, but you canât think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. âDonât. Donât go. Not right now.â
He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.
âOkay.â His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. âGo in the back. Sit down.â
And you do.
You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Popeâs voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then heâs crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.
âIs thisâŚokay?â
You nod. It hurts to speak, so you donât bother to try. You donât need to, with him. You never have.
He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.
And maybeâŚmaybe itâs because youâre alive. Maybe itâs because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe itâs because you havenât seen him in over a month. Maybe itâs because you miss Lena and you miss him butâŚ
But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like youâre fucking drowning.
He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like heâs fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.
His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like heâs magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like youâre made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.
He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like youâre breathing again.
He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.
You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-
And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.
âNo. No no no-â you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When heâs kissing you, when heâs against you, you feel so much better when all youâve felt is emptiness and pain for months.
Let me forget. Let me forget please donât make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-
âStop.â He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. Heâs shaking with restraint, and youâre sure that if you can just get his damn belt off heâll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. âYouâre hurt.â And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, âyouâre hurt.â
âI donât care.â And you donât. And itâs a little scary how much you donât care. You just want him. You havenât even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.
You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.
âI canât.â His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.
âPlease, Andrew.â
He grips you tighter, and leans back down.
And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like heâs just fallen back to earth.
You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.
âOh, fuck. You look like shit.â
You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.
âFuck. Fuck, okay. Iâve gotcha.â He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. âYou didnât do any of this, right?â
âAre you fucking kidding me?â The level of danger in the other manâs voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.
âChill, just checking.â Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.
âChrist.â And then heâs beside you, touching the wound on your head. âShe might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.â
âThatâs for bullet wounds.â Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. âShe needs a few stitches. Iâve got her.â
âYouâve gotta take care of theâŚâ
Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-
âTake her home. Iâll be there soon.â
Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. âOkay, câmon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-â he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.
âTake her home.â He says, and the implication would make you frown if you werenât still in shock. âNot to your place.â
Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.
You turn back to Craig, and nod.
He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.
âIâll be there soon. Is that okay?â
Always, always asking if youâre okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.
âYeah.â
And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.
-
Pope is gone for hours.
Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.
âFucking-ow!â You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.
âSorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.â
You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.
âKnock it off. Iâm disinfecting.â
âI donât think thatâs how that works.â
âWill you relax?â
âYouâre definitely not doing it right.â
âWell itâs not every fuckinâ day I have to stitch up my best friendâs open forehead wound while she sits on my brotherâs couch with a fucking boot print on her back.â
âDonât act like you havenât seen weirder shit.â
He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.
âThatâs it. Câmon, look at me for a sec.â
You do, and youâre still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmedÂ
 eyes and bruised face, you know it doesnât hold much weight.
âYou saved your own life tonight. You know that?â
âI killed someone.â Your voice sounds too small.
âHe was gonna kill you. Probably worse.â Craig doesnât getâŚintense, often. The way heâs looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.
âYou make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?â
Ugh. You might start crying again.
You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesnât rip your forehead apart before heâs hugging you right back.
âAnd,â he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, âif Pope doesnât kill everyone that guyâs ever known, I will. No oneâs gonna hurt you again. Promise.â
You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.
-
Youâre leaning against Craigâs shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that heâs home.
Thereâs blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.
âAre you okay?â His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.
âNo.â Thereâs no need to lie. Heâll see right through it, anyway.
âOkay.â He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.
Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then youâre alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.
âI should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.â He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. âThis is gonna scar.â
âI think Iâm in love with you.â
What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. Heâs your fake husband and youâve barely spoken in months.
He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like heâs inspecting the wound again.
âStop. Iâm not concussed. I mean, I donât think I am.â You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. âIâm sorry. I shouldnât have said-â
âI love you.â He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. âI love you so much I canât think. I canât sleep without you. I canât breathe right. YouâŚâ his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but heâs fighting for the words. âYouâre everything to me. You have been since I met you.â
That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.
âI would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how muchâŚâ your eyes widen, and he frowns. âI wonât, though. But IâŚI would.â
âI think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.â
His lips quirk, like heâs fighting a smile. âIâm fucked up.â
âYeah, you are.â You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. âBut I love you.â
His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. âIâve killed people before.â
âI know.â
âI wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasnât dead yet, so that I could kill him.â
âYouâre not gonna scare me off, Pope.â
âAndrew.â
âAndrew.â You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. âYouâre not gonna scare me off, Andrew.â
This time, when he kisses you, he doesnât stop.
-
EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER
âIâve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.â Craigâs hand drops to Popeâs shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. âCongrats, dude. Definitely yours.â
âI think thatâs just his poop face.â You cock your head down at the baby in question. âAnd his hungry face. And hisâŚhappy face.â
Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. Thereâs something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.
âYouâve gotta bounce him a little.â He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and thenâŚ
A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his fatherâs nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.
âSee, he smiles.â Pope reaches up to catch the babyâs hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.
âYou look fucking scary like that, dude.â
âOh, shut up.â You catch Popeâs chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. Heâs still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. âHe hasnât slept in like, three days. Heâs out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.â
âIâve slept.â He mumbles, turning back to the baby.
âYou have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.â
âThe birth was traumatic.â
âThe birth was three months ago.â
He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.
All jokes aside, heâs been doing that a lot lately.
And, a month or two back, when Lenaâs now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.
âWhat?â Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.
âYou guys donât look sad anymore.â She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as heâd pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.
Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.
âWe should renew our vows.â He hums, and you laugh.
âYou really wanna throw another party?â
He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. âNo. I want to marry you again. The right way.â
Heâs said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couchâŚ
And now, you finally answer.
âAsk me.â
He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.
âWill you marry me?â
You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.
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summary: good things happen to those who are found crying in the supply closet by their hot, older, maybe flirty boss-slash-mentor.
wc: 14.5k (i have no idea how that happened)
tags/tropes: age gap (duh), slow burn with an insane amount of tension, lowkey very emotionally rife, hurt/comfort, not-so-unrealistic amounts of crying, langdonmel in the background if you squint (you donât have to squint very hard i love them so much guys im sorry) vaguely referenced but not subtlety implied bad childhood, gratuitous and frankly ridiculous medical inaccuracies because i took a lot of creative liberty, reader is an ode to Matilda by Harry Styles and Youâre Gonna Go Far by Noah Kahan, Pitt Crew becomes readerâs family :)
a/n: this was supposed to be a sort-of drabble for @leeknowpegger. idk what happened. pegger iâm sorry iâve been so dead recently (always) will you take this as an apology. If youâd like more cohesive tags, more context, extra details, and more in depth warnings, this fic has been cross-posted on ao3, and will be linked below :]
NOT-SO-FRIENDLY-PSA: Any comments asking me to write more, post another chapter, or anything of the sort will be deleted. Please do not send an ask into my inbox either. Screaming in my inbox (not about wanting more, general screaming) is totally fine though!
You have been the perfect day shift intern for five months. Five freaking months of listening to mostly constructive criticism, five months of adapting and learning on the go with not a single complaint voiced, five months of diligent note-taking, studying, and practice. Five months of weaseling your way into the list of interns-slash-young-doctors that your residents actually respect. Five months of grueling shifts, hard losses, and never saying no when someone needs you to do something.
Five months of being the untouchable, âperfectâ intern. Robbyâs newest addition to his growing list of âwork-wards.â
Five months of unflinching effort and dedication and it took four hours of your third night-shift to reduce you to a miserable, snotty mess on the supply closet floor. Tucked into the space between the two shelves, just the toes of your blood and snot and god knows what else covered shoes peeking out, the rest of you obscured.
Five months, four hours, and back to back fuck-ups that escalated into Dr. Jack Abbot, the man you may or may not have had the hugest crush on since beginning your intern year, removing you from a case. Five months, four hours, and two parents screaming at Dr. Abbot, telling him that youâre not fit to be a doctor.
Tonight isnât the first night a patient has yelled at you. Tonight isnât even the first time youâve been removed from a case. Itâs not the first time Dr. Abbot has had to correct you, and itâs certainly not the first time youâve made a mistake.
Youâre an intern. Itâs your job to fuck up, learn from it, and keep going. Thatâs what Dr. Mohan said to one of the other interns awhile back. Theyâd ended up flunking out, but oh well. It was good advice. It wasnât meant for you, but hell if you donât say it to yourself every night like a prayer.
But right now, the usual calming mantra is doing absolutely nothing. Youâre stifling ugly sobs into the tops of your knees, arms wrapped around and squeezing as tight as you can, your chest shaking and shuddering with the force of your complete and total freak-out.
The patient isnât dead. Despite your mistakes, they didnât die. Thereâs really nothing to cry about. Nothing to hide in the supply closet for.
And yet, here you are.
Your first mistake wasnât terrible, but it was ridiculously stupid and incredibly embarrassing. Triage room, emergency measures being taken. And you, tired and off kilter from being so used to the day-shift, broke the sterile field. Like some dumb medical student, not a fairly seasoned intern whoâs drilled sterile protocol into her head until itâs muscle memory.
For a scalpel. You dropped a scalpel. Arguably the worst thing to drop. And then, like an idiot, you picked it back up.
And, well. Thereâs no time to re-scrub, so there wasnât a need for you in the triage room anymore.
Your second mistake was equally stupid and avoidable, if youâd focused more. Dr. Garcia was kind enough to let you scrub in on an emergency appendectomy.
It was a test. Not your first.
And you ripped the fucking purse strings.
Once again, you were unceremoniously booted from the room (being kicked out of an OR feels a hell of a lot worse than being kicked out of a triage room) and sent back to the pit. Dr. Abbot immediately caught wind of it and demoted you to scut work until âyou get your head back in the game.â
And, well. You tried really hard to devote yourself to your new task, but you had to keep blinking tears out of your eyes every five seconds and you absolutely refuse to cry in front of literally any of your coworkers, lest they think you some weak-willed weak-stomached intern who canât handle some criticism and correction. Youâre a hard worker. Youâre good at this. You have to be.
So yeah. Crying in the supply closet.
Youâve always been a frustrated cryer, which is annoying on a good day and downright awful on a bad one (case in point.)
Youâre just so upset with yourself. Youâre better than this. You know you are. Youâve proven that you are. You donât drop scalpels. You donât break the sterile field. You donât rip purse strings.
But you did tonight. And maybe one day youâll laugh, but today is not that day.
You just donât get it. Day shift? Incredible. Manageable. Youâre on top of things, put together, and worthy of Dr. Robbyâs respect.
But tonight? Quite literally the exact opposite.
You canât be burning out, right? Thatâs not how burn out works. Thereâs like, signs, and you start to feel terrible and awful and exhausted and sure you definitely feel all of those things, but thatâs because you work in medicine. And youâre an intern. Youâre supposed to feel terrible and awful and exhausted. But maybe youâre not? You do enjoy your work, and itâs exhilarating, especially when you try something for the first time and execute it well, because you always do, you always get things right on the first try, obviously, so that means that this canât be burn out. You donât burn out. Thatâs not you. Right? No. Of course not.
You gasp a particularly rough sob into your knees, air feeling like knives as you inhale, making you cough horrendously. You must be quite a sight.
Unfortunately, due to your alternating hacking coughs and dramatic crying, you donât quite hear the door open.
You do, however, hear the quiet âOh.â thatâs mumbled a few moments later.
Of-fucking-course.
You scramble upright, aggressively wiping at your face and attempting to make it look like you werenât just crying on the ground.
âDr. Abbot! Iâm so sorry, this is very unprofessional and I know you have me on scut work but I promise Iâm still working on itââ
He holds up a hand, and you slam your jaw shut with an audible click.
âJust needed some four by fours, kid.â
Always one to be helpful (especially to the guy you have a crush on who also happens to be your boss, aka the same person who professionally told you to get your shit together about forty minutes ago) you reach beside yourself and hand him the package of gauze, an awkward smile fixed on your face.
ââŚThose are three by threes.â
Bitch. Motherfucker. Fuck your life.
âRight,â You mumble, dragging your hand down your face. âIâll just get out of your way. Sorry.â
You turn to walk past him, attempting to go quick enough that he might not notice the new tears shining in your eyes before a hand lands on your shoulder.
âLook,â Dr. Abbot starts. âYouâre one of Robbyâs adopted interns, right? Robby-Junior?â
âThat is one of the rumors Santos has been spreading, yes.â
His hand is on your shoulder. His hand is on your shoulder. (!!!)
You donât know what to do. Heâs looking at you. Your boss doesnât fluster you. Youâre chill. Youâre normal. Youâre cool as a cucumber, yep yep yep.
âRobby doesnât adopt interns lightly. Donât let one bad shift mess you up. It happens to everyone.â
You purse your lips. You should let it go. Take his advice. Thank him.
The all-consuming-guilt and ever-present-need to prove yourself itches too painfully to ignore.
Dr. Abbot seems to notice, and he catches your gaze again.
âWhat, it doesnât happen to you?â
A jolt of panic stabs your chest. âNo! Of course it happens to me, I didnât mean to imply that Iâm like, above making mistakes or having bad shifts at allââ
Genuinely what is wrong with you. Why the fuck does he do this you. Youâre a smart, confident woman who apparently chucks her brain into the garbage bin whenever her boss is around.
Dr. Abbot, probably picking up on a pattern of behavior by now, levels you with another look that shuts you up fairly quickly. Heâs got a sort of impish grin on his face, and it shouldnât be hot, but heâs got his hand on your shoulder and youâre having a ridiculously shitty night. Does anything matter anymore?
âUsually, we try to mix up interns schedules so you donât get into a rhythm on one specific shift so that when you inevitably switch, the change doesnât mess up your flow. But I'm sure your knack for keeping your head down and doing good work let you fall through the cracks.â
He takes his hand off your shoulder and shoves it into his pocket, but you almost donât notice because he said you do good work.
Abbot gives you another grin. âAnd I didnât stick you on scut as a punishment. Mindless work tends to be calming, which in turn helps focus your mind.â
âBut I ripped the purse strings,â You blurt like a Catholic school girl in a particularly rife confessional, âLike an idiot.â
âYou ripped them like an intern doing something for the first time.â
âI practiced hundreds of times to make sure it didnât happen!â
He tilts his head, almost cat-like. âDid you also practice on a live person in a higher stakes situation while your body is messed up from a sudden and huge sleep schedule change?â
ââŚNo?â
He snorts. âExactly. Dr. Garcia probably wonât hold it against you. Sheâll give you shit for it, but itâs not like sheâs never going to give you another chance.â
You wipe the last bit of wetness of your cheeks with the back of your hand, embarrassment heating your face. Despite the awfulness of being caught crying in the supply closet, the beginnings of pleasant warmth is spreading through your chest, Dr. Abbotâs reassurances echoing in your head.
âThank you, Dr. Abbot. Um. Sorry about the crying. I promise I donât usually do that.â
Dr. Abbot snorts as he saunters towards the door. âWouldnât judge you if you did, kid.â
â
Dr. Jack Abbot is bored.
He has his work, which is great. He became a doctor after being discharged because heâs always been the kind of man that needs something to do. Something to mind, something to watch, something to fix. Robby and him and much the same in this way.
Working at the ED was enough for a while. There was a certain challenge to it, an unpredictability that itch sated, kept him sane. And, well. Now heâs an attending. Night shift lead.
He started to get restless again.
He thought a pet might work. He was going to get a dog, but it didnât sit right with him to get an animal built for companionship and then leave it at home for over twelve hours a day. Then he thought a cat might do the trick. He looked online first, saw beautiful, well bred felines that could probably compete and win for best in show for whatever the cat equivalent is for the Westminster Dog Show.
And then he made the mistake of going to the shelter and seeing an old, one eared tuxedo cat that stared at him with something in between fear and spite and its eyes. And well. The shelter attendants assured him that the cat in question prefers being left alone and having its own space, but might warm up eventually, and he brought him home that day.
And then it was just Jack, occasionally Robby, and now his asshole cat who might not love him back.
That also worked for a while. Having Charlie was fun. It was nice having another living creature in his house that wasnât him. Even if he did have a habit of chewing on power cords when left unattended and eventually progressed into attempting to destroy Jackâs stethoscope if he left it anywhere he could find.
Minding the cat gave him something to do that wasnât tedious, and it was a special sort of bonus to wake up every now and then and see the cat sprawled at the foot of the bed, snoring away. He didnât actually know cats could snore like that.
Around the time that the itch came back and Jack was considering adopting a second cat from the shelter (well on his path to becoming a crazy cat lady, as Robby said in the park over beers) he met you for the first time.
Sometimes Jack slips quietly into the ED and watches the chaos of day shiftâs conclusions. Heâs picked up a very special language of gauging what heâs getting into based on the body language and behavior of the rest of the hospital staff. Robby had told him about the latest internâ a motivated, stubborn sort of girl that frequently went toe-to-toe with Santos but without any of the pushback when receiving correction or criticism. Heâd heard that you were smart, capable, and well on your way of becoming a great doctor.
Robby failed to mention that you were pretty.
Heâd watch you, comparing notes with Mohan with a certain intense focus on your face, worrying your lip between your teeth and repeatedly tucking a piece of hair behind your ear because itâd fallen out of your disheveled pony tail he thinks âOh.â
And then, a few months later, he finds you crying in a closet, subtly confessing fears of failure and falling short of expectations, and then he thinks âWell, thereâs something to do.â
Jack tries not to think about you, at first. You, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, bottom lip jutted out just a bit, hugging your knees. He tries not to think about how youâd looked at him when heâd assured you that you did good work, the awkward thank you, and the way that for the rest of the shift, all the annoying menial tasks that get forgotten in the chaos were all mysteriously taken care of.
He tells himself that heâs just going to keep an eye on you. For Robbyâs sake. Heâd do the same for Whitaker.
The next time you have a night shift, youâre clearly more prepared for the exhaustion, and when he finally sees you in true, proper action, he understands immediately why Robby likes you and Mohan frequently attaches you to her cases. Skill, patience, and focus.
When he watches you trach a patient with a certain ease that only comes from practicing hundreds of times, Ellis shoots him a knowing look. Raised eyebrows and smirk. When she passes him in the hall a few hours later, she jabs her thumb behind her shoulder at where youâre diligently filling out a chart.
âThat one yours, then?â
Jack shakes his head. âItâs not like that. You make me sound like a creep.â
Another raised eyebrow. âSure it isnât.â
âSheâs Robbyâs intern.â
âMhm.â
âSheâs way too young.â
Parker shrugs. âSheâs good.â
âShe is.â
The senior resident cuts a glance back to you. âThink sheâll burn out?â
âMaybe.â
Parker crosses his arms. âAre you gonna let it happen?â
âSheâs not my intern.â
Up to three Parker Ellis looks and counting.
âItâs an HR nightmare.â
Parker shrugs. âYou just said sheâs not your intern.â
He narrows his eyes. âYou know what I meant.â
âDo I? Itâs been awhile, Jack. No one would really judge you for having some fun.â
âParker.â
âJack.â
He shakes his head, walks towards the boards. âYouâre the worst.â
Parker just laughs. âSure I am.â
To your credit, he doesnât find you crying in a supply closet again to see evidence of you doing so for a solid few weeks. But, like most things in the ED, the peace doesnât last.
You came into work soaking wet, which is odd, considering the fact that he knows you drive, and the walk to the parking lot isnât far enough to account how youâre shivering in your freshly changed scrubs. He brushes it off, chalks it up to freakish Pittsburg weather.
Some night shifts are relatively slow and mild. Tonight is not one of those shifts. Patients are extra irritable at late hours, which is to be expected, but what heâs not expecting is to walk by South 15 and see a 50-something year old man slap you.
Jack blinks, and in the next second heâs in the room, standing in between you and the patient.
âExcuse me, what the fuck is going on here?â
Gloria will probably give him shit for his language later, but right now all he can think about is the startled look on your face and the echo that the contact made.
âI said I want a real doctor, not this fuckingââ
âGet the fuck out of my hospital.â
Shen peaks his head in. âSecurityâs on their way.â
Jack reaches behind him to where youâre still standing, your hand covering your cheek, and gently pushes you towards Shen, towards the door. You stumble over your feet a bit, but truly, Jackâs never been more thankful for his residents because then Parker is right there, ushering you out the door with a hand on your shoulder. Jack resolutely ignores your mumbled âIâm fine, really, he just surprised me.â
Thankfully, security doesnât take that long to get to the room, and the second Jack is finished explaining, heâs out the door and scanning the ED for your face. Nurse Young jerks her head towards the break room, and he thinks he manages to give her what he hopes is a thankful smile before heâs beelining for it.
When he opens the door, youâre sitting on the floor again, holding an ice pack to your cheek with one hand and dabbing at your lip with a paper towel. Like youâve never heard of medical protocol in your entire life.
âWhat the fuck are you doing?â
You jerk your head up, a kid caught with its hand in the cookie jar.
âDr. Abbot!â
Lowering himself to the ground is awkward, physically. Prosthetics donât lend to much mobility and heâs too old to be doing this, but he just. There are little beads of blood collecting and then sliding down your chin, dripping onto the leg of your scrubs. At the same angle of the split in your lip, thereâs a little cut he can see peaking out from under the ice pack.
He reaches forward, fingers itching towards the deep scarlet dripping steadily. He pauses, remembering things like words and questions and sees the wild look in your eyes.
âCan IâŚ?â Jackâs voice trails off, the words clunky and useless in this bubble thatâs seemed to form around the two of you, on the probably disgusting floor of the ED break room.
You slowly drop the napkin, let the ice pack lower to your lap and nod.
âHe had a ring on. I guess it caught me. I didnât really notice until I got here.â
âParker and Shen didnât notice?â
You look at your lap. âI told them I was fine⌠And covered it with my hand. There are other patients. Itâs just a little cut.â
Jackâs fingers finally reach your face, and he almost takes them back when you flinch on the initial contact, shaking ever so slightly.
But then, with noticeable effort, you relax into his palm, his fingers curling around the side of your jaw. He should grab gloves. He should get up, take his hand off your face.
Anyone could walk in right now and call Gloria on his ass.
His thumb sweeps across your cheekbone, just below the cut, which does have some faint bruising around it. And truthfully, the split in your lip doesnât look that bad either.
But thereâs still little dots and trails of scarlet and he doesnât think heâs going to be able to calm down until he fixes it. He needs to fix something.
âIf I leave you here so I can get supplies,â He starts, voice a little rough, âCan I trust that youâll stay here and not do anything stupid?â
âUh, yes? Should I move to a real chair though?â
Jack huffs as he hauls himself to his feet. âThatâd be preferable.â
Later, when heâs at home in his bed, heâll assure himself that the night shift wasnât truly that busy and he trusts his residents to handle things while heâs busy.
No one stops him on his way to the medical supply closet (the irony of the location is not lost on him) and he makes it back without interruption. Upon opening the door, you have in fact moved to a chair, and it seems the bleeding slowed in his absence.
What he should do is sit down in the chair opposite of you and handle this situation like a professional, like the Dr. Abbot, night shift attending, not Jack whoâs got a thing for fixing.
He does try to remove his emotions and feelings from the situation, he really does. Itâs something heâs generally very good at âwhich is where he and Robby differ; Robby would prefer to feel too much and Jack would prefer to feel nothing at allâ but youâre looking up at him and thereâs something really dangerous in the air and it mustâve gotten into your blood stream or something cause itâs swimming in your eyes and he realizes that removing his feelings is not going to be possible.
He decides he could at least tone it down. Youâre an intern. Robbyâs intern. So what if youâre bleeding all over the break room? Jackâs just doing his job as the attending to look after the doctors and nurses under his jurisdiction or whatever. Thatâs all.
âTilt your head up.â
He sets to work cleaning up the cut and split as detached and clinically as possible, even puts on gloves so thereâs no skin to skin contact, just protocol, but he can feel the warmth of your skin through the latex and you keep sucking in these tiny little breathes when something stings and he canât get the sound of the slap out of his head and itâs all just kind of a lot.
He readjusts his hand on the side of your face, sort of holding your forehead now to have better access and control over the cut on your cheek and wow. Your skin is really warm. It kind of feels like youâre burning up.
Jack tosses the piece of gauze he was using and rests the back of his hand against your forehead. Shit, you are burning up.
He thinks back to you, walking in today, soaked to the bone.
âDid you walk to work today?â
You wince. âMy car kind of died? On the way here? I was only a mile away. But I called a towing company, so I didnât just leave my car in the middle of the road.â
He blinks.
âYour car died, so you had it towed and walked a mile to work, in the rain, late at night, and didnât tell anybody?â
You just keep staring at him, brows furrowed.
âYeah? I carry a knife and Iâve taken self defense classes, and my car was just towed back to my place, so. I had a shift to work.â
Thereâs⌠a lot to unpack in your answer.
âKid,â He starts, wondering why Robby never thought to give him a heads up before you started working more night shifts, âWhat was your plan to get home?â
âWalk, probably. I was thinking about taking the bus. Dr. King knows the bus schedule, so Iâm probably going to text her.â
Jack decides to just finish cleaning you up, before he does something stupid like shake you by your shoulders and ask why you didnât think to let your boss know that your car broke down and youâd be walking home in the rain. Or that when a patient slapped you in the face, his ring cut your face and lip open.
God.
âItâs really fine though,â You say, gesticulating animatedly with your hands. âMy place isnât that far, and itâs not the first time my carâs died. The batteryâs kind of shot, but I guess my car has a weird battery, and itâs like, crazy expensive to get a new one, so. Besides, I like walking. Iâve been meaning to catch up on my audiobooks.â
He wishes youâd stop talking so heâd stop hearing things that make him want to do things he canât and shouldnât do. Like find out what car you drive so he can buy you a new battery. Or buy you a new car all together.
Christ, you have him wrapped around your fucking finger.
âIâll drive you home. If youâre fine with that.â
Jack has to fight a grin at how comically wide your eyes grow at his suggestion.
âOh no, you really donât have to. I promise Iâmââ
âPlease stop saying you're fine,â He begs, âYou donât have a working car, a patient slapped you in the face, and I think youâre coming down with something.â
The smile thatâs seemed permanently fixed on your face since he came into the break room falters, for a bit.
âWell,â You grimace, hands fisting the hem of your scrub top, âThings certainly arenât⌠great, but Iâll survive. Iâm not like, incapable, or anything.â
Jacks quiet for a bit, not just mulling over your words but the way you said them; the cadence and tone.
He hums. âIs that what you think? That I or someone else here will think youâre not competent or that youâre weak if you take a break or ask for help?â
Your face falters again. âNo, no, of course not I just⌠I donât know. Iâm an intern. Itâs my job, supposedly, to mess up and have to be looked after in case I accidentally kill someone and stuff like that. I just donât want to be someone that people think they have to worry about. I needâ internships are competitive. Theyâre competitions, really. And I want to win.â
Jack Abbot knows what itâs like to want to win. That need to prove yourself, prove that youâre capable and strong and unfailing.
So Jack also knows how quickly that can all go south.
âYouâre a smart kid,â He says, voice ever so slightly soft in the quiet tension of the break room, empty except for the two of you, âAnd youâre going to make a great resident, and one day, a damn good attending. But none of that means shit if you burn out or get run yourself into the ground before you get there.â
He avoids eye-contact while he carefully applies the bandage to your cheek. âThis industry will chew you up and spit you back out if you donât take care of yourself. I get it. Weâre doctors. We make the worst patients. But you got slapped in the face during a shitty day. Itâs okay to⌠not be okay for a minute.â
You huff a watery laugh. âIsnât that what energy drinks are for?â
He shakes his head. âWhat, trying to die faster?â
âAnything to shake those student loans. Canât be in debt if youâre dead.â
âDonât they just pass it to your family? Next of kin or whatever?â
âI donât think they can give student loans to a cactus. I mean, I consider her my daughter, but I hardly think itâll hold up in court.â
Jack mentally files that information away for later. What later is, he isnât sure.
He stands, pulls off his gloves and tosses all the used gauze and shit in the trash can.
âI gotta get back out there,â He jams his thumb towards the door, âBut feel free to take five. No oneâs judging you. Matter of fact, as your boss, Iâm telling you to take a break.â
You roll your eyes. âWhatever you say, Dr. Abbot. But thank you. For theâŚâ
You gesture to your bandaged cheek and lip. ââŚAnd for the advice.â
He shrugs, like taking care of you hasnât become a persona fantasy he may or may not fall asleep imagining most nights. Like it doesnât matter, like heâs just doing his job.
âOffer for the rideâs still open. Just let me know by the end of shift.â
And with that, heâs out the door.
Itâs the end of shift, and youâre staring at the double doors that lead to the outside world, and beyond that, absolutely fucking miserable weather for walking, a dead car, and cold as shit apartment.
Youâre not exactly rushing out the door.
Youâre clutching at the strap of your bag, regular clothes on, still damp despite the fact that itâs been over thirteen hours since you originally took them off, begging the universe to strike you down where you stand. Spontaneous lightning bolts happen indoors too, right?
The doors just stare back at you, unchanging in their miserable-ness, and after a solid ten minutes of staring, you feel rather than see Jack sidle up next to you.
âStill raining out there?â
âYep. Looks worse now.â
âNot great weather to walk in. Especially considering the low-grade fever.â
âMhm.â
âDid you text Dr. King for the bus schedule?â
âNo. I didnât want to wake her up.â
Jack huffs a breath, then jerks his head towards the doors that lead to the employee parking lot.
âCome on, kid.â
The ride is quiet and awkward. Well. Dr. Abbot probably doesnât think itâs awkward, because he seems like the kind of man not to be bothered by long stretches of silence. Or silence at all.
Heâd been kind enough to turn the heat on full blast (you started shivering the moment you stepped outside) and the radio is softly playing, and itâs only thanks to Sabrina Carpenterâs voice that you donât feel like completely freaking out.
You mouth along to the lyrics, quietly humming the chorus under your breath.
ââI get wet at the thought of you being a responsible guyââ
ââTreating me like youâre supposed to do, tears run down my thighsââ
By the time youâve realized that perhaps this isnât the best song choice to sing along to, considering the situation and whoâs car youâre currently riding in, the words âI get wetâ have already left your mouth so thereâs no real point in stopping.
On a completely unrelated note, Dr. Abbot starts smiling a little bit when you hum.
Pittsburgh traffic is terrible, so the drive kind of drags on. The radio is playing Chappell Roan now. Casual specifically. Youâre considering changing the radio station because god.
âSo,â You start, just to say anything that drowns out âknee-deep in the passenger seat and youâre eating me out, is it casual now?â, âDid you⌠have a good shift?â
That was a terrible question. Jesus. What the hell is wrong with you? How did you get through medical school?
Dr. Abbot snorts. âShouldnât I be asking you that question?â
Ah. Right. The Incident.
âI told you Iâmââ
âDidnât I tell you to stop saying that?â
Your lap has never looked more interesting. Wow, is that a loose thread on your sweats?
He continues. âFine or not, a patient assaulted you. Even if he didnât leave a mark, thatâs still shitty.â
âHave you been hit by a patient before?â
He huffs. âHell yeah. It happens to everyone eventually. Itâll happen again. You get better at keeping your cool.â
âSorry you had to step in. Iâve been hit by a patient before and I was fine.â
âOh yeah?â
You nod. âIt was during my Pedes rotation, actually. Iâve always known working with kids probably wasnât going to be for me, but, well. Kid came in for intussusception, and she was screaming and writhing in pain, and I failed to restrain her properly.â
âWhat, did she slap you too?â
âNope. Kicked me in the chin. Ended up biting almost clean through my tongue.â
âFucking hell, kid. Whatâd you do?â
You shrug. âKept my blood in my mouth until we finished sedating the patient. Ended up with three stitches.â
Dr. Abbot lets out a low whistle. âAlways the patients you least expect.â
âThe importance of proper patient restraint was thoroughly impressed upon me, I assure you.â
The silence after your short conversation is slightly more comfortable, and thankfully the radio station has decided to play less pointed music.
Between the warmth of the car, the smell permeating the seats that smells distinctly like Dr. Abbot, and the drumming of rain outside, it doesnât take long for drowsiness to begin to overtake you.
Your last thought before falling asleep is that you donât remember if you gave Dr. Abbot your address or not.
Someone is gently shaking your shoulder, and you feel like shit.
âWhat?â You attempt to say, but the side of your mouth is pressed against the seatbelt and your shoulder so it comes out sounding like: âWhamfgh?â
Opening your eyes is a herculean task, like someone sewed miniature weights to your eyelids while you were asleep. Youâre absolutely freezing, despite the steady hum of the car's heat, still on high, and you vaguely recognize the street the car is currently parked on.
Oh right, your apartment.
âOh,â You yawn, hauling yourself semi-upright, aiming for woman who has it together, and less disheveled swooning woman in a Baroque painting.
Dr. Abbot is staring at you with equal parts humor and concern.
You rub at your eyes. âHow long have I been asleep?â
âLittle over forty minutes. You looked like you needed it.â
âIt doesnât take that long to drive to my place, even with traffic.â
Your brain is moving like molasses, so it takes you a second to catch up with the implication of his statement.
âDid you just⌠park in front of my house? So I could keep sleeping?â
He just shrugs. âLike I said. You looked like you needed it.â
Embarrassment and a touch of something else floods through your body, hot and cold at the same time.
âSorry. You didnât have to wait.â
âIf I didnât want to, I wouldnât have.â
Still moving slowly, you gather up your bag from where it partially spilled on the floor all over your feet, shoving old receipts and pads and chapstick back in with the reckless abandon of a person who isnât nearly aware enough of social cues to be in a car alone with their hot boss.
Whilst you're grabbing and shoving, Dr. Abbot reaches into his back seat, rifles around for a bit, and then drops something rather unceremoniously over your head and shoulders. After a quiet âheyâ you pull it into your lap, and then that hot feeling is back in full force.
Itâs a rain jacket. Clearly Dr. Abbotâs. You can see his name written on the inside pocket. Itâs nice too. Definitely not the kind of rain jacket you could afford on an internâs budget.
âFor the next time your car dies,â He clarifies, as if the jacketâs purpose is the thing thatâs stupefied you, not the fact that heâs the one giving it to you, âIn case of rain.â
âYou really donât have to,â your words are rushed and clunky in your mouth, tumbling over each other in your haste to say something, anything, âI mean, I can just buy my ownââ
âFirst of all,â He cuts you off, voice smooth and rough at the same time, âDo I seem to be the kind of guy in the habit of doing things I donât want to? And second of allâŚâ
He tilts his head, gaze sharp. âAre you really going to buy one for yourself?â
Your mouth goes dry.
âI was planning on looking onlineââ
Dr. Abbot interrupts you. âNow you donât have to.â
Like itâs that easy. Does he want it to be?
âDr. Abbot, Iââ
âJack.â
His grin goes from mild to shit-eating as you stare at him, obviously radiating confusion.
âJack,â you start, testing out the name in your mouth, hearing how it sounds in the air. âI can take care of myself. You donât need to give me your jacket. Iâve been doing just fine on my own.â
âKidââ
The prickling of perceived weakness makes anger spark in your chest.
âDonât call me kid like Iâm stupid.â
Dr. Abbâ Jack seems simultaneously impressed that you interrupted him for a change and vaguely put out.
He holds up a finger, effectively silencing anything else you were thinking of saying.
âI donât call you kid because I think youâre stupid. I donât think youâre stupid. Youâd know if I thought you were stupid, because I would tell you. âKidâ is aâŚâ He trails off, free hand tapping thoughtful rhythms on the steering wheel, ââŚNickname. Term of endearment. Whatever you want to call it, but itâs not derogatory.â
Jack holds up a second finger.
âYou have not been taking care of yourself. If you were, you wouldnât have a low grade fever, and you wouldâve called me as your boss or one of your friends to drive you instead of walking after your car died. Youâve been surviving. Thereâs a difference.â
Shame burns white hot through youâ all your recent failings laid out by the person you want least to notice them. Clearly, he has.
Possibly out of pity in response to your no doubt miserable expression, Jack continues.
âDonât beat yourself up about it. Itâd be an honest-to-god miracle if any intern managed to properly take care of themself. Hell, residents donât do it either, and neither do attendings. Does Robby strike you as the kind of man who takes perfect care of himself?â
âThat depends. Is my answer going to make it back to him?â
Jack huffs a quiet laugh. âExactly. Doctors make the worst patients, in and out of a hospital setting. Knowing better doesnât actually make us all that inclined to do better. Terrible misconception.â
He nudges the jacket on your lap. âSo just take the jacket. One less thing to worry about.â
Emboldened by his recent streak of kindness towards you and the flush of fever running through your veins, you look over to him.
âYou worry about me?â
Something dances in his eyes for a split second, gone before you can blink.
âI worry about all the interns and residents on my service, but especially the ones my best friend has taken a liking to.â
Right. Of course. He only cares because of Robby. And Robby only cares so he can add another doctor to the already short-staffed PTMC. Itâs not like Jack actually likes you or anything.
You clutch the jacket to your stomach, finally finding the energy to get out of the car. Jackâs car.
âWell. Thanks for the ride, Dr. Abbot. And the jacket.â
âNo problem, kid.â
And if later on that evening, in the safety of your tiny apartment, you take in the deep, fresh, almost spicy smell that makes up Jack, lingering on the jacket, thatâs no oneâs business but yours.
â
From that night on, it feels like Jack Abbot is everywhere.
Whether itâs something heâs doing on purpose or youâve just developed a heightened sense to his whereaboutsâ it doesnât matter. Sometimes itâs a whiff of his cologne (eerily similar to Dior Sauvage, which makes you shudder. Certainly he didnât choose a cologne similar to the number one male manipulator scent on purpose?) or seeing his handwriting on a whiteboard or his notes in a chart, heâs there.
Youâre being scheduled for night shifts fairly regularly now, in addition to the 24-hour shifts you have the pleasure of being put on as an intern.
Working a double isnât horrific, really. Exhausting, sure, but Robby and Jackâs solid presence makes the shifts more bearable. Plus, youâre quickly becoming friends with the fresher residents, Whitaker and Santos, plus some of the older residents like Mohan and King. Even Dr. Langdon gives pretty solid advice and mentorship, despite the tension in the air whenever he happens to be working with or near Robby.
Normally, 24 hour shifts are grueling, but not impossible. Somewhere around the 15 or 16 hour mark, the sleep deprivation hits, and you can just coast on stress-induced inertia and a healthy does of energy drinks and mania.
Today, though, has been particularly fucking awful. Maybe itâs the fact that the fever never really went away, or the fact that you started your period the day before (being sick on your period should be illegal.) Itâs probably both of those things.
But there isnât really anything to do but grin and bear it. The day will pass, and you have the next two days off anyways. Just survive the next however-many hours of the shift and then you can go home, dress in exclusively fluffy clothes, and binge watch tv whilst eating heart-stopping junk food.
Youâre distracted from your charting, propped up on the counter at the nurses station by a light tap on your shoulder and someone saying your name.
Dr. Langdon has sidled up next you, voice hushed.
âHey, uh. I just wanted to let you know that you seem to have⌠bled through.â
If a spontaneous earthquake could open a chasm beneath your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time.
âFuck fuck-ity fuck fuck,â You mumble, wiping your hands down your face. âRight. Yeah. Of course. Thank you for letting me know.â
In a moment that is as mortifying as it is kind of sweet, Langdon passes you a hoodie that is clearly his.
âTo tie around your waist,â He clarifies, holding the object out across the meager space between the two of you, voice a bit awkward and stilted, like you might decide to spit in his face or something.
You donât actually know what it is that Dr. Langdon did before your arrival that makes the break room go quiet when he walks in (unless Dr. King is there) but you donât particularly care. If it was truly something horrific that you should be worried about, he wouldnât be working here. Robby wouldnât let that kind of thing slide.
So you take the offered hoodie with a strained smile (can this shift just be over) and speed-walk to the break room, praying no one decides to snag you on the way there.
What you should do is go to your locker where your stash of pads, tampons, spare underwear, and extra scrubs are, and then probably the bathroom to get changed, so you can keep on going but you also just saw Dr. King go into the break room and you just really need a hit of her specific brand of optimism.
The woman in question perks up when she notices your arrival, hastily eating the same snack she always eats around this timeâ a tiny bag of pretzels.
She watches as you collapse into the chair across from her, letting your head thunk onto the table.
âBad shift?â
âBad life,â You grumble. âDr. Langdon had to give me his hoodie to tie around my waist because I bled through onto my scrubs. Like a middle schooler who doesnât know what pad sizes are for.â
Dr. King nods thoughtfully. âHe asked me if it would be weird of him to let you know and offer his hoodie. To which I replied that periods are a normal bodily function and heâs a doctor.â
âHere here,â You half-heartedly cheer, any actual cheer or enthusiasm severely lacking in your voice. âHow did you survive your intern year, Dr. King?â
âWeâve been working together for awhile, you can call me Mel,â
She pops another pretzel in her mouth before answering. âBut to answer your question, I mostly just kept telling myself that failing wasnât an option. Which. Probably isnât helpful, or good advice, but it worked for me. Something thatâs nice is if you have a fellow intern or doctor that you enjoy working with. I know the other two interns who matched into the PTMC dropped out of the course, so itâs just you, but you have Dr. Robby, right?â
You nod, picking absently at a spot on the table and ignoring the way that it wasnât Robby who popped into your head, but Jack.
Your teeny, ignorable crush on him has become a full-blown thing, with semi-weekly dreams about him in various⌠situations, and casual daydreams at all hours of the day of what it would be like to just be with him, or hear him, in any capacity that couldnât be qualified as work or a boss checking on his employee. Intern. Whatever.
Hormonal and fever-ish, you suddenly feel like youâre going to explode and die if you donât have someone to confide in right this very second. You havenât heard Mel really talk about anyone you work with outside of professional doctor-to-doctor conversation, not even about Dr. Langdon, who she seems almost suspiciously close with.
âMel,â You start, voice a little too thick and watery to just be talking about your stupid, annoying, one-sided workplace crush, âCan I tell you a secret?â
She seems to consider the pros and cons first, and looks fairly caught off guard, but she answers. âUm. Sure?â
âHave you ever had a crush on a coworker before? Or like, a boss or mentor?â
Mel sets down her bag of pretzels. âIs this about Dr.ââ
âI have the biggest crush on Dr. Abbot and I think itâs ruining my life.â
The words burst out of you all at once, and Melâs expression goes from shocked, to confused, before finally settling in abject amusement.
âAh,â She says, sliding the pretzels across to you. âUm. Well I personally donât have a crush on Dr. Abbot, but I think I understand the sentiment.â
You bury your face into your hands and groan. âItâs awful. Itâs so cliche. Itâs so fucking Greyâs Anatomy.â
âIâve never actually seen that show. Becca likes it though.â
Mel allows you a few moments of wallowing and pretzel eating before she speaks again.
âHave you⌠acted on it?â
âNo!â You snap your head up. âI mean. No, I havenât. Iâm not naive enough to think that he would reciprocate. Heâs an attending and Iâm an intern.â
She leans in. âButâŚ?â
âBut sometimes⌠I wonder? I donât know. Iâm probably crazy. He drove me home the other day, cause my car died, and it was raining, and I got slapped by a patient, and that was when I first came down with this stupid fever, and like, thatâs normal, right?â
Mel nods. âFrâ Langdon drives me to work when we share shifts, and sometimes when we donât. I think Dr. Santos and Dr. Whitaker carpool too. So maybe?â
âRight. Yeah.â
She takes the pretzel bag back. âIs there more evidence that makes you feel crazy?â
Your skin flushes hot at the memory alone.
âHe gave me his rain jacket. To keep.â
âOh.â
âYeah.â
Mel once again takes a few minutes, and the rest of her pretzels before responding.
âIâm honestly not the best person to ask for advice about this. Iâve been told I can be⌠dense when it comes to romantic endeavors.â
You shrug. âYouâre a great listener, and you havenât steered me wrong in the past.â
She brightens. âThatâs good! I think my advice would be to talk to Dr. Mohan. She has experience with your⌠particular situation.â
Mel tosses the empty pretzel bag and heads toward the door. âIâll let Robby know youâre taking ten, so donât worry about someone looking for you while youâre changing.â
âYouâre the best. I love you.â
The resident flushes at your gratitude, and then ducks out the door, leaving you alone to stew on her advice.
â
Talking to Dr. Mohan proves difficult, at first. How exactly do you start that conversation? âHey, I heard you had advice on having a world-ending crush on your boss, got any tips?â
Additionally, sheâs kind of hard to track down. You greatly respect Dr. Mohanâs work ethic and truly aspire to her unflinching devotion to patient care at the PTMC.
After a few days (which turns into a few weeks, because you are an emotional coward) of trying (and failing) to find a moment to talk, Dr. Mohan actually ends up finding you.
âHey!â She jogs up to you as youâre walking to your car, a too-bright smile on her face for the fact that you both just got off a fourteen hour shift.
âSorry to be that annoying coworker who talks to you in the parking lot, but I wanted to catch you before you left. Mel said you wanted to talk to me?â
âRight!â You stammer, slightly mortified. You admire Dr. Mohan so much and really want her to think youâre capable but you really need some advice on Jack Abbot as a whole, and it sounds like sheâs the only expert around. âYes. That. Itâs a really normal question, you know.â
Dr. Mohan just nods, a smile still fixed on her face, like this is a totally normal conversation. âUh, sure?â
Thereâs a beat of silence where you both stare at each other, and then she gasps.
âThis is about Abbot, isnât it?â
You groan, throwing your head back in defeat. âAm I that obvious?â
She laughs goodnaturedly. âNo. Probably not. Youâre just the only intern in the ED right now so I try to make it a habit to keep an eye on you. Plus, Mel is literally the only person in the world who knows about my now-dead crush on him, so. I just connected the dots.â
âHeâs so hot, Dr. Mohan. I feel like Iâm dying.â
She makes a noise of sympathy. âHe is. Itâs fucking annoying, at a certain point.â
âThank you!â You shout, âLike itâs just so there. It should be illegal to just walk around and look like that. I should be focusing on like, studying and learning, but instead Iâm just harboring this stupid crush on an attending.â
âHave you ever seen Greyâsââ
âYes. I know. I canât be Meredith. Meredith was like, always a mess. Am I a mess?â
Mohan purses her lips. âWell. You did just say you felt like you were dying.â
âI know,â You sigh. âIt makes me feel⌠shallow. I like being a doctor. I was so excited to get matched into the PTMC, and this stupid crush is throwing me off my game.â
âIt canât be that bad.â
âOn my first night shift rotation I dropped a scalpel, picked it back up, and then ripped the purse strings on my first appendectomy.â
She winces. âOh. Thatâs not⌠great.â
Your hand finds its way to your comfort necklace. âHe found me crying in the supply closet like some medical student, and then he comforted me. It was terrible.â
Mohan starts ambling towards the direction you assume her car is in. âWell, if itâs any consolation, Iâve been caught crying in the supply closet several times. I think itâs a right of passage. And as for that second partâŚâ
She shrugs. âAbbot gives credit where credit is due, but he wonât coddle you. If he actually offered real comfort or advice or whatever, then he meant it.â
âThatâs what he said. It just didnât really help the whole crush-on-him part. And then there was the slapping incident, and he drove me home, and now I have his rain jacket in my backseat in case my car dies again.â
Mohan actually looks taken back.
âOkay. It sounds to me like this is a situation that is in serious need of wine. Do you drink?â
âWhenever I have a spare twenty dollars.â
She grins. âI happen to have a couple bottles at home that might do the trick. Follow me back to my place?â
âYes please.â
Wine and, eventually, takeout at Samiraâs is much more enjoyable than you expectedâ considering the fact that youâre an intern and sheâs a resident. She confides that she doesnât have very many friends outside of the ED and was excited at the opportunity to have âreal girl-timeâ.
She shares how she weathered her own seemingly life-ending crush on Jack, gasps and screams at the appropriate times when you tell her about the slapping, the events that occurred in the break room afterwards, the drive home, and the jacket.
You leave her apartment feeling lighter than ever. Like life might be worth living. Like you could survive your intern year.
Maybe everything will be okay.
â
Everything is not okay.
Youâre now two full weeks into a never-ending fever, you keep getting stuck with shitty shifts (how many times a month can one person possibly be scheduled to work a double?) and top it all off, youâve been pissed on not once, but twice in the same fucking shift.
Santos snorts when she sees you go by in your third set of scrubs for the day.
You shoot her a look. âSupportive as ever, Dr. Santos.â
âI try.â
You sink into the chair next to hers, taking a moment to press the heels of your hands into your eyes and maybe, like, take a thirty second nap.
It doesnât help much.
Thereâs a particular misery in watching the day-shift rotation handoff with the night shift and not being able to join in the process. Because youâre still there. And will be, until you see them again for your handoff, in twelve fucking hours.
Patients tend to get bitchier the later it gets, and itâs one of those nights where every patient bleeds into the next in a never-ending sea of complaints, pain, and fixing.
The fixing is fine. You like the fixing.
Youâre just⌠having a hard time keeping up with everything while the fever perpetually runs you down. Itâs the kind of thing where no amount of sleep can help you. Unless it was for 48 hours straight and then you got another 48 hours off after that to relax while youâre awake, and then another 48 hours to be productive.
A vacation. A week off. Youâre describing taking a week off work. Itâs comical, actually. Imagine requesting a week off from work. Gloria or whoever it is would never grant that. Not as an intern.
You notice Jack lingering around your general vicinity, which is fairly normal on a night like tonight. Technically, as the only intern on shift, youâre the only liability he has to really worry about.
Somewhere around the eighteen hour mark, he slides into the chair next to you while youâre charting.
âYouâre flagging.â
Your eyes burn as you tap information into the tablet, then check on the computer in front of you. âIâm fine. I just need a Redbull or something.â
He slides the tablet out of your hands. âPart of being a good doctor is knowing when to take a break. Canât be a good doctor if youâre falling asleep during the exam, right?â
âI would never fall asleep during an exam.â
He shrugs. âIâve seen it happen.â
Jack jerks his head towards the break room. âTake five. Get an energy drink or whatever. Then I want you on chairs for at least an hour.â
âYes sir.â
He rolls his eyes. âGet going.â
Chairs don't prove to be as uneventful as you (and probably Jack) hoped it would be. You get vomited on by a teenage girl, who apologizes profusely when she finally manages to stop throwing up, narrowly avoid a swing from a patient that quickly becomes a behavioral case, and become an unwilling participant in another patientâs doctor fantasy.
Security had to get involved with that last one. It was. Something.
Your shift ends with little fanfare. Itâs honestly a miracle you survived. Youâre exhausted, achey, and still feverish. The only thing you can think about is crawling into your bed, indulging in a rare expense of turning your heat up, and sleeping until your next shift.
Walking into your apartment ends up being a slap in the face. First of all, itâs fucking freezing. As if you left every single window open while you were gone. Secondly, itâs dark. Like, not even the clock on the microwave is on.
âFuck,â you mumble under your breath, tears beginning to burn with unshed tears digging through your bag and fumbling with your phone, about to text your landlord when you see that heâs already texted.
Eric (Landlord): Power and AC is down. Might take some time to fix. Power should be back on by tonight.
And thatâs just the last straw, really.
You slam the door behind you, not even bothering to go inside your apartment at all, chest tight and face hot, you race down the stairs, trying to find Samiraâs contact through blurry eyes. When you think youâve found it you click call, collapsing on the curb with your body doubled over, crying like a crazy person into your knees, at something like nine in the morning.
The phone rings for a bit, and youâre about to give up when the line finally stops and somebody picks up.
âHello?â
Itâs not Samira who answers. Itâs Jack.
You sniffle. âWhy are you answering Samiraâs phone?â
âI didnât. I answered my phone. Because you called me. Are you okay?â
âOh,â You decide to ignore his question, âI meant to call Samira. Sorry.â
âWait,â Jackâs voice comes out all rough and tinny through the speaker, but even distorted through a phone, you could listen to it for hours, âAnswer the question. Are you okay?â
Your bottom lip wobbles dangerously.
âThe powerâs out in my building. And the heating went out too. My landlord said the power wonât be on until tonight, and I just wanted to go to sleep, but itâs cold and I'm tired and this stupid fever wonât go away.â
âDo you have a place to stay?â
Always a man of action, Jack is.
You shrug, then make a non-committal noise when you remember he canât see it. âI was supposed to call Samira and see if sheâd let me sleep on her couch.â
âI have a guest bedroom.â
The statement hangs in the crisp morning air. You think of Jackâs encouraging advice, Jackâs steady presence, Jackâs warm car and his nice smelling rain- jacket. Jack, Jack, Jack.
âJack?â
âYes?â
âWhatâs your address?â
The drive over involves bawling your eyes out to Vienna by Billy Joel. Itâs just that kind of day.
You have no problems finding parking (miraculously) and no one stops you as you head up to Jackâs apartment as directed.
Itâs⌠fancy. Like, polished floor lobby, lounge area adjacent to the front desk fancy.
The actual building itself isnât very tall, nothing like a skyscraper, so itâs not exactly surprising that Jackâs apartment is the penthouse. Itâs just suddenly very awkward standing in front of the door, in the same sweatshirt youâve had since high school, sweats that have seen better years, looking exactly like the kind of girl who sobbed on the ride over to Billy Joel.
Jack opens the door almost immediately after you knock, and.
If seeing him in scrubs was bad, it doesnât hold a fucking candle to him in a tight, army green shirt and grey sweatpants. Grey sweatpants. That couldnât have been intentional, right? Is he online enough to know these things? God.
His features soften when he takes in your tear-streaked face and disheveled appearance.
He makes a low noise in his throat.
âOh, you poor thing. Come here,â
Jack had actually been gesturing to the apartment, saying âcome insideâ but the dam breaks the moment he says âpoor thingâ and you donât have the wherewithal to think anything more complex than âJack=Comfort and Safety".
Your bag drops with a dull thud onto the ground and then youâre crashing into him, face pressed into his chest and arms wrapped around his middle. You can barely find it within yourself to be embarrassed.
Jack doesnât react at first, going completely stiff in your hold, and you think maybe youâve gone and fucked this up too, like everything good in your life, but right when you move to pull away a hand finds its way to the back of your head, and another rubs circles on your back.
âPoor girl,â he murmurs, voice a soothing rumble with your ear close to his chest, âThey been running you ragged?â
You nod uselessly, feeling raw and cut openâ like youâve been smashed against a rock and everything you keep tucked inside is spilling out and you canât stop it.
âIâm so tired.â You half-mumble-half-sob into him, a sentiment that feels too light to convey everything thatâs happened since you became an intern at the PTMC, and everything else you donât talk about that happened before.
âI know sweetheart, I know,â Jack is solid beneath your cheek and arms, a lifeboat in a storm. âHow about we get you inside and get you warm, huh? That sound nice?â
At the promise of warmth you finally detach from him, shame burning through you when you eye the wet spot on his shirt.
âSorry,â You say, voice barely above a whisper. âI think I got snot on your shirt.â
âTrust me kid, itâs seen worse.â
He grabs your bag before you can even make a move for it, and you trail behind him into his apartment, attempting to ground yourself by looking around his apartment.
Itâs nice. Lived in, not sterile. It doesnât, actually, look the inside of a dentistâs office, like you were half expecting. Most new apartments have that doctorâs office lobby feel. Not exactly comfortable when youâre a doctor and the goal of home is to not remind you of your job.
Jack hangs your bag on a hook by the door, right next to his own. Something twinges in your chest at the sight.
Thereâs a feeling under your skin you canât place as you shuffle into his apartment, something warm and skittish that aches for this to not be a one time thing, to be able to compare the pale morning light youâre watching now to late afternoon sun. To know where he keeps his mugs, what drawer the silverware is in, if heâs got a junk drawer with random shit in it, and what the random shit is. What it feels like to be in his kitchen, shoulders brushing.
But thatâs a lot of complicated things to name or voice just past the threshold of the foyer, so you wrap your arms around yourself and toe your shoes off, then pad quietly after him.
Jack isâ inviting, or maybe enticing; all those words that beckon the skittish thing closer and it feels just on the tip of danger to obediently sit on the couch he ushers you to.
âBy the way,â Jack says somewhere behind you, maybe in the kitchen? âI have a cat. His name is Charlie. He probably wonât come near you, but be warned, heâs an asshole when he wants to be.â
âOh, thatâs fine. I like cats. Especially the asshole ones.â
âThat explains a lot of things.â
His statement is kind of loaded, chock full of subtext you donât care to parse through at the moment.
âUm,â You start, feeling a bit unsteady, âIsâ Do you mind if I shower? I kind of smell gross probably, and I feel⌠grimy. Your apartment seems clean and Iâd hate to get my hospital grime on anything.â
Jack just chuckles. âOne, I wouldnât care if you got âhospital grimeâ on anything because that would be a very hypocritical thing to care about, and two, of course you can shower. Do you have spare clothes?â
âI mightâve forgotten to grab those.â
Another huffy laugh. âThatâs fine. You can borrow some of mine. Iâll leave them on the bed.â
Thatâs like. Wow. Yeah. Youâre just gonna borrow some clothes from him. From Jack. Youâre going to shower in Jackâs shower and use whatever bodywash he has (hopefully not 5-in-one) and then put on his clothes and you are totally capable of being Completely Normal about these things.
âI already started on dinner when you said you were coming over. Should be done by the time you get out of the shower. Chicken noodle okay?â
Damn Jack Abbot and damn your shitty emotional regulation and damn your life for putting you in these situations.
âYeah,â You croak, thinking about things like soup and family and being cold and strong and alone, âYeah thatâs fine. Thank you.â
Jack politely does not comment on the fact that soup is reducing you to a tangled heap of emotions and tears, and instead directs you to where his shower is and says to use whatever you want and take however long you want. He says want, not need. Youâre not sure if thereâs an intention behind the word choice.
Once in the shower, you allow yourself time to cry, to feel awful and self-pitying and all those things that are terrible to go through in front of another person. His shower is expensive and the water is warm and he does not have 5-in-one. Thereâs a litter box nestled next to the toilet, and itâs not funny, but it kind of is, because Jack would be the kind of guy to look at a litter box and put it right next to the toilet. Everything in its place.
Maybe thatâs your problem. You havenât felt like anything is in the right place in years.
You want to stay in the shower, in the bubble of protection it provides, but the idea of running up Jackâs water bill is enough to guilt you into getting out. You shiver, dry, aggressively attempt to make yourself look less like a wreck at the sink, and then tip-toe into the attached bedroom and carefully pull on the clothes Jack left for you on the bed; a faded, oversized college shirt, and a comfy pair of sweatpants.
They smell like him. You smell like him, like his body wash. The house smells like him. Everything you take in is a pleasant assault of Jack, Jack, Jack.
Enough guilt to fuel an entire room of ex-Catholicâs is the only thing keeping you from snooping around his room. The idea of stumbling upon something private or hidden away makes you feel slimy and gross, so you exit the bedroom and pretend like you donât feel like a foster dog on its first night home from the shelter.
(Do shelter dogs miss the shelter? Do they miss its familiarity? Do dogs miss anything at all?)
The apartment smells of more spices and good smelling food than you privately thought Jack capable of. Youâd read him as the kind of guy to subsist on takeout and maybe like, protein bars. But heâs dutifully stirring a metal pot with all the diligence of the military man that he once was.
Quietly, as if he might throw the wooden spoon heâs stirring with if you make too much noise or take up too much space, you carefully pull out a barstool in front of his kitchen island, the one closest to the door, and haul yourself onto it.
He gives you an examining glance over his shoulder, turns a knob on the stove, then rests his forearms on the island counter across from you. His rather delicious looking forearms, you might add.
âFeeling better after your shower?â
You hum an affirmation, folding your arms and resting your chin on them.
âIsnât it kind of weird to make soup for breakfast?â
He shrugs. âItâs dinner for us. Or, well, me. Iâm not sure your body knows what meal it is.â
He taps a pointer finger rhythmically on the counter. âAny word from your landlord?â
âNo. Sorry for⌠all of this. I know youâre tired.â
âI wish youâd stop apologizing for things I donât mind doing for you.â
You donât really know how to respond to that, or what to do with how it makes you feel, so you elect to save it for later. Good at compartmentalizing, ED doctors are.
You clear your throat. âI can call Samira whenever. Sheâd probably be excited to have girl time. So you know. Donât feel likeâ I have other options. If or when you want me to leave.â
âDo you want to leave?â
You wish heâd stop asking questions you donât want to answer.
You try to play it off, smother your fear and exhaustion with humor. Robbyâs kid, through and through.
âWell, I canât have you getting sick of me. Youâre the only person I know who has a very rob-able house if this whole internship doesnât pan out.â
Jack straightens, shoulders pulling and flexing. âWho said Iâd get sick of you? Maybe I like the idea of you in my house.â
âDo you?â
You ask the question before youâre aware of how terrified you are of the answer. But youâve already said it, and it feels nice to be the one asking the hard question instead.
Jack, likely experienced in this sort of thing, doesnât look outwardly bothered by it, but he gets a sort-of-sad look on his face, almost like heâs disappointed that you had to ask.
âHave I given you any reason to think otherwise?â
âI donât know,â You look down, picking at a hangnail to avoid his expression and his eyes and his everything, âI donât want to assume anything.â
âYouâve already assumed quite a bit.â
You scrunch your face. âThatâs different. Those are safe assumptions.â
âAre they?â
âObviously, itâs safer to assume that you donât want me to stay here, or at least not for very long, because if I assume that I do Iâll bother you and I want you toââ
You cut yourself off, jaw shutting with a firm click, but the end of the sentence hangs in the air unspoken anyways. Itâs not hard to figure out what you were going to say.
I want you to like me.
Jack sighs, and alarm blares are going off in your head and your chest starts to feel tight and cold despite the warmth of his apartment, and then heâs rounding the island and you turn your body to follow him ânever turn you back, never let your guard downâ and then heâs standing in front of you, over you, and youâre not sure if you want to run or metaphorically curl up at his feet, tail tucked.
Itâs pathetic. Itâs embarrassing. Itâs impossible to ignore.
(What does a shelter dog think, on that first night? Do they hope? Do dogs hope?)
He raises a hand, slowly, giving you a chance to lean away, and when you donât, it comes to rest on the side of your face, his thumb swiping at the barely-there wetness from earlier tears.
Itâs cleaning the cut from the slap, itâs a kindness you can curl into, and it might be a threat. Might be bad, might turn harsh and painful, might leave without a word.
Unlike that day in the break room, thereâs no fluorescent lights to suck any heat out of the room and no gloves as a barrier; as a reminder of who he is, of what you are, of how things work.
Itâs just you and Jack, in Jackâs apartment, wearing Jackâs clothes, and pretty soon youâre going to eat food that Jack made. Just for you.
And you think maybe, possibly, if he stops here you could kind of hold onto this moment for the rest of your life and it would get you through being alive and strong and alone, and youâd make it through this, whatever this is, if he stops here.
He doesnât. He starts talking.
âI like knowing that youâre safe. That youâre taken care of. I like knowing with certainty that these things are true because Iâm the one making sure of it.â
Your breath hitches in your chest.
âThatâs kind of a lot of work, though.â
He hums. âIt is. Luckily, I just so happen to be a pretty hard worker.â
Everything about the current situation is a lot and your nerves are over-taxed and dialed up to hundred, so itâs not surprising that you start crying again.
Jack brings up a second hand to the other side of your face and gently wipes away the tears as they come. It feels sort of like the physical version of everything heâs been doing for you since that day in the supply closet.
âYou donât have to do anything, or say anything, or make any kind of decision right now, okay? We can do whatever you want. Iâll do whatever you want.â
Thereâs the word choice again; want, not need. Is there a difference? What does the difference mean to him? What does he mean? Why is he doing any of this?
Jack's phone goes off in his pocket, and he steps back, drops his hands, and goes back to the stove.
Jack said you donât have to make a decision right now, but you kind of feel like if you donât do something youâre going to be sick with everything thatâs swirling and clawing inside you, threatening to burst. Like the very essence of you is going to explode, and your soul will be painted on Jackâs perfectly decorated walls.
That would be something, wouldnât it.
You stay seated at the island, turning to stare at Jackâs back while he adds the final touches to the soup. He doesnât talk anymore, but he keeps looking back every few minutes, like heâs making sure youâre still there.
Eventually Jack turns the stove off, dishes up a bowl of soup for you, and sets it gently in front of you. He uses his pinky to cushion the placing of the bowl, so thereâs no loud clinking noise when he sets the bowl down.
Thereâs a tiny sprig of parsley on top of the soup, right in the center. Like a Panera ad for soup in September.
You start crying again, in earnest.
âIâm sorry,â You gasp, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes. âIâm sorry, I donât know why Iâmâ I donât know. I donât know.â
Youâre hoping the last sentence encompasses an entire lifetime of events, accidents, mistakes, and memories that have never been able to find a place in your head except dead center, at the forefront of your mind at all times, stamped on your forehead for anyone with eyes to see.
Your life hasnât been wants or choices for a very long time. And here Jack is, giving you an array of both, and saying things like he wants you to want.
âIâll do whatever you want.â
âHey, hey hey hey, shhh,â Strong arms wrap around you, tucking your head into a warm chest, effectively shutting off all sensory input that isnât Jack. âYouâre okay, youâre safe, youâre okay, I got you.â
He rubs circles into your back, then switches to tracing shapes, and he lets you cry into him again and he doesnât tell you to stop, or to calm down, or youâre being too much too fast.
âYouâre okay, youâre gonna be okay sweetheart. Take your time. Iâm not going anywhere.â
âIâm not going anywhere.â
â
You, embarrassingly, fall asleep right there, sitting at the kitchen island over a bowl of soup and twenty-something years of holding up your life with hands that never quite seemed big enough to do it.
You wake up in Jackâs bed, his comforter pulled up to your chin and the clock at the bedside table reading 8:17 p.m. Thereâs the muffled sound of several voices coming from beyond the door.
Holy shit. What the fuck.
Deciding to ignore the implication that Jack carried you to bed, you mentally take stock of whatâs around you.
In front of the clock is your phone (plugged in to charge), a glass of water, and a note with Jackâs handwriting on it.
Kid-
Iâll probably be in the ED for the night shift by the time you wake up. I called Mohan (who called Mel, who was with Langdon, for reasons unknown) to go to your place and grab you some things. There may be people in the apartment when you wake up. You are in no way obligated to interact with them. They have to leave eventually.
Charlie is in the room with you because he hates strangers, but he probably wonât leave the bathroom. Probably. Drink water and eat something, if you can. Text me if you need anything.
The voices beyond the door are, more than likely, the aforementioned individuals who have now seen the glorified closet you call home. Itâs not ideal, but youâre wrung out and donât have the energy to really care. Besides, Samira and Mel are too nice to judge you that hard (you hope) and from what youâve heard, Langdon isnât really in a place to say anything.
On one hand, going out there requires socializing. Which, ew. On the other hand, Samira and Mel are the best. Langdon is maybe okay.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you shuffle out of bed and then continue shuffling to the door, hoping that whatever you look like isnât too terribly awful.
Samira, Mel, and Langdon are standing around the kitchen island, various takeout containers and bottles of alcohol littering the space. For some reason, Trinity, Dennis, and Robby are also present.
Samira and Langdon are engaged in what looks to be a rather animated discussion-slash-argument, and Mel is standing just a little closer to Langdon than what could be considered normal for friends. Trinity is very obviously ignoring Langdonâs general existence, bickering with Dennis on the couch, and Robby is seated in the armchair by the window, nursing a beer and watching both conversations unfold.
You sniff aggressively, and all heads snap to you.
âThere are more of you here then thereâs supposed to be,â You grumble, scrubbing at your face. âWhy are you all here?â
Mel is the first to speak.
âIt was Frank actually!â Trinity rolls her eyes, and part of you wants to share the sentiment, âHe figured Trinity would be upset that something happened to you and he knew and didnât tell her, so Trinity decided that me and Samira would get your stuff while everyone else stayed here in case you woke up before we came back!â
Wow, okay, thatâs. A Lot.
You squint. âThat doesnât explain why youâre all here. I mean it does, but only like, why youâre here physically.â
Robby frowns. âWe heard that you were going through a rough time and you had to stay with Jack, so we came.â
Trinity snorts on the couch and Dennis, next to her, looks like heâs about to have an aneurysm.
Robby shoots her a look, but continues. âWe care about you. Weâ I donât want you to feel like you have to do everything on your own. In or out of the ED.â
Trinity blows out a loud sigh and low whistle. âJee-zus Robby, give the woman some time to wake up before trying to induce tears again.â
Robby does look a little apologetic, maybe a teensy bit chastised (and annoyed that Trinity was the one doing the chastising) and turns his deep brown eyes back to you.
"Sorry. Can't help these Dad tendencies, you know."
Your face gets hot, maybe a tiny, wet prickle behind your eyes forms while Robby smiles, and the tension leaves the room all in one go, and you start to think that maybe things are in the right place.
â
At the ED, Jack Abbot, who's been checking his phone whenever he gets a free moment like a highschooler with a crush, opens the first text that pops up on his screen after hours of waiting.
It's a picture from Robby. You, with your head thrown back in a cackle of a laugh, not a single bit of stress evident in any of the lines of your body. There's one text accompanying the picture:
Please don't make me give you a shovel talk. I think you already know what's at stake here.
Jack snorts and pockets his phone, because yeah, he does.
â
When Jack finally gets back to his apartment, he's half-expecting to see the kind of mess that a large grouping of obnoxious people leave behind. Trash, maybe a few red solo cups, empty takeout containers, someone asleep on his couch, someone passed out on the floor.
He's not expecting to see a clean space. The only evidence that people were there at all is some rearranged pillows, a half-empty bottle of wine on the counter, and some new takeout menus on his fridge.
And then there's you. You're lying on the couch, eyes glued to the TV, watching a show he doesn't really recognize. There's a well-loved backpack on the floor, just under the coffee table. The shocking bit is Charlie, his resident asshole, is 'loafing' right on your chest, purring away.
You lift your head when you hear the jingle of his keys, a smile immediately brightening your face. He mentally takes a picture, right there, so he can remember this exact moment forever.
"What'd you bribe him with?" Jack says instead of something much more neurotic, like 'You don't have to go back to your place when the power comes back on.'
You shrug, unaware of his emotional and romantic pain. "You were right. He came out from under the bed after everybody left. He kind of growled at me for a little bit, but once I settled down here he just kind of... came right up."
You plant a little kiss to the top of his head, right in between furry ears. Great, now Jack's jealous of a senior cat with one ear who licks his own butt. "How could I resist this face? I see why you brought him home."
Jack rounds the end of the couch, shuffling by, and Charlie opens his eyes just enough to shoot him a look that Jack takes to mean: If you make her get up and move me, I will kill you in your sleep.
Jack does not disturb his cat as he sits down on the couch. There's a moment when things almost get hairy- you pull your legs back when he goes to sit, slightly jostling The Asshole, who pins his only ear back in annoyance.
Jack solves this problem by taking your legs, clad in some soft flannel pajama pants and pink fuzzy socks, and lays them across his lap. There. Problem solved.
The warmth of your legs on his lap and the look on your face is reward enough for him. He can't think of a way he'd rather spend his time.
Jack, in a rare show of mercy, does not tease you, and decides that you've probably had enough excitement for one day.
"So," He says instead, looking up at the TV and grimacing at the mutilated corpse on the screen, "What are we watching?"
He watches you shrink into yourself. He hates it when you do that. He hates that you feel like you have to.
"Uh, Bones. I can turn it off, though. I'm sure you don't want to watch this."
He doesn't answer the question you've not-subtly voiced, instead choosing to redirect the conversation.
"Why did you put it on?"
You start chewing on your lower lip. Your signature 'I don't want to answer this question so I'm going to think really hard about it' move.
"It's kind of my comfort show? I don't know. I watched it a lot growing up. We didn't have cable, but the hotels I stayed at sometimes did. I'd wait until my dad fell asleep and then I'd turn on the TV and watch from the sci-fi or drama channels. Watched a lot of Bones. Supernatural too, and sometimes Doctor Who, if it was on. But Bones was my favorite."
The characters on the screen are involved in some sort of car chase now, police siren flashing on a black SUV. Jack isn't paying attention to that at all, because this is the first time since the day you walked into the PTMC and introduced yourself that he's ever heard you talk about your childhood.
"How come?"
"I don't know. I've always liked procedural shows. Had a huge House MD phase. Death and bones and corpses and stuff has never really grossed me out, which is part of the reason I became a doctor. But also..."
You point to the male character. "You see him? That's Booth. Seeley Booth. They all have kind of crazy names. He's an FBI agent, and his partner is that woman there. Temperance Brennan. Booth calls her Bones."
"She doesn't look like an FBI agent."
You smile. "She's not. She's a forensic anthropologist, but she consults on murder cases and stuff like that because she's kind of a genius. She's smart, strong, and capable. She and Booth don't always get along, because they both can be headstrong and stubborn. But he respects and trusts her, implicitly. No matter what. They love each other."
Your throat bobs, but your voice is steady when you speak.
"And when Brennan needs him, if she's in trouble or she needs him by her side, even if she doesn't know she does, he's always there. He always saves her."
Jack can picture it, in his mind. You, small and alone, watching these characters on some shitty hotel TV and getting it into your head that this kind of thing only exists in TV shows. He pictures you dreaming of having a Booth, of having someone to be there for you, to pick you up when you fall. He thinks of you crying in the supply closet and how quietly you'd done it. Almost silent.
He thinks of what happens to a person to make them learn how to cry without making a sound.
He rests a hand on your ankle, fingers instinctively drifting towards the pulse point there- posterior tibial. He keeps two fingers on it, even though he can't feel it through your fuzzy socks. With his thumb he makes circles, because he's seen how you lean into Robby's shoulder grabs, how you preen at physical and verbal praise, how you'd slumped like a marionette with its strings cut into his arms just yesterday.
"Jack?" Your voice is tentative, unsure.
"Hmm?"
"Am I..." You start chewing your lip again, "Are youâ I don't to assume anything. So if I fuck this up and make you uncomfortableâ"
"I want to kiss you."
Jack has learned how to speak fluent you. He knows how to stop an incoming spiral, how to soothe old wounds rearing their heads.
He continues when you don't speak.
"I want you to wear my clothes. I want to take care of you. I want you, in whatever way you'll let me."
"Oh."
"I was laying it on pretty thick, kid."
You look away from him, and this is another moment he'd like to keep forever.
"I thought I was just reading into things!"
"Do you think I call every intern sweetheart?"
Jack is positive Charlie's presence on your stomach is the only thing keeping you from actively squirming in place.
"I thought maybe you were just one of those guys. Samira said it was possible!"
He rolls his eyes. "You can't ask Mohan for romantic advice. She's you in a different font."
"I'm going to take that as a compliment."
You turn back to your show, losing yourself in the plot for a while. When the murderer has been caught and the credits are playing, you look at him again.
"We don't. Um. Can we just keep doing this? For now?"
For the first time since meeting you, Jack gets to say exactly what he's thinking.
"We can do this forever. We can do whatever you want."
all the nights (and the days too) â dean winchester
pairing: dean winchester x f!reader
summary: You got the wrong end of the stick with Dean. He clearly wants sex from you and nothing more. (Except that's not actually true, is it?)
warnings: 18+ mdni! smut (fingering, oral - f receiving, unprotected p in v, creampie, dumbification, hella dirty talk from dean), miscommunication final boss, kinda fwb but they are very in love, jealousy on both sides, hurt / comfort, cursing, sad dean, no use of y/n, light mentions of alcohol, gonna be honest with u guys this is angsty as hell but i kiss it better i promise <3
word count: 11.8k words
a/n: i love the spn fandom. you guys were so nice about my first dean fic. here's another. i hope you like this one just as much :)
You didnât think you would ever see this again. Maybe that was naive of you - you know about Deanâs reputation and his history. But things had been so steady for the last few months. He seemed ready.
Obviously not, though, because Dean is flirting.Â
And not with you.Â
Heâs got one arm leaned up against the bar, that cheeky lopsided grin plastered across his face. When he first approached the busty blonde in the leopard print, you had thought - hoped - that maybe he was just asking around to see if anyone knew anything about the killings that had been taking place for the last week in this stupid town. The town you are hating more every second you have to watch your not-boyfriend flirt and laugh with someone else.Â
But theyâve been chatting for too long. He hasnât approached anyone else - just beelined for her the second he spotted her. And heâs got that goddamn smirk on his face. You know it so well. You had seen him use it on so many girls over the years and it always puts a sick feeling in your stomach because you know what it means and how it ends. Heâs never used it on you. He never even needed to - you are his without it.
Sheâs a bit more out-there than Deanâs usual type, but it had been so long since you had seen him try to pick someone up, you can hardly tell the difference between what is or is not his type anymore. And there arenât many girls in this bar anyway. Besides you, who Dean has clearly decided that heâs not in the mood for tonight.
You fight the bile working its way up your stomach and look away. The daylight outside is murky and grey, rapidly dwindling into nightfall. You figure thereâs about an hour or two before you can leave without it causing a scene. Youâre just going to have to stick it out until then.
You try to busy yourself with watching the pool game in your corner of the bar, observing the smooth, level motions of the men clipping the cue balls into the corner pockets, listening to the clicking sound of the balls crashing against each other. There are a few people gathered around to watch, passing green bills between hands. One of the men - the one who seems to be doing most of the winning - is young and not bad looking. He looks over to you with smile very close to the one Dean is currently sporting when he makes twelve of the fifteen balls on the table, eyebrows raised.
You consider going up and talking to him briefly, just for something to do. Just to make an effort to seem okay. Then you think better of it and take a sip of your beer instead, fighting a wince at the taste.
Dean is still talking to the woman. Sheâs laughing now and itâs high and girlish. Sheâs slapping his chest, which means he probably gave her some risquĂŠ compliment that sheâs pretending not to like. His grin widens when she does this, leaning closer. He knows heâs got her now, you think, and avert your gaze with a heavy feeling in your chest. Youâd rather not witness this next part.
âGet you a drink?â
You blink, looking over to your right. Itâs the pool player. His face is flushed from the exertion of the game, chalk caked on his face from applying it to the cue tip. He has a dark complexion with bright, alert eyes. He is even more handsome up close, with the light on his face.
âI got one,â you say, picking up your beer and tilting it up at him. He smile widens.
âOne you actually like.â
You shrug, vaguely aware heâs probably trying to jostle you into a quickie in the bathroom stall or something but not really caring. The beer is shit.
He doesnât ask you what you want, just makes his way up to the barman with casual swagger. He clearly knows the barman because heâs served quickly, exchanging a bill for two beers.
When he hands it over to you, you note that this one has clearly been refrigerated where your last one hadnât. And it does actually taste better. You probably got whatever shit they usually serve non-locals.Â
âNever seen you here before,â he says, not really looking at you. Heâs looking at Dean who is still busy making eyes at the woman at the bar.
âJust passing through.â
âWhere you headed?â
âRoad trip. Iâm with my two friends.â
He points the neck of his beer over in Deanâs direction. âThat one of them?â
âYeah.â
He nods thoughtfully and looks over to you now, still smiling handsomely. Youâre not sure what to make of him. He reminds you of a hustler in one of those old movies you used to watch as a kid; suave, confident, charming. Not charming like Dean is, but still adequately so.
âWhereâs the other one?â
Sam is working late at a library nearby. âFuck knows.â
He throws his head back in a laugh at that. You wonder briefly if itâs exaggerated to get into your good graces but it makes you smile regardless.
âYou came to visit at a weird time, yâknow,â he says, relaxed grin fading just a little. âGot some weird shit going on.â
âOh yeah?â
He nods gravely and waits for you to ask. You do. âWhat kinda weird shit?â
âBunch of murders. Real nasty ones.â
You raise your eyebrows, letting your face fall into what you know to be your most startled, aghast expression. He still appears solemn, but you can tell by the way he turns fully towards you that heâs pleased he got some sort of reaction out of you at last.
âDo they know who did it?â
He shakes his head. âNot yet. Theyâre all dying the same way, slit throats in bed. Started happening so suddenly, they think itâs someone from out of town. Figure they must be sneaking in windows or something.â When he says this, his eyes move back to Dean inadvertently for just a split-second but you catch it. You grin.
âWell you donât have to worry about Dean over there,â you say. âWe just got here today. I can vouch for him.â
He seems embarrassed by this, smiling across at you sheepishly. âWasnât trying to insinuate anything.â
You canât help a laugh and itâs almost enough to forget about what Dean is doing. There is still a weight that feels like an anchor in your stomach, but youâll think about it later. When you have five minutes alone in the shower, thatâs when youâll think it over and torture yourself with it until it loses some of its power over you. Youâll replay the memory over and over until the emotion is strangled out of it. For now, itâs enough for you to laugh with a handsome stranger and try to pretend that you still have some sort of dignity or self-sufficiency even though you know both were squandered the first day you set your sights on Dean.Â
And you do laugh. He makes you laugh. You donât even know his name and he doesnât ask yours, but heâs funny and decent enough to talk to and doesnât try to herd you over to the bathroom stall even after a good long while of talking.
âBuy you another?âÂ
Youâre almost surprised to see your beer is gone. You hadnât even fully realised you had been drinking it.
âIsnât this my round?â You have no intention of buying him a beer, but youâre curious to see what he says. Youâre playing with him a bit and you donât feel great about it, but he seems like he can handle himself. You wonder if this is how Dean thinks about you.
Thankfully, he just holds up a big leather wallet to you, stuffed with chalk-stained dollar bills. He shakes it a little bit. âMade out good tonight. I can afford it.â
Youâre about to make up some excuse, because you can see through the windows that the sky has gone from silvery to black and you feel you can safely make a break for it without causing any sort of scene - the motel is only across the road. But Dean is looming over you before you can get a word out.
You crane your neck, his green eyes meeting yours. His face seems to have no expression while he looks between you and your new friend. Nobody says anything for a while.
âWeâre going,â he says, voice flat.Â
You look back to the bar and can no longer see the blonde in the leopard print. Thereâs a burning in your chest and your throat at the idea that Dean most likely made a trip to the bathroom stall himself. Sheâs probably cleaning up in there at this moment, which is why Dean is trying to make a quick getaway.
A part of you would like to be petty and refuse to leave, but you canât say youâre any more eager to see the blonde with her hair askew and deep satisfaction written into the lines of her face. Instead you turn back to the man and offer him an apologetic smile. He seems put out but not annoyed.
âYou come back here tomorrow,â he says, smiling while you grab your coat. âThat drink is yours.â
You donât answer him. Dean grabs your hand as you walk out but you pull it away, pretending that you want to zip up your jacket. He gives you a weird look, but doesn't try to take it again.
You didnât drive to the bar since itâs less than a five minute walk away from your motel, but youâre starting to really wish you did. Silence doesnât feel as sharp when youâre in the car and the soft hum of the engine or the radio can drown out any awkwardness. Youâre used to long stretches of silence in the car - itâs where you spend most of your time.Â
Thereâs nothing to distract from the silence while you walk except the soft scratch of Deanâs boots on the gravel. You see him looking at you sideways every now and again but heâs trying to be sly about it so youâre giving no indication that you notice him.Â
You do your best to show him that nothing is wrong, looking around you as if to pretend that youâre distracted and thatâs why youâre not talking. Youâve always been the better pretender of the two of you, but you know youâre not quite playing this off right.
âHear anything from Sam?â you say eventually, only because it is starting to feel like youâre about to explode or crumble apart in the silence.Â
âYeah,â Dean says. Thereâs a scratch in his voice that he coughs out. âHeâs gonna be there another while. Says heâs onto somethinâ.â
Neither of you acknowledge that Sam is probably just doing this to give you both the space to have sex before he gets back. He does this often enough, because the alternative is much worse.Â
âItâs still open at this time?â you ask instead.Â
He huffs a laugh. âDonât think so.â
âOh.â
The idea of Sam alone in a locked library with only a flashlight sends something uncomfortable through your stomach but you swallow it. If you say anything to Dean, he will just tell you that you always get like this - that you worry too much. And you donât want to hear that from him right now. Youâre not sure you want to hear anything from him right now.
You feel very tired all of a sudden. The seconds and minutes pass obliquely and you feel almost nothing - no sort of passion, no desire, not even any pain - by the time youâre back in the corner of your motel room. Itâs like this night never even existed.Â
The wooden chair groans when you flop down into it. Dean looks at you hesitantly, one foot inside the bathroom and the other outside, as if he canât decide whether to ask you to join him in the shower. Ultimately he decides against it. He shuts the door after him very quietly.
The feelings flood back to you, scratching at your brain like rats in walls once that door closes. You listen to the shower in a sort of hypnosis, playing back the image of Dean with that woman in the bar until you can no longer stand it. You had thought that maybe it would get less painful each time, but it doesnât happen. Itâs like watching a movie again and again. You always notice something you didnât pick up on the first time. One time, itâs the way he leans in to speak close to her ear. Another time, itâs a slow wink. Youâre not even sure how much of this really happened and how much you have made up in your head just to hurt yourself.
Dean ties his towel around his waist in the very specific way that makes you go crazy. You feel his eyes on you but he messes around with some clothes, pretending that heâs not waiting to see if you have a reaction. You slip into the bathroom behind him, saying nothing. When you get into the shower, you donât even begin to wash with soap . You just stand still under the warm streams.Â
You canât say that youâre not a bit disgusted with him. Sure - you had always known that this was a possibility. Itâs Dean. But you had thought he might at least have a conversation with you before doing something like that. Had the decency to break things off.
The worst part about this whole thing is probably admitting to yourself that there isnât really anything to break off - at least not from his perspective. You had never had any sort of conversation about âexclusivityâ or âfeelingsâ or âwhat does this mean?â. And itâs not like that wasnât something you were aware of but- fuck.
You had always suspected that it was nothing to him, but you couldnât tell how much of it was grounded in reality and how much of it was your insecurity talking.Â
Because Dean doesn't act like itâs nothing. You guys fuck dirty, but then heâll lean over to kiss you even when he has you bent over, like he canât think of anything worse than having his lips separated from yours for more than a minute. You sleep together and eat breakfast together and he has told you about all the worst parts of himself. He puts his chin on your shoulder and wraps his hands around your waist and gives Sam the middle finger when he rolls his eyes. Then he presses multiples small kisses to your cheek and around your face just to piss him off more. Your poor, mangled heart canât be blamed for turning this into something itâs not.
No - the blame falls mostly on Dean for leading you astray. For making you so irrevocably happy that it has destroyed you.
You say âmostlyâ only because you should know better. You know Dean inside out. All of his hard parts and soft parts and the things he wonât say, even to you. And you know that heâs touch starved and needy and desperate for someone to hold him and understand him, even if he would never say it to a soul. But you also know about his commitment issues. You know all about them. So you must have known, even just in the back of your mind, that Dean was using this thing between the two of you as an outlet for his emotional and sexual desires, without wanting any of the commitment.
Youâre not sure if you even blame him. You are convenient and you love him - that much is obvious to anyone with eyes. Who better to meet those emotional needs? It might not have been very fair to you, but you think you will eventually come around in a way. He clearly needed you, and you gave him what he needed. Eventually you might even learn to be happy that you were able to give that to him for a time. But not right now.
Right now, youâre staggering into lunacy. Your body feels brittle and scorched from the water but you still take a few moments to get yourself together before you can force yourself to get out and dry yourself.
When you walk out of the bathroom in your pyjamas, steam billowing behind your back, Dean is passed out on one of the two motel beds, eyes closed and breathing heavy. The lights are off but you can see him in the broken, neon lights spilling through a broken slat in the blinds.
When Dean is asleep, he has this small wrinkle etched deep into his brow - like heâs working out some problem. It gives him a perpetually perplexed sleeping face. Heâs not aware of it, though. Right now, his face is smoothed out. No wrinkle in sight.Â
You hesitate for just a moment, balancing from one foot to another, before walking over to Samâs bed and getting under the covers.
You think you hear a soft sigh from the other bed - barely there.
You wake up with Samâs large body crammed against yours. Heâs snoring softly while you blink the sleep from your eyes. You try to heave his uncomfortably warm body off yours without waking him up.Â
Dean isnât in his bed and you try not to wonder whether he slipped out in the middle of the night when you didnât put out - maybe he went out to meet that blonde woman again.
Whatever. Not your problem anymore.
The thought barely scratches the surface of your brain when Dean walks in, mud and gasoline caked all over his clothes. He is flushed from exertion and little specks of dirt are caught in his hair. So - not back from a one night stand. He quirks an eyebrow at your current predicament, easy grin splitting over his face.Â
âYou need some help gettinâ out from under Goliath?â
His teasing irritates you a bit, but you know itâs just because itâs early, you havenât fully woken up yet and your limbs are aching from sharing a single bed with Sam. You nod reluctantly and he saunters over, slapping Sam over the head.Â
Sam cries out, grumbling in confusion before turning over.
âI was trying not to wake him up,â you say sternly.
âI didnât,â he protests. âLook at him.â
Sam is indeed passed out on his side, gone to the world. Heâs already drooling a bit onto the pillow. Youâre fighting a smile while you get up, but Dean blocks your vision before you can start for the shower.Â
âYâknow, heâs out cold,â he says, eyebrows raised. All of the stunted awkwardness of last night is gone. A hand reaches out for you and you let it fall against your waist without moving. You can only partially blame it on the force of habit. He smells like bitter brown earth and his eyes are bright with the exercise.
âI can see that.â
âProbably wouldnât even notice if I joined you in there.â
Youâre battling shock. The grin you were wearing while watching Sam is frozen on your face. He canât be serious. Heâs propositioning you? After last night?Â
Last night had been the worst case scenario you had pondered while going back and forth on whether sleeping with Dean would be a good idea when you first started doing whatever the hell you had been doing. Dean realising he couldnât be with just one girl - or maybe just couldn't be with you - and ending things.Â
What you hadnât realised at the time is that something worse than the worst case scenario existed. Something much, much worse.
The real worst case scenario is that Dean realises he canât be with just one girl and disrespects you enough to keep you around to fulfil his needs when itâs convenient, knowing fine well what you feel for him. And it had just come true.
You feel very sick all of a sudden, but not with nausea. You have been stabbed with a steel blade knife before - it feels quite like that. As if your insides are about to all come pouring out. You keep them in, try not to let them spill out in front of Dean.
âDonât think so,â you say, feeling your smile waver. âYou know Sam hates when we do that with him around.â
Dean frowns, that quizzical little line in between his brows forming again. It makes him look sleepy. âNever stopped you before. We can be quiet. Donât even need to do nothinâ.â
âYou look like you need your own shower,â you say, gesturing vaguely to the dirt and oily stains on his clothes. âIâll be quick.â
You step past him before he has time to react.Â
The whole time youâre in the shower, you can almost hear him thinking about you. Himself and Sam exchange a few low words that you canât make out over the steady stream of the shower, but you can tell heâs talking slower.Â
He clearly has no idea whatâs wrong with you or why youâre acting different. He doesnât even know that him hooking up with someone else is a problem for you. Part of you almost feels bad for him, but thatâs a dangerous line of thought. The second you start feeling bad for Dean is when you give in to him, because youâre no stronger than any other woman he shoots those pretty, pleading eyes at. And itâs usually fine because he never usually asks for something youâre not just as eager to give. But this time is different. He might not know it, but heâs asking you to sign yourself away this time. And thatâs not something you can do. Not if you want to keep your friendship with Dean and your sanity intact.
Sam staggers into the bathroom when you come out in your towel and Dean pretends to busy himself with Samâs notes while you dress yourself. That uneasy silence from last night is itching at you again, growing between you every second.
âWhere were you this morning?â you ask eventually. Dean looks over to you and blinks. You have your jeans on, but have not yet put your top on. His gaze flicks over to your bra for just a second before looking away again.
âWent down to the boneyard at the other side of town before the sun came up.â
You figure Sam and Dean must have had some conversation you were not party to, because this is the first you are hearing about a cemetery. You frown but donât comment on it.
âWhat now?â
âWe gotta go across state. To another churchyard.â
âWhy? You didnât burn the bones already?â
He bites the side of his cheek, looking sideways at you with a sheepishness written all over his face. âI burned someoneâs bones, yeah.â
Your mouth drops open and a startled laugh falls out before you can stop it. Dean grins guiltily. âYou burned the wrong bones? You, like, dug up a grave and burned the wrong bones?â
âNot my fault, sweetheart. Blame Sammy,â he says, leaning back with his eyes closed, crossing his dirty boots over each other and propping them onto Samâs bed. He will get an earful from Sam for that later.
âHe gave you the details of some randomerâs grave?â
âNot some randomer. It was our guy alright, but our guy apparently isnât the one whacking people. Itâs his wife. And sheâs buried across state.â
Youâre fully dressed now and Dean is looking at you again out of the corner of his eyes, like heâs not sure if heâs really supposed to. You take a seat on his bed, facing him where he sits on Samâs. âHow did you work that one out so fast?â
He shoots you his best relaxed grin and you groan. You call it his stormcloud smile, because it always precedes something terrible. He reaches down to yank the collar of his t-shirt past his collarbones and you see a gory red line, thick with congealed blood. Itâs not fatal but it looks damn painful. âCrazy bitch tried to gank me.â
âWhat the fu- Dean, why are you only just mentioning this right now? Jesus Christ. Get Sam out of the shower. We need to wash that.â
He laughs, reaching out a lethargic hand to grasp your own. He strokes a thumb up and down the little veins on your wrist gently and you feel it in your stomach. He closes his eyes with a happy sigh once more. âYou worry too much.â
You look down at his hand once, feel his calloused thumb on your skin. You let yourself be weak for only a couple of seconds. Then you gently tug your hand away from his and go over to shout at Sam through the bathroom door.
You wind up taking Dean to the hospital for a tetanus shot despite his protests. The injury itself doesnât look like any deeper than the million others you had patched up, but it is dirty with specks of rusted metal caught beneath the thin, splintering skin.Â
He gives up complaining by the time you manage to elbow him into the car. He nuzzles up on you in the waiting room. You feel a sharp tug of affection and then you feel nothing at all. You become as rigid as a plank while you try not to let yourself sink into him. Eventually he stops trying and you sit in silence that is not uncomfortable but not entirely companionable while you wait.
The wait is long enough that you are forced to delay your trip across state to the next day. Dean almost passes out in the passenger seat on the way back to the motel. The setting sun reflects off his face. It becomes a deep orangey red.
âWhy are you so sleepy?â you say, attention split between him and the road. You pause for a beat. âYou have sepsis or something?â
His laugh is tired. âWhatâd I tell you about all that worrying, sweetheart?â
âDean, youâre literally passing out on a ten minute drive. Itâs not even six oâclock.â
âSpending the night bodysnatching really takes it outta you.â
You frown. âYou stayed up all night?â
âSure. Waited for Sammy to get back, gave each other the 411, and went on my merry way.â
Youâre not sure what information Dean might have had to exchange with Sam - having been in the bar that whole night with you. You donât ask.
âWhy? Why not wait?â you ask instead.
âCouldnât sleep anyway,â he murmurs back, turning around slightly in his seat to signal that the conversation is over.
Dean didn't sleep again last night.Â
He doesnât tell you as much, but his eyes were open every time you awoke from a broken sleep with Sam almost knocking you off the bed with a gangly limb or sticking an elbow into your side. He blinks hard the entire drive across state, shaking his head every now and again like heâs trying to stop himself from nodding off.Â
You sit quietly in the back seat and donât complain that he is playing some Blue Ăyster Cult song too loud. You see him looking at you every now and again from the rear view mirror and pretend you donât. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror too. You just look like a small, jittery floating head.
Dean refuses to let you help with the digging despite the fact that his eyes are droopy and exhausted, but the bone burning is anticlimactic. You had been expecting some spanner in the works because you canât remember the last time there wasnât a spanner in the works on a job - but the ghost has only been terrorising the town she killed her husband in, not the one where she was born and buried. You will have to wait until you get back before you know whether it worked.
âWe getting a place here?â you ask, yawning as the three of you make your way back to the car. Night had fallen by the time they started digging. It must be close enough to midnight by now.
âNah,â Dean says, tossing the keys to Sam who catches them swiftly. âIf it didn't work we gotta find out soon. Sammy, you drive through the night. Iâm gonna sleep in the backseat.â
Your stomach lurches. Dean, who used to just sleep in the passenger seat, had taken to sleeping in the backseat with you when you two started your thing. He sometimes just says he needs a nap because he wants to cuddle and is too embarrassed to say so in front of Sam.
You look at Dean for just a moment. Heâs looking back at you with a soft, weary expression.
âIâll join you in the front,â you say, looking over at Sam. Sam raises his eyebrows. âIâll do enough talking to keep us both awake.â
Sam says nothing, just twirls the keys around with his fingers and gets into the front seat. You canât look at Dean when you get into the passenger seat.
You donât talk to Sam like you promised. Your body feels hot and thereâs a thick, mushy ache at the base of your brain. You canât seem to talk yourself out of the violent guilty feeling that comes from catching glimpses of Dean in the rear view mirror. He looks very young like this; with his eyes wide and hurt and muddled. Eventually you watch the expression melt away as Dean slips into what seems to be a deep sleep, the perpetually perplexed line forming between his brows. You have the strange thought that this time his sleep is genuinely perplexed - that heâs trying to work out whatâs going on with you.
âSo,â Sam starts, checking the mirror to confirm that Dean is out for the count. âWanna tell me whatâs going on?â
âI donât know what youâre talking about.â Your voice is dull. Youâre almost just saying it to say it - you know thereâs no real point in pretending.
âWeâre not doing this,â he says. âYou guys need to work this out because my sleep has been terrible.â
âYour sleep? Iâm the one getting squashed every night. Are you aware that youâre a behemoth?â
Sam abruptly laughs. âYes, Iâm aware. Which is why I need the bed to myself. You and Dean fold up on each other like youâre just one person anyway.âÂ
Your chest aches at that. You put your chin in your hand, looking out the window even though itâs too dark to see anything.
âDid he fuck up?â Sam asks eventually.
No - not really. Itâs you that fucked up, if you have to think about it. But you canât say that. You just shrug.
Sam sighs. âHe doesnât know what he did. You gotta talk to him.â
âI know,â you say.
âNo you donât. Youâre just trying to get me off your back.â
âI have you on my back enough overnight. Give me a break.â
He laughs again. Dean stirs and sighs in the backseat.Â
Dean has always thought that he is the relationship equivalent to a Big Mac and fries. The idea of him is more appealing than the experience, and the payoff is always terrible. Heâs never known anyone to not feel regret once theyâre through with him.Â
But it seems to him most of the time that you donât see him that way. Yeah, you must know at some level that heâs not the relationship equivalent of a filet steak with a side of⌠caviar (Dean hasn't been to many fancy restaurants). But sometimes, when youâre lying asleep in his arms in the early morning and he watches you in the dotted glow spilling through the shitty motel curtains that donât block shit, he thinks you might both have been cut from the same cloth. Like every other attempt he had made at happiness hadnât worked out just because it wasnât with you.Â
You are the only right fit. And he knows nothing lasts, but he thought that maybe this might.
You read a lot of horror books. It drives him fucking nuts. He complains about it all the time and tries to mask the fact that itâs just because he wants your attention.Â
âDonât you see enough of that shit already? What you want more nightmares for?â he asks you and you smile and joke that youâre doing research - as if Stephen King or any of those other dumbfucks know the first thing about real demons. Hell, those books are like chick-flicks compared to some of the shit youâve seen together.
But once he gets over the initial sting of losing your attention, he will watch you. He sometimes sits there for some amount of time that is most definitely too long, just watching your eyes move left to right on the page, your lips just barely twitching as if youâre stopping yourself from mouthing the words.
It makes him imagine the two of you, side-by-side in your own bed rather than a rickety motel bed. The two of you donât really have âyour own bedâ - youâre on the road too much - but that doesnât matter. Itâs his daydream and he says it doesnât need to be burdened by reality.Â
Youâll read your horror books and Dean will catch up on all the books he never read at school so heâll read the Lord or the Flies or To Kill a Mockingbird, but only until 10 oâclock sharp, because he needs to be up early to drop the kids to school in the morning and he wants to love on you before sleeping.Â
He wonât admit that heâs only reading those books so he can talk to the kids about what theyâre learning in school and youâll never say it either but youâll both know.Â
He does this until you give him a strange look and call him a creep. Then he goes back to bothering you; tries to get your attention by pressing soft kisses to your neck or trailing his finger up your thigh lightly, just the way you like.Â
He refuses to do any of the fancy bullshit when he showers alone because heâs a man and he doesnât need to exfoliate, or whatever the fuck. But also because, if he did, then you wouldnât join him for showers anymore, and he wouldnât get to feel you slide that stupid scratchy glove over his skin or drag some thick goop through his hair and put a ridiculous pink polka-dot shower cap over his head because he needs to âlet it soak inâ.Â
He pretends it bothers him, just like he pretends it bothers him when you stand between his thighs and massage serums and moisturisers gently into his skin like youâre giving him a facial. You both know itâs a charade when he grumbles about how itâs a waste of time but you put up with his boorishness because you know he canât accept nice things any other way. You both play your parts perfectly. Youâre always happy to pretend youâre making Dean do this and it makes his chest almost ache with both affection and the knowledge that he could live a million years and never truly be able to deserve you; to deserve this.Â
In reality, you both know he likes feeling your hands on his skin with that innocent, loving sort of care. Touching him just because. Because âyouâre going to look like a leather purse in five years if you donât moisturise, Deanâ. Because you want him to feel good and relaxed when he gets back to some shitty motel feeling like the life has been sucked out of him. Dean has never been touched just because before. Heâs been touched for carnality and for injury but not just because. Never just because.
He lets you pretend that it bothers you too, when he starts making jokes about how itâs your time for a facial. But he sees the corners of your mouth creak upwards even as you roll your eyes and tell him heâs gross.
But he can see why it would be too much for you. He has to give it to you; you put up a good fight. You really did. But a person can only eat a Big Mac for so long before they get sick - or whatever the fuck the saying is. You have handled it beautifully in the time you had. Better than anyone else he had ever given the chance.
There was a sort of gravitational pull, when he first met you. He had tried so hard to fight against it but it took him kicking and screaming. No matter how hard he tried, he couldnât stop himself from getting close to you. Even the knowledge that he ruins every good thing he touches had not been enough to keep himself from being drawn to you like a magnet.
This, right now, feels the same. Like there is some sort of gravitational pull, but this time itâs working against him. He canât seem to stop you from slipping through his fingers. He would get down on his knees and beg for an explanation if he were a less proud, less stubborn man. Or maybe heâs just scared of how youâd answer. But as it stands, he thinks maybe he will just have to accept that youâre being pulled out of his life the same way you were pulled in. He just wishes it was less gradual. You crashed into his life like a wave, and youâre being pulled out like a current - slow and steady and devastating. And he doesnât know why. But he has a few guesses.Â
Because Dean is the first person to admit heâs a fuck-up when it comes to you. Like when he watches you stand between Sammyâs outspread thighs and your hands work his face with that same gentleness that you use to put those weird moisturisers on Dean, even though youâre just disinfecting a wound or bandaging him up. Sometimes, at his worst and most ugly, his stomach splits with an aggressive mash-up of possessiveness and anxiety and plain, simple fear. It doesnât matter that Samâs hands are planted firmly by his side rather than on your hips or that there are far more clothes involved in these scenarios than in any between yourself and Dean. That violent beast still makes an appearance. Dean will kick up a fuss like a kid, complain that youâre running out of time, even when he damn well knows you have nothing to do. Heâll accuse Sam of being dramatic and accuse you of being overbearing. But he always apologises after. Never explains, because you know it all already. Just apologises.
He had the same feeling when he came back from getting information from that woman at the bar. And Dean is no prude but he was sick from the start because all he could do was wonder how this woman is so fucking okay. Obviously he intended to coax the information out of her with his best fuck-me-eyes, but he still couldnât understand how she was able to flirt and giggle less than a week after her husbandâs neck was slit in bed.
Because if that was you - Dean wouldnât make it through the week at all. He understands how hypocritical that is, because of all his talk to Sam about âgetting back out thereâ and âsheâd want you to be happyâ after Jess, but itâs true. He wouldnât make it and he wouldnât want to.
But then he got distracted by you. And the widow fucked off, haughty and insulted by his wandering attention, but he didnât care because there was some pool hustler sitting there and trying to buy you a drink and that old beast came back out, even when he tried his best to contain it.
Heâs not sure whether that pool player showed you just a glimpse of something better or if hiss jealousy scared you off for good. Maybe itâs best that he doesnât know why youâre pulling away. Because he is acutely aware of the fact that he would spend the rest of his life trying to fix it, even if it is unfixable.Â
Even if you were done with Dean just because he is Dean, he would spend all his waking hours trying to figure out how to be less Dean-like.Â
So itâs best not to know.
You move on to the next town without much fuss once Sam identifies a new case. At one point, Dean asks with crude sarcasm whether you want to say goodbye to the pool hustler from the bar. You take a few seconds to try to remember who he is talking about and donât answer. The question is cruel and confusing.
He stops trying to show you any sort of physical affection beyond an arm around the shoulder which should relieve you but doesnât. Youâre not sure what you had been hoping - for him to beg and apologise, maybe - but it doesnât happen. And you can recognise that itâs probably a good thing, too. If he had dropped to his knees and apologised and begged for forgiveness, you know you would give in. You wouldnât have a choice. He has you trapped on a leash that is long but incredibly taut.
But, having forgiven him, youâre not sure itâs something you could ever fully work through. You would always know that he chose someone over you, if even for a little while. It would make you question everything. Youâre not sure you could ever be with him without expecting him to leave.
So you move on - or you try to. You sink down the hurt with the hopes of becoming immune to it. You try not to think too much or feel too much. You let Sam and Dean do most of the work themselves, jumping in only when asked for. When thereâs a TV in your motel, you go to the nearest thrift store and pick up some old VHS with Richard Gere or Meryl Streep in it until you slip into a mild sort of twilight zone. Other times, you read.
Most of the time, youâre just exhausted. Even Samâs annoyingly large frame knocking against you in beds that are far too small for two people canât stop you from sleeping well into the day.
Almost three weeks on from pool and beers and leopard print women, you check into a new motel. The ceilings are low with wall-to-wall carpet that feels a bit sticky under your feet, but the bed linen looks clean and unstained. You collapse on one of the beds, looking at the ceiling and vaguely wondering whether Sam is going to have to crane his neck to stand inside.
But when you look at Sam, heâs seated on the other bed. And heâs taking off his clothes, cramming his items into the bedside locker. He meets your gaze and raises his eyebrows, as if daring you to say something, and you understand emphatically that youâll be sharing a bed with Dean.
The two of them flock around you, changing clothes - you think Sam showers - but you donât move your eyes from the ceiling. Your gaze on it is like a lighthouse beam while they move around in your peripheral. You canât wait for them to leave so you can disappear into your echo chamber. Youâll fight with Dean in your mind, tell him how you feel and how deeply heâs hurt you before slipping into a corpse-like trance and not thinking much about anything for the rest of the night. But all that will have to wait until they go.
âComing for a drink?â Sam asks plaintively. He sounds like heâs talking to a kid.
âNot feeling it tonight,â you say, as if you had joined them at all in the last three weeks. Every time you consider it, leopard print flashes in your mind and you dig your heels in. âYou guys go ahead, though.â
âSweetheart, come out for one drink. Itâs just across the road.â Thereâs a thin edge of irritation in Deanâs voice, despite the pet-name.
âIâm not feeling it,â you repeat, finally looking away from the ceiling and over at them. You feel the ice water in your voice and so do they.
Sam backs away to the door, mumbling something about âIâm just gonna-â and leaves you in the room alone with Dean. You assume he is heading over to the bar.
âThatâs a loada crap,â Dean bites, hardly noticing Samâs departure. âYouâve not been feelinâ it for the last month. Come and get a soda if you want. Donât just sit here and mope.â
You stare at him. You try to be angry at his casual cruelty - the way heâs acknowledging what heâs done to you and essentially telling you to get over it - but itâs hollow. Youâre mostly just at a loss. You are resigned to the fact that âthe conversationâ is about to happen and itâs probably overdue. But there isnât a word in this world about this particular subject that youâd like to share with him - you have nothing to share that doesnât make you look weak and wretched. You suppose he knows it all anyway.
âI donât know how,â is what you land on, finally.
Dean hesitates, icy stare melting. A beat passes and he lies down beside you on the bed, grabbing your hand in his own. You feel his touch deep in your stomach.
You are both staring at the ceiling for some length of time and it feels very much like how you were before any of this started - before you complicated anything. You canât decide whether the feeling it gives you is good or bad. After some time he says, âYou have nothinâ to worry about, sweetheart. I can handle it.â
Your mind goes around in circles, trying to make sense of his meaning but coming up short. You try to apply his words to everything that had happened between three weeks ago and now, but nothing fits right.
âWhat does that mean?â you ask softly.
âIt means you donât have to feel⌠guilty, or whatever. Iâm not gonna pretend it doesnât kill me âcause it does. But it kills me more to see you walking around like a fuckinâ zombie. And you donât gotta worry about me. Iâm a big boy. I can take care of myself.â
You blink, struck into silence. That nagging feeling that you should be angry resurfaces - because Dean thinks you should feel guilty? - but itâs once again empty and defeated.
âYou still there?â Dean probes gently.
âIâm here,â you say. âI donât feel guilty. I donât know why I should feel guilty.â
Youâre still not looking at each other - both of you staring straight ahead. But you can hear the hurt in Deanâs voice. âThen whatâs all the moping for? I thought-â
There is another stretch of silence.
âMy feelings are hurt,â you say. He has won and youâve come clean. It feels terrible. Your stomach is tight and sore. âI knew it was a possibility but I thought you would at least tell me before you⌠yâknow.â
Dean leans up now on one arm, crouching over you. You feel his eyes on your face but donât look at them.
âBefore I what? I donât know. Youâre gonna have to help me out here, angel. Iâm in the dark. Been in the dark for weeks.â
You donât see how thatâs possible - how he could have missed such direct cause and effect. And Dean is a liar when he needs to be, but heâs not lying about this. You know.
âThe woman, Dean.â
âWhat woman?â
âThereâs been more than one?â
You donât bother trying to hide the twisted and hurt look on your face - it is coming out in your voice, anyway. Your insides feel like minced meat.
âThereâs been none, if Iâm picking up what youâre putting down.â
Finally - finally - you look over at him. You expect to see a sad, wry look on his face, or maybe just guilt. But Dean is smiling.
âThen I donât think youâre picking up what Iâm putting down,â you say firmly. âIâm talking about the woman from the bar. In the leopard print. Blonde.â
Dean is still smiling but he looks perplexed. He shakes his head.
âJesus, Dean. In that town with the crazy ghost wife. In that bar with the pool player.â
Youâre horrified that he canât recall. You hope this doesnât mean it was a regular occurrence throughout the time that you had been sleeping together.
âThe fuckinâ-â Dean laughs, full-bodied and blithe. âThe fuckinâ widow?â
âHow the fuck would I know if she was a widow?â you snap. Youâre ready to sit up, but he pushes down on your shoulder, like heâs suddenly enjoying this. Itâs not how you saw the conversation going.
âThat was the woman Sammy showed us. Remember? Her husbandâs neck was slit the week before. The first case.â
You turn your face away from him again, indignation melting away from your face while you stare straight ahead at the cracks above you. Youâre playing it all back in your head; the lean-in, the whisper in the ear - or had you invented them? You canât remember now. But you remember his face when he spoke to her - the smoky grin. That much you hadnât imagined.
âWhat the hell are you-â you start.
âI didnât touch that lady. I was on a stakeout.â
You frown. Thereâs a dull ache behind your eyes and Dean is still grinning.
âYou donât give me that smile. The one you gave her. You never do.â
âWhat smile?â
You do a poor imitation of it, lip poking up at the corner. It feels grotesque even on your own face, like youâre masquerading a good attitude when this is the expression from all of your worst memories of Dean picking up random girls in bars while you were secretly pining for him. He laughs and the mock smile drops from your face immediately. You move to leave again, but he grabs your arm.
âIâm sorry, sweetheart. Iâm sorry. I just- I didnât even know I did that until now. But youâre right, I donât give you that look.â
Your heart plummets. You canât even look at him when you give him a curt nod, trying to yank your arm out of his grip. Tears are dangerously close.
âYou know why?â he continues. You wish he would stop fucking smiling. You shake your head.
ââCause itâs phoney as hell. There are certain things a man will do to get information or to pick up someone for a night. Cheap tricks. I never wanted you for a night. I want you for all my nights. Days too.â
âOh.â
Thereâs an apology in your tone but Dean doesnât acknowledge it. He just mimics your âOhâ and laughs again like some sort of joy junkie, flopping back on the bed. You go back to staring at the ceiling again and lapse into silence. His chest is gently heaving.
âThought I lost you for good,â he says gently, once the initial gaiety fades. âI canât believe you thought I would-â
You breathe shakily while shame and sheepishness swirl in your stomach. Youâre glad that youâre not looking at him right now - you can only see the cracking, yellowness of the ceiling. Dean sighs, continuing.
âSweetheart, thereâs nobody else for me. I guess this is my fault for not making that more clear. I would never do that to you for as long as I live. Youâre mine, arenât you?â
You nod at the blistering yellow plaster, a prickling behind your eyes. âYeah,â you say. Your voice is wobbly. âYeah, Dean, Iâm yours. Iâm yours. God, Iâm so so sorry-â
âSlow down, angel-â
âI just got the wrong end of the stick because you were talking to her and you were making that face and we never really spoke about, yâknow, exclusivity so I just assumed, but I shouldâve just-â
âSweetheart.â
You stop. When you look over at Dean, heâs looking at you too.
âItâs okay. Weâre okay. Iâm just- fuck. Iâm so⌠I love you.â
You do cry then, one short, abrupt sob tearing through your body. âI love you too.â
He reaches out and puts one hand behind your back, pulling you into him and pressing a small kiss to your neck. You can almost feel him deflate, his body coming home to you. His hands quiver and press tight, rubbing up and down your back. You wonder, in that moment, how you ever could have thought that Dean would give himself to someone else. He was made for you.
He leans away from your neck then, mouth meeting yours, pressing against your shallow, shuddering breath and nothing matters.
Dean texts Sam to let him know heâll need to get his own room for the night. He shows you the reply.
SAM: Gross.
SAM: Glad you guys worked it out.
Youâre mildly embarrassed, but that only makes Dean laugh. He has been on a high since you talked. He is very flippant about the whole thing - not taking it at all personal that you shut him out based on an assumption. He says he is just relieved that you have come back to him.
You poke at him - almost prodding him to be mad at you. You sure would be, if the roles were reversed. But he just rolls his eyes and jostles you into the shower. He doesnât tell you that heâs missed the way you wash his skin and his hair, but you know.
For once - just for this one time - neither of you play your parts. He doesnât grumble about your body wash or facial cleanser or exfoliating glove and you donât pretend youâre forcing it on him. He just closes his eyes with a dopey smile, hands never leaving your waist unless itâs to brush a hand through your hair or squeeze your ass. You donât admonish him for that either just for this one time. Heâs hard as a rock the whole time - he always is - but he doesnât try anything in earnest.Â
Not until you leave the shower and curl up against him in your duck-egg coloured bathrobe. Your skin is warm from your shower and from Deanâs flesh pressed against your own. His eager hands fly around your body, gripping your thighs and palming your boobs while he presses his desperate lips against yours. He speaks against your lips rather than pulling away.
âFuck, angel. You have no ideaâŚâ he murmurs. âNever thought Iâd be allowed touch you like this again.â
The way heâs kissing you is slow and dirty, probably a bit too much spit passing between lips but youâre too hazy to care. The hand that had been caressing your breasts over your bathrobe now goes to the V-shaped neckline of your bathrobe. He draws it down with a fist, loosening the tie around your waist with his other hand.
He stops kissing you only to glance down at you, now fully exposed to him. Dean is hardly faring better - he is in only his underwear, but it is practically transparent with how firmly his cock is straining against the fabric. He looks at you for a bit too long, his throat working.
âCanât believe you kept all this from me, sweetheart. For weeks. Fuckinâ messed up.â He leans down to take a nipple into his mouth and you gasp, back arching up. Your hands go to his wide shoulders instinctively, encouraging his movements. âWas having wet fuckinâ dreams. Kept forgetting you werenât-â. He stops himself, mouth moving to the other nipple, tongue moving expertly against the thin skin. Heâs trying not to kill the mood.
âDean-â you sigh. Even his hand on your waist feels like something rattling through your bones.
âYeah, baby? You miss me too?â He looks sly, peering up at you while kissing down your stomach. His lips are hot against your skin.
It is almost criminal how pretty he is. Youâve always thought it - how could you not? Every girl who has ever caught sight of him even once thinks heâs pretty, but not every girl has seen him like this - bleary-eyed, menacing and lovelorn - holding your eyes while he licks and sucks his way to your thighs. You know Dean is experienced, but you would very much like to think that maybe you are the only one to ever see that look on his face.
He nips gently at your thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. You jump a bit and instinctively try to clamp your legs together, even with his head in the way.
âAsked you a question, sweetheart,â he says, nipping at the other thigh.
You had been too busy looking at his pretty green eyes and stupidly handsome face. You try to think back about what he asked you.
âMissed you, Dean. Couldnât do anything without you,â you say.
âYeah?â You canât see Deanâs mouth but you feel his cheeks round against your thigh while he kisses there, thumb brushing just alongside your hip. Youâre wiggling around unintentionally, desperate for some kind of friction. âShe missed me too, huh?â
He brushes his thumb against your clit. Featherlight. Barely enough to feel.
But oh, you feel it. You gasp out, clutching his hair just to tether yourself to something. His breath is warm against your core.
âYes! She missed you. She missed you so much.â
Dean raises his eyebrows from below. You refuse to refer to any part of your body in the third person until he has you well and truly gone - teetering off the edge of sanity. He bites your ass cheek playfully, making you jump.Â
âFuck, yeah. Bet she did,â he grunts, eyes on your face which is tight with sweet agony. âNever gonna go cold on me again, are you?â
You shake your head wildly. You might whisper âNeverâ a few times, or maybe itâs just ringing through your head. His head props up out of your thighs for just a moment with a radiant smile.Â
âGood girl,â he says, and you can hardly process what those words do to you before heâs diving down again, mouth working against your pussy, one finger pressing its gentle way inside.
You canât help it - you cry out. It feels like an electric current. It had been so long.
But your mind is still working overtime and you still canât get rid of the seed of guilt suspended low in your stomach. This feeling - the feeling of him sliding his tongue against your clit while he nudges his finger in slow but hard - is far more than you deserve.
âI think you should- fuck, ah- I think you should let me take care of you instead.â
He doesnât move his mouth from you. He just continues to lick and suck, sending stars straight from the sky and into your eyes. But he looks up at you quizzically, as if to check whether youâre serious.
âYouâre- shit- fuck,â you gasp, unable to concentrate. You might be slurring a bit. âIâm the one who should be making it up to you. I want to do something for you.â
Thatâs when Dean removes himself, propping up to look at you with a tricky, dark smile. His mouth is slick and shiny which sends heat to your face. âYouâre fuckinâ adorable. You think this is for you?â he asks, tongue poking out to lick at his lips. Your eyes follow it. âQuit worrying so damn much and be good to me. Let me take what I need. You got a lot of making up to do.â
If his words were not enough to tear a moan from you, then the way his mouth meets your cunt again - desperate and sloppy but proficient - would have done the job. âAre you real?â you ask. Dean laughs against you. It doesnât do much to help your problem.
The problem being that youâre about to come. Embarrassingly fast and - from what you can already tell - embarrassingly loud. You might usually make an effort to stifle your moans, but you know exactly what Dean wants and that is to hear you. You owe him that. Heâs lapping at your cunt with vigour, taking breaks every now and again only to speak to you.
âSo fuckinâ sweet,â he groans. âJesus, sweetheart. You got any idea what you do to me?â
Youâd probably make some lame joke about how heâs the one doing things to you right now if your brain was still in the vicinity. You can only whine in response and hope itâs sufficient.
âYouâre so cute when youâre about to give it to me,â he says, fingers pumping and curling. âYâgo so dumb and needy.â
When his mouth meets your clit again, you fly off the edge. Your cunt clenches around his fingers and you shake and whimper while Dean tells you what a good girl you are and admires how well youâre doing for him. You feel him smiling against you.
You never really come down from that high - youâre horny again, instantaneously. His fingers are barely out of you when you pull him up from his position and begin tearing frantically at his underwear and the bathrobe that is now just hanging loose from your shoulders.
He smiles, even while his eyes darken. âAnother one? Already?â
âGimme a break,â you say. âI havenât gotten off in three weeks.â You can hear the high whine in your voice, but it doesnât immediately register as an issue. Maybe youâll be embarrassed about it tomorrow. His cock is standing proud up against his stomach. You perch yourself on his lap while he sits up against the headboard, bare crotches just inches apart.
âThree weeks? Shit,â he laughs. âIâve been jackinâ it in the shower every other day. No wonder you were all pouty.â
âShut up,â you whisper, pressing a short, messy kiss to his mouth and raising your hips up so youâre rubbing against the underside of his cock. Youâre soaking him. His cock twitches against you and sends a small thrill up your spine, but you donât give much away.
Dean grunts, face pained. His grip on your hips tighten until his knuckles are stretched white. Youâre clenching against nothing, body protesting at having his cock - which you had been thinking about for three weeks straight - so close but not inside. You push it away and grind down against him, because he looks so pretty and needy like this, glistening eyes turned upward to look at you.Â
You look down because you know he will follow your gaze. You slowly lift your hips upward, dragging your heat against him until you reach the head. You stay there for a moment, just letting the tip graze your opening before sinking down slightly, just barely letting it notch inside, your body humming with energy. He releases a choked breath and youâre not sure if itâs a reaction to the sight or the sensation.
Whole body demanding otherwise, you lift yourself off. Dean makes a tortured, protesting noise, squeezing your hips while you move down on him again.
You do it again, let him graze your opening, let it notch inside you the slightest bit. But this time, when you try to pull away, Dean uses his leverage on your hips to nudge the first few inches of his cock all the way in. A noise catches in your throat at the unexpected intrusion at the same time that Dean groans. Your stomach lurches.
âFuck me, sweetheart. You get tighter on me?â he asks, voice strained. His eyes are stuck on where youâre taking him. You sink down a bit further, ignoring the initial burning stretch of the breach until you are taking him all the way. The stretch is overwhelming. It always is. His face twists and he gasps.
âThink youâre just needy,â you whisper, grinding down laxly. Youâre teasing him, but you can feel your body becoming more pliant by the second, slowly releasing control to him. His hands guide your hips.
âDamn right Iâm fuckinâ needy,â he grunts. âYou got any idea what it was like goinâ without this tight little hole to fuck for three weeks?â
Stars are exploding behind your eyes at the stretch of him. He could fuck you a million times, but youâll never get over how perfectly he fits inside you - how the tip of his dick hits a spot that makes you go dumb and satiated in a way you had never been with anyone before him.
âGonna need an answer, angel,â he says and he knows heâs being cruel. He smiles at you in that way of his - one side of his mouth curving slightly.
âI donât know,â you moan, hating him and loving him.
Heâs fucking you in earnest now - thrusting up from below, hands grinding you down on him. You are trusting him with your body the way you always do and Dean rewards you for your sweet submission to him like he always does. With mind-numbing pleasure.
âYou donât know?â He presses a soft kiss to your collarbone in direct opposition to the harsh way heâs pushing into you. A rough thumb is brushing on your clit and you clamp down on him, feeling your wetness spill around him and drip past his balls and onto the sheets. âDonât know that I was in hell for three weeks? That I was so horny my balls hurt? That I was waking up with dirty dreams and fistinâ my cock in the shower while you were in bed with my fuckinâ brother?â
Your mind is whirring, trying to keep up with the information youâre being offered while his hips meet your wetness with a dizzying rhythm. You feel a little stupid.
âI didnât know. Dean, fuck- Iâm sorry.â You think you might be crying tears of pleasure. You can feel them on your cheeks.
âSh sh sh,â Dean cooes, not all that kindly. âSâokay, sweetheart. Pretty pussy came back to me eventually, didnât she? Missed getting stuffed with me. And youâre never gonna keep her from me again, are you?â
âNo. Never again,â you whisper, eyes rolling back.
He stops thrusting quite suddenly, slowly sliding out of you. You feel his absence immensely, stomach clenching in protest. âThatâs my girl,â he says patronisingly, with a sloppy, lazy grin.Â
He has you under him then, before you can really think about it. Your left cheek is pressed firmly into the pillow, the weight of it forcing your mouth open slightly. Your back is arched, ass presented to Dean who is knelt behind you. He gives your ass a single, loving pat and then heâs sliding in again, groaning as if it was the first time.
It feels deeper like this. Maybe it should be painful how far heâs pressing into you but youâre always so wet when itâs Dean and right now youâre wetter than you have been in your life. You moan so obscenely that you are momentarily embarrassed, but every noise you make urges one from Dean, and thatâs a trade youâll take any day.Â
âJesus-â he chokes out âHot - wet - tight fuckinâ cunt. Gonna fill this pussy every day from now on, angel. Fuck you dumb. Never gonna let you think those silly little thoughts ever again. This pretty hole is the only one Iâll ever need.â
His hips meeting your ass is creating a brutal, rhythmic song. The sound of it alone would be enough to get you there, but Deanâs words have you gushing.
âI missed you,â he confesses, breathless. âMissed you so much. How you feel around me- fuck, angel. You feel so good.â
Youâre almost glad that Dean canât seen your face like this. The dumb, fucked-out expression youâre sure youâre sporting. You clench down so hard, you almost see stars.
âI missed you too,â you babble. âMissed having you inside me. You fill me up so good. Dean, Iâm gonna come.â
He twitches inside you once and then heâs leaning forward, grabbing your face roughly with his hands and squeezing your cheeks with his fingers. His chest is pressed up against your back and you are twisting back, but he doesnât stop thrusting into you.
He kisses you, deep and dirty. Thereâs too much spit and your tongues keep missing each other because the angle makes it difficult, but the torridness of it sends you over the edge, gasping and whining loudly into his mouth. When you pull away, a string of spit still connects you. Your eyelids flutter open and you look into his pretty green eyes. Dean comes.
âThatâs it, baby, there you go,â he gasps, shaking. âFuck. I love you so much.â
Youâre still coming as Dean spills into you. You can do nothing but meet each otherâs eyes while he pumps you full. A veil of starlight is painted behind your eyelids.
Youâre sticky and slippery with sweat, your wetness and Deanâs cum by the time his thrusts begin to shallow out. Your exhausted body slumps against the bed, satisfied to stay there for the night, except Dean pulls out gently and eventually coaxes you to get up and do stuff like pee, brush your teeth. You do it all in a trance.
When you both settle back down, you leave a kiss on his clavicle, lips against skin. He smiles and strokes down your spine. His hand is in your hair, just holding you against him. Your upper thighs are still sticky and your leg that is pressed against Deanâs confirms that his are too. You can feel the slow, strong tinkling of his heart against the skin of his chest. You have a theory that he still doesnât quite believe that this wonât be taken from him again tomorrow, but youâll wait for tomorrow to prove him wrong.
âMight need another shower,â he slurs, even as you both float away to sleep.
a/n: they are both so dumb... they pmo even though i was the one writing them lmao