lover.

twenty-seven | she/her swear to be overdramatic and true to my…

[helenanell]

Fall On Me Like Night || Remmick

Remmick x f!reader

This is Part Two of Butchered Tongue

Summary: After he denies you and leaves you both in agony, Remmick returns to beg on his knees.

Notes: Angst, sexual tension, blood & gore, kissing, steamy touches, vampiric turning, Remmick literally begs for her on his knees.

WC: 4.9k

Tagging people who interacted with the first part ❤️ : @thelovelyprism @d4rk3lf @operation-spot (whose comment provided inspiration for this part) @savy-luvs-dilfs @cqsmo @primroseprime2019

The night after your encounter with Remmick, you did not go to the bar to sing. 

As if to fill the silence of your evening, the cicadas took up their own song, the rhythmic buzz agitating the humid air. You felt it against your skin, which had sweat beading upon it, rolling down your back, soaking into the fabric of your dress at the divot of your spine.

As the sun began to set, you realised the clock on top of the mantelpiece had ceased to tick. It was an old thing brought over from London and you knew how to fix it. You didn’t. While you waited for Remmick, you allowed time to stand still.

And that’s what you were doing, no matter how you tried to deny it. Waiting. Restlessness had you wandering around your home, body tight with anticipation. Just to see him again and to know you had not conjured him in your misery, your longing for companionship and for your father’s home made flesh in the form of him.

But he had denied you. He had thrown you away from his body like you were hot to the touch.

 If he felt as you did, he would return, but you would not make it easy. If you were to cross into death with him, he would have to pay your toll. You would demand a golden coin; a Charon’s obol, that he would need to place in your mouth. 

He needed to feed you before he had his turn.

When night chased away the vestiges of light, he came. A knock, light on the wood but heavy with promise. 

You pulled open the door and there he stood, in the same clothes as the night before. He looked more unkempt than he had then, his shirt was rumpled, hair messy. One of his suspender straps was slipping down his arm. 

You did not know if he had to sleep, but you doubted it. Was it the time and distance between you two that had left him dishevelled as it had you? Or had he been taking his pleasures in other ways? 

Remmick considered your form in a thin, linen dress, gaze so attentive it was as if he was trying to identify every single stitch that held it on your body. Then he smiled at you, beaming brighter than the sun he fled from. 

‘Miss, will you take pity on a weary traveller?’

‘I’d wager that since you wandered into it, it’s this town that deserves the pity.’

Remmick’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. ‘Are you wanting commiserations for yourself then, lass? As part of the town you also have to suffer me.’ 

You crossed your arms over your chest, as if that could do anything to guard against him. ‘I was ready for you to fall on me in whatever way you wished, in suffering or in bliss.’ You said, voice hardening. ‘You fled’

He held up a finger and pointed it at you, expression aggrieved. ‘You didn’t know what you were askin’ for.’ 

‘Am I to believe that you are an altruistic man? You professed your desire to have me, why deny yourself?’

‘Deny you, you mean?’ Remmick said heatedly. You waited for the red to overtake his eyes in anger, but it did not come. ‘Don’t kid yourself, darlin’, your invitation was about more than our shared heritage, you are tortured by your own desire. I can even hear it in your damn songs!’

‘Why did you turn away from what we both want, then? And don’t give me that shit about needing me to understand what I was asking for first. I knew of your darkness before you flashed your eyes or bared your teeth at me.’

Remmick eyed you dangerously. ‘You want to be hurt, is that it? If you’re looking for a painful end I will not give it. I told you, we will become one, you will not hurt when I have you.’ 

‘Neither will you.’ You stated it as if you were certain, but part of you still questioned. 

Did he truly understand all that you ached and yearned for? All that you felt you had lost before you were able to take full possession of it? Or was this a masterful trick?

 If he truly had been alive for as long as he claimed, would he even have to try to deceive you? Or was it a finely honed instinct?

Remmick’s eyes had yet to leave yours, as if he sought the future you spoke of in your eyes. As if he wanted a glimpse of an existence where he was no longer alone, severed from humanity and suffering wounds that could never heal.

‘I have not felt shame in centuries, but I did when I turned away from you. I betrayed myself in the act.’ His words were spoken with such intensity, it was as if they added yet more heat to the air between you. 

 That was it. He was asking, in his way, for you to let him in. To end the torment and begin his true eternity, with you and him as one.

Your hands itched to reach out for him, your tongue heavy with the invitation it held ready. But, after the harm he inflicted when he had thrown you aside, you would make him earn it.

‘Tell me a story, Remmick.’ You said. 

‘What?’

‘That is my one and only condition.’

He tilted his head and smiled teasingly. ‘Do you want to hear of pixies and Will the wisp? Or maybe something from your home? Black Shuck, the ghost dog, is said to stalk the grey coastline of England, isn’t he?’

‘I don’t want myths or fairy tales, I want a story of your life. A true one.’ 

The smile fell and his gaze hardened. Remmick bit his lip before he answered as if forcibly trapping harsh words inside himself.

 ‘You’re asking for a nightmare then.’ He ground out.

You took in the way he held himself: rigid, standing utterly still, as if he was so riddled with cracks that he feared one wrong move would have him shattering completely. You stepped forward, your feet encroaching on the threshold. His eyes shot down to the way you were half out of the doorway and his hands flexed at his sides.

‘The life you had before, in Ireland. Tell me a story of your joy, before the Empire came.’ You asked, expression softening. 

You wanted him to give to you freely, not feel as though you were a pickpocket of what few happy memories he carried around with him.

Remmick shook his head and took a step back. ‘You demand a piece of my trapped soul.’  He said hoarsely.

Your body begged to follow him, to step out onto the porch, but you stopped yourself and called out to him instead. ‘You said when we are joined, I will know it all. I want you to choose something to give me first.’

Remmick offered you a bitter smile. ‘So, it’s a declaration of my honourable intentions you’re seeking?’

‘This is a courtship, Remmick, bloody and damned, but a courtship all the same. So…court me.’ 

Remmick chuckled darkly, but there was detectable strain. Turmoil. ‘Are you a blushing, cloistered maiden? Do you require honeyed words to make you soft and pliable for me?’ 

‘If I am to give all of myself to you, you will earn it and if you don’t care to try, I know you to be false. Are you gluttonous, or will you savour me?’ 

Remmick surprised you then. Instead of letting his agitation grow, or fleeing once more, he dropped to his knees before you. He lifted his hands but let them fall again, as though you were a sacred statue he prostrated himself before, seeking salvation, one he couldn’t desecrate with his touch.

 ‘I will hold you on my tongue for so long that you melt like butter, I will never tire of tastin’ you, but do not ask this of me.’ He begged.

Disappointment spread its roots in your chest. ‘Why not? If I will know it as soon as we are one, then why?’ 

Remmick dropped his head, eyes on the ground. ‘Some pain can’t be spoken of.’ 

‘I asked you for your joy, a good memory.’ You whispered.

‘When you’ve lived as long as I have, the distance makes all memories hurt.’ He answered, almost numbly.

‘So you refuse?’ 

He looked up at you then, the fire in his eyes stoked at the sound of your own fury, pupils red and glowing. ‘I beg you not to ask. I beg you to let me in. Think of how beautiful it will be, our eternal union.’ 

Although it pained you, you shook your head. ‘I can’t give my life for what might be a lie, as pitiable as that life is. I need to trust you and I don’t.’ 

Anger and frustration truly boiled over then, but oh how close it looked to desperation when worn on his face; an animal backed into a corner ‘You would send me away after all we’ve shared?’

‘We’ve shared nothing, it’s been a seduction on both our parts. I want something less fickle, Remmick.’ You said. 

Still on his knees, he glared up at you, the red of his eyes fading. ‘I spoke to you of my home, my pain and my solitude, that was not lust.’

‘You told me your pain exists, you have not let me know it.’ 

‘You haven’t exactly been forthcomin’ yourself. Speak to me of your parents, that lecherous bastard Benny said they were dead and rottin’? Tell me of your Irish daddy who taught you rebel poems.’ He demanded, rising to his feet to peer down at you.

‘I will, when you meet my condition.’ you answered, voice wavering, ‘If you can’t, then I don’t want this. I won’t bind myself to a forever stranger.’ 

‘Darlin’, please-‘

‘Decide if I’m worth it, Remmick, or you’re never getting in.’ 

When he had denied you the night before, he had left you in limbo, lashed by an unforgiving wind and you could only hope he felt a fraction of it when you closed the door on him.

It took the span of a maddening, excruciatingly long week, but he did crawl back to you. He stood on his two feet, but in all ways that mattered, he dragged himself through the mud to make it. 

Remmick returned after seven days of being at war with himself. Such conflict and uncertainty in a man who had lived through the rise and fall of nations.

When you stepped out of the bar, once again the last to leave, Remmick was waiting. Across the street, his eyes glowed in the darkness of the alley, twin stars burning violently in the night, navigation for your journey.

 The heady smoke of the bar and its many intoxicants hung heavy around you, but it was his presence that made you feel delirious. 

‘Those no good drunks don’t deserve you.’ His voice came out of the shadows first, then followed by the silhouette of him. It appeared without detail, just a shape shrouded by velvet cloth. ‘They don’t appreciate what they hear.’ 

‘They appreciate me well enough.’ You called back, heart already in your throat. He had come back. You hadn’t driven away your chance at peace.

‘Oh, there’s no missin’ the beauty of you darlin’. I speak of our songs.’ He said, still taunting you by keeping himself shrouded in the darkness. 

‘I don’t need those drunkards to listen to me, I sing to remember, to honour the dead.’ 

‘Would you sing to honour a wretched ghost like me?’ 

You couldn't help but smile. ‘You’re no ghost. Step out of the darkness, Remmick.’ 

‘I’ll never be able to do that, but I’ll attempt the impossible to get closer to you.’ 

Remmick appeared out of the alley, still wearing the same clothes, but instead of dishevelled state, they were a canvas of violence. His entire front was drenched in blood, his mouth and jaw smeared with the evidence of his feasting. 

You felt no terror or disgust as you should have, just an affirmation that he was something inhuman. Atemporal and otherworldly. Ravening desire with a charming smile. And he wanted you to be fused to his very being.

 Your blood thrummed with the promise of it all.

You had encountered myths and legends of such creatures throughout your life. A well-worn copy of Dracula had resided on your father’s shelf. You had read it cover to cover more than once and as you looked at Remmick, stained with the life of another, you felt no fear. Words from the novel came to mind: 

‘Loneliness will sit over our roofs with brooding wings.’ 

Remmick was loneliness that knocked on your door with an aching heart and trapped soul. And while he was consumptive, you could not think of him as a sickness, just a symptom of suffering.

‘Who met the sharp end of your hunger tonight?’ You nodded  at the alley behind him and the body that its darkness no doubt held.

He grinned, baring blood-slick teeth. ‘Well, our mutual friend Benny, of course. Taught him some manners.’

‘I’m sure he’ll go to his grave appreciating your instruction.’ 

Remmick scoffed. ‘Nothin’ worth burying. Would be like digging a hole for a lump o’ coal.’ He began to stalk closer to you, crossing the street with smooth, powerful movements. ‘Do you like the sight of it, sweet girl? His suffering painted all over me?’

You began to back away. Not out of trepidation, fearing he’d strike if you moved too quickly, but because having him tethered to your every little movement was intoxicating. He was your reflection in that moment, perfectly aligned.

‘You should suffer too.’ You stated calmly.

Remmick’s eyebrows lifted. ‘Oh? How’s that?’ 

You kept walking back, moving down the street and when you quickened your pace he matched you immediately. 

‘Benny grabbed me, but you threw me down onto my porch. Why should you escape punishment?’ 

Potent desire encroached on him, visible in his eyes and deepening his voice to a thunder-like rumble. ‘My punishment is the distance between us.’

‘You placed it there.’ You said. ‘You denied me.’ 

‘I denied myself.’ He insisted. 

You believed him, could see how he was riddled with deprivation, as if it had left his very bones porous and weak. You felt it too.

‘So, will you submit to my condition?’ you felt dizzy in asking, so close to the promised unification of your two beings; an alleviation of your pain.

Remmick hummed, as if he’d tasted the effect he had on you in the air. ‘Yes, love. I will bare this shackled soul to you. I will tell you a true story and you will let me in.’

You stopped moving then. Hope was a suffocating hand around your throat. Remmick stopped too, but it was clumsy, his boots scuffing the dirt as if it had taken force to stop himself from moving towards you. 

Without another word, you strode forward. He did not match you, did not move at all. He was transfixed on you as you stopped before him. 

‘Swear it will be the truth. That what you tell me, the memory you share, will be real.’ 

Remmick did not even blink. ‘I would not desecrate this by beginning it with a lie.’

‘Will you ever lie to me?’ 

‘Once we’re joined it will be impossible. There’ll be no hidin’, for either of us.’ 

Tentatively, you reached out and took his bloody hands in your own, almost scared he truly was an apparition and your touch would pass through him. But it didn’t and with Remmick watching you attentively, you started to walk.

 Just as you turned your back to lead him onward, Remmick pulled you into him, forcing your back flush with his chest. Your startled gasp got caught in your throat when his other hand wrapped around your waist, pressing a bloody handprint to the flower patterned fabric that covered your stomach. 

‘Oh, to dance with a beautiful girl under the light of the moon.’ He whispered into your ear.

‘This isn’t dancing.’

In answer, Remmick began to sway his hips and took you with them, rocking you from side to side in the cradle of his body, hand still on your stomach. His bit into your shoulder, not with his razor-sharp fangs, but it was deadly all the same to have your skin in his jaws. You let out a needy sigh and he moaned into you, teeth pressing into the fabric of your dress.

‘Remmick, don’t make me wait any more.’ You pleaded, reaching back to place your palm on his cheek. He hummed contentedly before releasing your shoulder and dropping a kiss onto it. 

‘Lead the way.’ He mumbled.

The rest of the walk passed like an odd dream; strangely paced and hard to make sense of. His hands never left you and by the time you reached your porch, traces of Benny’s blood had been smeared over the rest of your dress from Remmick’s wandering hands. 

Without the need for discussion, you both stopped before the front door and turned to face each other. When you did unlock it, it would be to bring him inside with you.

Remmick smiled at you fondly, the first sign of true tenderness you had seen on his face. It made your heart race. 

‘If you were my bride, I’d carry you over the threshold.’ 

‘Is that what I am, your bride?’ You asked, almost too quietly. The cicadas began to click and buzz, creating a rhythm for the two of you.

‘We will be eternally bound, darlin’, and you know how it goes, ‘what he hath joined together, let no man tear asunder.’’

You laughed softly. ‘The man of the night is a man of God?’

‘Oh no, I will join us together, not a distant, indifferent deity. We will not only be one flesh but one mind.’ He said, eyes sparkling.

‘An unholy sacrament then.’ 

Remmick closed what little distance there was between you and took your face in his hands, thumbs running over your cheeks. It transferred more blood, but you didn’t care.

 ‘My darlin’, to me we are something most holy, but our worship will not be to God, just each other.’ 

You had never felt so overwhelmed with the need to curl yourself into another person, to erase the edges of yourself so that you didn’t end or begin except as part of him. And yet, the tiniest kernel of trepidation remained. You gently pulled his hands from your face.

‘How do I know your words are true, Remmick? If I am prey you relish chasing, will I become nothing to you after you’ve taken me between your teeth?’

‘You will become everything.’ He said voice reverent, as though uttering a vow. 

‘Will I be subsumed into what you are? I want to feel whole, not diminished. I don’t want to get lost again, not like I am now.’ 

Remmick ducked his head, forcing you to properly meet his eye, he held no anger or irritation, just unfettered determination. ‘You will be found, that I promise you. Think of how glorious it will be together forever, in mind and in body. You want that, I know you want that.’   

Whether it was his words themselves or the way he was looking at you, you surrendered yourself to him in that moment. 

‘Tell me your story, Remmick.’

He nodded and began to speak. ‘When I was a boy, my mother was always singin’. Even when I knew she wanted to cry she would do it, because it was my swaddling, something she had always wrapped around me for comfort. We had nothing, or next to nothin’ which amounts to the same thing. But always with an empty belly and cracked and bleedin’ hands from labour, she never faltered.’ 

His voice grew thick with remembrance and when he reached for you again, you let him. He took your hands in his and kept going.

‘When she died…silence was my grief. I couldn’t stand it, didn’t know how to exist without it. Maybe that’s why I began to sing and play strings. I think part of me thought that her songs, passed down through generations of our family, would bring her back. I wanted to breathe life into her again so that I wouldn’t be alone. When I started to forget the words, it was like she was dyin’ all over again. Hundreds of years old and I was an orphan boy once more. I can no longer recall her face, but I remember the tunes well enough. I play them when I can.’

He sended with a slow exhale, eyes on your joined hands. You had no words, or could not find adequate ones to express your gratitude, or to tell him how close it felt to your grief for your father. And he had only been gone for a few years. 

Thankfully, Remmick seemed to take all he needed from touching you. He squeezed your hands and then met your gaze. ‘You have your own pain. Let me in and I’ll make it all better.’

Reluctantly, you pulled your hands from his and unlocked the front door. With your eyes set  on him you pushed it back, the creak of the hinges the only sound between the two of you besides the cicadas.

Remmick had gone utterly still, as if the slightest movement would have you flinching, running into your home without letting him follow. 

You knew you could not do that. To deny him now, would be to deny yourself. 

‘Remmick, come inside.’ 

In a flash, he had you gathered up into his arms, hands below your ass as he rushed you both inside. He made an almost inaudible noise in the back of his throat as he kicked the door closed behind you, it was a groan of pleasure that you felt in your bones.

Still held by him, you cradled his cheeks and moved to kiss him. Pain wracked your body when he pulled away, but his eyes were just as entranced and needy as your own. He looked down at your bodies, covered in Benny’s blood.

‘I won’t have him be part of this.’ 

Remmick did not want your union sullied by the blood of that man. Understanding, but impatient, you sighed and dropped your head to his shoulder. He chuckled and ran a hand over the back of your head before setting you down on the ground. 

Too lost to speak, you walked into the kitchen, knowing he would be right behind you. 

Moonlight bathed the room in its ethereal glow and when you went to the sink to turn on the tap, the water sparkled too. As quickly as you could, you scrubbed at your hands with soap, watching crimson swirl down the drain, then you splashed some more over your cheeks, cleaning them too.

You looked over your shoulder and found Remmick watching you with something that bordered on awe. You nodded your head at the sink and he understood your silent order. He appeared by your side, bodies brushing as he cleansed the violence from himself.

When you stepped away to grab a clean cloth off the nearby clothes rack, his eyes tracked you. You placed the cloth on the side of the sink and then reached out to tug his suspenders down his arms.

‘Take off your shirt.’ 

Remmick bit his lip, swaying forward as if he wanted to take you then and there. But, with notable effort, he stopped himself. Maintaining eye contact, he undid his buttons, revealing a toned chest, pale but beautiful in the moonlight. 

Once the garment was dropped to the ground, you realised the tap was still running and picked up the cloth to soak it. When you pressed it to the flesh just below his neck and began to wipe away the blood, you could not focus on the task, instead watching the beads of water roll down his stomach, gathering at the waistband of his trousers.

‘You still with me, love?’ the ragged murmur drew your eyes to his and felt a surge of heat within you at how ruined he seemed, how close to collapsing at your feet.

All you could do was smile and once his chest was clean, you leant forward and placed a kiss on his clavicle, letting it linger long enough that he shuddered.

The whole thing felt like the preparation for a ritual.

Feeling weak in the knees yourself, you looked to one of the wooden chairs by the kitchen table and nodded at it. ‘Sit down.’

‘Yes ma’am.’ 

Heartbeat erratic and skin flushed, your rinsed the cloth, wringing it out a few times before wetting it again. You shut off the tap and made your way over to Remmick. 

All you had to do was to look at his legs to have him opening them. You stepped between his thighs and focused on his grinning mouth, still stained with red. 

You leant forward and began to wipe the flaking blood away and when you purposefully let the pads of your fingers brush his lips, Remmick nipped at them with his still human teeth. The desire in his eyes was something unearthly. 

‘What does it feel like? The change?’ You asked.

Remmick reached out to take hold of your hips. ‘Feels like everything stops. Deadened wind, frozen tides, the world no longer spins. The soul is something held inside, trapped in amber, no longer a living thing and yet still it screams.’ 

‘That sounds like torment.’ 

‘It is.’ He whispered. 

‘And you want that for me?’ 

‘It will not be that for us. Once we’re joined together, my soul will not be trapped, it will be free, within you. You will be my eternal, blessed reprieve.’ Your breath caught in your throat as he moved his hands to grab the hem of your blood-smeared dress, the pads of his fingers brushing your skin as he began to gather it up. ‘Let's get you out of this dirty thing.’ 

Without the need for further encouragement, you took hold of the hem and pulled the dress up over your head, leaving you only in your thin shift.

‘How could I ever miss the sun with you before me?’ Remmick groaned and then he had your hips again, pulling you to sit on his lap. 

You dropped the cloth to the ground beside your dress and wrapped your arms around his shoulders, fingers running through the hair at the nape of his neck before you pulled his mouth on yours. It was bruising, but in a way that affirmed your existence, that told you the pleasure of it couldn't possibly be imagined. His tongue licked into your mouth and you returned in kind.

The two of you only pulled away when your lungs ached for breath, with both of your lips plump and wet with each other, Remmick took in your dishevelled state and you felt him grow needier still, hardening beneath you. 

‘Remmick-’

‘I know.’ He shushed you. ‘I won’t leave you waitin’ long, but I want us joined together first. Then I will take you however your heart desires.’ 

You trembled with unmet desire and anticipation as Remmick pulled the straps of your shift lower, dragging them down your arms until the neckline dropped to bare breasts to him. He leant in to gently kiss one of the raised buds, before taking it into the heat of his mouth. 

Your head fell back at the feel of him kissing his way over your chest. When his mouth hovered above your breast, right above your heart, you knew what he was asking. One last chance to change your mind. 

You placed your hands on his shoulders, digging your fingers in as if to preemptively embed yourself into him. 

‘It’s time.’ Remmick whispered against your skin, then placed another kiss there.

‘Do it.’ You uttered breathlessly. 

When Remmick’s sharpened teeth sank into your flesh, it was as though your minds collided.

Through his memories, you saw what your broken heritage had obscured: your father’s home, your ancestors home when or it was free. 

To think the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen came with eternal damnation. But that damned state was not in hell, it was to walk in darkness with Remmick’s mind and soul known to you and yours to his. That felt like salvation.

What you also knew was that he had longed for you for weeks before he had approached you that evening, soothing his trapped soul with the sound of you singing as he lingered in the darkness beyond the bar. 

And he knew that you had never felt peace until he’d touched you. Until he’d killed you.

It was a death that made discernment of the separateness of your bodies impossible. You would never feel alone again, not with his soul in you and yours in his.  

That night your bodies stayed physically entwined for hours before you extricated yourselves, but there was no stretch of time that could ever part you.

‘I wanna run so far, I’d beat the morning

Before the dawn has come, I’d block the sun

If you want it done

Let all time slow, let all light go

I don’t need to know where we begin and end

I’d still know, not being shown you

I only need the working of my hands’

De Selby (Part 2) - Hozier

[helenanell]

Butchered Tongue | Remmick

Remmick x f!reader

(Although, reader is mentioned as having an Irish father, so this does lean towards being an OC.)

Summary: Lost and alone in Mississippi, you go to a bar and sing a song of Irish rebellion. Something follows you home.

Notes: Angst, sexual tension, Remmick being alluringly dangerous, manipulation, heavily features discussion of colonialism and the British Empire.

This story is based upon and inspired by the song ‘Butchered Tongue’ by Hozier, as well as his earlier ‘Foreigner’s God’. I wanted to explore Remmick’s backstory and the pain and history of English colonial rule in Ireland. I have done my best to research, but I am English (I can only apologise) so if you spot a mistake I’ve made in terms of the history please let me know!

WC: 4.4k

I was not going to write for Remmick, but then I read the phenomenal work of @ay0nha and @spikedfearn and was so inspired, so go and read their far superior stories! Here's my attempt.

America will be cruel to you.

That was what you had been told before boarding the ship bound for the New World, dragged, kicking and screaming, by your parents. 

You had sneered at those who had warned you with those words. A place was not cruel, only people.

London, your home, held no malice within it; it did not consume with a slavering maw. Yes, the Thames was filled with blood and filth, polluted with the sorrows of the doomed and drowned, but the current had no say over what it carried. It was burdened by the evil acts of men.

That was why your mother and father had wanted to leave: other people. Not because of the earth beneath your feet or the smog-thick air.

That was why you had not listened to the warnings. You would not be wary of America, only the people that you found within it.

New World. That was another lie. 

An ancient tree found in the middle of the forest was not new because you had not seen it before. Its roots that were embedded deep within the earth, had likely felt you coming. You were small and insignificant in its shadow. It should be revered. Respected. 

But men would see something beautiful and take an axe to it, burn it for warmth and then turn their noses up at the piles of ash left behind. Then they would demand someone else clean it up.

America was not new and it had not been ‘discovered.’ It had been invaded. Stolen.

That was why, when you had found yourself settled in Clarksdale, Mississippi, you had set about asking its true name; the name it had always been known as to its native people.

But no one could or would tell you. No one cared, or thought to care. 

A year after you arrived, your mother was taken by sickness, a consuming kind of ailment that left her with barely the skin in her bones by the end.

Then, your father went. Everyone else said that was from the drink, but you knew it was a broken heart: your mother was gone and he was homesick, not for London, but his true home, the place of his birth. He had died yearning for and dreaming of a free Ireland.

It was only when both of them were long-since buried and you were utterly alone, that you finally learnt the origins of the name of the county, Coahoma.

It was derived from the Choctaw word, ‘Co-i-humma’ which meant red panther. According to the old man who had told you, the upper Delta was ‘infested’ with them.

You hated the word infested when he used it, mostly because you had heard it said with the same derision by people speaking of the Choctaw. As with the panthers, it was their home. You couldn’t infest what belonged to you. 

You hadn’t wanted to come to America, but how could you leave? And where would you go? Like you father, London had been where you had lived, but it had never felt like home.

But Ireland…you felt you had no claim or connection without your father. You were half English, but that could not be heard in your accent; a reminder of tyranny. You would likely not be welcome. 

Nowhere was safe, so you simply stayed put. You stayed trapped in Mississippi. 

Your antipathy for your existence was what drove you to the local bar most nights and if you could, you would get up and sing, or recite a poem.

Irish lyrics that told of the joys and despairs of the Irish people and yet all of the words were English. 

Irish Gaelic had been cut from your ancestors mouths, which had left your father mute when it came to what should have been his native tongue. And you were too.

Most of the time, your peformances were met with bemusement. Occasionally the locals would cheer or clap, but it never felt right. They didn’t understand; it only ever felt like they were humouring you. 

It was why you had stormed out of the bar at closing time in a foul mood.

With the low-light of evening ceding its rights on the landscape, the warm hues vanished from the street as you walked down it. Nothing gold-edged anymore, just shadow-bound. 

Also bound to you was a stumbling lecher, who seemed to feel that your reluctant conversation with him in the bar had been an invitation to walk you home. 

Benny dragged his feet, kicking up dust that clung to your moisture-slick skin. The sun had departed,but its heat remained and that felt like a dirty-trick to you. 

You had never adjusted to the climate and whenever you were in the grip of the sweltering heat, it left you feeling as though you were teetering on the brink of madness.

But something in the air that night had sympathy for you and it thrummed with its own insanity.

Your skin prickled when Benny drew up to your side and your fingers twitched, aching to lash out and slash at his skin.

‘Come on, baby.’ he drawled, hot, disgusting breath on the side of your face as he leaned in. ‘You sang so pretty, but giving me a smile would make you beautiful.’

You kept your eyes forward, grimacing at the stench of him. He had been festering in the back corner of the bar when you arrived, so God only knew how long he’d been there. All day, probably. He was hot and foetid, like something left to ferment.

You had almost reached your home, so you wanted to shake him off. You couldn't be sure that he wouldn’t force his way inside once you unlocked the door.

‘I have a way you can make me smile.’ You said, your voice sickly sweet. 

‘Tell me. Anythin’ for you honey.’ 

It was a struggle not to gag as Benny flung his arm around your shoulder, fingers digging in like you were a peach he was prodding to feel its ripeness.

When you turned your head to glare at him, his nose almost brushed yours. You smirked nastily.  ‘I will grin from ear to ear if you stop following me home like a stray dog.’ 

His smug expression disappeared from his face with a violence, almost as if you had reached out and torn it right off. It gave you a sadistic rush of satisfaction, heart beating a little quicker beneath your flushed skin.

Before he could open his mouth again, you shrugged off Benny's hold and kept walking, picking up your pace.

You had just reached the wooden steps of your front porch when you heard footsteps scrambling to close the distance. You underestimated how fast he could move in his intoxicated state and didn’t turn around before Benny’s hand clamped down on the nape of your neck, fingers twisting into your hair. 

‘Now why did you have to go and be so nasty?’ He hissed in your ear, ‘you should be grateful for the attention. Everyone else thinks you're strange. Lonely little girl with her strange songs, parents dead and rotting–’

Benny broke off into a cry when you lifted your elbow up with violent force and slammed it into his stomach. You were released from his hold as he stumbled back, doubled over and gasping. He looked up at your with the promise of retribution in his watering eyes. 

‘You whore-’ 

What happened next unfolded too quickly for your eyes to keep up with. One moment Benny was spitting venom at you, prepared to strike, and the next he was down in the dirt.

There was a man who had appeared like an apparition, pale and lined in spectral moonlight, the edges of him silver and shining. He had his boot pressed against Benny’s neck, who was on his back and scratching madly at his attacker's leg.  

‘That is no way to treat a lady.’ The man glowered down at Benny and pressed his boot down even harder. A strangled gurgle came from his captive’s throat. ‘You should apologise.’ 

You watched with an unmitigated, dangerous thrill when the man's boot lifted off Benny’s neck and he sputtered out a barely coherent apology. 

The man who had appeared from nowhere turned to you with a charming grin and a feral glint in his eyes.

‘Miss, did you find that apology sincere? Because in my humble opinion it was severely lackin’.’

On the ground, Benny had raised himself onto his hands and knees, his panicked breaths no doubt had him inhaling yet more dust and dirt. His face was as red as a tomato and seemingly fit to burst like one under the strain. 

But some malicious instinct that was foreign to you rose up and took hold of your tongue. 

‘No.’ With a smile growing on your face your eyes moved back to the mystery man who was considering you with searing intensity. ‘I don’t think it was good enough.’ 

The words had barely left your mouth before the man grabbed Benny by the scruff of the neck and hauled him to his feet, the tips of his boots dragging in the dirt. He held him up before you like a scolded puppy. 

‘Apologise.’ The man shook his prey in his grip and if you weren’t so perversely entranced by the display, you would have questioned the inhuman strength he seemed to possess. 

‘I’m sorry!’ Benny shouted, fear flashing in the whites of his eyes, ‘I’m really sorry! I-I was rude and crass-’

‘And you shouldn’t have laid your filthy fuckin hands on her.’ The man snarled. ‘Go on now, repeat it.’

‘I-I shouldn’t have laid my filthy f-fuckin hands on you!’ Benny was so distressed, he sounded as though he was being choked. A dark patch spread on the crotch of his pants, liquid running down his legs. 

‘Really? You're gonna piss yourself now?!’ The man exclaimed derisively. He wasted no more time and tossed Benny away, throwing him as though he weighed no more than a pebble. 

You laughed in crazed disbelief, both at the ease the man had thrown Benny and how he then scrambled away, whimpering and mewling. 

Your gaze moved over to the man and found him glaring at the fleeing drunk. His lip was curled, his teeth far too pointed to be natu–

‘I’m terribly sorry, I’m afraid I may have gotten a little carried away,’ the man said, sounding far from apologetic as he met your eye. 

You had been in the middle of a thought, but his attention had dispelled it. 

He was so very handsome, with unruly brown hair that fell just above his eyes which in the darkness seemed to be blue shot through with green, or perhaps the other way around. It was the colour of the roiling ocean. He wore a striped shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing a smooth expanse of chest. Suspenders held up his pants and rested on his broad shoulders. 

When he stepped closer to you, he moved with such intention that it was as though he’d long-since charted a course to you. His closing of the distance felt inevitable.

It was the very reason you felt so instantaneously drawn to him that you knew to be wary. When you retreated a step, your heels hitting the edge of your porch, he smiled knowingly and held up his hands. 

‘Ma’am, I know my behaviour may suggest otherwise, but I promise you that I come in peace.’ 

‘Where did you come from?” You asked, narrowing your eyes at him. 

You and Benny had been walking the street alone and it was quiet enough that you should have heard any approaching footsteps, especially at the speed at which this man had appeared.

‘If you speak of my physical body, then I came from right here. But if you speak in terms of belongin’ to a place…well, that has a long, painful answer that not even this dark night can outlast.’

Your brow furrowed at the strange winding nature of his words. ‘Were you following us?’

The man hummed impishly. ‘I was followin’ you.’

Your heart faltered in your chest and struggled to regain its rhythm. You knew then that you had not escaped an attack, not really, because this man, whoever he was, was the true assault. An assault on your senses and upon your will.

‘Why?’ You asked tersely, grateful your anxiety could not be heard in your voice.

The man placed a hand on his heart, signalling his supposed sincerity. ‘I just could not bear letting you go without telling you how beautiful I found your singing.’

Caution was supplanted by hostile suspicion as the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

‘You weren’t in the bar.’  You said.

It was a small, packed place and you knew you would have remembered seeing a man like him.

‘My name is Remmick.’ 

While his smooth, sultry voice worked to lull you into submission, you would not let him get away with refusing to answer you. 

‘You weren’t in the bar.’ You repeated sternly.

Remmick tilted his head tauntingly. His smile grew. ‘Well, maybe I dreamt of you then and that’s where I heard it.’ He stepped closer, so close the two of you were almost toe-to-toe. ‘Maybe I’m still dreamin’. Yeah, that's the only way to explain it.’

‘Explain what?’ 

He leant down, eyes set upon yours. There was a flash of something, a firefly against the darkness of his irises, a red glow. So very red. But then you blinked and it was gone. 

‘Well, why was an English lass reciting ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’?’

Those words snared you, wire tightening around your throat. His voice had changed, no longer a Southern drawl, but an Irish lilt. And his tone had become abrasive, harsh enough to draw blood. There was anger in his eyes.

But, defiance bloomed within you, fed on soil rich with the anger of the last few years of your life. Rebellion unfurled. 

‘Why is an Irish boy pretending to be southern?’ You countered heatedly.

His lips pulled back in a sneer, revealing sharp, slightly crooked teeth. ‘Boy, is it? Oh, no darlin’, I’m no boy. I was born beneath an Irish sun that still shone on land that your people hadn’t yet stolen.’ 

‘Those are the words of a madman.’ You answered, breathing growing ragged at his proximity.

The Empire had first invaded Ireland hundreds and hundreds of years ago.

‘Oh, yes, mad is what I am. Mad with grief.’ You gasped when his hand shot out and grabbed your chin. He moved in closer, lips brushing your cheek until he pressed them to the shell of your ear. ‘And what is a lunatic to do, when he hears a song of Irish rebellion fall from English lips? Full, pretty lips, aye, but English all the same? All your lot know how to do is steal, isn’t that right?’

‘I didn’t steal it,’ you say, finding strength in indignation, ‘my father taught me the poem. He said I should know it, seeing as I was descended from the fighters.’ 

Your ancestors fought and died in the Rebellion in County Wexford in seventeen ninety-eight, when Irish rebels revolted against oppressive British rule. They were violently struck down, countless ending up in mass graves, barley oats in their pockets that then grew up out of the earth. The poem, named after the rebellion, was written sixty-three years later by the poet Robert Dwyer Joyce. 

The poem was one of the first things you remember your father teaching you. He had been born in Ballymurn, not far from Wexford. Hundreds of years had passed and his family hadn’t moved far from the sight of that rebellion.

Remmick's grip tightened for a second, nails digging in as a warning, but then he let go. He pulled back just enough to peer down at you, the sweat-slick front of your dress brushing his shirt.

‘Oh, an Irish girl?’ He taunted. He was evidently still riled, but there was a sort of excitement shimmering in his eyes. ‘An Irish girl with an English accent, singing of rebellion in a bar in Mississippi.’

You narrowed your eyes at the challenge in his voice. He didn’t believe you. Or at least, he didn’t want to. 

‘Afraid to get your hopes up?’ You goaded.

‘What exactly would I be hoping for?’ 

You smile teasingly. ‘A mad Irish boy, who claims to be hundreds of years old, approaches me with anger when truly he is just sad. Sad and alone. You are seeking something, aren’t you? Some piece of home?’ 

He chuckled, but it was brittle. When he reached out his other hand and took your flushed cheeks into his hold, thumbs brushing the line of your jaw, you found yourself not trying to flee, but fighting the instinct to lean in. 

‘Is that what you are to be, love?’ He whispered. ‘Are you to be my piece of home?’

‘You miss it,’ you said, voice hoarse with pain that was not yours, but what you felt from him. 

His eyes ran over the curves of your face, mapping them as if he’d find a glimpse of Ireland there.  

‘I miss it,’ he affirmed darkly, fingers pressing in, ‘but what I miss I can never return to. I miss living without a foreigner’s God in my mind, without my tongue mutilated to speak the language of the invader. Both mind and body torn apart. I am eternally bloody and bleeding.’

When his voice cracked, you found yourself reaching up, your hands curling around his wrists, not to pull him off you but to keep him there.

Unbidden, the poem poured out of you as it had in the bar, only this time it was without music and your only audience member was him: 

‘I sat within a valley green, 

I sat there with my true love,

My sad heart strove the two between,

The old love and the new love, -

The old for her, the new that made

Me think of Ireland dearly, –’

You were cut off when Remmick swayed forward, almost as if in a trance. He bent down and dipped his head low, his hot breath fanning against your neck. When your recitation stopped, he let out a disgruntled huff, almost animalistic. When his next words came you felt the shape of them on your neck where he pressed his lips.

‘Don’t stop.’ He murmured, teeth scraping your flesh.

You swallowed down your trepidation and kept speaking. As you did, his lips stayed pressed on your neck as if he was using them to feel your pulse:

‘While soft the wind blew down the glade

And shook the golden barely

‘Twas hard the woeful words to frame

To break the ties that bound us

‘Twas harder still to bear the shame

Of foreign chains around us

And so i said “The mountain glen

I’ll seek next morning early

And join the brave United Men!” -’

When you stopped, he planted a proper kiss on your neck. Then his tongue met your flesh and he dragged it up teasingly, gathering drops of sweat until he reached that tender spot just below your ear. It was tantalising in its promise, but already a mere promise was not enough.

As if he tasted your impatience on your flesh, Remmick chuckled, the noise vibrating right down into the core of you.

‘Eager little thing.’ He whispered into you ear, nipping at the lobe. 

Growing burdened by the heat rising in you, you moved your hands to mirror his on your face and cupped his cheeks. You repaid him in kind by digging your fingers into his skin. That seemed to please him no end and he groaned wantonly, pulling you so closer to him. 

‘Remmick,’ you began, ignoring your better sense that was screaming at you to shut your mouth, ‘do you want to come i-’

Before you could finish your request, he pressed a finger to your lips and shushed you, gently, but urgently.

There was unbridled desire in Remmick's eyes, you could practically feel him shake with it. And yet, his expression pinched as he fought against himself.

‘No- no darlin’ you don’t want to do that yet.’ He spoke the last word as if it was a prophecy: you would let him in, but he did not want it to be now. 

‘Why don’t I, Remmick?’ 

You knew why.

Even after only a few minutes spent in his company, you knew there were ample reasons for you to be much more afraid of him than you had been of Benny, and yet you wanted his reasoning. Remmick intrigued you when instinct said you should be horrified.

Remmick pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth and pulled away, but only by a hair's-breadth, to answer you.

‘Because when you invite me in, you will do so knowing all the ways you will be consumed. I will have you in your bed, I will know every inch of your flesh, but when we are truly joined, I will know all you feel and see all that you have seen.’

It shouldn’t have made sense and yet the words brought you clarity. Perhaps not clarity of his meaning, but of yourself. You knew, in that moment, that you would end up letting him subsume you.

Remmick was shattered, but you would let him embed the broken pieces of himself within you if it meant you were no longer alone. You would bleed to escape the despair of solitude.

‘Why wait?’ You asked, grabbing his shirt and twisting the fabric so hard that another of his buttons came undone. ‘Tell me the truth of it now and you will have me now.’

Remmick took your mouth in a bruising kiss and it was soon followed by a sharp pain when he bit down, hard, on your bottom lip. You barely tasted the metallic of your blood before his tongue came and gathered it up, licking you clean. He groaned into your mouth as his hands landed on your hips, coasting down to squeeze your backside.

‘You still don’t understand, do you?' He said, 'My lust isn’t for your body alone. Once I have fucked you, I will not slip out into the night. I will live in the darkness of you and you in mine.’ 

‘You sound like a madman. Again.’ 

‘I told you already, I am mad.’ 

Then, with jarring speed, Remmick pulled away and shoved you back. It sent you sprawling painfully onto the steps of your porch. Spine hitting hard-edged wood.

Equally disorientated and outraged, you looked up at him, prepared to hurl more than a few nasty words, but they all died in your throat. 

Remmick's eyes were alight with red, the burning end of a cigarette in the dark. His teeth had changed too, as sharp as dagger. And then there were his hands…instead of nails he had claws.

‘This is what becomes of a boy from Ireland when his soul gets trapped, darlin’, he said darkly, ‘My soul is shaped by the hand of oppressor’s and I cannot be rid of it, even in death. I will never go home and I can never be home, not even in my own mind. I was drawn to your sweet song, the poetry of pain and resistance. Now, you must decide if you want to resist the pain of me.’

‘Would it change anything? If I chose to resist now?’

‘No. But it will be oh so delicious to watch you try. Do that for me, won’t you? It’ll make it so much sweeter when you finally give in.’

‘What are you?’

‘I am exactly what you said. I’m lonely.’ He began to step backward and his eyes did not leave yours. ‘Lock your doors, sweet girl, there’s all sorts of evil that might try to get in. And unlike me, it won’t ask nicely.’

As he was absorbed into the shadows and became one with the darkness, his voice remained reciting another part of ‘The Wind that Shakes the Barley’:

‘While soft winds shook the barley,

While sad I kissed away her tears, 

My fond arms ‘round her flinging, 

The foeman’s shot burst on our ears,

From out the wildwood ringing, –

A bullet pierced my true loves side,

In life’s young spring so early,

And on my breast in blood she died

While soft winds shook the barley!’

You did not sleep that night. Not true sleep, anyway. Remmick stalked your dreams, remaining in shadow even in your subconscious mind.

You awoke aching. You ached with the desire for him to return. You ached with pain, the same sort of pain when your bones grew as a child: uncomfortable, inevitable and signalling a great change to come. 

You did not trust Remmick and knew to fear what he was. Maybe you even resented him. Yet you did want him to return to you.

Maybe you would welcome him in, or maybe you would leave him scratching at the door. 

You had a bone-deep knowledge that he would seduce you eventually, but even the illusion of that choice made you feel more alive than you had been in years.

You didn't know it yet, but the man who brought death had reminded you that your heart still beat. He would also be the one to stop it. 

But when? 

And what would come after life?

Thank you for reading! Comments are so very welcome, author's thrive on feedback!

Part II - Fall On Me Like Night

[dirtylittlediary]

too big - frank castle

pairing : frank castle x f!reader

summary : i mean... its in the title. (basically frank is hung like a fkn horse and he's scared to hurt you)

word count : 11.3 k (mightve gotten carried away oops)

warnings : MINORS DNI please just don't, p in v, oral (m receiving) unprotected smut (wrap that shlong pls), swearing, reader uses she/her, praise, size diff kink if you squint, slight age gap, pet names, no use of y/n, pls lmk if i missed any :)

a/n : as usual my lovelies this is not proofread so please excuse any repetitions/inconsistencies or spelling mistakes ! also i loved writing this holy shit i'm nasty

It's clear to anyone dumb enough to spend time with you and frank that the two of you are completely enamored with each other.

I mean, it's hard not to tell when the man can hardly keep his hands to himself when you're near. It's like he's hardwired to constantly crave your touch, and that only gets worse when you're standing somewhere close and have the absolute gall to not sit on his lap.

Dating an older man has always scared you off. Until you met Frank. He's not much older than you, but enough for people to be skeptical when seeing the two of you together. But there's no denying that Frank loves you.

What started as a casual friendship because of Curtis, forcing the two of you to hang out a little bit more, and Frank showing up to Curtis's meetings just to see you, evolved into a soft understanding.

It wasn’t loud.

Nothing about you and Frank ever really was. Not at first.

It crept in—quiet, steady, almost invisible if you weren’t paying attention. The way he started sitting closer to you at Curtis’s meetings. The way his eyes would track you when you moved around the room, like he needed to know where you were at all times. The way his voice—usually rough, sharp, worn down to gravel—would soften just a fraction when he spoke to you. No one missed it. Not Curtis. Not Karen.

Hell, not even the guys who only saw Frank in passing.

Because Frank Castle—the man who didn’t linger, didn’t touch, didn’t stay—hovered around you like you were something he didn’t quite understand but couldn’t walk away from. And you… You let him. At first, it was small things. You’d patch him up without asking too many questions. He’d show up half-broken, blood soaking through whatever shirt he had left, and you wouldn’t flinch. Wouldn’t lecture. Wouldn’t ask him to stop. You’d just sigh softly, sit him down, and say,

“Take it off.”

And he would.

Every time. No fight. No attitude. No smart remark. Just quiet obedience in a way that didn’t make sense for a man like him. You were the only one he let see him like that. Not the Punisher. Not the weapon.

Just… Frank.

Bruised. Bleeding. Human. And somewhere along the way, that became your normal. You’d clean his wounds, your fingers gentle, careful—always careful—and he’d sit there watching you like you were doing something sacred instead of stitching him back together with shaking hands. Because you were different. You weren’t hardened. Not like the people he knew.

Not like him.

You still hesitated sometimes. Still winced when the cuts were deep. Still muttered soft apologies under your breath when he hissed in pain—even when it wasn’t your fault. And the first time he realized that?

It did something to him. Something quiet. Something dangerous. Because you weren’t used to this world. And he knew it. Knew it in the way your hands trembled just slightly the first time you had to dig a bullet out of his side. Knew it in the way you avoided looking at the scars that weren’t fresh. Knew it in the way you’d look at him sometimes—like you were trying to understand how someone could carry so much violence inside them and still sit so still for you. You weren’t untouched by life. But you were… soft. In a way he didn’t think existed anymore.

Frank Castle—impatient, relentless, brutal— Was impossibly gentle with you. Like he was afraid you’d break if he wasn’t. The first time he touched you—really touched you—it wasn’t greedy. Wasn’t desperate.

It was careful. A hand at your waist, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You didn’t. Your breath caught instead. And that was all the permission he needed. Even then, he moved like he was learning you. Like you were something fragile and rare and completely unfamiliar.

Because you were. You weren’t like the women he’d known before. There was no practiced confidence. No ease. Just soft breaths, unsure hands, and wide eyes that flickered with something between fear and trust. Just Frank's soft voice as he bent you over your bed, and hoisted a pillow beneath your hips, muttering something about making it hurt less. All you could do was whine and crane your neck to try and look at him.

And God— The trust. That’s what got him. Because you trusted him.

Him.

Frank Castle. A man built from violence and loss and blood. And you let him hold you like he wasn’t. So he treated you like something sacred. Like something he didn’t deserve but couldn’t stop himself from keeping. He’d brush your hair back from your face like it mattered. Press his forehead to yours like it grounded him. Murmur soft, barely-there reassurances against your skin when you got overwhelmed—quiet “I got you”’s that sounded nothing like the man people feared. You brought something out of him no one else ever had.

As time went on Frank got my comfortable, slightly more rough in bed as he started to understand your body and it's needs, how that little shiver that passes through you means you're close. But the truth is-

You have never actually seen Frank's dick.

That sounds absurd.

I mean, after all, he's your boyfriend. Of course you've seen it.

Well, glimpses of it.

Pressing through his pants, the base of it as you crane your neck to try to look at him as he softly guides it through your folds.

Always the same thing. Your ass up in the air, facing him, a pillow wedged beneath your hips and then the inexplicable feeling of being so fucking full that you feel like you're floating until your knees start to shake and your pussy clenches around him- and then he's pulling out, kissing the backs of your thighs, murmuring praises as you come down from your high.

And then he vanishes into the bathroom- the sink turned on, not to be seen for another ten minutes- before emerging with his pants back on and a wet towel in hand to clean you up. Not to sound ungrateful- you loved Frank. You loved being intimate with him, grinding on his lap and feeling him go hard beneath you, his length pressed to your thigh. You knew he was big, I mean, he was inside of you almost every night. But you'd never actually seen just how big.

Everytime you dropped down to your knees in front of him, grabbing at his waist band, he'd tut and pull you up,

"Nah, don't wan' none o'that, sweetheart." Before splaying your thighs wide open and spending hours between your legs, beard tickling your thighs, tongue lapping at your cunt like a man starved, pulling orgasm after prgasm from you until his lips shine with the sheen of your juices. At first, you thought nothing of it. You thought it was sweet. He was so desperate to make you feel good.

But then your friend pointed it out.

“You’ve been with him this long and you’ve never actually… seen him?” your friend had said, brows raised in disbelief. You’d laughed it off at first. Shrugged.

“Of course I have,” you’d insisted, heat creeping up your neck. But even as you said it, something in your chest twisted.

Because… Had you? Really? You’d felt him. Knew the weight of him, the way your body reacted to him, the way he filled every inch of space until you couldn’t think straight. You knew how his hands felt, how his voice dropped when he got close, how he’d murmur soft praise against your skin like it was something private, something only meant for you. But seen him? Not properly. Not fully. And once the thought was there, it wouldn’t leave.

It replayed in your mind, over and over. The way he always guided you gently into position—always facing away, always careful, always focused on you. The way his hands would linger at your hips, grounding, steady. The way he’d press his forehead briefly to your shoulder sometimes, like he needed that contact before anything else.

And then after— He’d disappear. Like clockwork. Bathroom door. Running water. Silence. You never questioned it. Because it was Frank.

Because everything about him came with edges you didn’t push.

But now… Now it felt like something you couldn’t ignore.

Frank, who watched you like you were something worth memorizing. Frank, who traced your skin like he was learning it. Frank, who never once made you feel rushed, or used, or anything less than… cherished.

Why would he hide?

The question lingered. And it changed the way you noticed things.

The way his hand would stop yours if you reached too low, too curious. The way he’d redirect you—soft, gentle, but firm.

The way he always made it about you.

Always.

At first, it had felt like care. Like patience. Like love. And it still was.

But now there was something else underneath it.

------

You worry your bottom lip as you pace the length of your room, sighing annoyedly at the way your brain is running at a hundred miles an hour. You're convinced your feet have worn a dent in the hardwood floor, and your heart is racing so fast you can hear the blood rushing behind your ears.

Beyond the door, Frank is sat on the couch, legs spread wide, beer in hand- watching late night TV while waiting for you to come out of the "shower"- completely oblivious to what is really happening in the confines of your shared room.

Now or never.

It's now or never.

Determined, you tuck your hair behind your ears and make sure that the silk nightdress you slipped on is fitting you just right before tearing the door open and softly padding your way to the living room. Frank is lounging on the couch, shirtless and wearing a pair of gray sweats that hang deliciously low on his hips, legs spread apart like they're just begging for you to sink to your knees infront of him. The thought of feeling him, having the weight of his cock press against your tongue, feel the tip hit the back of your throat so hard tears fling to your eyes makes warmth pool in your belly and you clench your thighs at the thought. Frank's eyes snap up the second he hears you, sitting up properly.

"Hiya, sweet thing." He hums, grinning up at you as he pats his lap, an invitation for you to come sit on his lap.You can already see the hardening outline of his cock behind the sweatpants- meaning your night dress is doing it's job. "How was your shower, baby ?" he hums as you sit horizontally on his lap, curling into him. He kisses your forehead as he tucks you into him, his hand finding a familiar resting place on your thigh, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the inside. The TV casts a sheen glow over the two of you, and you sigh into his chest, running your fingers along the hard ridges of his muscles.

"Would've been better if you were there." You hum, and despite himself, Frank chuckles.

"I'm sure it woulda been," He hums, chest rumbling against your cheek. He takes a small sip of his beer and sets it aside, sighing contentedly ash he pulls you in closer. Your thoughts are running faster than they ever have, your brain a whirlwind. You barely hear Frank when he asks,

"Did'ya eat ?" You nod wordlessly against his chest.

Frank frowns at the lack of response.

That's not like you at all. Usually you'd quip back something snarky, or witty- something to make him laugh, or make him frown and force you to eat something other than an PB and J made in a rush at seven am.

"Baby ?"

"I ate." You manage. You clear your throat and pull away from him slightly, gearing to get off his lap when he grabs your arm. He twists you to face him, your body wedged between his thighs. He sits up straight- and it's almost absurd how he's your full standing height like this.

"What's wrong ?" He asks.

Despite your best effort, your bottom lip starts to wobble. Frank's chest squeezes in worry and he softly drags his hands down your sides, palming at your ribs and waist to ry to guide you back into his lap.

"Baby ? What happened-"

"Do you not like looking at me ?"

The air between the two of you hangs suspended, filled with electric tension. Frank can't help but laugh,

"What the hell are you talking about ?" he mutters, shaking his head as he brings his thumb up to wipe a tear away from your eye before it has the chance to fall fully down your face. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard. You're fuckin' goregous baby. Matter of fact- this dress you got on has me fuckin' reelin-"

"But you don't like to look at me when you fuck me ?" You manage, arms crossing over your chest. Frank's hear feels like it's been ripped out of his chest, and he suddenly feels like he can't fucking breathe. He stares up at you, your teary eyes, the way you're biting at the inside of your cheek, leaning backwards despite being trapped between his thigh, as if you want to just get away from him. Frank's eyes blow open a fraction before narrowing as he frowns.

"Okay, now you're talkin' crazy." He huffs, shaking his head.

"Am i ?" You manage, your throat tight. You look down at your hands, toying with the satin hem of your dress. "You never let me look at you- you're always behind me when you fuck me. You never let me suck you off, it's always you eating me out and i-"

"Woah, woah." Frank leans forward, wrapping his hand around the back of your knees, dragging you forward towards him. He runs his hands over your thighs, sighing heavily. "Baby, that has nothing to do with how you look." he says, his voice dropping to the low, comforting octave he always takes with you when you're upset. His hand reaches up and cups the back of your neck, his thumb forcing under your jaw to make you look at him. "You get that ?" You sniffle, jerking away from him.

"I've never even seen you, Frank." You blubber, your words sounding more stupid as you go on- but you can't stop them now. "And you've seen every square inch of me. You only ever take me from the back-"

"Sweetheart." He rasps, head dropping. He sighs, his hands leaving you momentarily to drag down his face. "I do that so that it won't hurt you." You sniffle.

"I can take it. I'm not a baby." You rasp. He laughs, a short gentle thing. He shakes his head.

"I'm not saying you are." He sighs, his hands smoothing over your thighs. "Look, when I was with Maria- and other women before her- they always told me that certain positions hurt, that it was too much. That one was the only one that didn't." You look down, biting at your bottom lip.

"I can take it, Frank. I have before. All those other times-" He shakes his head, hiding a small smile.

"No, you ain't, baby." You frown.

"What do you mean ?" He groans, tilting his head back, clearly not wanting to have this conversation out of fear to upset you.

"I don't... fuck- i don't put all of it in." He says. Your throat goes dry.

"What do you mean ?" You repeat again, your breath wobbly. He sighs, looking up at you.

"It means the full thing doesn't fuckin' fit, baby."

Your breath stutters. For a second, you just… stare at him. Because the way he says it - flat, matter-of-fact, like it’s not even up for debate -knocks the wind right out of you.

“…What?” you whisper. Frank huffs out a quiet breath, dragging a hand over his face again like he regrets even opening his mouth.

“You heard me,” he mutters. But you don’t move on. You can’t. Your fingers curl tighter into your dress, your mind scrambling to catch up with what he just said—what it means.

“That doesn’t-" you shake your head slightly, brows pulling together. “That doesn’t make sense. I would know, Frank.” He looks at you then. Really looks at you. And there’s no teasing in his expression. No smugness. No exaggeration. Just… patience.

“You feel full, right? You feel good ?” he asks again, quieter this time, as he presses a hand to your stomach. You hesitate, but ultimately nod, the thought of having Frank buried inside you making your insides churn with deep need.

“Yeah…” He gives a small nod back, like that confirms it all over again.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “That’s you already at your limit.” Your stomach flips. Because now - now it does make sense. The way he always moves so carefully. The way he never rushes. The way he stops the second your body tightens too much, even if you haven’t said a word.

“…So you’ve just been…” you trail off, not even sure how to finish that sentence.

“Holdin’ back?” he fills in. You look up at him. He shrugs slightly, like it’s nothing. Like it hasn’t been a constant, conscious effort every single time he touches you. “Yeah.” Silence settles between you. Heavy. Different now. Not insecurity anymore—but something deeper. Something that sits right in your chest and refuses to move.

“You think I can’t handle you ?" you say after a moment, softer now. Frank’s expression tightens immediately.

“That ain’t what I said.”

“It’s what you mean.”

“No,” he says, firmer this time. His hand comes up, gripping your jaw just enough to make you look at him again. “What I mean is - I’m not willin’ to find out the hard way where your limit is.” That shuts you up. Because there’s something in his voice - something serious. “You don’t… always tell me when somethin’s too much,” he adds, quieter, sighing as he continues to run his hands over you. “You try to take it. Power through it.” Your throat tightens. Because again— He’s not wrong. “I don’t wanna be the reason you’re in pain and don’t say it,” he continues. “So yeah - I control it. I keep it where I know you’re okay.” You sniffle.

"So what you're saying - is that your dick's too big ? Wow, real small ego you got there, Frankie." Frank laughs out loud, shaking his head. You can't help it- a smile tugs at your lips too.

"Jesus, woman." He grumbles, shaking his head. Frank huffs, dragging a hand down his face like he’s trying not to laugh again, but it’s already there - low and rumbling in his chest. “Yeah, real funny,” he mutters, shooting you a look that’s more tired than anything, but there’s warmth in it. Always is with you. “That’s what you took from all that, huh?” You shrug a little, the corner of your mouth still twitching.

“I mean… kinda walked right into that one,” you mumble. He shakes his head again, but his hand comes back to your thigh, thumb brushing slow, absentminded circles like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Christ,” he exhales, softer now. “You’re unbelievable.” There’s no bite to it. Just… fondness. The kind he doesn’t give out to anyone else. The tension that had been coiled tight between your ribs loosens, just a little.

“…You could’ve just told me,” you say after a second, quieter now. “Instead of makin’ me think you didn’t wanna—look at me or whatever.” That lands. It always does when it comes from you like that—honest, not accusatory, just… a little hurt. Frank’s expression shifts, something heavier settling back in.

“Yeah,” he admits. “Probably should’ve.” His hand stills on your leg for a moment before sliding up to your waist, grounding you closer without forcing it. “I ain’t exactly good at explainin’ things,” he adds, glancing at you. “You might’ve noticed.” A small huff of laughter leaves you despite yourself.

“Little bit.” He nods once, like - fair enough.

Silence settles again, but it’s different now. Not sharp. Not confusing. Just… quiet. Your fingers drift to his shoulders, pressing the pads of them into his collarbone.

“…So,” you start, hesitant but still curious, “that’s the only reason?” Frank’s eyes narrow slightly.

“What d’you mean ‘only’?”

“I mean,” you shift a little where you’re still half in his lap, “you’re not, like… avoiding it for some other reason?” There’s a flicker of something in his expression—brief, almost gone before you catch it.

“Like what?” he asks. You hesitate.

“Like you don’t want me,” you admit softly. That one hits deeper than the joke did. Frank’s brows pull together immediately, his hand tightening just slightly at your waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, firmer now. “Don’t start that.”

“I’m just asking - "

“And I’m tellin’ you, no,” he cuts in, not harsh, just certain. His other hand comes up, nudging your chin so you’re looking at him again. “Ain’t got nothin’ to do with wantin’ you. You got that?” Your eyes search his face. He doesn’t look away. Your hands drift on his bare chest, and he grabs you by the waist and pulls you to him. He guides you so that you straddle his lap, and he presses your pelvis to his. "Feel that ?" He hums. "That's because you walked in, in that lil' dress of yours." He says, his voice a stark contrast compared to the hard length pressed against your thigh. You whimper as your hips instinctively grind against him, your nails digging into his bare biceps. He kisses a few open mouthed kisses to your neck. "Don't ever say that I don't want ya'. Fuck, baby, you're all i fuckin' want. You're all I crave. Day in and day out." He mutters and you whine, fingers digging into his hair.

"Frank.." He nods against your skin, arms wrapping around you before lifting you as he stands, before dropping you on the couch and placing you face down , your arms pressed to the arm rest in front of you.

"I know, baby." He hums. "Gon' make you feel good, hm ?" You're about to nod- to give in, to let him take you like this when your body jerks in sudden realisation. You wiggle away from him, and slide to the floor, landing on your knees. Frank laughs, sitting down with his arms stretched out, ready to grab you. "Baby ? Whatcha' doin' ? C'mere-"

"Frank." You say, your voice stern. "I don't want to do it like that." You manage. Frank freezes.

Clearly he had misread the conversation.

"Baby, c'mon."

"No I mean it. What I said earlier, i-" You gulp, shaking your head as you crawl over to him and kneel between his parted legs. You reach up and latch your fingers around the hem of his sweats, staring up at him. "I don't want you to hold back anymore." You mutter, shaking your head. Frank is about to protest, but then your soft hands find the curve of his V-line, and he turns to pure putty in your hands, his chest heaving as he watches you through heavy lids as you pull his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers following suit. His dick springs up like a solider at attention, the tip red and leaking with pre-cum that drips onto his stomach. Frank groans, a deep, chested groan at the feel of the cool air on his dick.

And you... Wow. You can't stop staring.

Not only is he big- bigger than you've managed to sneak a peak at- he's thick. Veins running up the sides of it, and you tentatively reach out and grab a hold of him at the base. He twitches in your hand, and you have to keep yourself from letting your hand snake down to pinch at your clit. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and Frank's hips buck involuntarily into your hand.

"Shit- mmph- okay, okay, fine. You win. You can jerk me off. Just please, fuckin' do something, baby, or i'm blowin' my load right now and it'll be embarassing for both of us."

But you don't want to jerk him off.

Softly, you reach up onto your knees and press a soft kiss to the base of him, and his eyes fly open at the contact.

"Sweetheart-" he barely has time to fully voice his protest before your tongue darts out to drag against his tip, gathering the precum and tasting it. God the taste makes you moan around his tip, and Frank's eyes screw shut again as his hand darts down to wrap in your hair, pulling it away from your face- and effectively keep ing your lips away from his throbbing dick. He shakes his head, ragged breaths tearing out of him as you continue to move your hand alone him, your hat breath fanning of his length and making him go dizzy.

"You can't- fuck- you can't do that again, mama." He hums. "I won't be able to control myself- I'll hurt you, and I don't- " He rasps, shaking his head. You pout, shaking your head.

"I don't want you to control yourself. I want you to fuck my throat, Frank." Frank chokes on air.

His girl.

Such dirty things, falling from her perfect lips.

Usually Frank was the one spewing dirty things in your ear until you were spent frofromriding the fuck out of his fingers, leaving a wet patch on his pants.

"Baby-" His grip in your hair has loosened, probably from shock of your words, and you surge forward again, sucking him into your mouth. Frank throws his head back, a ragged moan escaping his lips. Your lips barely fit around him, and you bob your head up and down, trying your best to take more and more of him as you go.

You hollow your cheeks and try again, this time flattening your tongue more, tasting salt and skin and something so Frank it makes you whimper around him, and god—he wasn’t kidding.

You feel the stretch at the corners of your mouth, the push against the roof, the impossible thickness, and there's something about struggling a little that makes you shudder. You blink back tears when he hits the soft part at the back of your throat. Frank’s hand tenses in your hair, not shoving, not guiding—just holding, steady and warm.

“Jesus Christ, honey,” he hisses and you hear it, the roughened edge of his voice, the way it sounded so close to breaking. You choke a bit, eyes watering, but you don't stop.

You wanted this.

There's a different kind of ache now, low in your belly, a need that makes you bold as you drewdraw him in again, saliva gathering fast.

Frank is going to die.

This is it.

This is the end of him, right here on his own couch - his sweet girl on her knees, spit-slicked lips stretched around him, and not a single thought in his head except how goddamn perfect you look.

Christ, your jaw is trembling with the effort, tears clinging to your lashes, but you don't stop. Not even when he swears, not when he pulls you hair tight enough to make you gasp, not when his thighs start to shake.

He wants to stop you.

He really does.

He knows his own size, knows the thickness was a fucking problem for a mouth that small. But every time he starts to say something, you moan or squeeze his base a little tighter, and he looses all conviction, his brain reduced to static.

"Fuck, baby-" he rasps, hips bucking up into your mouth. Whatever doesn't fit that far is wrapped in your fist, and you give him a little squeeze before popping him out of your mouth, panting. His eyes fly open, staring down at you. "Shit, shit-" He pushes himself up, taking in the dazed look in your eyes and the way your whole body is shaking. "Was it too much ? Baby, did I hurt you ?"

You shudder, wiping tears from you cheek with your wrist, and look up at Frank through your damp lashes. He looks panicked. His hand hovers an inch from your face like he’s afraid to touch you, as if the mere graze of his palm might finish the job and knock your jaw clean off. His other hand grips the farthest end of the couch cushion, knuckles bone-bright, the way a drowning man might clutch a lifeline.

“Didn’t hurt,” you manage, voice shredded, throat raw. your lips feel bruised, stretched wider than a smile ever had, but you mean it. You give him a grin, a little shaky, and that seems to make it worse. He makes a noise—half relief, half terror—and pulls you up by the underarms, settling you in his lap like he needs to reassemble you from the mess you’d made of yourself at his feet. “Jesus Christ,” he says again, kissing his way to your body. “You did so good.” You roll your eyes.

“I didn’t even finish the job.” You hum.

“Later.” He rasps, shaking his head. You shake your head in reply, grinding down on him.

“No, Frank. Now.” To Frank's horror- or pleasure, he’s not sure, thetwo seem to have melded into one by now, he can feel your folds gliding against him.

Fuck, you’re not wearing fucking panties.

Frank’s hands come to your waist, but there’s a caution to them now, a tremor of restraint that makes your skin prickle with want and frustration.

“Easy, honey,” he says, voice split between gravel and velvet. “Let’s just- let’s take it slow, yeah? Play it safe.” But you’re already tilting your hips, already grinding down on him, making the leaking tip of his cock glide slick against your folds. You’re soaked, thighs sticky with it, and you want nothing more than to see how much you can take—if you can take all of him. The idea of it, the challenge, makes every nerve in your body light up with electricity.

"M' tired of playing it safe." You whimper, hand reaching up to trace Frank's chest. Frank’s grip tightens, but not enough to stop you. If anything, it feels like he’s holding you steady, like you’re a hurricane he’s volunteered to brace against.

“You don’t have to,” he says, barely above a whisper, and it sounds like a warning, but there is barely any resolve there. You’re about to answer when you roll your hips one more time, and the tip of him breaches your entrance with a squelch, and Frank has to physically lift you off of him to stop you from trying to take all of him in one fail swoop. Frank’s hands lock around your waist as if you’re glass and he’d just caught you mid-fall.

“Hey, hey,” he grunts, face going taut and white as bone. “That’s enough. That’s—fuck, that’s not playin’ around anymore, sweetheart.” You want to laugh. You want to say,

You think I’m playing? but the words stick somewhere in your throat, knotted up behind want so abject it leaves no room for anything else. It isn’t just the ache between your legs or the rubber-band tension up your spine. It’s the way he keeps looking at you, mouth hard and tight with need and worry, the way his thighs tense and twitch beneath you like your body alone makes him nervous.

If you weren’t so wet you might’ve been offended.

Truth is, Frank has dreamed of taking you like this. Being able to move your hips in sync with his, watching your sopping cunt sink down and struggle to swallow all of him up, the way you would writhe and whine. But having it, right now- when he wasn't prepared for it ?

He can't helo but feel a little terrified.

You lift your hips off of his, softly reaching down between the both of you and grabbing his cock in your hands. He hisses at the contact, one hand wraped flimsily over your throat and jaw. He looks up at you, his chest heaving.

“You’re sure, baby ?” He rasps. You nod, whimpering at the emptiness.

“I’m sure, Frank.” You whine. He nods, his eyes wide. He gathers your nightdress up in his hands, bunching it up near your waist so he can see what you’re doing.

“Alright.” He groans. “We go slow, kay, baby ? Slow.” You're barely braced above him before Frank’s got both hands at your hips, the pads of his fingers digging into the soft flesh there, like he’s expecting you to take off running. You feel it, the tremor in his grip—less a warning, more a reminder, like he’s still not sure if you’re going to change your mind. But you won’t. Not when he’s looking up at you like that, mouth parted, breath coming just a little ragged at the edges. Frank runs his hands up and down your sides, steadying you with slow, broad sweeps.

“You gotta promise me,” he murmurs, voice so low it barely vibrates the air, “if it hurts too much, you say it. Don’t try to tough it out for me. You get me?” His eyes are dark, serious, but there’s a worry in them that makes your chest ache.

“I promise,” you whisper, and it’s the only thing that soothes his fear. He holds you steady, big hands bracing at your waist, eyes on your face instead of the place you’re both so desperate to look.

“Breathe, baby,” he says. His voice is as rough as the pad of his thumb stroking your hip, and shit, there’s more care in it than you can stand. “Nice and slow. You lead, I follow.” You nod, even though your hands shake against his chest.

Hell, your knees shake, your insides shake, but you want this.

You want every inch of him, even if it means tears streaking down your face and your jaw locking up. Even if it means he has to see you ugly-cry your way through the best sex of your life. You hover with his tip pressed right at your entrance. The stretch is immediate, so much more than what you’re used to, enough to make your whole body tense. You barely start to sink down before you freeze, breath catching in you throat. He tips his head back, a lewd moan slipping from his lips.

“Jesus, baby.” The stretch is a white-hot ache, harsher than you’d dreamed, like someone’s hollowed you out with a blunt instrument. Your nails dig into the meat of Frank’s shoulders and he hisses, but his hands on your hips don’t budge, a steady anchor. You try to breathe through it, slow and shallow, but your thighs tremble, teeth gritting against a whimper. Frank’s voice is a low, shuddering growl.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, and there’s awe tangled in his filth, like he’s seeing something sacred. “You’re doin’ so good for me. So fuckin’ good.” His thumb rubs a circle on your hip bone, coaxing, and the pressure’s so gentle it almost hurts worse. “Let it stretch you, honey. I got you.” You force yourself to open your eyes. He’s watching your face, jaw tight, forehead furrowed, his own lips parted. “Look at you. My pretty girl, taking my cock so good.” He hums. You huff out a quiet laugh- he’s not even halfway in. Thighs shaking, you dig your palms into Frank’s shoulders and push yourself down a little more. It’s impossible, how much of him is left - how much you want to take, even as your vision blurs at the edges. Frank tracks every change in you, every twitch and stutter of your body. The way your lips wobble, brow crumpled in something between agony and pure want. He holds you steady, lets you set the pace, but you can feel him trembling under your hands, like it’s costing him everything not to just grab your hips and slam himself home.

"S'it to much ? You gotta tell me baby." He rasps, and you quickly shake your head.

"N-No. Can take more. Want more, Frankie." You whine. He groans, low and heavy, his chest heaving, his knuckles whitening.

"Alright, baby." You force yourself down another inch, then another. The pain and the pleasure are so wrapped up it’s impossible to tell them apart anymore. You’re already crying, little noises you didn’t even know you could make, and yet you can’t stop, can’t stop even as your thighs shake, moisture slicking his lap and your own skin. He’s so deep you swear he’s up in your guts.

“That’s it, fuck,” Frank groans, the sound ripped straight from his chest. “Ya got it, mama, you got it.” he hums. You throw your head back, spreading your thighs wide, and you slide down the other inch. An unabashed moan rips through you as your clit nestles against his pubic bone, and your body falls forward.

"Mmph- Frank !" Frank’s gripping onto your thighs, sitting up properly to kiss your cheeks. Frank kisses the salty streaks off your cheeks, his calloused hands steadying you, one on your lower back and one splayed across your thigh, thumb tracing the soft inner seam. You can hear his heart pounding, a frantic, drumline thrum right beneath your sternum, your ribs nearly pressed together with his. The world’s closed down to just the two of you: your thighs quivering around his, your hands clawed into the sweat-slicked muscle of his shoulders, the sharp, dizzy ache of being ripped and made new around the kind of cock you’d never believed possible.

“Fucking - goddamn,” he rasps, his voice so low it crackles. “There you go, there you go, baby. C’mon, that’s it. Fuckin’ take it, just like that.” The praise is a hot, electric wire down your spine. You can barely catch your breath, mouth open wide, gulping air with each new surge of pleasure. Your hips give a tentative roll, and the pain that shoots up your thighs and ricochets into your pussy is like never before. You bite your lip to keep the whine from escaping, but you can’t help it. It tumbles past your lips, and Frank gives your ass a small slap.

“Hey. Hey, look at me, baby.” He kisses your forehead. “Take your time.” You whine, rolling your hips again, the pain subsiding.

“Feels so good, Frankie.” You whimper. “M’so full. So fuckin’ big.” Your hips jerk and the movement sends another slither of pain up your spine, but this time it feels… better. Not all the way good yet, but on the right side of addictive. You can feel yourself stretching to fit him, the way every tiny shift sends him deeper, fuller. You cling to his shoulders, forehead pressed to the crook of his neck, panting through the burn.

“Christ, that’s it,” he breathes, hands splayed wide on your hips, not moving, not pushing, just holding you steady while your body learns what to do with him. “You’re takin’ me so fuckin’ good, sweetheart. Didn’t think it was possible, but look at you. My girl.” The way he says it makes a jolt of pleasure rush up your spine. Frank rocks his hips up, buried deep, and it’s a punch to both your lungs and your ego that you can even take his whole length. Your walls clamp around him, and the sweet, mean stretch lands somewhere between a cramp and a revelation. Sweat beads along the curve of his neck, his breath gone ragged. The hand at your hip slides up, spans your ribs, steadying you as you circle your hips again, chasing whatever sensation comes next.

“Christ, listen to you,” he mutters. “Sound so fuckin’ pretty when you whimper.” He slides a palm up your spine, fingers kneading at the handful of your back until it’s not clear if he’s holding you up or holding you together. “Never seen anyone take it like you do, baby. Shit, you’re perfect.” You want to laugh, to tell him you’re a mess—sweat-slick, trembling, nearly sobbing as he works you open. But what comes out is wordless, a string of broken syllables that might be his name or might be just a sound, a plea, a warning. You don’t know anymore. You don’t think you care. Frank holds you there, his breath ragged against your temple, his hands so big around your hips that you could almost believe he’s the only thing keeping your insides from spilling out. You’re still adjusting, still shaking, but the burn’s gone gold at the edges—sharp at first, then molten, then a kind of desperate, addictive ache. It’s hunger. It’s grief. It’s a craving that lives in the marrow, not just the skin.

“Never thought you’d take it like this,” he says, voice rough, barely more than a growl. The words crack against your ear, and you shudder all the way down. “Fuck, baby, you’re squeezin’ the life outta me.” You can’t stop shaking. Your knees are spread wide, bracketing his hips, the insides of your thighs slick with sweat and slick with everything Frank’s ever dragged out of you. You thinks you'll never get used to the feeling of him, never stop being wrecked by the way he stretches you open—fuller than full, the kind of full that scrapes at yout sanity and sends sparks arcing up her spine. You try to move again, to work him deeper, but your body stutters, shudders, clamps up so tight you're afraid you'll never let him go. Frank’s hands slide beneath your ass, rough and steady, and he’s whispering again.

“Still good, baby? Still with me?” You hear herself answer before you've even thought about it.

“Yeah. Oh, fuck—”

“That’s my girl,” he growls, and his hands flex, digging into the meat of your ass, helping you find a rhythm. His hands force your ass up, switching from slow rolls to you bouncing up and down on his cock, the length splitting you open every time you fall back down. You whine, nails raking down his chest as he sets a cruelly slow pace. You nod wordlessly, as if saying, yes this is what i wanted, yout nails digging into his chest. He keeps his pace slow, hands bracing you, letting you ride out every inch.

The way you move is desperate, hips frantic, but you're still so fucking tight it’s like every thrust stretches you all over again. Frank can feel it in the way you shake, the way your nails score frantic down his chest, each movement another little gasp from you.

“That’s it, baby,” He says, rough and low. “You’re doing so good. You’re perfect.” IHe yanks down the top of your dress and softly coaxes your breast into his palm, rolling your nipple between his fingers and it makes you arch, your head falling back, mouth open in a silent moan.

“Fuck, you like that? You like being full like this?” He can’t help it, he want you to know, he wants you to hear yourself and know how fucking hot you are right now.

He reaches for your face, brushes the hair out of your eyes, and maks you look at him.

“Look at you. So pretty riding my cock.” You gasp, your body rocking forward.

“Fuck, Frank-” A desperate whine pulls from your lips, pussy clenching around his impossibly hard length. "Mmph- I need-" Your words are cut off by a whine, and your head falls back as Frank runs his lips over the plane of your neck.

"What is it, sweet girl ? What d'ya need, hmm ?" He asks, catching your face in his heads and tilting it down to force you to look at him. "Ya need me t'stop ?" You shake your head, slamming your hips down to accentuate your point.

"N-No ! Don-Don't you dare fucking stop." You whine, leaning in to press your lips to his. Frank’s mouth finds yours, heat and need and all the things he never says out loud, and he kisses you with a rough, desperate edge that’s never come out this way before. His hand tangles in your hair, holding you there, letting you bite and gasp and moan against his lips. You pull away, fingers tangled in his hair as you look up at him. You roll your hips again, and Frank’s head falls back, groaning as your pussy clenches around his thick length- buried inside you to the hilt.

“Need- Need to go harder, Frankie.” You whine. Frank’s hands squeeze your hips, bruising, and his voice unspools in a low, dangerous note:

“You sure about that, baby? I don’t wanna hurt you.” You dig your nails in harder, clinging to his shoulders like a life raft, and shake your head so he’ll quit asking, quit holding back, and just—fuck, just let go.

“Need it. Please, Frankie. Please.” That’s all it takes. Something in him snaps. A groan wrenches out of his chest, and his hands slide down, rough palms spanning your ass, and he’s pistoning up into you, hips snapping so hard you see stars behind your eyes. You yelp, then moan, shock and pleasure shooting through your body in a white-hot flash. He’s relentless, slamming into you, hitting so deep you swear you can feel him in your throat.He’s all breath and teeth now, his resolve snapping with every desperate roll of your hips.

He bucks up, his cock splitting you open even wider—impossible, you think, but then you feel it: the way he bottoms out, the edge of his blunt head pressing so deep it’s like he’s rearranging every nerve ending you have. You cry out, the sound ugly and perfect, but Frank’s hand is at the back of your head, his mouth over your mouth, swallowing the noise.He loses the last of his restraint and plants his feet, his thighs up and hips off the couch, and now every grind is harder, meaner, his cock punching into you until all you can do is sob and clamp tight around him. The sound is obscene: the wet slap of skin, the ragged gasps, the squeal of couch springs. Frank hauls you in, his mouth at your ear, his voice nothing but a ragged scrape.

“Fuck, you’re a mess for me,” he growls, each word a brand against your skin. “All that attitude, and you’re fuckin’ sobbing on my cock. So fuckin' tight f'me, huh ? Such a good girl.” His hand slides up, fingers digging into the back of your neck, holding you steady as he rams up into you, relentless, and the pain is gone now, replaced by something blinding—a pleasure so sharp it makes your vision white out, your whole body hollowing and clutching around him.You rock in rhythm with him and it’s obscene, the squelch of where you’re joined, the slap of skin on skin as he pounds up into you, the guttural noises you can’t keep inside.

“Fuck, you’re so wet for me, baby. Been dreamin’ about this, you taking all of me. Didn’t think you’d—I mean, Jesus, look at you.” He grabs your ass, kneading it and pulling you down, forcing you to take every last millimeter. “You’re squeezing so tight, you’re milkin’ me, fuck—” He grits his teeth, eyes half-lidded and hungry. “You wanna come? Wanna let go for me?”

“Yes. God, yes, please.” You whine. “M’s close, Frank-mmph.” Frank’s voice shudders into your ear, all rough pride and awe:

“Yeah? Gonna come for me, sweet thing? C’mon. Give it to me. I wanna feel you .” He doesn’t let up, hips slamming up so hard the world blurs at the edges, the couch frame groaning beneath both of you. You can’t move, you can barely breathe, his hand fisted in your hair and the thick length of him splitting you open again and again. The pleasure builds in your spine, a searing hot pressure that crests and breaks with each brutal thrust, and you’re babbling, words running together,

“Frank, fuck, Frankie, please—” He’s greedy for it now, for your noises, for the way your body clenches around him. His hand slides between your bodies, finds your clit with thick, callused fingers, and rubs it raw and fast. The touch is too much,paired with the rough upwards pistoning of his hips, and your thighs fly closed to clench together as your orgasm crashes over you, desperate spasms taking over your whole body. You can’t hear anything except the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding in your ears, synced up with the steady, brutal pace Frank sets. His cock drags out of you slow, then slams up so hard your vision goes black at the edges, every shockwave through your pelvis making your toes curl.

“Attagirl. That’s it baby, ride through it. Attagirl.” He’s making noises he’s never let you hear before—deep, raw, hungry things that sound like they’re being torn out of his chest. The look he gives you is wild, desperate, like he’s not sure if he wants to devour you or worship you. He pulls you down until your foreheads touch, the sweat on his brow mixing with yours.

“You’re fuckin’ perfect,” he rasps, and something hot and dangerous sparks in your belly. You’re clawing at his shoulders, leaving half-moon imprints in the flesh, riding the edge of pain and pleasure so sharp you can’t find the difference anymore. Frank’s hand clamps around your throat to keep you steady, his other hand still clenched at your waist.

"Shit, baby, i'm close." He rasps, and you whimper as you try to move your hips along with his, but the overstimulation wracks up your spine and you tense, letting him drive his cock up into you. You feel Frank’s cock twitch inside you, the urgent pulse of it syncing with your own rapid heartbeat, and you know he’s close even before his hips stutter and the muscles in his thighs go taut beneath you. The fingers at your waist grip tighter—near bruising—and his other hand comes up, thumb tracing a line along your jaw, anchoring you. You want the mess, the loss of control. You want him to stop speaking in careful half-steps and just fucking let go.

“Where d’ya want me sweet girl ?” He rasps, his restraint showing, his hand already drifting down towards where the two of you are conjoined to get ready to pull out. The question wobbles in your throat, half-swallowed by the slick heat and the way Frank’s fingers press into the curve of your jaw. He looks you dead in the eye, searching your face like he can find a map to this, too. Some secret code in the way you blink, the way you sway and curl tighter around him.

“Want it inside,” you gasp before he can break the stare, before self-doubt or good sense or whatever kept him guarded can muscle in. “Please, Frank. Please.” For a half-breath, it seems he might refuse you anyway—might white-knuckle that last scrap of control for the sake of gentleness, for your own good.

“Yeah? Want me to fill you up?” His voice is unsure, his eyes searching yours for confirmation. You nod wordlessly and he shakes his head, the gentleness he showed earlier resurfacing. “Baby, i need ya to tell me, kay ? Use your words.” Frank watches your face like its a code he can finally solve. Sweat tickes along his brow, not just fatigue, but the kind of focus he reserves for dismantling bombs and patching artery bleeds—urgent, precise, a little terrified. The request hits different coming from your mouth: raw, pleading, no filter. He gets it in his bones, even if his brain lags behind.

Inside. You want it inside.

His girl.

He wants to tell you no. Not because he doesn’t want it, but because he’d convinced himself he’d break you if he let go—like every inch of himself he held back was the difference between love and violence. But your face, flushed and wet and so fucking sure, said you’d survive it. Would probably haunt him if he didn’t.

“I mean it, Frankie.” Your voice cracks, the words sticking. “I want to feel you. All of it.” He doesn’t answer, just locks his hands tighter around your waist, and for one split second you see all the war in him: the need to protect, the need to ruin, the need to have you in every way. Then he grips your hips, braces his thighs, and surges up into you with a force that makes your vision shatter. Everything in you clamps around him, every nerve ending you have going off at once—pain, pleasure, something between the two that has no name, no anchor. You’ve never felt anything like it in your life. You think you might die from the stretch alone, but when the heat of him floods you, pulsing in hot, deep shocks, it’s like being electrocuted from the inside out.

“Shit, shit, fuck-!” Frank cries out, his pinned to yours as you feel him twitch and empty himself inside of you. You slump against him and his arms come around you immediately, his breath ragged as he thrusts lazily a few times, just to make sure he's all spent. His lips press to the crown of your head, kissing the area there softly as he runs his hands down the small of your back. Your breathing is ragged, a statcatto rythym as you bury your face in the crook of Frank's neck, hand resting on the other side of his neck, craving the gentle closeness.

"Jesus- fucking - Christ." He rasps, shaking his head. "You're fucking crazy, yknow that ?" He hums. You giggle- a shirt thing interrupted by hiccups, and you lick at your dry lips. He kisse your forehead again. "Lemme go get ya some water, baby." He hums. His hands settle at your waist, and the sound that follows is so insanely obscene that you almost want to go again. The sound that your bodies make when they disconnect, squelching and liquid squirting as he slolwy pulls his length out of you wakes you clit hum with anticipation.

That hum though is quickly replaced with the sharp pain of emptiness.

Frank stills the moment you make that soft, broken sound. Not the kind you’d made before - not the desperate ones, not the breathless ones - but something smaller. Quieter. It catches in your throat when he carefully, carefully slips the last of his length out of you, hands firm at your hips like he’s handling something fragile.

“Hey—hey,” he mutters immediately, all the air knocked out of his lungs. “Shit—did I—?” You cling to him before he can even finish the thought. Your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, your face pressed into his neck, a small whimper slipping out as your body adjusts to the sudden emptiness. Your fingers curl into his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself, like letting go might send you drifting somewhere you can’t quite follow yet. Frank freezes. Actually freezes.

Every muscle in his body locks up, his hands hovering for half a second like he doesn’t know where to touch you without making it worse.

“Baby,” he says, rough, bordering on panicked now. “Talk to me. Did I hurt you? I told you—fuck, I told you—”

“No—” your voice comes out soft, a little shaky, but not distressed. You nuzzle closer instead of pulling away, tightening your grip around him. “No, no… it’s not that.” He doesn’t relax. Not yet. His hand comes up to cradle the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder like he’s trying to shield you from something—even if that something is himself.

“Then what was that?” he presses, quieter now, but there’s an edge to it. Worry. Real worry. You huff out a tiny, breathless laugh against his skin.

“It just—” you shift slightly, wincing just a little, and his grip tightens instantly again, like he’s ready to stop the world for you. “It just feels weird when you’re not there anymore,” you admit. “I was… really stretched out, Frank.”There’s a pause. A long one.

“…Good weird?” he asks finally, cautious, like he’s stepping across thin ice. You nod against him, then realize he can’t see it and mumble,

“Yeah. Good weird.” That’s when he exhales. Not a small breath—no, it’s deep. Heavy. Like he’s been holding it in his chest this whole time and only now feels allowed to let it go.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath, pressing his lips to your temple. “You scared the shit outta me.” Your arms loosen just enough to look at him, your expression soft, a little dazed but warm.

“I’m okay,” you promise. He searches your face like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. Like he’s cataloguing every little detail—your eyes, your mouth, the way your breathing’s evening out. Then, finally, he nods.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, I know you are.”

But he still pulls you closer. Carefully, he shifts the two of you, easing you down against the couch so you’re not straining, making sure you’re comfortable before he even thinks about anything else. One of his hands stays firm at your waist, the other brushing your hair back from your face, slower now. Grounding.

“You sore?” he asks.

“A little,” you admit, voice soft. He hums, like he expected that.

“Yeah… figured.” His thumb traces along your side in slow, steady strokes. “That was… more than we usually—”

“I wanted it,” you cut in gently.

“I know,” he says immediately. No hesitation. No doubt. “I know you did.” That’s not the issue. His jaw tightens slightly, and his gaze drops for a second before coming back to you. “But next time,” he adds, quieter now, “you don’t just decide that on your own, alright?” You blink at him.

“Frank—”

“I mean it.” Not harsh. Just firm. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing just under your eye. “You tell me. Before. So I can take my time with you. Get you ready proper. Stretch you out properly so that it don't hurt when we're done.” There’s something in his voice—something protective, but not controlling. Careful. Thoughtful. “I don’t ever wanna be guessin’ with you,” he continues. “Don’t wanna be sittin’ here after wonderin’ if I pushed you too far.” Your chest tightens a little at that.

“I wasn’t too far,” you say softly.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I need to know know. Not just hope.” That lands.

“Okay,” you agree. His shoulders loosen just a fraction.

“Okay,” he echoes. He shifts you so that your in his arms, he carries you into your bedroom. He sets you down on the bed, sighing sofltly. He brushes your hair away from your face, humming. "Don't fall asleep, baby. I'll be right back." You make a small noise of protest immediately, your fingers catching weakly at his wrist before he can pull away.

“Don’t go far,” you mumble, already half-melting into the mattress. He huffs out a quiet breath—something between a laugh and a sigh—and leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Ain’t goin’ anywhere,” he mutters. “Just gimme a second.” You squint up at him suspiciously, even as your eyes threaten to close.

“You better not be doing your disappearing act again.” That earns you a proper huff.

“Jesus,” he mutters, shaking his head. “One time I clean up and suddenly I’m a flight risk.”

“Every time,” you correct sleepily. He pauses at the edge of the bed, glancing back at you, one brow raised.

“…You keep trackin’ that?”

“Mm,” you hum. “Suspicious behavior.” He lets out a low, amused exhale through his nose.

“Yeah, real suspicious,” he murmurs. “Man takes care of his girl, real criminal.”

“Debatable,” you mumble, already sinking deeper into the pillows. That pulls a quiet laugh out of him.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he reminds you again.

“Frank…”

“I’ll be back in two seconds,” he promises, already easing out from under you despite the way you try to follow him. “Don’t go passin’ out on me yet.” You squint up at him, unimpressed.

“Bossy,” you mumble again, voice thick with sleep. He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he leans down, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Yeah, yeah. Says the one who nearly killed me ten minutes ago.” Your lips twitch.

“I did great,” you mumble. He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you with a look that’s half disbelief, half reluctant amusement.

“‘Did great,’” he repeats under his breath. “Jesus.” He disappears into the bathroom, and you can hear the sink running, cabinets opening—familiar sounds, but slower now. Less routine. Like he’s still thinking about you, even when he’s not in the room. He’s not gone long. When he comes back, he’s got that same warm cloth in hand, and a glass of water balanced carefully between his fingers. The second he sees your eyes drooping, he clicks his tongue.

“Hey—hey. Don’t you do that.” You groan quietly as he sets the glass down on the nightstand and sits beside you again.

“M’tired…”

“I know,” he murmurs. “C’mon, up a little.” He slides an arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough so you can lean against him. You go willingly this time, head lolling against his chest as he brings the glass to your lips.

“Drink,” he says. You take a few slow sips, then pull back, already trying to sink into him again.

“That’s enough,” you mumble.

“Few more.”

“Frank—”

“Few more,” he repeats, softer, but there’s no budging him. You sigh dramatically, but you listen, taking another couple of sips before he finally nods, satisfied.

“Good girl.” You hum at that, eyes fluttering shut again.

“See? Not so bossy now.”

“Don’t push it,” he mutters, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. He sets the glass aside and reaches for you again, guiding you back down onto the bed properly this time. The cloth in his hand is warm, and he’s careful—extra careful now, his touch light, attentive. You twitch a little at the sensitivity, and his brow furrows immediately.

“Still okay?” he asks.

“Mm,” you nod sleepily. “Just… sensitive.” He grunts softly.

“Yeah. That tracks.” There’s a pause, then—more teasing, but quieter— “Maybe next time you don’t try to prove a point all at once, huh?” You crack one eye open at him.

“I wasn’t proving a point.”

“Oh yeah?” he raises a brow. You shrug lazily.

“…Maybe a little.” He snorts.

“Unbelievable.” But his hand smooths over your thigh right after, gentle, reassuring. “You hurt anywhere?” he asks, trying to sound casual and failing just a little. You shift slightly, testing, then shake your head.

“Just… sore.” His jaw tightens for a second.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s on me.”

“No, it’s not,” you say immediately, reaching out to catch his hand before he can pull it away. “Frank.” He stills. You tug his hand gently, making him look at you.

“I liked it,” you say, quieter now. “All of it.” His eyes search yours again—that same careful, thorough look.

“…Yeah?” he asks. You nod.

“Yeah.” A small pause. Then you add, a little teasing— “Even the part where you looked like you were about to pass out.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I was not—”

“You were,” you insist, smiling now. “Little bit.”

“Was not.”

“Little bit,” you repeat. He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no heat in it. He finishes up, then pulls the blankets over you, tucking them in. You immediately reach for him. He doesn’t make you ask twice. He climbs back into bed, settling behind you this time, pulling you into his chest so your back is pressed against him. One arm wraps around your middle, anchoring you there, his hand splayed warm against your stomach. For a minute, he just holds you.

Then— “You really okay?” he murmurs, voice low near your ear. There it is again. That thread of worry he can’t quite shake. You shift slightly, turning your head just enough to glance back at him.

“I said I am.”

“I know what you said.” You huff softly.

“I’m good, Frank. Promise.” He studies you for a second longer, like he’s debating whether to push it again. Then he exhales.

“Alright.” But his hand tightens just a little around you anyway. Your fingers drift down, resting over his where it’s spread across your stomach.

“…You were kinda panicking,” you mumble, a hint of teasing slipping back in. He scoffs quietly.

“I was not.”

“You were,” you insist, smiling a little. “You looked like I broke something.”

“Well,” he mutters, “you were lookin’ at me like you just went twelve rounds with a truck, so forgive me for bein’ concerned.” You laugh softly at that, the sound muffled by the pillow.

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” he says, nudging his nose lightly against your hair. “You keep sayin’ that.” There’s a pause. Then, quieter— “…Still gonna worry.” Your chest softens at that. You turn aroun and curl into him, head tucked beneath his chin.

“I know.” That seems to settle something in him. His thumb starts moving again—slow, absent circles against your hip, the same steady rhythm from before.

“Next time,” he murmurs, softer now, “we do it my way first.”

You groan softly.

“Frank.”

“I’m serious,” he insists, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice now. “We doin’ that again, I’m takin’ my time with you.”

“You always take your time,” you mumble.

“Not like that,” he says. “I mean really takin’ my time." You tilt your head just enough to look up at him.

“…How much time are we talking?” His mouth twitches slightly.

“Enough that you ain’t givin’ me that look like you’re about to pick a fight with physics.” You blink.

“…That’s not what I was doing.”

“That’s exactly what you were doin’.”

“I was being adventurous.”

“You were bein’ reckless,” he corrects. You smile, nudging your nose against his jaw.

“And you loved it.” He goes quiet for a second.

“…Yeah,” he admits, softer this time. Then, after a beat— “Doesn’t mean I ain’t gonna do it right next time.” You hum, satisfied, your eyes finally slipping closed for real.

“Okay, Frankie.” His hand starts moving again along your back, slow, steady, grounding.

“And you tell me,” he adds quietly, more serious now, pressing a light kiss to your hair. “Before you go doin’ somethin’ like that again.” You nod faintly against him.

“I will.”

“Good.” A pause. Then, softer— "Ya did real good, baby,” he murmurs. You yawn, nodding against his chest.

"Told you I could take it." Frank rolls his eyes, peppering your face with kisses. You crack open an eye at him. "The only thing too big about you is your ego." You hum.

Frank lets out a quiet, offended huff at that, pulling back just enough to look down at you properly.

“Yeah?” he mutters, one brow ticking up. “That what we’re goin’ with?” You give him a sleepy, satisfied little nod, clearly pleased with yourself.

“Mmhm.” He narrows his eyes at you, but there’s no bite to it—just that familiar, rough-edged fondness.

“Alright,” he says slowly. “Careful now.” You smile, eyes already drifting shut again.

“Why?” you mumble. “Gonna prove me wrong?” He snorts softly, shaking his head as his hand slides back into its place on your back, steady and warm.

“Nah,” he murmurs. “Already tried that tonight.” That pulls the faintest little laugh out of you.

“Didn’t go so well, huh?” you mumble. He leans down, pressing a lingering kiss to your temple.

“Debatable,” he says. You hum, too tired to argue, curling further into him. There’s a quiet beat before he adds, softer now—

“…And for the record—” You make a small noise, somewhere between a groan and a hum.

“Frank…”

“—ain’t my ego you gotta worry about,” he finishes anyway, voice low and teasing. You crack one eye open just enough to squint up at him.

“Oh yeah?” His mouth twitches.

“Yeah." A pause. Then, with the faintest hint of a grin in his voice— “Pretty sure we already established what’s actually too big.”

holy shit this is long

[idanceonthemoon]

My holy trinity

[unbotheredandunmedicated]

where is this from i can't sleep-

[geminiwritten]

you have no idea ; jack abbot

summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.

notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 18889

Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.

Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.

He had never really had anything to be jealous of.

Until now.

Now there are far too many things.

Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.

Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.

Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.

So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[softundermoonlight]

Hell was the journey but it brought me heaven - A.C

☆ Andrew "Pope" Cody x f!Reader ☆ (previous part) (next part) summary: After a life shaped by violence, Andrew finds something he was never meant to have: love. That is, if he can protect it from his world. word count: 42.2k c.w: graphic violence, blood, religious imagery, kidnapping, torture, trauma/ptsd, implied past child abuse, murder, smut (piv, unprotected sex). a/n: me to my wife "It's gonna be 20k at best". as you can see, it was a lie. thank you so much to her for proofreading it. dealing with the 1000 blocks rule was a nightmare, so please forgive how it looks.

‪‪❤︎‬ Thank you so much for reading!

Andrew wakes up, gently pulled upward from the dark.

At first, he doesn’t know why his body feels so different: no jolt, no sharp inhale like he’s surfacing from underwater, and more importantly, no agonizing screams from the ghosts in his head. No echo of Smurf’s voice into his ear, telling him that he only matters when he is useful, no Julia, no Cath, no Baz…just him and the undeniable feeling of warmth and gentleness enveloping his body.

For a disorienting second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. He lies perfectly still, too anxious that the absence of dread might be the sign of another delirium. After all, his mind has built kinder lies than this in the past: mornings where he woke up believing he was out of harm’s way, that somebody was alongside him, that he would at last be spared, only to open his eyes and discover nothing there but air. Andrew implores.

(Please. Not like the other times. Let this be real. May mercy, for once, choose him. He would take every punishment. Trade all he possesses. His remaining years. His blood. His soul. Live an eternity in the noise of his ghosts if he could just keep this single second of bliss untouched.)

Something shifts below him, and only then does he truly register it: the warmth is not a trick of his mind, not another tender cruelty meant to vanish the second he trusts it. It’s…you.  You and your body, receiving him like he has always belonged there. His cheek is pressed just above your breast, his ear resting over your heart, each inhale from your chest lifting his head in small motions. He feels the rhythm: the pulse under his skin, the expansion of your ribs, the heat radiating from you into him.

 (One. Two. Three. Four. Your heart answers his, beating leisurely. Bare skin against bare skin, he feels like a man who is wandering into a cathedral with mud on his boots.)

The longer he lies there, the more details surface: your thigh draped loosely over his hip, one of your hands tangled lazily in his curls, probably falling asleep holding onto them and never loosening your grip. He wants to etch every detail of your body someplace within him where nothing can distort it. He inhales deeply. You don’t smell your usual shampoo and soap, no, that version of you belongs to the sunlight and the outside world. This morning, Andrew gets to know the one that is bare in his sheets. You feel musky, like the earth after a rainstorm when the air turns heavy and thick. It takes him a few more moments to grasp that it’s the scent of sex.

He slowly opens his eyes, bracing for the possibility that the illusion would fracture, leaving him alone once more, but nothing moves. You remain where you are: lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep and your hair spilled messily across the pillow. His hand, which had clutched your waist and – he notices with guilt – left a bruise from holding on too tightly in the bliss of last night, shifts now to brush the thin gold chain at your collarbone, thumb sliding along the heart-shaped pendant.  He doesn’t understand how he ended up here. How a man like him gets to wake up like this, to touch you like this.

(Profane hands that have broken things. People. Fingers that know how to stitch wounds closed and how to open them. He feels like he should apologize. Wash and scrub himself raw before touching you again. Impious hands on consecrated skin.)

And yet here they are, resting on you as though designed for this all along. Moving upward by a few inches, pressing his palm into the mattress to lift his weight enough so he doesn’t disturb you, Andrew hovers above your body to study the shape of your face in the morning light that slips in through the blinds. How it paints your features in golden lines like sky itself marvels at his own creation.

He lowers himself until his nose finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in once more, slower. He can distinguish the salt that lingers in the faint traces of sweat and saliva where his tongue had traveled last night along your collarbone and throat. He recalls how, spent and trembling, you had pulled him down, guided him to your breasts and how, overwhelmed by the sentiment of being the one held, he had kissed every inch of skin he could reach. He lets his lips trace a path of unhurried kisses along the delicate line of your bones: where your jaw meets your neck, the smooth curve of the shoulder and the sensitive hollow beneath it, before going downward to your sternum.

(He wants to know you through every sense he has. To map this morning with his lungs and mouth. To memorize the striae of your skin, the birthmark under your left breast that he had found last night. To learn the language of your body. The world can have the composed version of you. He gets this one in his bed.)

He tries not to disturb you, to keep his caresses light, but your body responds anyway with a drowsy protest, brows knitted and fingers tightening unconsciously in his hair. “Mm…Andrew,” you mumble, voice hoarse with sleep, burying your face against his shoulder. “it’s too early.”

He goes perfectly still at the base of your neck, lifting his head just enough to have a look: your eyes are shut, yet there’s a smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers.

You crack one eye open, unimpressed. “Liar.”

He huffs a quick breath, no longer attempting to suppress his smirk. “Maybe.”

Squinting up at him, your hand slides from his curls to his chin, thumb stroking sluggishly along his cheek. “Mornin’,” you murmur.

“Morning.” You tug him down by the back of his neck to kiss him, lips already parted in expectation. He stays dumbfounded for a beat, then two. He gets to have this. To experience kisses in the morning with a woman who reaches for him. To have someone in his life who really wants him for the man, not the weapon. To be just like his brothers in this simple, ordinary way. To be loved and to love back. He melts into the embrace, one hand braced against the mattress to keep on crushing you with his weight, the other settling on your ribcage.

Your mouth moves against his lazily, before travelling along his jaw and back to his lips, grinning. “We barely slept,” you breathe in-between, voice low and satisfied, “and I entirely blame you for it.” He feels heat climbing up his neck. “You’re blushing,” you observe, elated, pulling back just enough to see it for yourself. Before he can protest or deny, you shift beneath him and, with a push at his shoulder, roll him onto his back. He lands there, momentarily dazed, curls falling across his forehead as he blinks up at you.

(He could stop you. Reflexes honed by years of training and jobs. He knows how to pin someone. How to reverse leverage. However, the woman he loves is naked. And he is not good at refusing her anything.)

You climb and straddle him, knees on either side of his hips and hands shifting up his chest as you lean, hair spilling around your faces like a curtain, kissing him again. He tilts his head, meeting you, afraid to respond too avidly as his fingers wander along your body, avoiding the breasts. “Andrew…” you murmur against his lips, “you know you can touch me, right?” He nods once quietly, but his hands refuse to budge. “Hey, hey,” you smiled gently, palms coming up to cradle his cheeks, “it’s okay. Just because we made love yesterday doesn’t mean we have to do anything more today.”

(Made love. Not a transaction. Not something timed and watched by Smurf through the half-open door. Made love. Not fuck. The phrase is beautiful. Better than anything he has associated with sex. How you say it easily. Love.)

“There’s no need to rush,” you continue gently. “We can just stay like this.”

He clears his throat, the sound rough. “It’s not that I don’t want it. I just…” He exhales, frustrated with himself, with his body. “I don’t always…it doesn’t always…cooperate.” He braces himself for the awkwardness, the disappointment. Instead, there is only your smile.

“Oh, Andrew,” you say quietly, leaning down to press a peck to his mouth. “Last night was amazing but we kinda strained ourselves. And if we add up that you barely sleep on a regular week…I think your body is allowed to rest.”

“You’re not disappointed?” he asks quietly, still searching your face for pity.

“Disappointed? Andrew. Honey. I’m naked on top of the man I love. I’m pretty I won at the lottery of life.”

His throat works to respond but you plant another kiss on his lips. Pulling back, your gaze gravitates to his jaw. “Oh,” you giggle.

“What?”

You reach up and swipe your finger just below his ear, near the hinge of his jaw, shimmers on the pad of your thumb. “Sorry but you’ve got a little souvenir,” you tease.

He frowns. “From what?”

“Me. I kissed you there.” He touches the spot automatically, trying to feel it. “Do you want me to…?”

“No,” he replies quickly before shrugging, eyes lowering for an instant. “I can keep it. It’s fine.”

“Andrew,” you say half amused, half incredulous, “you’ve got my lip-gloss all over you.”

“I don’t mind.” (It’s not about the gloss. It’s about the mark. The mark you left on him. Other people will think and proclaim that you are his. Pope’s girl. The title will shield you from harm and men. The truth they won’t understand is he is yours. Blessed by the simple fact that you chose him.)

“Fine,” you whisper, dragging your thumb gently across his lips to smooth some of the shimmer down so it’s less obvious without erasing it entirely. A faint sheen still catches the light whenever he turns his head. Satisfied, you shift, sliding off his hips and curling into his side instead, tucking yourself against him as his arms close around you. Head resting over his chest, leg draped across his thigh, your fingers trace idle, absent shapes along his skin while you hum contentedly. “You’re very quiet,” you comment, nails scraping lightly over his sternum as you tilt your face up to look at him.

He studies the ceiling for a moment before answering. “I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.” (He doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows. There is the silence he wears as an armor. Carved from years of swallowing words so they could not be used against him. The one that makes him efficient. And there is this one. The silence when he is full. When he isn’t waiting for something to go wrong.)

He lowers his gaze back to you and your cheek resting on his heartbeat, looking content, serene. He doesn’t know how to explain aloud the way it is brand-new for him. That right now, in this bedroom, he feels like standing in the aftermath of a storm, realizing that the sky has no intention of collapsing. That Smurf won’t ever be able to ruin this. Before he can try, the quietude is interrupted by a small, unmistakable growl that makes you freeze, blood rushing all along your neck and face. “Pretend that you heard nothing.”

“You’re hungry.”

You peek up at him, an embarrassed smile on your face. “Maybe.” (Hungry. You made him happy. Held him. Let him sleep. Fed a part of him he didn’t know how to name. Called it ‘make love’. Now you’re hungry. The equation feels simple. You fed his soul. He will feed your body.)

“I’ll make breakfast,” he responds, already moving deftly beneath you and mentally inventorying what’s in the kitchen.

“Andrew, it’s okay. I’m not going to faint if we wait a bit longer.”

“You’re hungry,” he repeats.

Your body slides off his with a reluctant noise, the air cool against his bare skin. He stands up too, taken aback when you cup his jaw and press your mouth to his softly, lingering for a beat. “Morning,” you murmur once more.

His hand goes instinctively to your waist. “Morning.” Pulling away slowly, his fingers trail down before he turns toward the dresser and opens the top drawer, retrieving a pair of black boxers. He steps into them without ceremony in the same quiet ritual he performs every morning.

You, however, ignore your own clothes on the chair entirely. Instead, you reach past him, your bare arm brushing his back in the process, and grab one of his shirts, softened from years of wear and faded in places. You slip it over your head, the fabric falling down your frame and settling just past your hips. Then you bend, unbothered by his staring, and fish out another pair of his boxers, stepping into those as well. He goes very still. You smooth the shirt down over your hips and look up at him innocently. “What?”

“That’s mine.”

You step closer, barefoot against the floor. “Well,” you whisper, hooking one finger into his waistband, tugging him closer by an inch. “Guess we’re sharing now.”

“You can keep it,” he manages to say. (You can have them. His clothes. His truck. His house. His name. His heart. Lay claim to all of it and he would not protest. Let this be the altar he chooses willingly. Take what is his and make it holy.) “Come on,” he adds quietly.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You gonna cook?” “Yes.” “Eggs?” “Yes.” “Sunny side up and not letting the bacon touch it?” “Yes.” You beam. “God, I love you.” ────────── Andrew was fourteen. Smurf called him into her bedroom, not raising her voice. She never needed to, each summon traveling through the walls to his spine. “Baby,” she said when he stepped inside, her smile already in place all bright and practiced. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing out her blond hair, gold bracelets chiming at her wrist while her room smelled like a heavy perfume and cigarette smoke. “Close the door.”

He did. He stood straight, hands at his sides, shoulder squared in the way she liked, waiting. There was a man in town who has been “messing the business,” she told him. A supplier who thought he could shave a percentage off the top and not get noticed. A man who forgot who was running this coast. She said it lightly, like it was gossip, like other mothers might mention a neighbor who borrowed sugar and never returned it.

Andrew listened. “I need you to remind him,” she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror, “that we don’t tolerate disrespect.” She turned on her stool, crossing one leg over the other, studying him like she was appraising a weapon she kept polished and hidden under the bed. “You’re my good boy, right?” she asked gently, tilting her head. He nods. “That’s what I thought.”

They drove together in silence, just the two of them. She didn’t explain much more. She didn’t have to. He knew what ‘remind him’ meant. The man was waiting behind a storage unit near the marina, pacing, already defensive when he saw Smurf step out of her car with her oversized sunglasses. “Janine,” he started. “We can talk about this.”

She didn’t even look at him, just at Andrew, her Pope. A slight tilt of her chin and that’s all it took before he stepped forward. The first hit was almost anticlimactic, just a fist to the gut that folded the man in half with a startled wheeze. The second was harder. The third started to make him bleed. There was shouting: from the man, from the seagulls overhead, from somewhere far away. But not from Pope. He knew where to hit to make it hurt, to keep someone conscious long enough to understand what was happening to them. Knew how to stop just short of permanent damage because that was what Smurf preferred: a pain that lasted, a reminder to not fuck with the Cody family. The man went down and Andrew followed. Another strike. And another.

His whole world narrowed down to the impacts and the dull satisfaction of the noise inside his head finally going quiet. When he stopped, the man was bleeding from the mouth, one eye swelling shut, curled on his side in the dust. Andrew stepped back automatically, looking at the ground, waiting.

Smurf approached slowly, heels crunching over the gravel, sunglasses still in place. She crouched beside the man and removed them, folding them neatly before tucking them into her neckline. “You see,” she said conversationally, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hate when people mistake my generosity for weakness.” The man tried to speak but it came out wet. She leaned closer, voice lowering. “If I have to do this again, I will.” Her hand brushed along the man’s lips, wiping away a smear of blood with her thumb before deliberately smudging it across his cheek. “And next time,” she added, almost fondly, “my boy won’t stop where he did.” She looked up at Andrew with a radiant smile. “My guard dog is very loyal. Aren’t you baby?”

“Yes.”

Smurf stood, brushing dust from her clothes. “Let’s go,” she said lightly. On the drive home, she hummed along to a cheerful tune on the radio, reaching over to squeeze Andrew’s thigh. “You did good,” she told him. The words felt like a reward, not yet understanding that his mother was building him brick by brick.

Back at the house, Julia was on the couch, Craig perched on her lap and trying to read his first book. She looked up when they entered. Her eyes flicked briefly to Andrew’s knuckles, already reddening, then to Smurf.  She didn’t ask questions. She never did. Andrew washed his hands in the kitchen sink, the water running pink for a few seconds before clearing. He scrubbed harder than necessary, until the skin stung. He didn’t comprehend why he felt like he needed to erase his bones.

That night, Smurf kissed his mouth before bed. “My protector,” she whispered.

He lay awake long after the house went quiet, staring at the ceiling, replaying the afternoon and the man’s face. The sound of the bone cracking under his skin. The way the noise in his head had gone silence when he was hitting. Smurf’s hand on his thigh in the car, how she had called him good.

He wondered if that was what love felt like. ────────── You follow him into the kitchen clothed in nothing but his shirt and your smug smile. The fabric hangs loosely around your waist, collar falling just enough to expose the dim constellation of marks he left along your neckline that you make no attempt to conceal.(no, you’re too pleased of them. that’s why you picked this precise shirt. if he can walk around with your lip-gloss smeared on his mouth and chest, you can fucking parade. fair is fair.)

Andrew moves through the kitchen, already absorbed on his task. He opens the refrigerator, takes out the bacon and the carton of eggs, lining four of them up on the counter in a straight row before he even grabs the pan. You lean against the doorway and simply observe. There’s something nearly ritualistic about the way he acts, hitting each egg on the exact unchanged spot on the post. Same slant, same pressure. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

The shells go neatly into the trash, before he rapidly rinses his fingers under the faucet and dries them thoroughly. The pan gets on the stove, the flame adjusted with precision and lowered right before he adds oil, bottle back into the cabinet the instant he’s done with it. (the more you spend time with him, the more you realize this isn’t just preference. it’s what makes him feel balanced, structured. he likes knowing where things are. that they go back where they belong. that the fridge door closes all the way. that the seal gets checked with an extra push. lining up objects seems to line up his mind.)

You step near him silently, acknowledging the invisible bubble he’s created around the stove. You grab plates and forks from the cupboard, adding paper towels to the pile because you already know he’ll want them and arranging everything on the table.  He doesn’t speak while he cooks. But you can distinguish that silence now and how it’s not dismissal or detachment, he is simply…in it. Entirely absorbed in the task: spacing the bacon strips evenly on the separated pan so they don’t overlap, adapting the heat, glancing back at the eggs to make sure the whites set properly.

You place your hip against the counter, tilting your head to watch him. (he looks outrageously domestic like that. barefoot, making breakfast without being asked. how andrew cody went from ex-convict and criminal to husband of the year is still beyond you. but you know better than to complain.) (also: you’re still a bit glad he hasn’t brought up the wedding dress comment from last night. not that you’re scared. fuck no, you’d marry him yesterday if you could. but this little bubble you’re in right now? you love it.)

And the worst part about the whole breakfast-making thing? He is doing it in nothing but his boxers. Back broad, shoulders eased, curls still mussed from sleep. You don’t hesitate. You step closer and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, your hands flattening on his stomach. He stiffens for half a second at the contact before relaxing. You start drawing kisses along his spine and going upward, until your mouth discovers the spot just behind his ear, making him inhale sharply. “You’re distracting,” he murmurs.

“Oh, am I?” you hum against his skin, utterly unapologetic, fingertips stroking the edge of his boxers.

“Careful,” he stammers, glancing down at the stove. “Hot pan.”

“Mm.” You press another kiss on the same spot watching, delighted, goosebumps ripple across his shoulders. “Seems under control to me.”

The bacon pops abruptly in the pan. Before you even register it, his hand drops to your hip, determined and instinctive, nudging you a few inches to the other side of his body without disrupting the movement of his other hand flipping the bacon. You blink. (oh. okay. that’s actually…hot. you don’t know which 101 boyfriend class he took but it’s definitely not the same one the rest of the male population attended.)

You settle again, undeterred, resting your chin on his shoulder so you can observe what he’s doing. His forearms make most of the work, flexing with each maneuver of the spatula under his freckled skin, making it particularly tough to concentrate on anything remotely close to breakfast. (you might be drooling a little.)

“You know I’m a grown woman, right?” you whisper after a moment.

“Oil pops,” he answers simply, the bacon snapping again to illustrate his point. “Wouldn’t want you to get burn.”

“And…you can’t?”

He shrugs. “I don’t mind it.”

Your fingers, which had been resting loosely at his waistline, start tracing patterns along his stomach with the lightest drag of your pads, refusing to utter another word to this sentence. (you don’t ever want to know why he wouldn’t mind getting burnt. you’ve seen enough of the scars scattered across him to understand that pain is an aspect of his life he learned to accept long before you ever met him.)

He lifts the eggs cautiously with the spatula, sliding them onto the plates with precision so the yolks remain perfectly intact. Same with the bacon, arranged neatly beside them. You step away, retreating to the table so he can have the space to finish his ritual: the stove knob turned off and checked twice, the pan moved to the sink, the quick wipe of the stovetop. Only then does he turn toward you, plates in hand. And suddenly, you grasp that this whole breakfast is him trying. You can see it in the small frown carved between his eyebrows and the tremor in his hands as he sets the plates down on the table like he’s afraid of ruining the moment.

He loves you. Truly. Yes, he told you so last night but that was mid-sex. This, is different. Just him, you and the certainty landing heavy in your chest: Andrew Cody would burn the entire world, including himself if it meant protecting you. (probably not the right moment to tell him you’d do the same. ready to burn and destroy whoever attempts to rip Andrew away from you. which is insane considering you’ve never punched anyone in your life. you’ve seen the guns the Cody brothers keep hidden in the house. never dared touch them. wouldn’t even know where the safety is. still. you would figure something out.)

“Eat,” he orders gently.

“Aye aye, sir,” you reply enthusiastically, your fork going straight into his plate to rob a piece of bacon.

He pauses halfway through sitting down beside you, brows furrowing like he’s struggling to understand the reasoning behind this. “You…you have bacon.”

“I know,” you say brightly, biting into it anyway and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction while keeping your eyes on his face. “Yours tastes way better.”

He studies you for a second longer, still frowning in pure confusion. Then, instead of protesting, he quietly pushes his plate a few inches to the side towards you. The gesture is tentative and careful, like offering without fully knowing if he’s doing it right.  You open your mouth to tell him it’s not necessary, that it was just teasing, that he doesn’t have to surrender his breakfast for this but before the words come out, he picks up his fork and reaches over, stealing one of your own pieces.

You lean back in your chair, observing him with growing amusement as he attempts to act casual about it. Trying very, very hard. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, probably comparing this moment with the way his brothers are around the people they see. But Craig wouldn’t even be here right now. No, he would send the girl home before breakfast while Deran would act like this whole thing was effortless without the intent of calling back. Andrew looks like he’s carefully following instructions from a manual he doesn’t quite understand. And that’s infinitely better. “Good?” you ask.

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“Better from my plate?” A pause. He nods once, more confidently this time. “Wow, look at you.”

“What?”

“Sharing the germs and all,” you tease.

He looks down at the food, then back you. “I don’t mind your germs.”

You try to hide your grin, but it still creeps across your face as you sneak another bite of his bacon, which he retaliates with a mouthful of yours. You gasp, pointing your fork at him in mock outrage. “Now careful mister, if it’s war you want, war you’ll have.”

“You started it.” His voice is calm, but there’s laughter in his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders loosens, the crease between his brows fades, his movements stop being so cautious. You can see it happening in real time. He’s relaxing. And you realize, seeing him like this, that he’s learning. Learning how to be Andrew.

Your foot nudges his under the table. “I think we’re good at this.”

“At what?”

You gesture between the two of you with your fork. “This.” He follows the motion with his eyes: the table, the plates, your leg brushing his under the table. Something softer settles in his expression, a small grin forming just enough for the dimples to appear.

“Yeah.”

And the thing is…the smile doesn’t fade.  Not when the plates slowly empty. Not when you both linger at the table afterward, your legs tangled beneath it while you ramble about work, Andrew listening like every word matters. He barely interrupts, just the occasional quiet “yeah,” or a small nod, his hands resting on his thighs while his eyes drift between your face and your hands as they move when you talk. And every time you catch that smile still there, your brain goes stupid. (seriously, it should be illegal for a man like him to smile like that while you monologue about someone trying to pay in Canadian dollars.)

The smile stays. And it’s still there when you take his hand and tug him toward the bathroom, still there when it fills with steam, still there when the two of you step beneath the spray of the shower, warm water trickling over your shoulders as your bodies naturally find their way into each other’s space. You reach for the bottle of soap resting on the shelf and squeeze some in your palm. “Turn around,” you murmur.

He does without hesitation, your request apparently carrying more weight than you thought. Your hands move slowly, working the lather over his warm skin, a small sound escaping Andrew’s lips as your palms glide down the length of his arms and over the muscles that flex instinctively beneath your touch. He leans into the contact without realizing it, another whimper coming out when your thumbs press tenderly into the knots near his shoulder blades. You shift around his sides now, soap trailing paths across his ribs and stomach.  He watches your face the entire time. Like he still can’t quite believe you’re here.

He lets you wash him completely without protest. And when you reach for the shampoo bottle next, he tilts his head forward automatically, the gesture so instinctive it almost makes you kiss him against the glass wall. Instead, you pour a little of the content into your hand and work it into his curls, massaging his scalp. Andrew’s shoulders drop immediately. “You have really nice hair,” you murmur.

He opens one eye halfway. “…Yeah?”

“Mhm.” Your thumbs circle slowly near the base of his skull. “Very nice curls.” Another hum escapes him. “And you’re being very good right now.” His breath stutters faintly at that. You conceal a smile, rinsing the shampoo out and guiding the water through his hair until the foam disappears fully. “You’re doing great,” you add softly.

His eyes stay shut. Like he’s storing the words somewhere deep inside himself. Once you’re done, he reaches for the soap. “Come here.” His movements are slower than yours, but there’s a tenderness to them that makes your chest sting a little. His palms travel across your back, down your arms, over your sides. Every touch deliberate, every inch of skin treated like worth remembering. “You smell good,” he whispers.

“That’s your soap. Are you complimenting yourself right now?” you laugh.

His mouth twitches. “Maybe.” The kiss that follows is clumsy with water and bubbles, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Eventually, you both step out, wrapping yourselves in clean towels as the steam continues to fog the mirror and moving around the bathroom in the awkward dance of two people sharing this type of space for the first time. Andrew opens the cabinet, pulling out a toothbrush from a sealed pack and holding out to you without a word.

“Mine?” He nods once. All done, the brushes go into the same cup, side by side, his red against your green. You stare at them for a second. “How about we watch something?” you suddenly ask.

“What?”

You shrug, nudging your hip against his. “Heard there was some new documentary on Nat Geo, sounds good to you?” For a second he just looks at you. The dimples follow quickly after.

“Sounds good.” ────────── A week after meeting his brothers, Craig had texted you to ‘come by’, which in his language apparently meant ‘there will be fifty people there and we will all end up hopping in the pool fully clothed or fully naked’.  You showed up with a six-pack you could barely afford on a barista wage and the vague understanding that this was purely how friendship with Craig worked: loud, chaotic and a little intense.

Someone had dragged speakers into the backyard, shitty music blasting from them while people you didn’t know were everywhere: on the patio, inside the house, perched along the edge of the pool with their feet in the water. Craig spotted you instantly. “Yo, there she is!” he shouted from a lounge chair, jumping up and crossing the yard in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you straight off the ground.

You almost dropped the six-pack. “Craig!” you yelped, laughing as your feet dangled helplessly before he set you back down.

“You made it!” he smiled, already thieving a beer from you. “Can’t believe you got out of your cave, doll. How does it feel to be human again?”

“Hey, hey,” you whispered to Craig, curling your finger to beckon him closer. “How about you shut it, doll. Some of us have real jobs.”

“Oh, she’s feisty tonight!” he exclaimed, completely unaffected, taking a long swing of the liquor. “I like this version of you.”

“You like every version of me as long as they bring alcohol,” you shot back.

“True.” He slung an arm over your shoulders and dragged you through the backyard crowd to the side of the house where a ladder was placed against the wall. “Gonna jump from up there,” he announced proudly, already planting one foot on the first rung. “Good luck kiss?”

“In your dreams, Craig,” you snorted, shaking your head.

He threw his hair back dramatically. “Cold. Absolutely fucking cold. If I die, you’ll have it on your conscience, doll.”

“And I’ll be so sad,” you replied, wiping fake tears. “Now get climbing, Craigo.”

He didn’t demand further encouragement. Within seconds he was up the ladder, beer bottle somehow still in hand, several people in the yard beginning to notice what was happening. “Craig’s on the roof!” someone shouted, a cheer rising instantly while you stepped back near the edge of the pool, folding your arms. (these men are idiots. nice and funny, yes. but also idiots.no doubt who the middle child was.)

He downed the rest of the drink and tossed it away, launching himself off the roof with absolutely no hesitation. He hit the water hard, drenching everyone standing nearby, including you, who jumped back with a startled sound as cold water sprayed over your legs. Craig resurfaced in the middle of the pool, triumphant.

And that was when you sensed it. That strange pull of attention where your neck felt warm before you knew why. You turned your head to see Andrew, standing near the back door of the house. He wasn’t laughing, wasn’t cheering or drinking. His arms hung slackly at his sides, shoulders still and his posture rigid compared to everyone else around him. He felt like a rock in the middle of the current. And his eyes…they were on you. Not the pool or Craig. You. The moment your eyes met his, there was a shift in his expression, like he realized you had caught him staring. For a split second, you expected him to look away. He didn’t. You broke eye contact first. (don’t look back, don’t look back. be cleverer than that.)

A few seconds passed before Craig returned alongside you, dripping water and grabbing another bottle from a cooler. “Hey,” you said quietly enough for only him to hear.

“Sup?”

“Your…brother. He’s been looking at me.”

Craig peered at his brother, still at the same place, still watching. He shrugged. “Yeah, that’s just Pope.”

You frowned. “He’s not partying.”

“Doesn’t really do that.”

“No drinking either?”

Craig took a sip from his bottle. “Nah.”

You studied Andrew once more, how he hadn’t shifted an inch even as several people squeezed past him, smoking weed and laugh-tripping. “Is he always like that?” you asked.

“Pretty much.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Got a little worse after prison though.”

You blinked. “Prison?” Craig nodded. “For what?”

Craig waved his hand vaguely. “Some…thing. Look, my bro’s weird, ‘kay? Always has been, always will. You’ll get used to it.”

Later that night, you got home a little buzzed. The quiet of your apartment felt disturbing after the anarchy of the Cody’s house. You stumbled into bed, tossing onto one side, then the other, incapable of erasing Andrew’s eyes from your mind. You ended up looking at the ceiling. (this was so stupid.)

After a few minutes, you sat up abruptly. Your laptop sat on the small desk across the room. You hesitated for maybe three seconds before swinging your legs out of bed and padding across the floor. The screen glowed in the darkness when you opened it. You sat down slowly, fingers hovering above the keyboard.

(you are absolutely not doing this.) A pause. (okay, you are absolutely doing this.)

You typed before you could talk yourself out of it. Andrew Cody. The results appeared instantly, but most of them were boring: property records, a few local mentions about a skatepark in town. You clicked one, nothing useful. Another, still nothing. Then, a small article from 2013 popped halfway down the page. The headline was short. Local Man Sentenced in Robbery Case

Your stomach tightened as you read the whole thing: Andrew D. Cody, 36, had been sentenced to six years in Folsom State Prison following a robbery involving multiple suspects. Authorities confirmed that no weapons were used during the incident. Three accomplices have not yet been identified, if you have informa-

You shut your laptop before finishing the sentence, leaning back in your chair and staring at nothing. Folsom. Robbery. Six years. (you had heard of Folsom. even people who had never been near a prison knew that name. one of the worst prisons in the state. maybe the country. you had read enough over the years to know that prisoners there were packed like animals and treated like even less. that men coming in were getting out…as someone else.)

Your brain tried to reconcile the information with the image of the quiet man in the doorway watching you like the rest of the room didn’t exist. Six years. (he probably got out before. that happened, right? good behavior, reduced sentences…not that you would ask him. god, no. ‘hey andrew, quick question, I googled you and saw you went to prison, care to elaborate?’. yeah, great opener.)

You pushed yourself up from the chair and walked back toward the bed. The apartment felt so much smaller and quieter suddenly.  You slid under the covers, staring up at the ceiling again. Folsom. Six years. Robbery. Three accomplices. (you were sure you could guess two of them.)

The article lingered somewhere at the edge of your mind, but it wasn’t what kept you awake. No, it was the image that kept returning vividly of Andrew Cody, standing there, and looking at you like he had been doing it for much longer than just this evening. And the strange realization that the thought didn’t scare you nearly as much as it probably should have. ────────── “Andrew! Look!”Your voice cuts through the noise of the skatepark like sunlight breaking through clouds, all bright and excited and utterly impossible for a weak man like Andrew to ignore. Not that you need to call for his attention. He is always watching. His vision is beginning to blur at the edges, the lack of blinking drying his eyes, but he refuses to look away.

(He doesn’t care. He can’t. He has been attempting to blink as little as possible the past one thousand six hundred and twenty seconds. He counts your pushes on the board. One. Two. Three. He doesn’t like three. Odd numbers feel unfinished and crooked. But he refrains from asking to do just one more for his peace of mind.)

You turn near the edge of the bowl, wheeling along the lip instead of dropping in. (Not yet. But he knows you. Knows the obstinate woman you are. Soon enough you’ll want to try it.)

You roll back to him, your face catching the light, his attention moving to the line above your eyebrow. The stitches he removed a few days ago left only a pale mark, hardly noticeable unless someone knew where to look. He knows and tracks it instinctively. He remembers standing in your bathroom with tweezers, his heart pounding harder than it ever had throughout the jobs, delicately snipping the thread and pulling each stitch free. You had sat on the edge of the sink, observing him patiently, a warmness blooming inside his chest the entire time. You hadn’t been worried, not even a little. Just calm and trustful that he would not mess it up, that he would take care of your fragile skin.

(He still recalls each stitch. The way the skin had opened when you tumbled. The blood. The sound. He still hears it sometimes. Replays it when he wants to punish himself. To remember that you will carry that scar on your face forever because he was too slow. Too far away. Too…)

“I think I’m getting better! What do you think?” Your voice pulls him back. You’ve rolled to a stop in front of him, one foot to the ground, the other still resting on the board, face a shade deeper from the effort and the sun.

“You’re good,” he replies, remembering Craig’s advice ‘You gotta speak, man. Chicks don’t like dating a brick wall’ and how he had patted his back after saying it. Andrew had taken notes. “Very good. I’m…proud, sweetheart.”

(Did he say it right? Too much? Too little? His brothers had told him a lot of things. Craig had insisted women liked compliments. Deran had just said to bring condoms. Neither of them explained what to do with his hands.)

His palms hover ineptly on the side of his jeans as he studies your face closely. (Signs of failure. That he is not a good boyfriend. That he said the wrong thing. That his solace will be taken away from him.)

But your grin only broadens, your fingers lifting to your necklace, thumb rubbing along the little heart pendant. Andrew feels his brain short-circuiting a brief instant. The woman he loves, the one he gets to date, the one who chose him, is in front of him, coy, because of what he said. You glance down a moment, a smile tugging at the corner of your lips, before looking back up at him through your lashes. “Proud?”

“Yes,” he answers quietly. “You did well.”

“And?”

Andrew blinks. “And…?”

You tilt your head, eyes glinting in amusement. “That’s it?”

“You’re good at…” he clears his throat, suddenly very aware of the heat rising along the back of his neck, “…many things. You’re balanced on the board,” (You understand him wordlessly.) “You’re very…determined.” (Stubborn. Annoyingly so. Especially when you refuse to sleep until he puts his head on your chest.) “And your foot placement is better now.”

Your mouth twitches. “Okay,” you whisper, leaning a little closer. “But if I want a less…skateboarding coach-compliment and more a boyfriend-compliment?” (He thinks of what Craig would say. Immediately discards the idea. Craig’s compliments often involve the words ‘hot’ and ‘bangable’. You deserve more than that. To hear that you are his sun. Warm enough to make him forget the cold places in his head.)

“You look happy,” he replies quietly, studying your face again.

 “Well,” you say, almost shy now, “it’s because I am, mister Cody.”

“I…I like seeing you happy.”

Your fingers tighten around the pendant, thumb brushing the little heart again. Andrew is enraptured by the movement. He thinks of that night during the job, when he saw it on the velvet cushion, how small it had looked compared to the diamonds around it. How he had wanted you to have something from him, even if you were not his. (Back when he thought it would just be that. A gift. A thing you might wear occasionally. A thing that would make him feel…closer. Like he left a small mark somewhere in your life without disturbing it too much.)

You continue rocking the board back and forth under your foot, observing him patiently, probably expecting him to continue. Andrew’s mouth opens. Closes again. (There are other things he wants to say. The things he can’t say aloud. How every time he buries himself deep into you, the noise stops. Everything: the ghosts, the shouting, the old memories scratching the inside of his skull, they go silent. And there’s just you. So, he stays there for hours. Until the room grows dark and the only thing he can feel is the rhythm of your fingers running through his hair. How you never complain, never push him away. You even whisper that he’s doing good.)

He clears his throat, trying to come up with words safer to say. But before he can continue, you unexpectedly lean forward and press a quick kiss to his cheek. “Maybe…maybe I should go back to skating now,” you whisper.

Andrew nods. “Okay,” and when you start to wheel away, he adds automatically. “I’m watching.”

You turn your head back to him, chuckling. “That, I have no doubt honey.” Then you push off again. (One. Two. Three. Odd. He tries to let it go.)

You ride along the edge of the bowl first, testing your balance before going downward and climbing back up, a little more confident with each pass. He inspects everything: the shift of your weight, the bend of your knees, the corrections you make with your hips when the board wobbles. The rest of the skatepark fades to the edges of his awareness. All he sees is you. (He guards his sun. That’s what it feels like every morning when he wakes up. That the world handed him something impossibly bright and said, ‘don’t let anything happen to it’.)

You slow down after a few more back and forth, coming back to him, sneakers scraping the concrete as the board stops, your eyes sparkling with stubborn pride. “Did you see that! That was good, right?” you ask, breathless. “No longer looking like a total rookie?”

“It was good.”

You lean closer. “Say it again.”

“It was…good?”

Your nose wrinkles with your grin. “No. The other thing.”

Andrew pauses, before it occurs back to him. “I’m proud of you.” Your entire face lights up, and before he can process what’s occurring, you grab the front of his shirt and pull him down into a kiss, right there, in the middle of the skatepark. He still isn’t entirely sure how he ended up in a life where a woman like you embraces him proudly in public, but his freezing state lasts one heartbeat before his palms move to your waist and neck.

Someone whistles nearby, probably one of the teenagers who come up every weekend. Andrew barely hears them, all he registers is you. Your mouth, your breath, the softness of your tongue against his. The way the kiss lingers just a little longer than would be considered appropriate, even in Craig’s standard. When you finally pull back, your foreheads almost touch, your breath mingling with his. “Can we go?”

“Go?” (He is confused. You told him this morning before work that you really wanted to try skating again today. That you needed it after the accident. That you had been thinking about it for days. You’ve barely been here an hour. You don’t want to stay?)

Your fingers slide onto his shirt. “Yeah.” Your voice drops in a low murmur. “Somewhere quieter.”

“You don’t want to skate anymore?” he asks carefully.

You shake your head. “We can go back tomorrow. Let’s drive somewhere.”

“Where do you want to go?” he asks, instantly taking your hand in his and the board in the other.

You lean up, brushing another quick kiss against the corner of his mouth. “Your place, my place…whichever you prefer.”

“The house is closer.” (Seven minutes if traffic is clear. Nine if the light on Mission Avenue is red. Five if he sends laws to hell.)

Your smile curves at that, like you can hear the calculation happening inside his head. “Then the house it is.” Your fingers tighten around his hand, tugging him toward the parking lot, walking faster than before. Fast enough that he has to lengthen his stride to keep up, the skateboard now tucked under his arm. When you reach the car, he opens the passenger door automatically, the movement practiced after the number of times he drives you around. To work, to the grocery store, to the beach, wherever you want him to take you. You climb in, tossing your bag on the floorboard while he walks around and slides the skateboard into the trunk. He takes a second longer than necessary before closing it, just to keep his impatience down. “Hey,” you say after he settles in. “I’m proud of you too, Andy.”

Andy. Andy. Andy. He doesn’t hesitate. His hand moves to the back of your neck and he leans across the space between the seats, not caring about the painful twist of his body it requires from him. Your mouth meets his immediately, like you were waiting for it.

(He is your Andrew. Your honey. Your Andy.) He counts the sounds he draws out from your lips. (One. Two. Three. Four. Even number. Better.) ────────── Moving Craig’s furniture had been a terrible idea. Not because you didn’t want the things. There was a never-used television, a bunch of recent game consoles, speakers that were undoubtedly costing four digits. Those were worth it. When you lived on a barista’s salary, ‘free’ had a kind of beauty that couldn’t be argued with. No, the terrible part had been the lifting.

“Okay,” he had exclaimed thirty minutes earlier while dragging a leather chair down the hallway. “One more trip.” It had not been one more trip. Now, your shirt clung damply to your back, sports shorts sticking unpleasantly to your thighs, and sweat rolling down your temples, which had very likely reached an impressive deeper shade. You didn’t even want to question your current state of odor. Craig looked worse. His shirt had been discarded halfway through transporting the television in his car (which, considering the man, was not that surprising. always a good occasion to remove clothing.), leaving him barefoot in the kitchen, bare-chested and sweaty, his long dark hair tied up roughly. “Man,” he huffed opening the refrigerator and leaning halfway inside it, “want something to eat?”

You wiped the back of your hand across your forehead, realizing just how soaked you truly were. “Yeah, that would be cool.”

He emerged holding food wrapped in plastic. “Here.” You accepted it without question. (you were too hungry and exhausted to be suspicious.)

But the instant you took the first bite, regret struck with immediate and undisputable force: the texture was wrong, the taste even worse. Your brain tried desperately to identify the flavor and fell somewhere between ‘rotten eggs’ and ‘it had once been turkey’. Craig was watching you expectantly. “Great!” you managed with a smile, mouth still full. But your eyes intuitively drifted across the kitchen to land on Andrew, who was at the counter, assembling a sandwich silently, fully absorbed on his task: bread laid out side by side, mayonnaise spread in four slow strokes to cover each slice, cheese trimmed to fit the edges, two slices of ham placed with a vigilant symmetry. (patterns. you realized he liked patterns. or at least that he seemed serene when things followed one.)

Over the past two months you had started noticing things like that: the way he sometimes counted under his breath, the way he lined up objects when he set them down, adjusting them until they felt correct, the way every text he sent ended with ‘Andrew.’ as if you might forget who you were speaking to if he didn’t sign it properly. The way he observed everything around him without ever seeming to move much himself. You had known him just long enough now to stop being intimidated by the silence, to realize it wasn’t emptiness.

Andrew Cody looked still most of the time, but everything was in his eyes. You had seen amusement there, concern, confusion, a gentleness that seemed almost embarrassed to exist. And right now… Right now, he was glancing up at you. Just a second. Enough for his gaze to flick to the food in your hand, then back to your face, reading the desperate plea you mouthed silently, “Help.” The corner of his mouth twitched. It was quick, almost invisible, but unmistakable. And that was all it took. A laugh bubbled up your throat so suddenly you had to bite down on it before it escaped, turning it into something halfway between a cough and a choke.

“You good man?” Craig asked, patting your back. Andrew’s stare traveled to Craig’s hand on your back, watching the gesture before returning his attention to the counter. (you briefly wondered how the hell you got there. how you went from ‘doll’ and ‘sugar’ accompanied by a suggestive smirk and the occasional half-serious invitation to stay the night to…’man’ and ‘bro’ and a thump between the shoulders like you’re part of his crew. the flirting had stopped almost overnight. you thought it might have been the day he saw you and Andrew sitting side by side at the beach, quietly talking and staring out the ocean.)

You nodded quickly, giving Craig a thumbs-up while still trying not to swallow the first bite. “Yeah,” you managed through the mouthful. “Good. Great. Amazing.” (awful. you hate it. you’re fairly certain that death tastes sweeter than this.)

Craig grinned, satisfied. “Knew it.” His phone buzzed loudly on the counter and, glancing at the screen, he muttered. “It’s Renn. Fuck.” He answered as he walked toward the sliding glass door. “Yeah yeah, hold on a sec.” Before stepping outside, he peeked a look at the two of you: you against the counter, Andrew pretending to focus on his sandwich. You could feel the slow smirk spreading across his face when he added, “Don’t eat it all. I want some when I get back.”

“Yeah,” you said immediately, “no problem.” You waited precisely three seconds after the door shut, lunging for the trash. You spat the bite out and rinsed your mouth under the tap before stepping up to the counter, right next to Andrew and his still amused expression. “Andrew. Your brother just tried to kill me.”

“You trusted Craig with food,” he corrected, like that explained the whole thing. (which…sure.)

“Okay, fine,” you conceded with a laugh. “It was suicide.” His expression didn’t change much when his eyes dropped to the sandwich in front of him, staring at it with a frown before reaching for the knife. Slowly, carefully, like everything he seemed to do in life, he cut the sandwich diagonally in half, sliding the plate toward you. “…You serious?” He nodded once, the faint crease between his eyebrows deepening at the idea you might doubt him. “You’re giving me half your sandwich?”

“You…” he took a small breath. “You can have it all if you want.”

(eating the entire sandwich he had just spent twenty minutes assembling? you were sure people could go to hell for less than that.) You shook your head quickly. “No way. Half is perfect.” The first bite made you close your eyes in pure delight, a tiny sound of pleasure escaping your lips treacherously. (okay, hey. would it be really unreasonable to walk up to Craig and say ‘I’m kidnapping your brother to marry him and live off his orgasm-worthy sandwiches forever. Don’t mind?’)

“This is really good,” you said, still chewing. “You just saved my poor empty stomach from starvation and food poisoning.” He didn’t respond, though his shoulders had relaxed. You both ate silently your half of the sandwich, watching each other. (maybe he was doing it out of habit. or maybe that was what made him, him. and you were nothing but a fierce competitor in this silent staring contest. maybe even a little of a cheater.)

You leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, his eyes immediately flicking to the empty plate on the counter. “Thank you,” you murmured. You pulled back with a grin. “It will be our little secret.”

Eyes traveling briefly between you and the glass door where Craig was still talking on the phone outside, Andrew’s voice came lower and rougher than before. “Our little secret.” ────────── “Isn’t your boyfriend’s name Andrew?”

You’re reasonably confident your head has never snapped up so rapidly in your entire life. You’re still halfway bent over, one arm buried inside a cardboard box of syrup bottles on the floor of the back room, the abrupt motion making you feel dizzy. “Um. Yeah…why?” you reply carefully.

Behind you, Deon and Maira exchange the sort of look people get when they know something you don’t. Which, from experience, is never a good sign. You hastily straighten up, discarding the inventory sheet and dusting your hands on your apron while trying to read their faces. Maira is leaning against the doorway, the sleeves of her hoodie pushed up to the elbows, her smile suspiciously wide. Deon, next to her, his apron no longer tied to his waist, has one elbow casually perched up on her shoulder. “Oh my god,” Maira laughs, nudging him. “It is him!”

“Who is ‘him’?” you ask, attempting your absolute best to keep your voice natural. (no need to panic. or get too excited. this could be nothing. maybe it’s a random customer named Andrew. Andrew is a very common name. there are millions of Andrews. millions. statistically speaking, at least three of them probably exist withing a five-mile radius.)

Deon jerks his chin toward the front of the shop. “There’s guy out there asking for you.”

At those words, your stomach performs an impressive acrobatic trick. “What guy?”

Maira raises an eyebrow. “The postman. He wants to know if you’re free for dinner,” she replies dryly. “Are you listening! The guy you’ve been yapping about for the past, what? Two months? Three?”

Deon interjects. “Think it’s closer to four.”

“…What?”

“Scary,” he responds, counting on his fingers. “Curly hair. Built like a sex god. Very quiet.”

Maira nods enthusiastically. “Yes! And he said your name!”

“Is he…” you clear your throat. “Is he at the counter?” Both of them nod enthusiastically in perfect synchronization. (okay. stay calm, stay calm, stay calm. there’s no need to panic. it’s just…a perfectly normal situation. just a guy whose name is Andrew, who sounds like Andrew and who probably is Andrew.) “How do I look?” you ask, panicked and hands flying to your hair.

“Great,” Deon reassures you, stepping forward to help you rearrange the apron strings that twisted themselves behind your back. “You are gorgeous, you are confident, you have a great ass. All is well!”

“Thanks Dee.”

“You’re welcome, Sponge Cake.” He pats your shoulder. “Now come on May, tell her she’s super hot to impress her man.” Maira snorts but plays along, placing a hand over her heart. “You’re super hot,” she declares flatly. “And he’s gonna fall on his knees when he sees you. Probably gonna ask you to marry him on the spot because of your wonderful brewing technique.”

 “That was the least convincing pep talk I’ve heard. And that comprises the day I told my dad I was dropping out of college and he said, ‘as long as you’re happy’.”

“I’m a nursing student!” she exclaims. “My encouragement style is mostly ‘please don’t die’.”

Deon claps his hands. “Okay, now go!” You hesitate a brief instant, aware of your heart pounding intensely once again.

(why are you so nervous? it’s Andrew. your Andrew. you’ve literally seen him naked every day for the past thirty-two days. not that you’re counting. but since you’ve started dating and he realized you were taking the bus, he has so far: picked you up from work. dropped you off at work. waited in the truck outside work.)

Yet Andrew has never crossed the threshold. Which means this is the first time he’s visiting you in your little universe. Your café. Your register. Your apron (that will forever smell like vanilla syrup after you poured half a bottle on it eight months ago).

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “You are gorgeous. You are confident. You’re not gonna fall. It’s gonna be fine.” You push through the swinging door, and there he is. Andrew stands at the counter, hands flat on the wood as he studies the menu board above the expresso machine, eyes proceeding with the lines of drinks and options. And you know, you know, from the stiffness in his shoulders and the tremor in his forearms, that he is struggling not to feel overwhelmed. (eighteen drinks. four milk options. twelve syrups. three sizes. anyone would be.)

“Hi,” you say softly as you step behind the counter.

The moment he hears your voice, his whole face and posture seems to unlock, the tension along his spine easing like a knot untied. “Hi,” he breathes.

“You okay?”

He nods. “Yeah.” His eyes flick between the menu and you. “You have…a lot of options.”

Extending your hand across the counter, the tips of your fingers brush the back of his hand. “It’s okay,” you reassure him. “I don’t know what half of those are.”

That earns the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth. His voice drops lower, careful. “Can you make something like what we drink at home?”

The word ‘home’ lands deep in your chest. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Of course. What size?”

Andrew hesitates. It’s subtle, but you recognize the signs instantly: the dim flare of his nose, the way his jaw clenches when he feels like he’s taking too long to respond. “…Normal?”

“Okay. Normal it is,” you smile, grabbing the medium cup and walking up to the machine, letting the familiar routine settle your hand. (you’re fine. totally fine. your boyfriend just casually used ‘we’ and ‘home’ in the same sentence. no need to cry right now.)

Behind the swinging door that separates the back room from the counter, you can feel Deon and Maira trying to eavesdrop. You hear the sound of their shoes squeak against the tile and their whispers. You ignore them and grab the black marker near the register. Technically, you’re supposed to write the customer’s name. Just the name and nothing else.  Your hand hesitates a brief instant above the cup. The first letter is the toughest to write, heart thumping so loudly you’re convinced Andrew can hear it. You continue nonetheless. Honey The word sits there in your handwriting: the real one, not the usual rushed barista scrawl. And before you can talk yourself out of it, you add a small heart next to it. One beat. It’s how long you stare at it before sliding the cup under the machine.

Behind you, Andrew clears his throat. “Oh my god, yes. Sorry,” you stammer, turning back to him. “I swear I’m not usually this...”

“Am I bothering you?” he asks suddenly. Your head snaps up. His hands have clenched at his sides, shoulders stiff. “I can go if you want.”

“No!” you exclaim, startling him. You clear your throat, trying to regain some composure. “No, I’m very happy to see you here. I’m just surprised. The good kind, I promise.”

The small exhale coming out of him is endearing, like he expected your reply to be yes, to reject him from this side of your life. Like he doesn’t know that every part of it has been making space for him since the moment he walked into it. He shifts his weight, gesturing toward the pastry display. “Can I also…get one of those?”

Your eyes follow his finger to the glass. “Yeah, of course!”

“That one, please,” he whispers.

You lean back to see that he’s pointing at the cinnamon roll. “Okay, perfect. And…do you want that for here or to go?” you ask, punching the order into the register.

He glances around the shop, taking in the small tables, the windows looking out onto the street, the student typing. “For here. Please.”

Before you can move, the swinging door bursts open, Deon sliding behind the counter like he hasn’t been listening to the entire conversation. “Got it,” he intervenes, grabbing the metal tongs and placing the roll on a small plate. “Deon,” he adds, offering a hand across the counter. “I work with this one.”

Andrew hesitates, the gears in his head turning and certainly going: germs – counter - stranger. He shakes it anyway. “Andrew.”

“Oh, I know,” Deon laughs, shaking his head. “Trust me I know.” (how about poisoning your coworker’s coffee?)

The tray gets filled with his drink and plate, Andrew’s gaze dropping to the cup, fingers turning it until the word you wrote rotates into view. Honey. For a moment he doesn’t budge. His eyes stay there, on the letters, undoubtedly checking twice their existence. The corner of his mouth twitches. He picks it up guardedly, like it contains something fragile. It’s the only thing he takes from the tray. Checking briefly on Deon, who is suddenly incredibly invested in reorganizing a stack of napkins, Andrew clears his throat. “It’s…” he murmurs, sliding the tray containing the plate back to you.

“What?”

“It’s for you.”

You stare at the plate, then at him. “For me?”

“You didn’t eat a lot at lunch.”

“So…you bought me food?” The faint frown in between his eyebrows returns. You recognize it now: how his brain is probing the moment for mistakes. How it must loop the same questions. Did he misinterpret something? Was that incorrect? Did he embarrass you? Before the worry has time to grow roots, you add, “Thank you.”

The change is immediate, the words fully settling in: his shoulders loosening, his whole expression softening and his breathing quieting. He nods once, picking up the cup and stepping away from the counter like someone trying not to disrupt a carefully balanced structure and chooses the table by the window. Not because it’s comfortable. Because it faces the door. You know that instinct, he told you about it once, late at night, when you asked him about his scars. He doesn’t pull out his phone to scroll or check the time, no, just sits there, looking out at the street, where nothing interesting ever happens: just a bookstore, a florist and a bank. Deon bumps your shoulder. “Go talk to him.”

“I’m working.”

“So what? The guy came here to see you! And don’t tell me it’s just to drink cause who in their right mind pays four dollars for a black coffee?”

Maira pushes the door open with her hip and grabs you by the shoulders. “Put on your big girl pants,” she says warningly. “We got the counter.”

You look at the two of them then back at Andrew. Who hasn’t moved. Still watching the street and holding the cup and waiting. You grab the roll and walk toward the table, where Andrew looks up at you when you slide into the chair next to him. Not startled. More like…a man who sensed you getting closer. He is still holding the cup, his thumb brushing the edge of the little heart. “Hey,” you say softly, tearing off a piece of the roll. “What are you looking at?”

“The street.” Your smile creeps back. “Why?” He takes a slow sip of coffee before replying. “I’m waiting.” “For what?” “You.” “But…” you’re pretty sure your brain stutters, “I finish in an hour.” “I know.” “You’re gonna sit here an hour?” He nods calmly. “Yes.” (I love you, I love you, I love you.) “That’s ridiculous,” you whisper, resting your hand on his thigh under the table. That earns you a tilt of his head. “Why?” “Because you could go home.”

Andrew considers the idea for a split second. You can witness the thought across his face before he shakes his head. “I like being here.”

You gesture vaguely around the café. “This place is boring.”

But Andrew is not looking at it, just you, one hand still around the coffee, the other traveling to yours on his thigh and lacing them together. “No,” he says quietly. “It isn’t.” ────────── Andrew was eight. Sitting cross-legged on the living room carpet with a plastic bowl of marbles spread out in front of him, Andrew was not playing with them, no, he was sorting them.

(Green in one row. Blue in another. Then yellow. Clear ones last. One. Two. Three. Four.)

He arranged them cautiously along the dark lines of the carpet pattern, making sure each marble touched the next but did not roll away. That was the best thing he had discovered so far, through trial and error, to ease the pressure in his rib cage without breaking anything. Across the room, the television aired a movie Smurf had left running before walking out with a man. On the screen, someone screamed while another man bled on the floor, gunshots cracking every few seconds in the empty house. Smurf said it was important to see how things worked. Julia sat beside him with her knees pulled to her chest, chin resting on them. But she wasn’t watching the movie. Her focus was set on him.

“Andy,” she said quietly. He didn’t answer, too busy adjusting a marble that had rolled too far from the others. “Andy.” He glanced up. His twin sister’s hair was knotted, falling into her eyes. In moments like this, she appeared older than eight, an old soul that had seen too much of the world and how rotten it might be for kids like them. “Remember the pool?” Of course he remembered. How Smurf had laughed when the boy called him weird, how she leaned down and purred in his ear to show him what happened to people who said things like that. The water had been cold and the boy’s hair slippery in Andrew’s hands. He could still hear the screams when the head went under: the kid’s voice bubbling into the water, Julia shouting behind him, Smurf laughing somewhere above it all. How he hadn’t felt anything but the sense that he was doing what he had been told. “That was bad,” Julia whispered.

Andrew studied the row of green marbles. “Smurf said it was fine.”

“Smurf says lots of things.” From down the hallway came the cry of a baby, small enough that the sound was weak and uneven, the sound of a being that had not yet understood that his mother would never answer. Julia shook her head, anger flashing across her small face. “She didn’t even check on him.”

Andrew stood, feet carrying him to the nursery room and the baby’s noise growing louder with every step. Craig lay in the crib with his tiny face scrunched and red, fists waving helplessly through the air. His cries calmed the moment Andrew leaned over the rail, climbing onto the lower run to lift him carefully. He tried to hold him the way he had witnessed people do in the hospital when Smurf brought the baby home: one arm under the body and the other supporting the back of his head. Craig quieted almost immediately, the howling breaking into small hiccups as he pressed his cheek against Andrew’s shirt.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew swayed him. He wasn’t sure if he did the right thing. All he knew was that Craig cried. Crying meant sadness. He didn’t want his baby brother to be sad.)

“He loves you,” Julia murmured from the doorway, watching them. Andrew looked down at the baby. Craig’s tiny fingers clung to the fabric of his shirt, innocent eyes fixed on him with the absolute trust only babies possessed: a love that came easily and without question, unaware of the faults in the person it chose.

(Andrew loved him too. If someone hurt his brother, he would hurt them back. He already knew how to punch. How to break. How to make someone bleed. For the people he loved, he could learn how to do worse.)

“We should leave,” she said suddenly.

Andrew looked up. “Leave where?”

“Anywhere! Somewhere that isn’t here.”

He stared at his brother once again, at the small hand gripping his shirt. “Smurf would be mad.”

“She’s already mad all the time!” Julia stepped further into the room, her voice dropping to a whisper like the house itself might be listening. “She makes you do things. Bad things.”

(The pool. The boy under the water. Smurf laughing. Smurf laughing. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted Craig’s hiccups.)

“I saw the bus station when she drove past it last week,” she continued softly. “People leave there. They go to different towns.” Andrew attempted to picture it: a bus, a road, a place where Smurf wasn’t. Where nobody praised and applauded when someone drowned. His brother had fallen asleep, warm and heavy in his arms. Andrew contemplated taking him. “He can’t come,” Julia spoke quietly, as if she had overheard the thought. “He’s too small.” Andrew couldn’t answer.

Later, Julia discovered a backpack in the hallway closet and stuffed it with the things that seemed important: crackers from the kitchen, two apples, a flashlight from the kitchen drawer and a twenty-dollar bill she had hidden weeks ago under her bed. Andrew folded Craig’s baby blanket and slipped it inside. His twin sister didn’t ask why. They departed after midnight. The house was silent then, the television finally dark and Smurf still gone someplace with a man whose name Andrew did not know. Outside, the night air was chilly and Andrew instantly held onto Julia’s hand to walk down the street.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the cracks in the pavement.)

Julia kept whispering about plans animatedly. “Maybe we can stay near the ocean! Or somewhere with trees. Or a big city. Andrew listened but kept counting. The bus station waited under a buzzing yellow light, making them both halt when they reached it “We did it.”

(His sister sounded happy. But the world felt too large here. Too open. One. Two. Three. Four.)

And then, abruptly, the way most vile things in Andrew’s life occurred, he heard a resounding noise inside his head: Craig crying, alone in the crib. Andrew felt frozen on the spot. Julia turned toward him. “What?” Andrew stared back down the street they had come from.

(Craig was still there. Craig couldn’t climb out of the crib. Couldn’t open doors. Couldn’t stop crying if nobody came. Sad. Sad. Sad.)

“He’s alone,” he managed to reply.

Julia’s face crumpled. “We’ll come back for him later.” Andrew imagined that.

(Craig waiting. The crying. The empty house. Smurf leaving him there. Sad. Sad. Sad.)

He shook his head, his voice quiet but unmovable. “No. He’s our brother.”

Julia shut her eyes, seeming very small all of the sudden. “Okay.”

The walk back was silent, but Andrew counted every step of it. The house waited at the end of the street, looking exactly the same as when they had left it. But something had changed. Because now, Andrew understood what he hadn’t before.

The house was not a house. It was a mouth. And they were walking back into the place that would swallow them both whole. ────────── Two weeks after he came to the café, you understand.

Why Andrew chose the table by the window. Why he sat facing the street instead of the wall. Why his eyes kept drifting to the street. At the time you supposed it was just one of his habits, one more quirk among the many you had started noticing and loving: the way he aligned every product in the bathroom until the labels faced the same direction, the way he checked door locks twice before bed. It could have been caution, or anxiety, or something he learned in prison.

Now you know. The television hums in the living room, Friends playing to an audience of exactly one person: you. The house is dim except for the light of the screen, your feet tucked beneath you on the couch, an empty mug resting on the coffee table and your hands hiding inside the pocket of Andrew’s hoodie. (he said they’d be back before midnight. it is way past midnight.)

The issue with loving a man like Andrew Cody is feigning ignorance. Because you know. Not everything, never everything, but enough. “The less you know, the safer you are from the cops.” They have repeated that sentence to you so many times it has practically become a household rule, a silent pact that exists between the four of you like an invisible line across the floor: you don’t cross into their world and they try, as much as they can, to keep it from touching yours.

You respect that. Mostly. But knowing something in theory is not the same as sitting alone in a quiet house while the clock moves closer and closer to one in the morning. Not when the man you love is out there in the city doing a dangerous job. You hide your hands into the sleeves of the hoodie you borrowed weeks ago and never gave back. You will, you keep telling yourself. When it won’t smell like him anymore. When it will just be you left on it. (he swore he’d come back.)

And the way he said it had been so quiet, so certain, that you believed him. Because Andrew rarely promises things. You had been standing in the kitchen, making your coffee and pretending to be much calmer than you really were when he stepped closer, his hands finding your waist. “Hey,” he murmured.

You recall smiling a little. “Were you staring at me again?”

His thumbs brushed lightly against your sides. “I like looking at you.”

You reached up and adjusted the collar of the fake security uniform he had pulled on for the night. “Just come back to me.”

And when he pressed a kiss to your forehead, and whispered back, “I will,” you trusted him. (he promised.)

The television audience bursts into laughter the moment you catch it: the metallic click of a key turning in the front door. Your head snaps toward the sound. For a brief second, your brain refuses to process what your ears are telling you, the moment stretching oddly long as the laugh track from the show continues behind you, bright and oblivious to the sudden rush of panic in your chest. But the handle really turns and your body moves before your mind catches up, feet dropping from the couch to the floor as you stand quickly, relieved.

It’s sharp and immediate, your lungs remembering how to breathe because they’re back. Andrew came back. Craig comes in first, loud as always, carrying two heavy black duffel bags slung over his shoulders. Deran follows close behind him, halfway through dismantling one of their guns, hands still gloved. “Jesus Christ, that was close man, I can’t…” Craig stops mid-sentence when he notices you in the middle of the living room, the expression crossing his face quick but unmistakable: guilt. It sits on him awkwardly, like he tried to wipe it off before walking in but didn’t quite manage. “Hey.” (you don’t like that face. you don’t want to know why there’s guilt there. you only want one thing.)

“Hey,” you reply, but your eyes move past them, searching for the last brother entering the house. Andrew closes the door cautiously behind him, one hand remaining against the wood for a beat. And another. Something about that slight pause, the way he stays there, shoulders hunched and breathing heavy, sends a thread of unease to crawl down your spine. He looks…wrong. Your brain begins detecting details faster now: the arm close to his side, the way he moves slower than his brothers, the curls damp and sticky to his forehead. The unnatural paleness of his face. (don’t panic. if you panic he’ll shut down.)

Craig and Deran are already proceeding through the house, vanishing down the hallway to stash the bags and weapons in places the cops, or even you, will never find. But Andrew doesn’t follow. He takes two steps into the living room, passing by you without registering your presence. Then three. His hand reaches out, gripping the arm of the couch like he abruptly needs something solid to hold onto. Your heart is pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. “Honey?”

He lifts his head when he hears your voice, turning back to you. For a moment, his eyes don’t quite focus. His breathing remains wrong, too shallow and uneven. But he forces a soft expression onto his face anyway. “Hey,” he murmurs.

You step closer, freezing when you distinguish it: the dark stain spreading across the side of his shirt. You always knew it would happen one day. But it’s always ‘one day’ until it becomes ‘today’. The blood is darker than you anticipated, almost black under the dim light, soaking slowly through the cotton of his uniform. Andrew notices where your eyes went, hand travelling instinctively to press against his side, attempting to cover it. Your throat tightens. “What happened?”

“Nothing.” (of course.)

He lowers himself onto the couch with careful control. Except you are watching closely enough to see the truth: his jaw clenching when he sits, his breath catching halfway through. Your feet move before you can stop them, kneeling in front of him. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine.”

“Andrew,” you reply, calm and firm, leaving no room for discussion. “Move your hand.”

He hesitates. You see the instinct fighting inside him: endure it, downplay it, pretend it isn’t happening. You lean closer, lowering your voice. “Move your hand. Or I will move it for you.” His eyes search your face for several seconds before he exhales through his nose and lets his hand drop from his side. The cotton of the uniform is soaked along his ribs. Your stomach flips again, but you swallow it down as you reach for the hem of his shirt again. “Okay. Good. You’re doing good. Now, lift your arms.” It isn’t loud, but it’s unmistakably an order. You feel guilty for doing this, but you know that Andrew Cody has spent most of his life obeying commands and that he will follow yours too. He lifts his arms just enough for you to peel the shirt up and see the wound beneath: how the blood glistens along the cut, still seeping. You straighten abruptly. “Okay, stay here.”

“Wasn’t planning on leaving,” he mutters faintly.

You rush to the kitchen before he can see your hands shaking, pulling open every drawer until you find what you need. Scissors. Towel. Alcohol. When you return, Andrew has shifted and you didn’t hear it. He’s no longer sitting upright, no, he’s stretched out across the couch, one arm hanging over the edge, eyes half-closed like the effort became too much. Your pulse spikes. “Andrew.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

You kneel beside the couch and slide the scissors under the edge of the uniform. “Don’t move.”

“No worries.”

You cut the shirt open delicately, exposing the wound. “You’re late,” you say suddenly.

“What?”

“You promised we’d finish the season tonight.”

He frowns. “Season?”

“Friends,” you reply, reaching for the towel and pressing it against his ribs, your shaking getting worse. “We had four episodes left. Phoebe was going to give birth.”

Andrew exhales slowly, eyes drifting toward the television still on. “Right.”

“You said we’d watch it after,” you continue lightly, casual. Almost like you’re bothered and not beyond frightened.

“Sorry.”

You keep talking while your hands work, pressing the wound and forcing a teasing tone into your voice. “Oh, you should be. Do you know how long I waited? I had to rewatch those of last night and almost started the next episode without you.”

Andrew’s eyelids droop. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You better.”

You glance up at him. His eyes are drifting again. “Andrew.” He hums and your hand moves to his shoulder, shaking him. “Hey. No sleeping.”

He blinks slowly. “Tired.”

“No, you’re not. You don’t fall asleep okay?” His head tips to the side. “Andrew.” He doesn’t respond, his eyes rolling back. “Hey, hey, hey. No, no. Look at me. Come on,” you shake him harder, realizing that his breathing slows, “Andrew, baby, look at me.” Your voice cracks. “Andrew?” No response. You grab his shoulder. “Andrew, wake up, please.” The head rolls with the gesture, heavy and unresisting. Still nothing. “Pope, wake up! It’s an order!” You scream desperately, the word tearing out of your throat.

The hoodie is warm with his blood now, soaked through where your hands press against the wound, but you don’t let go. You press harder instead, like force alone could keep the life inside him from slipping away. “Craig! Deran! Help!” Your voice cracks again as it echoes through the house. “Craig!” You turn your head toward the hallway, toward the garage, toward anywhere they might still be. “Deran!”

You pray they’re still here. That they haven’t left yet and that they’re close enough to hear you. Because a part of your brain is already trying to rewrite the last ten minutes, trying desperately to replace this moment with something else, something normal. You should be on the couch right now, half-asleep against Andrew’s shoulder while the two of you finish the last episodes of Friends. Or he could be resting his head over your lap, staring at you instead of the television like he always does. You should be tugging him in bed to kiss him until your lips were numb. Should be making love until the only thing he utters is your name. Andrew should be alive and warm beside you instead of lying motionless under your hands. But no one wakes you up.

“You promised,” you sob, your forehead pressing against his chest who slowly rises, your fingers gripping his shirt to hold him here. “You promised you’d come back.” Only silence replies to you. “Please don’t do this.” Your voice breaks completely now. “Please.” Behind you, the television audience erupts into another burst of laughter. And in the middle of that cheerful noise, with your hands covered in his blood and your heart breaking open in your ribs, you understand a thing that makes the terror swallow you whole. Andrew Cody isn’t answering you anymore. ────────── “I hope you’re taking off the shirt for me.”

He paused halfway through pulling the shirt over his head, one arm still caught in the sleeve as he turned toward the sliding doorway that opened to the backyard. You leaned against the doorframe, observing him with the sort of easy smile that constantly made his heart squeezing in his chest. Andrew finished removing the shirt and tossed it onto one of the lounge chairs beside the pool without looking. “You’re gonna have to focus,” he replied.

Your eyebrows lifted. “Oh, I am,” you grinned, stepping outside and letting the screen door slide shut behind you, “I just didn’t realize that the focusing came with…such nice scenery.”

He didn’t smile but felt the warmth creeping up the back of his neck anyway as he turned to the punching bag hanging from the metal frame Craig once used for pull-ups, steadying it with one hand. He wished this moment were something else, simpler, ordinary. Just a boyfriend showing off. What belonged in the kind of life where teasing led to laughter instead of preparation for violence. But that wasn’t the existence he had.

He loathed that it had come to this, the cold logic sitting in the back of his mind and reminding him of the things he knew all too well: that he had enemies, men who knew his name, his brothers, men who would not hesitate to aim for whatever hurt the most if they sought to reach him. And the thing that hurt the most was standing shoeless in his backyard, smiling at him.

(And if that day came and he had not prepared you…Stop. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four.)

He forced the spiral down the way he had learned to do as a kid, breathing slowly through his nose until the numbers lined up in his head and the tautness in his chest loosened enough that he could turn back toward you without allowing any of it to display on his face. “You ready?” he asked.

You tilted your head. “Define ready.”

Andrew gestured toward him. “Come here.”

You strode forward without hesitation or apprehension, just the faith that had constantly been when it came to him. He reached for your wrist, closing his hand around it firmly enough to demonstrate but not enough to hurt. “Someone grabs you,” he coached. “First, don’t panic. Second, don’t try to pull straight back.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re stronger than you.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Hey! Keep the mean talk and tonight you sleep on the couch.”

Andrew ignored that part and transferred his grip on your wrist, directing your arm so you could observe the angle. “You rotate here,” he explained, guiding the motion toward the base of his thumb. “That’s the weak spot. ‘kay?” You twisted your wrist the way he indicated you, hand slipping free. “Again.” He seized your wrist once more. You repeated the action, faster this time, the angle a touch incorrect at first before you corrected it halfway through and slipped free. He nodded. “Again.”

You did it three more times, movements gaining confidence with each attempt, the hesitation giving way to instinct. The fourth, you twisted free so quickly he barely felt it, looking almost pleased with yourself. Andrew let go and stepped back to the punching bag. “Next thing.”

Your eyes followed him, a small sigh escaping you as you walked over. “You know, when you said, ‘training session’, I have to admit it wasn’t quite what I pictured. Especially when you took off your shirt.”

He grabbed the bag to steady it and gestured toward it. “Just punch.”

The first hit landed with a thud that barely made the bag sway. Then the next. And another. You weren’t graceful about it. Your stance shifted too much, your shoulder rolling forward awkwardly, but you kept trying anyway, stubborn in the way you were about everything that mattered to you. “Okay,” he acquiesced after a moment. “That’s enough.”

You stretched your fingers, wincing. “Good. Cause I absolutely hate that.”

“It’s not over,” Andrew interjected, stepping in front of you. “Punch me.”

You stiffened. “No.”

“You won’t hurt me.”

 “I refuse,” you protested, arms crossed. Andrew didn’t budge, holding your bewildered stare with the same persistence he used when waiting for Craig to finish one of his ridiculous arguments. “Andrew.”

“Do it.”

“Fuck,” you muttered, lifting your fist and punching his chest.

He grabbed your wrist instantly. “You’re hesitating.”

“Well yes!” you huffed, exasperated. “Because I love you!” (The words still felt unreal every time he heard them.)

“Don’t hesitate.”

Your jaw tensed at that, pulling your hand free to hit once more. This time, the impact landed properly against his chest with a solid sound. “Fuck, did that hurt?”

Andrew shook his head. “No, I told you.”

Fingers lingering against the spot you had hit before leaning forward, you pressed a quick kiss where your fist had gone. “Don’t ever make me do that again,” you murmured.

(He wants to vow that you won’t. But the world he lived in didn’t spare saints. And if the day ever came when he wasn’t there to stand between you and the men who might want to hurt him…)

Andrew raised his gaze to the open sky above the backyard.

(Please. Let this knowledge never be necessary. Please never let the world touch you the way it has touched him. Let him always be there first.)

Because if the day ever came when you had to use what he was teaching you, Andrew wasn’t sure there would be enough left of him to forgive the sky for it. ────────── Everything is a blur.

Moving like fog inside his skull, swallowing time and moments whole so that Andrew can never tell where one hour ends and another begins, whether he has been here minutes or days. Only that he drifts up and down through layers of pain and noise and darkness like he’s sinking beneath the water and occasionally brushing the surface long enough to gulp air before the current drags him under again.

There are voices. They come and go, distant waves crashing beyond the edge of his consciousness, too far to make out, then closer, then gone again. Deran’s voice is the easiest to recognize despite the muddle, loud and furious even when he is trying to whisper. “It’s all your fucking fault!”

Another voice answers him, fearful and shaky. Craig. Andrew attempts to open his eyes then, to comfort him, to tell him it was not his fault, but the effort collapses before it truly arises, his body heavy and unresponsive, limbs weighed down by the feeling of sand being poured into his bones.

Pain exists too. It pulses somewhere along his side, blooming through his ribs every time he breathes, but even that sensation feels distant, dulled, as if it belongs to someone else. Everything is bizarre there, moments sliding into each other without edges, the world flickering in and out like a weak signal struggling to stay connected.

He descends again in the shadows. - The next thing he registers is a voice. Your voice. It arrives differently from the others, softer but sharper all the same, cutting through the fog. “Andrew…” Your voice breaks, and he craves nothing more than to hold you, to comfort you, to tell you he is here. “Please, stay with me.” He attempts to respond but his mouth doesn’t budge. Warmth presses against his skin, a compression against his ribs that sends a ripple of flames through his body despite the haze, and he realizes vaguely that hands are holding him down or holding him together.

(Your hands. He knows them by heart now.)

There are more voices. A stranger. He wants to tell him to go away, to leave his family alone. That he desires to die in peace with the voice of his angel close to him. But the stranger keeps speaking. “Hold him.” “He’s losing a lot.” “Keep pressure there.”

Hands run over him. Bandages. Cloth. It tenses around his ribs and the pain slices abruptly enough to drag him halfway toward the surface before the darkness swallows him once more. But despite it all…your voice remains.

Even when everything else fades. - Time dissolves. He floats. At some point, he becomes aware of the smell: wrong, metallic and thick. Blood fills the air, intense and unmistakable, mixing with something sharper he gradually recognizes as alcohol and antiseptic. The scent coats the inside of his lungs every time he inhales, yanking him closer to consciousness whether he wants it or not.

He perceives voices again. His brothers. They are arguing beyond the edge of his vision, the words warped by distance and the cloud inside his head. “You should’ve done more!”

“I know! But I didn’t ask him to do this!”

“You know that’s what he does! And that almost killed him!”

His body refuses to stir, the stinging in his ribs throbbing harder now and tugging a rope of fire through his chest. He sinks. But a gentleness interrupts all this chaos. The voice of his angel. “Stop it, boys.” The room goes quiet, your voice trembling, but the authority in it lands that even Deran doesn’t contest it. “Please, stop. You’re not helping.”

Silence stretches for a moment.

(He wants them to keep fighting. To keep shouting. To break things if they have to. Anything to prove him that the world still exists outside his skull because the silence inside feels too much like being buried alive.)

But a hand brushes tenderly through his hair, pushing the curls away from his forehead with a care so familiar that his body recognizes it before his mind can follow. “Andrew,” you whisper, the word reaching him like a line thrown into the deep water. He senses the soft pressure of your lips on his forehead, “you’re okay, now.” He desires nothing more than to have faith in your words. - Time folds in on itself.

Sometimes he drifts so far that nothing exists at all, the world melting into a blank and merciful quiet where even the pain can’t track him, and other times the edge of things returns in scattered pieces: your voice nearby, the gentle stroke of your hands, the rhythm of your breathing rising and falling beside him.

At one point, he feels the bed shift beneath his weight, the mattress dipping as someone moves beside him, warm water touching his skin. A cloth follows it, sliding slowly across his chest, and it takes several seconds for the disjointed fragments of sensation to have a meaning.

You are cleaning him. The fabric travels over the dried blood along his stomach and ribs that ache even through the haze. He hears himself make a sound, small and weak and unfamiliar that barely resembles a voice. Your hand pauses instantly. “I know,” you murmur, fingers smoothing over his hair before returning to their work. “I know, honey.”

You move slowly, patiently, like every inch of him matters while Andrew floats there, half aware, half gone, your hands traveling across his skin. A peculiar discomfort curls in his chest. Not pain, no. Shame. Because you witness him like this: fragile, damaged, helpless. The same hands that have choked men, held knives and guns, broken bones without remorse now lie useless at his sides while you wash blood from them.

He doesn’t deserve the way you handle him, and yet your hands never dither to cleanse the blood from his shoulders, chest and the long smear of it throughout his stomach. When the cloth leaves his body, the absence registers instantly and he starts counting the seconds until your return.

(One. Two. Three. Fou-)

Your breath strokes his temple as you lean close to wash his hair, warm water trickling within his curs while your fingers comb gently as you wipe away the last traces of blood from his scalp. Water runs down the side of his face, but you are already there to steady his head. His whole world now narrows to the sensation of you.

(His angel is kneeling in the dirt. Lowering herself to touch what is ruined. Washing the sins from a body that has no right to ask for forgiveness.)

Your voice breaks the thought. “There you go.” Andrew feels a palm cup the side of his face, lips finding the tip of his nose. “All handsome again.” The words are meant to be light, teasing even, but your voice trembles, betraying the exhaustion and terror underneath. He can’t open his eyes to tell you he hears you and that the sound of your voice is the only thing pulling him out of the shadows.

That his angel is still beside him, and as long as she refuses to let go, even death must await. - When Andrew finally wakes for real, the confusion is gone. Pain remains, of course. It rests deep along his ribs like a smoldering coal, flaring brighter each time he breathes too deeply or shifts even minimally against the mattress, but it’s a clean pain now, contained, no longer the distant echo of something happening to someone else.

No, this time it’s a clear and undeniable signal from his own body. Which means he is here. Alive.

The ceiling above him comes slowly into focus: the familiar crack running across the plaster, the discoloration where the paint never quite dried evenly after the last repair, the afternoon light filtering through the curtains across the room.

He’s in the house.

Andrew lies still for a long moment, hollow and drained. Memory sluggishly returns the same way everything else has since he was shot: in fragments that find their places. The couch. The smell of blood. Your voice screaming his name. Your palms against his side. The room spinning while you begged him not to close his eyes.

Andrew swallows, turning his head to try to forget. You are there. The chair alongside the bed has been pulled close enough that your knees touch the mattress, folded into it like your body simply stopped wherever exhaustion caught you, hand still wrapped around his and your thumb on the inside of his wrist, checking his pulse. Your head rests on the edge of the mattress, face wan. The skin around your eyes is swollen and in a deep shade of purple, hinting at him how you must have shed tears long after your body had nothing left to give.

He keeps studying the lines of your features the way he has done a thousand times before when you were laughing, or reading, or concentrating on a simple task of your daily life. But this is different. This is the face of someone who has witnessed horrors and survived them.

He recalls the sound of your voice breaking when you shouted his name, your fingers refusing to stop the pressure against the wound even when the blood soaked through your sleeves. Andrew stares at the ceiling once again. The room is quiet now. The whole house is quiet. Even the world outside the windows seems to be holding its breath.

The existence he has lived, the one that had been crafted by Smurf, the jobs, the violence, the endless cycle of danger and escape had constantly been his only to carry. Not anymore. Now there’s you. And loving you means something different than what he has known his whole life. More than shielding you and promising to come back. It means making sure you never have to go through another night like that.

Andrew turns his hand slowly in yours, the gesture small but sufficient for your eyes to flutter open. For a second you look confused, disoriented. Then your gaze finds his, relief and disbelief spreading across your face. “Andrew,” you whisper, the name cracking. You sit up too quickly, your free hand reaching for his face and brushing his cheek as your eyes fill up. “You’re awake.”

Andrew manages to nod, still observing intently your face and the fear and exhaustion lingering behind your relief, the way your fingers tremble even while you smile at him. This is what nearly breaking you looks like. He can’t live with that, not ever again. He squeezes your hand, making you inhale sharply like the smallest proof of life still feels impossible. One last look at you is enough to realize there was never a choice to make.

Because if loving you means saving you from the life he lives…then he will burn that life down with his own hands. ────────── He exhaled loud enough for you to hear on what must have been the fifth time. “You’re gonna hurt your back.”

You grinned without turning around, chin resting on your bent knees. “I’m comfy.” A small pause ensued, the kind that suggested he was contemplating whether it was worth arguing again. (it was not. he should know it by now.)

“You could sit up here.”

“I like the floor.”

Another sigh. “You’re stubborn.”

You tipped your head back just enough to glance at him upside down. “Oh, so you’ve noticed?”

Andrew was sitting on the edge of the couch, one leg tucked under him and the other planted firmly on the floor beside you. The remote rested forgotten beside his thigh. His attention had been pulled away from the episode the instant you had walked into the room with the brush.

Which came in contact with your hair after you felt him hover tentatively above your head for a while. “Hold still,” he murmured.

The first slow pass of the brush slid through your hair. He didn’t tug or rush, halting when he found a knot, fingers replacing it to untangle the strands before continuing, the back of his hand stroking your neck every now and then. Each movement was methodical, thoughtful, like he was solving a problem one piece at a time.

The television audience burst into laughter, neither of you reacting. You simply…sat there, paying attention to the noiseless rhythm of the brush traveling on your head. You leaned into it without thinking. “You’re good at that,” you complimented after a moment. He hummed, not quite answering. “No, seriously,” you insisted, smiling to yourself. “You’ve done this before.”

His hands paused for half a second before starting to divide the hair into three even sections. “Yeah.”

You pivoted just enough to throw him a quick look over your shoulder, but his eyes remained focused on the braid forming between his fingers. “Who?” you asked.

“Julia.” The name landed quietly in the room. You knew it already. The basics, at least. That she had been his twin, that she was gone now, that her absence resided inside him. The wound that would never be allowed to heal properly. Andrew’s fingers proceeded steadily, crossing the strands over each other. “She liked braids,” he added after a moment. “Two of them.”

“Like pigtails?”

“Yeah,” he pulled one section tighter before crossing it once again. “Said they stayed out of her face better.”

You grinned. “Smart girl.” Andrew didn’t respond, but you could sense the corner of his mouth lifting behind you. “How old were you when you used to do that?”

The weaving came to a standstill. “Kids.”

“That’s pretty young to learn how to braid.”

“She showed me. Our mother wouldn’t help.” (yeah. from what you’ve gathered about that woman, that tracked.)

You waited, giving him the space to continue if he wanted to. About Julia. About his mother. About anything from his past that gave him those nightmares. He didn’t. The plait resumed instead, his fingers moving a little slower, like he was savoring the feeling long buried in his memory. “She liked it tight,” he added quietly. “Said it lasted longer that way.”

You nodded, even though he couldn’t see you. “What was she like?”

Andrew’s hands stilled again, long enough for you to notice. “She was…” he cut himself short, searching for a word and abandoning it almost immediately. “Julia.”

The braid was almost finished now, the strands neatly woven together down your back, and the gentle tug you felt each time he crossed another section “Hey,” you said quietly, “you don’t have to talk about her if you don’t want to.”

Andrew tied off the end of the braid with the elastic he had slid around his wrist earlier. “I know.”

You reached back and pulled it over your shoulder before resting against him. He didn’t protest this time, no, his arms moved, sliding under yours and around your waist, dragging you altogether onto the couch for your back to rest against his chest. His chin came to rest on your shoulder. (fine, maybe it was better than the floor.)

You played absently with the end of the plait. “I think we could have been friends.” He didn’t answer right away. His nose brushed the side of your neck when he shifted, his breath warm against your skin. One of his hands found yours, fingers lacing together. The question slipped out before you could stop yourself. “You think she would have liked me?” The room went quiet again except for the television that you both didn’t pay attention to. The answer came like it was never a question in his mind, his other hand settling over your stomach as he pulled you closer to kiss behind your ear.

“She would have loved you.” ────────── “Hold still.” Your hands slide guardedly around his arms before he can protest further, steadying him as you step closer, careful not to press where the bandage sits beneath the fabric of his shirt.

“Okay, honey,” you murmur. “Slow.”

Andrew allows the help. It’s not something that comes effortlessly to him. For most of his life, assistance has been another word for weakness, something Smurf had trained out of him the same way she had trained hesitation out of him, to take pain silently and keep running. But this is different. Because whenever he peers down at your hands holding onto him, helping him walk, he sees the tremble of your fingers and how you keep glancing up at his face, checking his pulse in the middle of the night to assure yourself that he is still there. Alive.

“Ready?” you ask. He acquiesces once. The first step into the hallway is slow. The second even slower, his arm draped around your shoulders while your own remains wrapped around his waist, guiding him through the house as the floorboards creak beneath your combined weight. “Better today, right?” you question, the hand that isn’t around him lifting to brush the back of it across his forehead. “No fever? How’s the pain?”

Andrew tilts his head toward the touch, letting you examine him like that, the cool sweep of your skin against his skin before your hand drops again.

(It’s the sixth time today. Not that he minds. His angel counting his pulse like beads on a rosary, making sure that death hasn’t come back to finish its work. Hell will take him eventually. It won’t matter. He has already tasted heaven.)

“I’m fine,” he answers.

Your eyes narrow in warning. “That was not the question.”

“It’s better,” he corrects.

You seem to accept it, or at least decide that pushing further right now would only make him retreat into silence, a quiet, “Okay. Better is good,” escaping your lips. He moves carefully. Not because he can’t walk, he can, but because the wound along his ribs reminds him with every breath that bodies have their limits, even his, and ignoring them now would mean disappointing the woman currently holding half his weight. “Slower, please,” you remind him (or his body) gently.

“I am.”

“No, not that.”

Andrew glances at you, frowning. “Walking?”

“Breathing.”

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts your lashes to dull the pain. Good thought. It works. A distant heat is better than a blade.)

“See?” you whisper happily. “Much better.”

He doesn’t point out that the improvement has very little to do with the mechanics of breathing and everything to do with the fact that you are still here, beside him, in the house that nearly became his grave. The hallway opens toward the living room and its long windows that overlook the trees, Andrew’s eyes drifting there automatically, cataloguing every detail the way he always does: doors closed, locks intact, nothing disturbed. The result of the training Smurf carved into him before he was old enough to grasp what it represented.

But something else draws his attention next: the couch. Or rather…what remains of it.

The large red sectional sits in its traditional place near the glass table, but the cushions along one side are absent, stripped away to expose the interior frame underneath them and the material that once covered the spot where he collapsed seven days ago has been removed entirely, leaving raw foam where the blood had sodden too deep to clean. The cushions are now stacked unevenly against the far wall while a blanket has been thrown over the exposed section in a hurried attempt to hide it.

Andrew stops walking, his gaze lingering on the couch. “What’s wrong?” you demand, tightening your grip around his waist.

(There had been so much blood. And your voice shattering somewhere above him. Screaming for his brothers. Screaming at them. To help him. To rescue him. This is the part that remains with him at night. The terror. The pleading. Thinking that he would die there and that you would witness it. He doesn’t know if that will ever leave him or be another ghost along the way.)

His arm shifts around your shoulders. “You didn’t clean it.”

Your eyes flick toward the furniture and then away again so hastily it would have escaped anyone else’s notice. But not his. “I…I tried,” you reply quietly. “But the blood soaked through the cushions and I…I didn’t want to throw the whole thing away. I mean…Craig and Deran said that I could get rid of it, but I didn’t know about you since it belonged to…” you swallow, cutting before the cursed name can come out, “So I just took the worst part off.”

Despite the silence, Andrew hears the word anyway. (Smurf. The house is full of things that belonged to her. Furnishings. Walls. Memories that crawl through the floorboards like insects.)

He recalls Smurf sitting there, one leg crossed over the other, bracelets chiming while she observed the room like it was a chessboard, her sons scattered across it like obedient pieces. Pawns and knights and whatever she needed them to be. Each of them pretending they had chosen the square she had already decided they would die on.

He had stood exactly where he stands now, younger and quieter, waiting for her next move. Waiting to learn whose blood would prove he was still useful. “We’re getting rid of it.”

You blink, clearly not expecting that answer. “Really?”

“Yes.”

“But…” your eyes go back toward it uncertainly, “I thought maybe it meant something to you since it was…”

“I never liked it.” The sentence comes out calm and certain. “Always been uncomfortable.”

(Not the real reason. It sits deeper. Tangled in the memories of Smurf’s voice. Smurf’s orders. Smurf’s kisses. Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts his breaths before focusing back on you.)

“Good,” you exhale with a smile. “I hated it so fucking much. I didn’t know how to tell you it was the most horrendous couch I’ve ever seen.” The corner of his mouth twitches. It’s small, brief enough that you almost miss it, but your face brightens anyway like you had been waiting days for that tiny gesture. “See,” you murmur triumphantly. “There’s my smile. Now come on Andy, a few more steps and we’re in the kitchen.”

Andrew lets you guide him forward again, the two of you advancing past the living room while the furniture remains behind, a discarded relic of something rotten by time and love. He doesn’t look at it.

(And plans on never doing so ever again. Soon he will drag it outside and burn it until there’s nothing left but ash. Exorcise the altar of his old religion.)

“Okay,” you pull one of the stools out before he can argue, hands close enough to catch him even though he hasn’t stumbled once since leaving the bedroom. “Sit.” Andrew lowers himself carefully, one hand braced against the counter while the muscles along his side flare around the wound. “You okay?” you ask.

“Yes.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

“No, because…I’m still scared you’re about to pass out.”

“I won’t.”

You squint at him, a few seconds stretching between you before you sigh dramatically and plant both hands on the kitchen island. “You’re so bad at this, you know?”

“At what?”

“Being taken care of. You’re a very…very bad patient,” you reply, a smile making its way on your face. “And honestly, I don’t know how nurses do it.” Reaching out, your fingers brush lightly along his jaw before you lean forward and press a kiss against his mouth, half for affection, half for reassurance. Andrew can almost taste it.

“I thought you liked playing nurse,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Oh, I do.” You peck another kiss on his lips. “But that was funnier in bed.”

(It was. How you had stuttered the first time you suggested it. How, on top and breathless, you had proposed his fireman outfit next time. And how there hasn’t been a next time.)

The memory turns sour. He despises the wound. Not just because it slows him down…but it has also placed a distance between the two of you he cannot seem to be able to close.

He had tried. Three days ago, when the worst of the fever had faded and you were lying beside him in the bed, careful not to be too close, Andrew had murmured the suggestion on the pillow. But your hand had come up, two fingers pressing against his lips.

“No,” you had whispered. “We’ll wait.”

Andrew didn’t mention it again. Even right now. Instead, he watches you as you pull back from the kiss, your fingers still resting against his jaw while the playful expression slowly fades into thoughtfulness.

“But seriously,” you add after a moment, “if you need something…you ask me, okay? Anything.”

“I will.”

You study him, probably searching for signs of lies, before finally seeming satisfied enough to step away. “Good.” You glance toward the refrigerator. “I was thinking about going to the store. We’re running out of milk.”

(He knows what it is. It’s subtle, but he recognizes it. You want him to ask for help so you can aid. Not because he needs it. Because it makes the fear in your chest settle a little. Helping means he’s alive. His angel keeping vigil.)

Andrew tries to think. “We need eggs.”

He hasn’t seen your face brighten like that since the day. “Okay. Eggs. Perfect.”

“And coffee.”

“But we already have coffee here.”

“More coffee, please.”

(He would go willingly bankrupt on coffee if it meant seeing you light up like that.)

You grab his truck’s keys from the counter, running back to him and pressing a quick kiss against his temple. “Don’t move, okay? I’ll be back in twenty minutes,” you say, walking to the front door.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the seconds until the car disappears behind the gate.)

Andrew remains seated, listening to the fading sound of the engine long after it has gone, the house settling back into its usual quietness around him. Then, he exhales through his nose and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lights up, the page he had been staring at the night before is still open where he had left it when you stepped out of the shower, wrapped in steam and one of his shirts, pretending to scroll through something meaningless. Houses for sale. Rows of them scroll beneath his thumb: white siding, narrow driveways…He keeps moving.

(Not Oceanside. Too close. Too many men who know his name. Too many memories that could follow him in the dead of the night.)

He adjusts the search radius to two hours. Three at most. Far enough that the old life would have to work harder to find him, but not so far that Craig and Deran would become strangers. He won’t disappear, no. But he will throw the board in the fire and start a new game. One where he is no longer a pawn waiting to die for someone else’s victory.

The results refresh with new houses appearing. He studies each image: front yard, windows, distance from the road, blind spots…He moves past them. A white house near a freeway. No. A narrow bungalow with cracked siding. No. He scrolls again. There is no budget filter selected: Craig and Deran had handed him a cut of the job big enough that he hasn’t decided what to do with most of it. They stated it was because he took the worst of the risk that night, but he knows better. His brothers gave it to him because they were scared. Scared of seeing him bleeding out on Smurf’s couch.

Somewhere in the haze of that night, between the pain, the blood and your voice, he remembers a single clear thought. If he didn’t make it, at least Craig and Deran would take care of you. They would make sure you never had to worry about rent or food or the thousands of small things that made your life…yours. They would show up when things broke, fix what needed fixing, keep the world from being too hard on you.

The knowledge had been strangely comforting in those final drifting minutes before the darkness. But he didn’t die. And now the money sits there waiting, untouched. Until now. He keeps scrolling until the fourth house appears on the screen and Andrew’s thumb pauses.

The photo shows a house tucked into the edge of a quiet valley, oak trees stretching wide above the roof. The siding is painted a deep green, nearly the same color as the leaves surrounding it, the kind of place that looks like it belongs exactly where it stands instead of fighting the land for space. Ojai. He taps the listing. More photos appear: a kitchen filled with light and windows open toward the trees, a living room without heavy furniture choking the space but sunlight stretching across the wooden floors. The backyard appears next: wide and flat behind the house, bordered by oaks. No steep slopes. No crowded neighbors. Just open ground beneath the branches. Large enough for a ramp. And…three bedrooms.

Andrew goes still.

(Three. Three. Three. Odd number. But good number.)

He doesn’t know when the thought first started appearing in his mind, but sometimes, in the quiet instances between sleep and waking, he sees it. A small figure running through a house like this. Curly hair that refuses stubbornly to be tamed no matter how many times he tries and a laugh that sounds like yours. He never sees the face clearly, doesn’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.

Just that they have his curls and your smile. The idea sits in his chest, all fragile and impossible at once, and if that day ever comes, if a sinner like him is allowed that kind of grace, Andrew finds himself hoping they inherit everything from you. Your kindness, your softness, your light. Everything that makes you…you. Let them have his hair if they must. But the rest of him: the violence, the darkness that follows his blood like a curse. He hopes that part stops with him.

His eyes move back to the house. Ojai. Population 7,527. Close enough to the ocean that he could still drive there if he needed the sound of the waves and far enough for Smurf’s ghost to lose the trail. Because the truth is…He cannot let this house swallow you the way it swallowed Julia. He will not watch these walls poison you the way they poisoned her.

His thumb presses the save icon, the small star beside the listing turning gold. Andrew leans back on the chair, the phone still resting in his hand, observing the images of the house.

(Three bedrooms. Three. Three. Three.)

You brought heaven into his life the moment you walked through the door. The least he can do now is build a haven strong enough to keep it. ────────── “No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.”

The words landed before Andrew even recognized that Baz had spoken them. Maybe they had been shouted. Maybe they hadn’t. He couldn’t recollect the volume of them, only the certainty. The way Baz said it like a fact. Something obvious. Something that didn’t require explanation because everyone already knew it was true.

For a moment he didn’t move, hands staying exactly where they were, resting against the edge of the table. (No one is ever gonna have a kid with you.) He tried to blink, to shake the sentence loose from his head. (Ever.) The word seemed to echo louder than the rest. (Ever.) He inhaled slowly through his nose. (One. Two. Three. Four.)

The argument about Lena had already started evaporating around the edges of the moment, the details slipping away almost instantly. It could have been about Baz’s new girlfriend. Or about food. Maybe about him interfering too much. About him acting like she was his. He couldn’t recall the exact words anymore, and it didn’t matter now. What mattered was the sentence.

(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)

He had spent most of his life trying not to ponder about that possibility. Not for lack of wanting it. But desiring had always been treacherous in this house, Smurf having a way of seizing those wants and twisting them until they became something ugly and humiliating. That she could hold between her fingers and turn until it broke.

So, Andrew learned early not to voice those thoughts out loud but still, they emerged sometimes. A small kid running through a room, someone small enough that he could pick them up with one arm. The image had never lasted long, pushed away before it could take shape.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

But now Baz had said it. Out loud. And Baz wasn’t just anyone. Not some stranger on the street throwing words around without knowing what they meant. Baz grew up with him. In the same house, the same rooms, with the same suffocating rules. Saw him when he lost control. When he hit things too hard. When the anger came too fast and too sudden. Saw him being Pope. The part of him that never seemed to come back clean.

But Baz also knew what Andrew was like when the world went quiet. And if Baz believed it…then maybe it had always been true.

(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.) Andrew swallowed, throat dry. He focused on the counter once more: on the scratches carved into the wood, on a water ring left by someone’s glass. (One. Two. Three. Four.) Counting usually worked, it pushed things away. But the sentence kept slipping back between the numbers. (One. Two. Three. Four. No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever. One. Two. Three. Four.) He attempted again but the words followed the rhythm of the counting. (No one. One. Is ever. Two. Gonna have. Three. A kid with you. Four. Ever.)

Andrew shut his eyes briefly, the vision of Lena appearing instantly, uninvited. Her small hand gripping his when they crossed the street, the sound she made when she laughed, all sudden and loud. He had spent more nights taking care of her than Baz had. More mornings making her breakfast. More afternoons picking her up from school. But now Baz’s voice slid into the space where those memories resided.

(No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever.)

He didn’t argue. Didn’t ask Baz what he meant because somewhere deep inside him, beneath the counting and the silence, a thought had already taken root.

Who would want that life? Want a child with a man like him? Maybe it had never been a possibility in the first place.

And hours later, back in Smurf’s house, when the lights were off, and the rooms had gone silent, the words still followed him into the dark. The kind that sounded less like an insult and more like a curse.

No one is ever gonna have a kid with you. Ever. ────────── The alarm rang ten minutes ago but you have not yet swallowed it.

The phone lies face-down on the nightstand where it had vibrated against the wood earlier, the familiar tone meant to remind you of what you have done every morning for years: a small ritual as ordinary as brushing your teeth or tying your hair up before work, yet your hand remains motionless instead of stretching toward the blister pack, waiting patiently beside the glass of water.

Andrew is awake. You sense it in the fluctuations of his breathing, the subtle tension that travels through him when consciousness returns. But he stays exactly where he is, curled against you with his back along your chest, legs tangled together beneath the sheets, one of your arms draped around his waist while the other has your fingers running through the thick curls at the base of his neck.

You’ve discovered quite early in your relationship that Andrew sleeps best like this. Not holding you. Being held.

It had surprised you the first time he drifted into it without thinking, turning until he rested against you, his head tilting so your pads could slip into his hair, and the second you began scratching down his scalp, his entire body had relaxed so instantaneously and helplessly you almost giggled. Now it is routine. Every night, he feigns to just settle for a moment. It’s never just a moment. Your thumb traces slowly behind his ear, nails scraping gently along it as his breathing deepens, savoring the sensation while your gaze drift to the nightstand once more and to the packet of pills that remains there.

Andrew shifts a little against you, one hazel eye opening to glance toward the bedside table before flicking back to you. “You didn’t take it?” he asks, voice still rough with sleep.

You hum tenderly, digits combing through his curls as he angles himself a little further in them while you watch the morning light creep along the ceiling. “No…Not yet.”

He goes still for a moment in that silent, cogitating state you’ve learned signifies he’s noticing everything and speaking nothing. “You always take it when you wake up.”

“I know.”

His fingers glide absently along your forearm where it crosses his chest, tracing small idle patterns on your skin. “You forgot?”

“No.”

He turns his head so he can completely look at you now, not blinking much, not moving much…just that steady, intent gaze that makes it feel like every word you say is being placed carefully somewhere in his mind where none gets lost.

Your pads continue their movement because if you halt, he’ll notice, and if he notices he’ll start thinking too hard, and if he starts thinking too hard the quietness of this morning will evaporate under the weight of all the things Andrew Cody has learned to fear wanting. “You didn’t forget…?” he questions after a moment.

You shake your head against the pillow. “No.”

Silence sinks between you while his thumb keeps dancing along your forearm, back and forth, back and forth, his favorite thing to do every day to ground himself in the fact that you’re there. He peeps once more toward the nightstand and the tablet before going back to you. And this time you perceive it: the uncertainty, the carefulness when his chest rises before he speaks.

“You think about stopping them?” he murmurs.

“Maybe...I mean…” you exhale, the words seized someplace amid your chest and throat. Your fingers remain exploring his curls, half because you know he adores that and half because it gives your hands work while your thoughts stumble over themselves. (why is this suddenly so tough to say. it’s not like you hadn’t envisioned this conversation a dozen times in your mind over the past week. weeks if you were honest with yourself. envisioned it playful. casual. blurted out during breakfast or after sex.)

But now that you’re actually here, with Andrew warm and quiet in your arms, the words feel enormous. Andrew notices. (of course he does.) His thumb pauses mid-pattern. “You…don’t want to take it today?” he rasps.

You swallow. “Maybe, yeah.”

The words fall into the room, fragile and that could collapse if either of you gets too loud and for a long minute Andrew doesn’t speak, doesn’t budge in your limbs, doesn’t even breathe. They seem to travel through him, lodging in the cautious machinery of his mind where every possibility must be examined before it is trusted. He stares at the ceiling before his eyes return to you. “You didn’t forget,” he repeats.

“No.”

Adam’s apple bobbing, his hand resumes its repetitive path. “But if you don’t take it,” he says slowly, the sentence forming piece by piece, “then that means…” he stops.

The term stalls inside him, and you sense it: that hesitation that belongs only to Andrew, that instinct not to assume anything good too quickly. You tighten your arm around him, pressing a small kiss to the back of his shoulder. “It means we’d see what happens,” you murmur.

His eyes close momentarily. “And what happens,” he breathes, “could be a baby.”

Your heart stutters a little hearing him voice the word. “Yeah.”

The expression on his face is so unguarded it makes your chest ache. There’s hope there, fragile and almost fearful to exist. “You want that?” he asks.

You nod. “I think I do.”

“With me.” It comes quieter this time, like stepping onto a rope he isn’t certain will hold the weight of his emotion.

You smile gently, sliding your palm down from his curls to the side of his shoulder so you can guide him onto his back, the two of you untangling a split second before you follow him, straddling his hips without breaking the warmth between your two bare bodies. “Yes.”

“You want that…with me?” His eyes flick away, ashamed by how much the answer matters.

The vulnerability in the question cracks something wide open inside your chest. Andrew Cody is many things: careful, observant, frighteningly composed every time the world goes wrong. But he is not a man who asks for reassurance unless the answer truly matters to him.

(And right now, it so clearly does.)

You see it in the way his eyes shine, the faint wetness gathering along his lower lashes, trying very hard not to let it spill over. In the manner his mouth closes afterward like he already regrets questioning because good things, in Andrew’s existence, have continuously had a habit of vanishing the moment he reached for them.

“Oh, honey.” Your voice softens as you bend down before he can retreat in his self-hatred, pressing your lips to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, his temple…little kisses scattered across his skin while you cradle the nape of his neck. “Of course.” Another kiss. “Yes.” Another. “Yes.”

His breath shudders out of him, something long trapped inside his lungs that found a way, free. His hands come up slowly along your back, afraid of holding you too tightly, that the pressure might somehow break the fragile miracle of you lying there above him and speaking those words. “You’re sure?” he rasps.

“So fucking sure.” Your mouth travels down the line of his jaw and lingers there, warm touches alongside him while your fingers slip back into his hair and gently tug, the motion making his eyes flutter closed.

“I want you to be the father of my kids,” you mutter against his throat, the words knocking the air out of him. “I want little versions of you running around.” Another kiss. “With your curls.” Your lips brush the faint freckles dotting his shoulder. “And your cute freckles.”

His hands clench on your waist. “You don’t know…what you’re signing up for,” he says softly, but the protest is weak, almost wonder-struck.

You chuckle on his chest. “Oh, I do.” You lift your head enough to observe him all over again while your hand slides deliberately by his torso, tracing the lines of him. “And if you want five kids,” you confess, “I’ll give you five.” His eyes widen but you continue. “If you want seven,” you press a kiss at the center of his chest, “I’ll give you seven.” You move lower, your mouth brushing above the month-old scar where the bullet injured him. “And if you want ten,” Your lips skim his stomach. “I’ll give you ten.”

The laugh that evades him then is quiet and breathless and so full of disbelief that it makes your chest ache. You don’t reckon hearing him laugh like that before. “You’d be pregnant for a decade,” he hums.

“Hm. Pretty sure it would be worth it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You push back up on his body, your hands trailing the same path your mouth just traced, your nose rubbing his. “But seriously, all I know is that I want them with you. No one else.”

His gaze searches your face like he’s still trying to find the trick in it, still attempting to locate the moment where you’ll laugh and say you’re joking, but all he finds is you looking back at him like the future you’re describing is the most obvious thing in the world. “You would…do that?” he whispers.

“A whole baseball team of kids? For you?” you smile softly, a kiss ending on his lips. “In a heartbeat.” The second kiss loiters, deep and unhurried, your bodies fitting together naturally as his arms pull you closer. You use this moment to tug at his tousled hair, earning a whimper from his mouth while yours progresses down his jaw, your voice dropping to a low sound. “So…”

“So?” he grunts.

“What if,” you ask against his ear, “we tried now.”

His breath hitches. “Right now?”

Your fingers guide his head deeper into the pillow while you hover above him, biting his jaw. “Why not?”

Andrew looks up at you as if he’s still struggling to comprehend how this morning became real, how the conversation that had started with an alarm and a pill you hadn’t taken has somehow veered into this. “Okay.”

“Okay?” You echo, rolling your hips on him, a soft breath that sounds like relief leaving him. Your hand slides down his chest, palm flattening beside his healing scar. “We’re gonna have to be careful,” you remind him.

His gaze drops on it, then back to your face, nodding. “I…I trust you.”

And with each caress that worships his body, he makes small sounds in the back of his throat. “Look at you…” you coo softly, “so sensitive this morning.”

Andrew closes his eyes briefly, breathless and helpless. “Don’t stop please.”

(and who are you if not someone who refuses to starve him any longer) (yes, maybe it’s a little reckless after only a few months to be entertaining this. Most people would call it too soon.) (a baby after, what? three months? but this man under you is not most people. and the way he looks at you right now makes the entire concept of caution fucking laughable.) (he can burn and destroy for the ones he loves. that doesn’t frighten you.) (if anything, it makes you ache for him. no one ever taught him the other side of it. no one ever showed him what it feels like to be loved like that in return.)

“Let’s make our baby.” Your whispered command ghost over his lips, your chest pressed together as your eyes locked on his, pupils blown wide with want.

“Yes,” he begs like a prayer. “Anything you want, please.” He pushes himself upright beneath you, bringing you with him until you’re sitting securely in his lap, and your hands rise to his shoulders, nails pressing into the firm muscle there as you steady yourself.

A sharp gasp leaves you when his mouth latches on your breast. Andrew makes a small sound in return, almost awed, his hands tightening at your waist while his forehead rests on your chest, the heat of his mouth causing you to arch into him. One of his hands goes from your hip to run his knuckles against your heated core, his other splaying gently over your ass in an attempt to not grip you too hard. He is pure tension beneath you, energy wound tight in every line of his body and waiting to be freed. And as you look at him, really look, you comprehend deep into your bones that this man, with all his shadows and all his gentleness, is someone you would follow anywhere life chose to twist and bend.

Because Andrew handles you like time has not yet promise you forever. Like he is attempting to carve this moment inside his brain. His palms travel reverently across your skin, like you are not solely a woman in his arms, but the entire sky he has finally been allowed to reach. “Andrew.” His name comes out strangled. You’re on fire, body tipping dangerously close to the edge while he licks you slowly, savoring you and ignoring his name.

And you sense it a few seconds later: Andrew reacting to your body betraying how close you are with a tremble that runs through him, absorbing every small change in you as if it were occurring inside his own skin. He peers up at you, the sound of your name departing him, the syllables stumbling from his mouth like they belong there. (because they do.)

Even when his breath grows uneven and the muscles in his shoulders tense beneath your fingers, his eyes stay on you with that same unblinking intensity you have come to recognize as uniquely his. Andrew likes seeing you. No…he needs to.

Your nails press deeper into his shoulders as your body tilts forward, Andrew releasing your nipple from between his lips while your inhales stammer closer as his knuckle keep circling and pressing your clit. You huff a soft snort that is half laughter, half protest. “Andrew.”

“Hm?”

“That’s not how we’re gonna have a baby.”

The corner of his glistening mouth lifts against your skin. “I know,” he replies, pushing the tip of his finger into your heat, “Just want you to feel good first.”

“Honey,” you moan, tugging on his curls so he has to look at you properly, “That’s so fucking sweet. But right now,” the second finger makes you shut your eyes in pleasure as your entire body shook, your core nearly dripping with desire to be filled by him, “Right now, I really, really need you, ‘kay?”

Andrew’s darken hazel eyes find your face the second you ask, wide and attentive, already watching the way your lashes fall closed and the way your mouth parts on the words. He nods without hesitation, the swollen head of his cock replacing his fingers in, his gaze focused utterly on you, your pleasure being the only thing anchoring him in the moment. “Okay,” he breathes, all thick solid muscles taut as he lays back in bed, letting you take control. His panting gets labored as you rock your hips back and up, taking him fully. His hand is at your hip, holding you down to allow you to grind your hips freely. “I love you,” he whispers, keeping his hooded gaze on you. “I’ll take care of you both. I promise.”

His soft words cause your cunt to clench around him, lights prickling at the edge of your vision. “I know you will,” you reply, increasing the pace of your hips. “Gonna spoil us rotten.”

“Yeah,” he says, a ragged breath escaping as he thrusts up, making you moan out his name. “I’ll give you everything…everything I have. You and our baby.”

“Ours…they will be just ours,” you reply in wonder. “I love you, please don’t stop.” Words fall from your lips in fragments you barely recognize as language anymore, because all you can see is him: the man underneath you, the man whose gaze holds yours with such fierce, unguarded intensity that the rest of the world feels like it has simply fallen away. There is only Andrew.

His hands clinging onto your skin like he craves the proof of you, like he is mooring himself to something physical while the universe tilts dangerously on its axis around the two of you, your bodies moving with urgency. His words keep reaching you through the storm of sensation, low murmurs against your skin, your name leaving him again and again like a vow he cannot stop repeating. The space of the bed becomes its own small universe where nothing exists except the pull of him, the steady heat of his hands, the way his eyes refuse to leave yours even when his breath falls short.

You are sparks colliding in the dark. Galaxies brushing against each other. You are a kaleidoscope of collapsing stars, breaking apart and reforming in endless patterns that only the two of you can see. Wave after wave crashes through you, dragging you somewhere deep and bright and terrifyingly alive, and Andrew’s name spills from your mouth in a long, trembling sound that feels less like speech and more like surrender. You feel every line of him. Every breath. Every ounce of the strength he uses so carefully when he holds you.

For one suspended moment you feel like nothing at all, like your edges have dissolved completely. And in the same breath you feel like everything.

──────────

The first thing Andrew noticed was the man’s eyes.

Not the voice, not the laugh among the cluster of guys at the far end of the bar, not the beer bottle turning between his fingers under the light hanging above the counter, but the eyes: narrow, calculating, fixed across the room with a patience that Andrew recognized instantly because he had seen it before in men who believed they had time.

That the thing they were surveying would eventually wander close enough to take.

Andrew had been standing against the wall near the pool table, a beer untouched in his hand. At first the room had been just that: noise, movement. Just an ordinary night in his brother’s bar…until his gaze snagged on the wrong detail. The man was looking at you. You were with Craig at the pool table, courtesy of Deran who had recently brought it after he ‘purchased’ (stole) it from another bar.

One hand braced on the felt, you leaned forward to line up your shot, the hem of your dress high on your thigh when you bent while Craig gave you instructions that you were clearly ignoring judging by the way you laughed and nudged him out of the way with your hip before striking the cue ball. Craig cheered and the room kept moving. But the man didn’t.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

You straightened with a grin, raising the cue stick happily, and Andrew felt the familiar, unwelcome awareness rise in him of cataloguing like he had learned as a kid: tracking the way people watched you when you laughed, when you bent over the table, when you pushed your hair behind your ear.

(Too graceful for a place like this.)

That thought irritated him. You were just Craig’s friend. Craig’s sweet, beautiful, kindhearted friend who kept showing up beside him without making a big deal out of it: at the skatepark asking for another lesson, at parties finding him in the crowded room to stay against the wall so he wouldn’t be lonely. Who treated him like he was simply Andrew instead of the strange, broken thing most people eventually decided he was.

Andrew shifted his weight while his eyes drifted once more toward the corner of the bar where the man stood now half-shadowed, and the longer Andrew observed, the more certain he became that the man’s attention had not wandered once away from you. Not to Craig’s loud voice, not to the cluster of drunk girls laughing at a table, not even to Deran who handed him another drink. Just you.

The man’s stare stayed fixed in that heavy manner Andrew identified clearly, the kind that stripped a person down piece by piece and kept going with a lazy tilt of his head when you moved forward to line up another shot.

His jaw clenched. Not because of the dress or the way the fabric rode up. None of the Codys cared about that. Craig didn’t, he had already clocked Andrew’s interest and promised that he wasn’t stupid enough to get in the middle of it. And Deran…Deran had never looked twice at a woman in his life. But the man cared. Andrew could see it in the way his fingers stopped turning the neck of his beer bottle when you spun with joy, the way his mouth pulled into a slow, private smile like he had already chosen something.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

The man thought he was watching prey, that the world belonged to him. Probably the type who hid in dark corners and took his time, anticipating for the moment a girl would drink too much or wander outside alone. Scanning over the room, Andrew logged distances.

(Door to the alley. Six steps. Seven if someone stepped into his path.)

The bar was loud enough to swallow any possible noise. Andrew imagined crossing the room calmly, just another man walking through the bar, pausing beside where the stranger sat and telling him it was time to leave. And if the man refused…The alley behind Deran’s bar was narrow and dark without cameras. His brother had refused to put them, something about how the things that happened back there didn’t belong on a tape.

He envisioned the man’s confusion when the door shut behind them, the instant when realization hit that the predator had drifted too close to a creature larger than him. Andrew’s hands closing around his throat, pushing more and more until the struggling stopped and the body went slack. Until the space inside Andrew’s chest that had started squeezing the moment those eyes settled on you finally went silent again.

(It would take six minutes. Maybe less.)

Afterward would be plain and simple: Craig would help, Deran too. They always did. They would wrap the body, load it into the truck, drive far enough out of the city for the lights to disappear behind them with only the desert, and the man who thought he had spotted something soft and easy across a pool table would vanish into a hole in the ground so deep and nameless that nobody would ever remember him. His gaze didn’t leave the man who smiled when you laughed. If the man didn’t stop observing…if those eyes didn’t travel away from you…he might take them himself.

Warmth touched his arm, the contact so unexpected that his body jerked a little before he even grasped what had happened. You. Your hand rested against his forearm, eyes a little glassy with the soft buzz of alcohol. “Andrew?” He blinked. The bar rushed back into focus around him. “You okay?” you asked, thumb brushing the sleeve of his shirt. Andrew glanced past you to the man who was still here, still watching, still… “Andrew,” you repeated gently.

His attention snapped back to your face. “Yes.”

You tilted your head. “I asked if you could drive me home?” The words came out a little sheepish, probably because of the hour and that you were drunker than you had intended to be. “Craig is staying,” you added. “And Deran obviously isn’t leaving, so…”

“Yes.”

You smiled. “Thank you.”

The walk to the truck felt longer than it actually was. Andrew remained a step behind you the entire way, his instinct reminding him to look at the parking lot, at the possible shadows between the cars. The man never came out. But still, he kept monitoring.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

Sliding into the passenger seat with a quiet sigh, you leaned your head back against the seat while he started the engine. For a moment, neither of you spoke, you watched the passing streetlights across the windshield while Andrew drove, occasionally looking in the rearview mirror, searching the empty road behind them for headlights that never appeared.

“You’re very quiet tonight,” you murmured eventually.

Andrew shook his head, dragging his attention back to the present. “You had fun?”

You nodded sleepily. “Craig cheats at pool, you know that?”

“It’s Craig.”

“True,” you chuckled, your eyes closing for a moment before reopening. “Next time we play against him together, ‘kay?”

Andrew glanced at you then, just for a second, watching the way your head tipped against the window and the faint smile lingering at the corner of your mouth, the easy warmth of a person who had spent the evening with friends and drinking a little too much, trusting the world to remain harmless.

(Too trusting.)

But he only nodded. “Okay.”

Back at your place, you unbuckled slowly, fumbling with the latch before laughing quietly at yourself. “Okay,” you said, turning toward him. “I can make it from here.”

“You sure?”

“No worries, I’m a grown woman, I can still walk.” Andrew was going to protest to at least walk you to your door when you inclined across the seat. The kiss settled between his cheek and the corner of his mouth, soft and messy while your hair brushed his jaw. “Thank you, Andrew,” you murmured. Then you were out of the truck, your steps a little unsteady but determined as you walked toward the entrance. He kept counting until you were inside, safe.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

He could leave. He should. But he didn’t. Because the man at the bar had stared at you like you were a prey to catch and ravage. And men like that didn’t always give up when the night ended. Andrew shifted in the driver seat, his gaze fixed on the front door of your building. Minutes passed. Then more. No one came. But still, Andrew stayed. Eventually the sky began to pale at the edge of the horizon and only then did he start the truck.

But the next night he came back. And the night after that. And the night after that.

He didn’t tell you. His angel didn’t need to know someone was out there keeping the wolves away. ────────── “Wait, wait…you’re doing what?”

Craig’s voice bounces off the kitchen walls in that familiar half-laughing, half-confused tone he constantly has when his older brother says something important too calmly like it’s nothing more than a grocery list. Andrew doesn’t answer right away. It’s easier to stare at them than to repeat himself and the words he had been rehearsing in his head for a week.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to do this.)

“I’m leaving,” Andrew declares.

Silence follows. Not the empty one, that doesn’t exist with the three of them, but the dense thoughtful kind that falls between brothers who have spent their entire lives in the same house and recognize when a sentence is about to change their routine. Craig leans back against the marble counter, eyebrows raised with a grin spreading across his face, probably waiting for the punchline that will never come while Deran, who seems way more serious and focused, stands with his arms folded across his chest.

“Leaving the house?” Craig asks.

Andrew shakes his head. “The jobs.”

Craig squints. “You mean, like…taking a break from them?”

“No,” his voice stays level. “I’m done.”

Craig straightens slowly, the grin fading from his face as the words land properly this time, his gaze flicking briefly toward Deran like maybe the younger brother will say something first but nothing comes out. Deran studies Andrew with an air that shows he has been expecting this conversation for a while. Andrew’s eyes drift out the glass door to the backyard and the patch of darkened dirt where the couch had burned. Or what used to be a couch.

He can still see it clearly in his head: you, near the pool with a hammer in your hands while the three of them dragged it outside, swearing under their breath about how heavy the thing was. It had always been heavy. Heavy with years. Heavy with every job planned there, every lie told there, every order Smurf had given from the center cushion. Andrew had transported that couch before, when he was younger. Back when Smurf redecorated every few years and the boys were expected to move the furniture obediently. Even then it had felt like lifting a thing larger than a couch, perhaps the center of the house itself.

And you, all fierce and shaky with joy, were waiting to swing the hammer down into the wooden frame. Crack. The sound echoed through the backyard. Again. The frame splintered. And again. Wood split open like a bone.

“Fuck her!” you had shouted, breathless with laughter as you raised the hammer once more. The three brothers had heard people curse their mother before: neighbors, enemies, the occasional drunk who didn’t know better…but never like that.

Craig had choked on a guffaw and cheered, Deran had stepped forward next, grabbing the hammer from your hand before bringing it down hard on the armrest. And Andrew had observed the dismantlement of the last throne Smurf ever sat on.

Then Craig dragged the broken pieces into a pile, Deran poured lighter fluid over the wood and you…you lit the match. The flames climbed rapidly, the couch cracking as the wood inside it gave away under the heat, collapsing on itself while sparks ascended into the darkening sky. You were standing there in the glow with a wild, triumphant grin on your face when you grasped Andrew’s hand to yank him closer and kiss him like the victory belonged to both of you.

(His angel defeating the curse. Freeing the three boys they used to be. The ones who had once believed this house was theirs before it became Smurf’s kingdom and they grew to be the weapons she stored indoors.)

The memory lingers for a second longer before focusing back on the kitchen and his brothers still staring at him. “I got shot and-”

Craig snorts. “Yeah, man, thanks but we noticed.”

Andrew doesn’t smile. “And I could have died.” He keeps his eyes on the countertop, on the scratch running through the marble where Baz once dropped a knife a lifetime ago. Another ghost carried by the house. “I know we say that all the time. That danger comes with the jobs.”

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

Andrew exhales slowly through the nose. “When I was laying there…” his fingers rest flat against the furniture, “…all I could think about was her. And how I wouldn’t get to know.”

Craig tilts his head. “Know what?”

(One. Two. Three. Four. He has to focus on the counter. The scratch.)

“What it feels like,” he says slowly, “to live a life with someone who loves me.”

Deran studies his oldest brother’s face, shaking his head with a slight smile. “Sounds like you’re announcing more than just leaving.”

(Breathe in. Breathe out. One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out.)

“I found a house,” Andrew confesses.

Craig lets out a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “Of course you fucking did.”

“It’s in Ojai,” he adds.

“Okay that’s…wow. That’s not exactly down the street.”

Andrew nods. “It’s quiet.”

(That’s crucial for him. Quiet means no sirens at three in the morning. No strangers showing up at the door. No jobs planned over the same kitchen where they’re standing now.)

He hesitates for a moment before adding, his voice a little rougher than before. “That doesn’t mean I’m…gone.” Craig looks up. Andrew shifts his weight. “I’m not disappearing,” he continues. “You can come over. I’ll come here. We’re not…” He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “…not that.”

Deran’s mouth twitches while Craig observes him, shaking his head with an amused expression. “Pope,” he replies, softer now. “You’re our brother.”

Deran acquiesces. “Not exactly something you can move out of.”

Craig bumps his shoulder against Andrew’s, the warmth of it grounding in a way he hadn’t realized he needed. “Yeah, you could move to the moon and it wouldn’t change that.”

For a brief moment the three of them are simply there. Brothers. Then he clears his throat abruptly, remembering he is Craig and honesty can only last so long. “Anyway,” he says, pushing off the counter, “you already bought it?”

“Yes.”

Craig shakes his head. “Jesus, Pope.”

(One. Two. Three. Four. Breathe in. Breathe out. He can’t react to the name.)

Deran watches him cautiously. “You told her?”

 “No, not yet.”

Craig’s eyebrows shoot up. “You bought a house,” he repeats slowly, “and she doesn’t know about it?”

Andrew finally looks up from the marble. “I’m going to tell her.”

Craig stares for another second, then lets out a snort under his breath. “Man,” he mutters, pushing his hand through his hair, “please call me when you do, so I can see that.”

(His brother doesn’t understand. But that’s alright. To Andrew it’s simple. He loves you. You love him. You want children. This house cannot be the place those children grow up in. The rest follows logically.)

“There’s more.”

There’s a collective exhausted groan to these words. “Oh fuck,” Craig mumbles. “Of course there is.”

Reaching into the pocket of his pants where the small red box feels heavier than it should and that had sat there the entire conversation, Andrew places it on the counter, opening the box. The diamond catches the sunlight, a brief sharp flash of light across the marble to which his brothers whistle with variations of “holy shit”, leaning over the counter to examine it.

Andrew attempts to close the box with two fingers but Craig immediately slaps his hand. “No, no, leave it open.” Andrew pauses, allowing his brother to stare at it once again. “Fucking Jesus Christ.”

Deran tilts his head. “How many carats is that?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?” Craig questions, straightening up.

“I didn’t ask.”

His brother stares like he has personally offended him. “You didn’t ask.”

 “No.”

Craig turns to Deran in disbelief. “He didn’t ask.”

Deran is still studying the ring, turning the box slightly so the diamond catches the light again. “That thing is not small.”

“Must be at least two carats,” Craig ponders, bending closer.

“More,” Deran replies without looking away.

“Three?”

“Looks like three.”

Craig looks at Andrew. “How much did it cost?”

“I didn’t check.”

Craig nearly chokes. “What? You didn’t check?”

“It was for her.”

Even Deran starts laughing. “So, what? You walked into a jewelry store, pointed at the most expensive ring, and said ‘that one’?”

“Yes.”

(He doesn’t add the rest. Doesn’t mention that the ring had been bought seven days after you got together. That he walked past three other jewelry stores before finding one that felt quiet enough to think. That the woman behind the counter tried to show him a dozen different rings and he ignored every single one until he saw that one sitting under the glass.) (Doesn’t tell them that he didn’t need to guess your size. That he had just measured silently one of the rings in the small dish beside his sink while you slept.)

Deran is still peering at the ring box when he states it with a smile. “Smurf would have hated her.”

Craig snorts. “Oh yeah,” he replies, pulling out beers from the fridge and tossing one to Deran before setting a third in front of Andrew. “Would have fucking despised her.”

The youngest leans back against the counter, taking a sip. “She would’ve tried to tear her apart in about five minutes.”

“Five minutes is very generous, bro.”

Andrew shakes his head, certain. “She wouldn’t have succeeded.”

Craig glances at him and grins. “No,” he admits. “She wouldn’t have.”

For a moment the three of them stay there in the kitchen, the afternoon light pouring through the glass door before Craig looks at the ring box again. Then at Andrew and Deran. He lets out a slow breath through his nose before raising his bottle. “Well,” he declares thoughtfully, “If Pope can pull this off…” He gestures vaguely toward the ring. “…there might actually be hope for the rest of us.”

Deran laughs. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

Craig bumps his shoulder lightly. “I’m serious, man. Look at him.”

Andrew raises an eyebrow.

Craig tilts his beer toward him. “Our big brother,” he says. “Retiring from crime. Buying houses. Proposing.”

Deran lifts his bottle too. “Well…to Pope getting married.”

“Andrew.”

Craig clinks his bottle against Deran’s. “Fine,” and taps it against his. “To Andrew.” ────────── The bell above the entrance rang quietly when Andrew stepped in. He paused just inside the doorway, letting the door close behind him while his eyes adjusted to the dim lights of the place.

(One. Two. Three. Four.)

He had already walked past three jewelry stores that afternoon: the first had been too noisy, the second too crowded (Too many voices. Too many strangers brushing past each other.), and the third had windows too exposed to the street. Andrew hadn’t liked the idea of standing under bright lights where anyone could observe him from the street. This one felt better. Like a place where he could think. A woman behind the counter looked up with a polite smile when she noticed him. She was older, silver hair pinned back and glasses sliding down her nose.

“Can I help you?” she asked.

Andrew nodded, walking toward the counter. “I’m looking for a ring.”

Her expression softened the way people’s faces probably did when they heard that sentence. “An…engagement ring?”

“Yes.”

The word sat in the air between them.

(Engagement. Ring. Engagement. Ring.)

The woman smiled warmly. “Well, that’s wonderful. Do you know what kind she might like?”

He shook his head, quietly replying. “No.”

“Well, that’s alright! We can look together!”

She unlocked the glass case and began pulling out velvet trays one by one, placing them on the counter delicately. Rows of diamonds under the lights: round, square, clusters, thin bands, thick ones…She began explaining the settings, the cut, the metals, but Andrew barely heard the words.

(Not that he needed to. Courtesy of his profession.)

He examined each ring and imagined your hands, wrapped around a coffee mug when you were half awake in the mornings. Sometimes sticky with sugar from the pastries you stole from the café. Other times tangled in his hair.

(He pictured one of the rings sitting there on your finger. While you are standing in the kitchen barefoot and opening the fridge. Brushing your teeth at the sink. Tucking your hair behind your ear while you read. Reaching across the table to steal the last piece of toast from his plate.)

“This one is a classic solitaire,” she said gently. Andrew nodded politely but didn’t touch it. Another tray immediately came. “This one had side stones.” Another. “This setting is very popular right now.” He continued to listen but his eyes kept drifting across the case, searching.

(It had to be the best one. Anything less wouldn’t make sense. Something bright enough to keep up with you.)

The woman slid another velvet tray onto the counter. “This one is very elegant…”

Andrew’s gaze moved past it. And then it halted. The ring wasn’t on the tray she had just placed down. It sat apart under the glass in the display case beside them, resting alone on a small velvet stand like it had been waiting patiently the entire time. Three stones. The center diamond larger, oval and clear with two smaller ones flanking it. Andrew stepped closer to it and watched the light above the counter strike the stone and scatter back in return. The realization didn’t arrive like excitement but like an answer. (Like the universe had placed it there for him to find.)

The woman followed his gaze. “Oh,” she said softly, opening the case and lifting the ring carefully with a small pair of tweezers before setting it on the velvet pad between them. Up close the diamonds looked almost alive under the lights. Three stones. The first one was you, bright and warm. Impossible not to notice when someone entered a room. The second was him, standing beside you, keeping watch. The third…Andrew’s breath paused.

(The third could be the future. The future with small fingers wrapped around yours. A little voice in the kitchen while you made coffee and Andrew made pancakes in the mornings. Someone learning to skate.) (Too soon. You hadn’t talked about that. He hadn’t asked. He didn’t even know if he was allowed to hope for it.) (Three stones.) (Of course it would be this one. The answer had simply been waiting there for him to see it.)

“Yes,” Andrew said quietly.

The woman looked up. “Sorry?”

Andrew pointed once. “That’s the one.” ────────── You know Andrew will be a fantastic father. You recognize it in the way he handles the little boy who fell on the other side of the skatepark.

There’s the sound before anything else: the sharp smack of small knees hitting the ground, followed by the wavering inhale children make when they’re hesitating between laughing and crying. Andrew turns instantly. Jogging across the park, he is already crouching before the boy has even shed a tear, his voice low and calm in a tone he reserves for children and frightened animals.

You observe him from where you stand, near the edge of the ramp, one foot remaining on the brand-new skateboard Andrew gave you yesterday after you came back from a shitty day at work. Andrew crouches in front of the boy, checking the kid’s elbow, the other brushing off his knees while he murmurs something that makes the boy sniff and nod bravely. You smile without meaning to. (of course he’ll be good at this.)

It’s no longer just a thought, it’s a certainty deeply anchored to your chest. You’ve seen the way Andrew watched children at the park when they skate past him, too fast and fearless, his eyes tracking them with that attention he gives to the ones he wants to protect. This sentiment is in all he does. In the way he always shifts you to the inside of the sidewalk when cars pass, his hand resting at the small of your back. In crowded places where strangers press too close, his fingers finding yours inevitably. In the quiet patience he has when you ramble about meaningless stuff, listening with attention. (you think you’ll do it tonight.)

The idea slips into your minds, probably waiting there all along. (you imagine Andrew’s face when requesting him to drive to the store. his confused frown. his eyes widening when he realizes what you’re asking him to buy. the two of you waiting together in the bathroom afterward, hand in hand while the minutes pass. Andrew counting under his breath.)

Your chest warms at the thought. Across the skatepark, the little boy is giggling now, wobbling back onto his board while Andrew steadies him cautiously with both hands, making sure the wheels are balanced before letting go. (yeah. he’s going to be fantastic.)

Your fingers brush absentmindedly over your stomach, just a split second of anticipation, a smile on your face.

The movement is so sudden your brain doesn’t grasp it at first. One moment, the sun is warm on your face, the sound of wheels mixing with children’s laughter, Andrew’s voice across the park.

The next, something closes around you from behind. Hard. A pair of arms wrap around your waist with a crushing force, lifting you straight off the ground before you even have time to turn your head. The world tilts. Your skateboard rolls away from your foot.

“What-” The word barely leaves your mouth, a hand slamming over it, large, rough. Your scream dies against the palm on your lips. Your brain scrambles to catch up with what your body already knows. Someone is holding you. Your feet kick wildly in empty air, your elbows jerking backward to hit the solid muscles behind you, but the man doesn’t loosen his grip. If anything, he tightens it, dragging you backward across the concrete so quickly your shoes barely graze the ground. Another set of hands grabs your legs.

(no. no, no, no. please, no.) Your entire body lurches sideways, disregarding the violent rhythm of your heart against your ribs. You twist violently, nails clawing for anything you can reach, but the men move with efficiency: one arm pins your torso against a chest that smells like sweat and motor oil while the other man lifts your legs like you are nothing but a ragdoll. (Andrew. he’s right there. just across the park. you only have to scream. now.)

A fabric presses against your face, the smell hitting you instantly. Strong. Chemical. Your lungs pull it in before you even gather what’s happening. When you do, your face instantly attempts to pull away but the hand only constricts more your mouth, forcing the cloth harder against your nose.

The world spins. Body jerking in their grip, panic floods your veins as your brain tries desperately to stay awake but the skatepark blurs more and more in shades of purple and green. The open door of a truck. Dark inside. Andrew. You try to shout his name, but your tongue feels heavy.  Your arms suddenly won’t listen to you. Your vision tunnels. The sunlight disappears.

One more breath of the bitter chemical smell. And the world goes black. - Consciousness returns all at once. The first thing you notice is that everything is wrong. Your body feels wrong. Your arms ache, a deep burning pain that stretches from the shoulders down to your wrists, legs cramped and stiff beneath you, folded in an impossible position that, when the truck jolts over a bump in the road, sends a bolt of pain straight through your spine. Your head throbs. The air smells stale. A mix of gasoline, dust and sweat.

You attempt to open your eyes but nothing changes, just complete darkness. You recognize with the sensation on your face that you have a thick and suffocating bag on, each inhale rebounding against the inside of the cloth. Heart stuttering, you try to move your wrists, but only pain answers. A thing bites into your skin. Plastic. Your hands are pulled behind your back, wrists crossed and locked together so firmly that when you twist them, the band only cuts deeper, digging into the skin like a knife.

Zip ties.

Legs shift next, desperate for balance, but they don’t move freely either, something tight around your ankles so that when the vehicle makes a sharp turn, your entire body slides helplessly across the metal floor until it slams against the wall.

Voices wander ahead of you. Men. At least three. Talking. You can’t understand what they’re saying. (think.) Andrew’s voice appears in your mind, calm and steady the way it always is when he is explaining a rule. “Don’t panic.” For a moment, you focus on breathing the way he trained you. (in. out. slow. in. out. slow.) The pulse is still rapid but your thoughts begin scrambling for something solid to hold onto. For the things Andrew taught you in the backyard. (how to twist your wrist when someone grabbed you. how to strike the nose. the throat. the knee. how to shoot if you ever needed to.)

You try to recall, to force your body to follow the movements you practiced. Your wrists twist against the plastic restraint. Nothing happens. You try again. Push one hand outward. Pull the other inward. But the zip tie only gets even more restrictive. (okay. think.)

Your fingers press against the plastic band, searching for any gap, any weakness, anything you might be able to slip through if you turned your hands the right way. There isn’t one and your shoulders only burn from the strain of the position. Andrew never showed you how to escape this. He instructed you how to fight, to run, to hit, but this…Hands tied. Legs bound. Bag over your head. There’s nothing you can do without vision, nothing you can do if you can’t stand. Fear starts creeping through you in slow, icy waves.

(what if they ki...no. don’t think that. Andrew would want you to fight.) The certainty arrives with surprising strength. (he would want you to stay calm. to wait. to watch. to look for the moment when they make a mistake.)

You can hear the men laughing in the front of the vehicle, relaxed, like this is nothing to them. You force your breathing to slow once again. (you will fight. the first chance you get. Andrew taught you that much.)

You might not know where they are taking you, not know how far you’ve gone. But one thought, quiet and unshakable, settles inside your mind. Andrew will notice you’re gone. That something is wrong. And wherever these men think they’re taking you…Andrew will find you. - He knows how lucky he has been. How the dices of his existence have stayed on the same face long enough for him to forget what it feels like when they turn. (Lucky. That’s what he has been. Not in the way people would get the word. No, Andrew has never confused luck with comfort. Luck to him has always meant survival. Luck meant a job that went wrong but not wrong enough. Luck meant walking away when someone else didn’t.)

But the kind of luck he has been living in lately is entirely different, quieter and more fragile and infinitely more dangerous to lose. Because for the past few months, Andrew Cody has been waking up next to you, breathing the warmth of your skin and the rhythm of your heartbeat beneath his cheek, feeling your fingers slipping into his hair. Every morning since the first day has felt like someone rolled the dice for him and somehow they landed in his favor every single time. And today, the dice rolled again. Only this time…they came up wrong. (One. Two. Three. Four.)

The road stretches empty ahead of the truck, long bands of asphalt cutting through the industrial outskirts of Oceanside while the sun slowly sets, but Andrew barely sees any of it, his attention fixed on the screen mounted beside the steering wheel where you location pulses with a blue dot. Moving. Still. His eyes keep flicking toward it, measuring the direction, the speed, the road, the signal that crawls along in slow, merciless increments, eyes never lingering long, conscious that staring at the screen will not bring you back any faster.

(He has work to do. One. Two. Three. Four. Andrew forces his gaze back to the road. He must not recall the rest. The truck door. The arms around you. The cloth. How he sprinted. How the distance was already too great. How the truck disappeared. One. Two. Three. Four.) (And the faces he recognized. Not the names. Just the faces. Pete’s crew.)

The blood running down his face two years ago when Andrew took the man’s eye with pliers slow enough that Pete had time to understand exactly what was happening before the world went dark on one side forever had been a lesson. A simple one. A warning carved directly into his flesh, left alive so he could remember it. Apparently, he didn’t learn enough. Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, his expression unchanged as the blue dot continues to move across the map. (That’s alright. Some lessons require repetition.)

The road narrows as the truck turns off the highway, gravel beneath the tires while the industrial outskirts of the city begin to unfold in rusted silhouettes of metal buildings and silent loading docks. Andrew observes the blue dot slow, then pause entirely, the signal settling over a structure. A warehouse. (Of course. Men like Pete have faith that empty places mean safety.)

Andrew turns the headlights off before the truck even reaches the path leading toward it, the vehicle rolling forward under its own momentum, engine idling low while he guides it behind a row of rusted shipping containers where the structure disappears from the view of the highway. Andrew sits there for a moment, hands resting lightly on the wheel while the last vibration of the motor fades beneath the hood. (One. Two. Three. Four.)

Gravel crunches beneath his boots as he steps out, the smell of rust hanging around the building while the wind pushes loose sheets of metal along the roof with a rattling sound that echoes across the empty lot. The trunk opens quietly. Beneath the spare tire and tool kit, his fingers slide to the lining and lift the panel that hides the compartment built into the frame of the vehicle, a small false floor designed for the exact moments when his world stops pretending to be civilized. The gun comes first, fitting into his palm like an old friend from another life. (Checks the chamber. Loads it. The magazine locking into place.)

The bottle and lighter sits beside it: clear liquid inside, thick and volatile, the smell alone enough to remind any soul who has worked with it what fire can do when it’s given something to eat. (Twists the cap once. Confirms it’s sealed.)

The warehouse stands fifty yards ahead of him, dark, but not silent. Andrew pauses long enough to listen to the voices through the half-open metal door. (Men. Three. Maybe four. The sound of boots on the floor. None from you.)

A sudden, violent crack interrupts him. A man howls. “Fuck!”

Another voice (Yours. He would recognize it anywhere. Even if the world split in half and you stood on the other side. Even if heaven locked its gates and hell opened its mouth beneath his feet. He would cross it for all eternity to reach you.) bursts into laughter, cut off by the sound of a slap. The sound rings through the hollow space of the warehouse and travels through the thin door, the echo of skin against skin sharp enough that Andrew feels it deep beneath his ribs where the cold control in his chest sits.

Inside, one of the men laughs. “Still got some bite, huh?”

Another voice interrupts, irritated and nasal. “Stupid bitch broke my nose!” (Good. If you fractured it, then you had enough strength left to do it. They have not shattered you. And for the hand who just hit you…)

Andrew envisions it calmly, the bones inside it, the tendons running through the fingers, the way the skin stretches across the knuckles when a fist closes, and he wonders briefly whether it would be cleaner to cut it at the wrist or the elbow and whether the blade would slide easier between the joints if the arm were bent backward first.

Another wet sound interrupts the men’s conversation. “Did she just spit again?”

“Fucking little psycho.”

“Yeah,” another voice mutters. “Like her man.”

Andrew slowly unscrews the cap of the bottle in his hand, the chemical smell rising.

“You know what your problem is?” the broken-nose man continues, his voice thick with blood and humiliation. “Nobody ever taught you manners.”

“Maybe the belt wasn’t enough of a lesson earlier, huh?” one of them laughs with the unmistakable sound of a knife running on metal. “Think Pope is still gonna like what’s left of your face when we’re done?”

Andrew closes his eyes for half a second. When he opens them, the man standing outside the door is no longer Andrew Cody. Andrew is the man who buys groceries. Andrew is the man who listens when you talk about your day. Andrew is the man who kisses your forehead when you fall asleep on the couch. The man outside the warehouse now is something else entirely. In the ancient scriptures, angels of death walked through burning cities, the destroyers sent in the night to mark the doors of the guilty and pass judgement upon those who believed themselves untouchable.

The man entering is no longer Andrew Cody. It is Pope, and wrath walks with him.

The door swings open with a long metallic groan, the men standing only a few feet away from the entrance, their bodies half turned toward the noise but not yet fully comprehending what they are seeing, the mind always necessitating a moment to accept the shape of its own ending. Andrew doesn’t look at you. Not yet. Looking would slow him down.

(Rapidity is the key. Every second that passes gives them a chance to think. To react. To harm you again. The only law that matters here is the one written in the oldest instincts of the human body. Move first. Finish fast. Leave nothing behind that can still hurt the one he came for.)

The bottle in his hand swings as he crosses the distance between himself and the first man, the one closest to the door who has just enough time to widen his eyes before Andrew’s arm snakes around his neck and locks there with brutality, the man’s back slammed against his chest while Andrew’s other hand tilts the bottle upward and empties its contents over the man’s head and shoulders in one motion, the liquid soaking instantly into his shirt.

The man smells it before he understands. “Wait!” Andrew strikes the lighter, the flame reflecting in the man’s eyes before Andrew touches it to the gasoline, the fire blooming. The man’s scream tears through the warehouse, ripped straight out of hell itself as the flames leap up his chest and face, devouring the fabric of his clothes in seconds before he even manages to stumble away, his body thrashing wildly as he crashes in the walls and runs blindly toward the open door behind Andrew, the smell of burning cloth and skin spreading through the air while his screams fade outside into the gravel lot beyond. (If there had been more time, he would have rolled the man in the pebbles with his melted skin. Not today.)

One of the other men reacts, in pure primal fear, bolting after the fire and sprinting toward the exit with his hands half raised. Andrew lets him go. Because the last man there is close to you, a knife in his hand that glints under the flickering light of the burning man. He grabs you by the shoulder and jerks your head back roughly, the blade lifting toward your throat in a trembling hand.

“Don’t move!” he shouts. Andrew doesn’t slow, striding to him. The man drags the knife closer to your neck, the metal hovering dangerously near the skin just beneath your jaw where your pulses beats. “I said don’t-” He never gets the chance to finish his sentence. Andrew’s hand closes around the man’s wrist before the knife has a chance to cut your skin, the grip precise and brutally controlled as he twists the joint outward with a sharp motion that sends the blade clattering across the floor. The sound of the man’s wrist breaking follows immediately after, like a branch beneath sudden weight. Driving him backward into the ground with his full weight, the two of them hit the floor hard enough to knock the breath out of the man’s lungs while Andrew’s knee pins his chest and his hand traps the broken arm. Andrew calmly picks up the knife that lies inches away from them.

“Please, man. No…” the man sobs.

Andrew tilts his head slightly, studying the face in front of him. “Were you the one who slapped her?”

The man freezes, eyes flicking briefly toward you before going back to Andrew. “Yes.”

Andrew nods once, almost politely. “And the belt?”

The man’s lips tremble. “Yes.” The word barely forms before Andrew strikes, the blade flashing once through the air. The man’s scream is immediate and piercing, but Andrew doesn’t look away while the hand separates from the wrist.

He simply picks it up and places it carefully in the man’s remaining hand who is crying, shaking violently on the floor while the blood spreads rapidly across the concrete beneath him. Andrew leans down close enough that the man can hear him clearly through the ringing in his ears. “Take that back to Pete.” His voice is quiet, almost conversational. “Tell him that the next time he touches my family…I’ll take off his eyelid so he can watch me carve open his chest.” Andrew stands, the man clutching the severed hand to his chest and fleeing the place.

The chair you lie on is to its side now, where the struggle knocked it over earlier, the zip ties rigid around your wrists and ankles, dark marks already rising along your cheek and throat where the men had tried to teach you their version of obedience.

You are not fighting anymore. Your head has fallen forward, body still. Andrew crosses the room rapidly, dropping the knife as he kneels beside you and slides his hand carefully beneath your jaw to lift your face toward the light. Your pulse is there, fast and strong. He cuts the zip ties with the knife in practiced movements before pulling you against his chest, one hand pressing against the back of your head while the other steadies your shoulders. Your eyes flutter open, unfocused. Then they find him, fingers curling against his shirt, your voice barely more than a whisper. “I knew you’d come.”

Andrew exhales slowly through his nose, moving his hand through your hair with careful fingers before pressing a kiss at the top of your head. “Always.” ────────── You didn’t ask. Just perceived it the moment he walked through the door: the tightness in the way Andrew carried himself, not outwardly visible to anyone who didn’t know him. But you did now, enough to distinguish the difference between his usual quietude and the one that pressed inward, coiled beneath his skin, waiting for a place to go. His shoulders were a little too rigid, the eyes lingering too long on nothing. His jaw held a tension that didn’t belong to the room, to you, to anything here.

So, you didn’t ask. Aware that Andrew didn’t untangle himself through questions. That whatever storm traveled through him had to run its course before he could even begin to name it.

The door shut behind him with a soft click that seemed louder than it should have been, and for a moment he just stood there, like he needed a minute to adapt to the silence, to the absence of whatever had been outside. Your apartment held its usual warmth despite your recent absence in it: the scent of your burnt candle mingling with the apple pie you baked after work, something gentle and lived-in, but he didn’t step into it right away. Not fully. You watched him from the couch, your legs tucked beneath you, fingers playing with the edge of a blanket you had draped over your lap. (he seemed exhausted. not the kind that sleep resolved. even if he was improving at that, this was the other kind. the one that sat deep inside.)

You reached for the remote without saying anything and turned the television on, scrolling briefly before selecting a documentary you had seen before but knew he hadn’t and the ocean filled the screen. Blue. Endless. Lulling. A narrator’s voice began to speak about the migration patterns of the whales and how they communicated across vast distances, voices traveling miles beneath the surface where no one could see them. (reaching each other even in the dark.)

You didn’t peek at him when you did it, it was just about letting the sound fill the room. Gradually, like he was remembering how to exist in a place that didn’t demand anything from him, he crossed the room and lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the cushion dipping under his weight. You kept your eyes on the screen, allowing the silence to stretch in that comfortable way that didn’t feel empty, just…open. A few seconds ensued before you sensed him leaning against you, shoulders brushing. Your legs unfolded from beneath you, body turning as your hand came up to the back of his neck, fingers stroking the curls in an instinctive motion. “Come here,” you murmured.

He dithered. (he constantly did, just for a second. like he was testing if he was permitted to do so.)

Andrew sank until his head rested against your lap, his body stretching along the length of the couch while one of your hands remained at the base of his neck, steadying him there until you adjusted your hand so your fingers could slip into his hair, brushing along his scalp, the pads tracing circles the way you had learned he adored. He went completely still. Like an animal that had decided not to run to find shelter. The documentary played on: whales swimming through the ocean, their massive bodies gliding effortlessly through a world that seemed untouched by everything above it. Your fingers maintained their path, repeating the same gesture over and over, never rushing, never resting.

It didn’t take long. It never did when Andrew was so pliable. His head angled involuntarily into the contact of your nails grazing the skin, stating more than whatever he could have expressed out loud. You kept going. Same pace, same gesture. Over and over. His hand, which had been resting against his chest, went on your thigh to caress it before going still again. You glanced down at him. His eyes were shut and his face, usually so controlled, so carefully composed, felt unguarded. You observed how his lashes rested on his cheek, the faint furrow between his brows smoothing out as the last remnants of tension left his body. He didn’t fight it, didn’t try to stay awake. He let go.

You leaned back against the couch, one hand still buried in his curls, the other resting on his shoulder, refusing to budge. Not when your arm began to ache from the position, not when the documentary ended and rolled quietly into the next, not even when the night superseded the day. You stayed, because a part in you understood, without requiring languages for it but the one his body spoke, that this was how he rested. Not alone. Not guarded. But here: with his head in your lap, your hand in his hair, the world quiet enough that, for a little while, nothing could reach him.

And you would remain like this for as long as he needed. ────────── You are cold.

Not the kind of cold that comes from the wind or the night air, not the kind that disappears when someone wraps a blanket around your shoulders, no, the deeper kind that sits inside your bones like something has been emptied out of you and the space it left behind has filled with ice. You look down slowly. Andrew’s hand. You don’t recall when you seized it. You only know that you can’t let go of it.

The truck moves beneath you, tires humming against the asphalt while the sky outside the windshield slowly darkens, but the world feels distant, like you are watching it through glass, body sitting in the passenger seat while your mind floats a few inches above it. Your hand tightens, the gesture making him glance at you from the driver’s seat, one hand still on the wheel while the other remains locked inside your grasp, like he has been waiting for you to wake up. “I’m here, sweetheart,” he murmurs. His voice is steady. Always steady. You try to answer him, to voice simple words like ‘I know’ or ‘I’m okay’ or even just ‘Andrew’, but they get lost, stuck in your throat, forgetting how to exist.

(why can’t you speak? it’s just words. you know them. you can hear them in your head. so why won’t they come out? are you…still in there?) Your throat works, but nothing comes out. You blink slowly to ease the sting of your eyes, trying to focus on anything in front of you, but your vision keeps traveling toward the dark stains on Andrew’s clothes where blood dried in streaks. (not his blood. you’re sure of that. you should tell him you tried. that you listened. that you remembered. that you didn’t just freeze.)

The road stretches long and dark ahead of you, the headlights cutting through the night while the ocean wind creeps through the open crack of the window Andrew lowered earlier when you started shaking so violently that the seatbelt rattled against the side of the door.

You hadn’t understood why you were shaking. You still don’t.

But the cold inside remains. Andrew’s thumb moves leisurely over the back of your hand, the movement repetitive and grounding, like the counting he executes when he assumes you’re not noticing. (one. two. three. four. you identify the rhythm. he’s soothing himself. or maybe you. it’s hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.)

He doesn’t seek to free his hand, you know he never would. He just adjusts his fingers so your palm fits more comfortably against his, letting you hold on as tightly as you need.

The truck slows abruptly, pulling onto the shoulder of the empty road while Andrew shifts the gear into park, turning toward you completely, his face softer now that he’s no longer watching the road. It takes a few seconds to realize that he did this because your breathing has altered again. Your chest moves too fast, pulling air in short shallow bursts that don’t seem to reach you. Andrew leans slowly, careful. “Hey,” he murmurs. Your breath keeps stuttering, lungs not quite opening all the way. “Hey,” he repeats, closer this time.

His hand lifts from your joined grip, but only for a second, lingering near your face and asking silent permission, waiting to see if you will pull away, if your body will flinch once more like it did earlier when the ordeal was still too loud and too close and too much. You don’t shift. You don’t believe you can.

“Look at me, sweetheart.” Your eyes drag themselves up to his face, heavily, like everything else inside you, and when they finally meet his, he is already observing you with an unwavering focus, a steadiness. The only thing solid in a world that has suddenly lost all its edges. “Breathe with me,” he says quietly, inhaling slowly so you can follow. The air shakes on the way in, but you force it further despite the ache in your chest with the effort. “That’s it,” he whispers, “you’re doing real good.” (you don’t think you are. but he says it like you are. and right now he’s the only one you trust. in. out. in. out.)

“One…two…three…four…” he counts under his breath. And that’s the easiest thing to do: listening to his quiet cadence, creating a sense of order in your body. The air ultimately reaches your lungs, shoulders dropping and the sharp edge of panic dulling just enough to let something else settle in its place. Not calm. Not really. Just…space. Enough for another sentiment to rise. Your eyes remain on his, too absorbed and aware, like if you look away you might lose him. (he’s here. he’s real. i’m here. i’m… i’m real.)

Before you can think about it, before you can understand it, before you can even form the intention into coherence…you move.

Your other hand comes up, fingers catching the fabric of his shirt, pulling him toward you with a sudden, desperate force that surprises even you, your mouth finding his in a kiss that is too hard, too urgent, too unsteady to be anything but need. After all…if you can feel him enough, you might be able to regain your way back into yourself. Your eyes stay open. His do too. For a few seconds, Andrew stills and you can witness it, the moment where he comprehends. (that you crave something. that it’s him. it has to be him.)

His hand comes up to your face, steadying you, thumb resting just beneath your cheekbone, grounding your relentlessness without interrupting it. He doesn’t pull away, doesn’t deepen it either. He just…meets you there. Solid. Present. Real. Breath catching against his mouth, uneven and trembling, you kiss him again, and again, chasing what you can’t name, what persists in slipping just out of reach. (feel. please. prove you’re still here. prove you’re still inside your own body.)

“Please,” you murmur against his lips, the word barely there, fragile and breaking as it leaves you. “Please…”

He exhales softly against your mouth. “I’m here,” he replies. “Easy… I’ve got you.” But you don’t want easy. You kiss him again, harder this time, your grip tensing in his shirt, tugging him closer, frightened he might vanish if you don’t hold him there. Nothing matters except his warmth and the fact that he is alive and here and touching you. Hand shifting, he cups your jaw more fully now, guiding the pace just enough so you don’t evade yourself utterly in it, his thumb stroking faintly along your skin in slow motions.

“Hey…” he whispers softly between your breaths. “Stay with me.” (you’re trying. it’s just… arduous when all keeps luring you under.)

You don’t notice it instantly, the moment of fracture. You keep kissing him, your movements losing their urgency, grip slackening as something else begins to take over…blurriness in your vision. It takes you a second to grasp that there are tears on your face. They slide down your cheeks, unnoticed at first until one of them reaches the corner of your mouth and mixes with the taste of him. And when he perceives the stumble of your breath, this time it’s different: it’s not panic, no, not quite. Just…too much. Your forehead presses weakly against his, lips barely brushing his as the tears keep coming, silent at first, then heavier, your chest squeezing in a way that has nothing to do with air anymore. (why are you crying?)

Body folding on itself, the tension snaps all at once, your hand falling from his shirt as a broken sound escapes you, small and raw and completely unlike the silence you had been trapped in before. Andrew moves instantly. His hand leaves your face to tug you toward him, awkward in the confined space of the truck, your body half climbing over the console without either of you thinking about it, your shoulder knocking against the gear shift as he wraps his arms around you as best as he can from the driver’s seat.

“I’ve got you,” he breathes, one hand cradling the back of your head, pressing you gently into his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You shake your head weakly against him, fingers coming up to clutch at his shirt once again but without the earlier urgency, without the desperation, just…holding. Craving. “I-” your voice breaks, incapable of forming the word. “I-” The sentence dissolves before it can exist but Andrew doesn’t ask you to finish it. He just embraces you.

His hand moves slowly through your hair, over and over, the same motion, the same rhythm, his other arm tight around your back to keep you steady as your body trembles in release. The sobs come quietly at first, then stronger, your breath catching between them, your face buried against his neck where his skin is warm and real and alive. “I know,” he mutters, even though you haven’t uttered anything. “I know, sweetheart.” (you don’t know what he gets. you don’t understand what’s occurring inside you. you can just tell it hurts.)

Time stretches. Or maybe it doesn’t. It’s difficult to keep track of it.

The world narrows to the space between his arms, to the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, to the quiet sound of his voice when he speaks again and again in low, anchoring murmurs that you don’t fully hear but perceive on a greater level. Your body slowly calms and the crying fades. Not because it’s done, no. You just don’t have the strength to continue, eyelids growing heavier with every passing second.

Andrew doesn’t budge: not when your weight settles more fully against him, not even when your head slips on his shoulder. He just accommodates his hold, one hand sliding cautiously to support your neck, making sure you’re comfortable even in the awkward angle between the seats. “I’m right here,” he murmurs again. (you know. you’re holding onto that.)

The last thing you register is wetness falling onto your hair where his face is the closest. - You don’t sense the moment he shifts. Only the absence. The slow, gentle manner Andrew untangles himself from you without ever truly letting go, one arm remaining around your shoulders while the other guides your body back across the console, repositioning you in the passenger seat. Your cheek brushes the fabric of his shirt one last time before the distance and cold returns. Not all at once. Just enough to perceive. Your head tips weakly against the seat, eyes closed. (don’t open them. if you open them, it all comes back.)

The engine starts again beneath you, the vibration traveling through the frame of the truck and into your bones, comforting, enough to keep you suspended in that fragile space between alert and catatonic. Andrew’s hand finds yours while the world only subsists in fragments: the inaudible hum of the road, the dry evening air slipping through the open window, the rhythm of Andrew’s breathing beside you, the sporadic shift of his thumb against your skin like he is still counting, still making sure you are here. (one. two. three. four. you can overhear him.)

Time passes. Minutes. Hours. You don’t know.

In your drifting at the seam of consciousness, there’s a thought. A thing you were supposed to do, that you had planned. It floats up slowly, rising from deep water, blurred and shapeless. It was after the skatepark. The thought slips the instant you attempt to hold it, gone, too distant to reach. You don’t understand why it matters. Don’t identify why it feels crucial.

The truck decelerates. There’s a change in motion, a transition from smooth asphalt to something rougher, the tires crunching as the vehicle rolls to a stop, engine cutting soon after. For a moment, nothing happens.

“Love, hey… Can you open your eyes for me?” his voice is close, gentle.

Your lashes flutter at the sound of it. (love. when was the last time he called you that? yesterday? last month? ever? time feels too blurred to know the difference.)

The world comes back in pieces yet again, light first, then shape, then meaning, your gaze unfocused a little too long before it finally lands on him, on the familiar lines of his face that appear sharper now, more defined under the dim light. Leaning toward you from the driver’s seat, one of his hands is still hovering close, not touching yet, waiting.

You blink to the structure emerging behind him through the windshield. The house is small and wooden, set back from the road, almost seeking not to be uncovered, the land stretching quiet and dark around it, the trees around moving in the night wind, a silence so complete it almost feels like the world has halted just for this place.

Andrew examines your face cautiously, tracking the way your eyes move, the way your breathing settles, the slight delay in every response of your body, catching up to somewhere your mind hasn’t fully returned from. “We have arrived,” he murmurs. His hand finally comes to rest against your cheek, the touch light, thumb brushing once beneath your eye where the skin is still damp. You don’t flinch. Not this time. “I need to step out for a minute,” he continues quietly. “Get the keys.”

(don’t go. please don’t go. you don’t know how to stay here without him.) It presses against your chest, small but urgent, but when your mouth opens, nothing comes out, the feeling dissolving into that same frustrating emptiness where language should be.

Andrew notices. “I’m coming right back, okay?” he adds with a tentative smile. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”

That almost makes it pull at your mouth. You try. You really try. Your lips part, the words take effort, way more than it should. “You wish,” you manage, barely above a whisper. It’s very little. Fragile. But it’s there.

He stills for just a fraction of a second, exhaling a breath you don’t think he realized he had been holding, the sound almost imperceptible, but you feel it in the way his shoulders slacken, in the way his hand pauses on your face before easing. “There she is,” he replies, like he’s speaking to something that had almost slipped out of reach and has now, somehow, found its way back, “That’s my girl.”

The phrase settles inside you, warm in a place that had been untouched since the cold entered, and for a moment, just a moment, the void amid your body and your mind shortens, stitching themselves back together one thread at a time. You don’t smile yet. You’re not sure you can. But you seek all you have in your features to convey how much right here, right now, yes, his girl is gradually rising back.

His hand lingers a moment longer before he forces himself to pull away, counting under his breath the distance in cycles of four. “I’ll be right back,” he reassuringly says.

The space he leaves behind doesn’t feel as hollow. Your eyes follow him again through the windshield, watching the way he strides across the gravel toward the house.  Another man stands near the porch, older, keys glinting in his hand, and the two of them speak in low voices that don’t quite reach you, fragments stumbling through without forming anything whole.

“…papers are all signed…” “…place is yours now…” The words drift past you, half-heard, half-understood, your mind too far to hold onto them properly while the man presses the keys into Andrew’s palm. “…quiet out here… good for that…” A pause. “…you and your wife will like it.”

It’s gentler than the rest, but heavier somehow, deeper than the others. It doesn’t jar you. Doesn’t seem wrong. And in your mind, the word keeps running. (wife, wife, wife.) You don’t feel like a wife. But honestly right now, you don’t consider yourself much of anything. (but the idea…the idea of being his wi-)

That’s a warm term, one that goes beyond the cold within your bones, one that is untouched by all that occurred tonight, that can’t harm you. The night air trails Andrew as your door opens, sealing the distance between you and him, nothing else subsisting elsewhere out of his hazel eyes. “Hey,” he murmurs, crouching so his face is level with yours, gaze searching yours with the same focus that has been holding you together since the world slipped. “We’re gonna go inside, alright?”

You don’t answer right away. Not because you don’t desire to, no, but because everything still feels sluggish. (stay there. don’t lose him. underwater is not a place to remain in.) You nod. Andrew’s expression softens, something easing behind his eyes before he stands and moves carefully, one arm sliding around your back, the other guiding your hand, never pulling, never rushing. “I’ve got you.”

The ground appears uneven when your feet touch it, legs uncertain beneath you but not truly discerning it, not when you have him to hold onto, not when his arm stays around you, anticipating every movement you don’t have the strength to control and keeping you upright without making it feel like you’re falling apart. You don’t examine the house. Just a brief flickering look toward it: the shape, the soft light behind the windows, the outline of a place that might be welcoming. But it doesn’t carry you. Nothing does.

Except him.

The steps to the porch blur beneath your feet and you cross the threshold without really feeling it. Inside. Somewhere. It doesn’t matter. Your hand hasn’t left his, the only thing that you deem real enough. It takes a full minute for your voice to come, quiet and rough from disuse, barely more than a breath. “Where are we…?”

The question feels distant, belonging to someone else. Andrew doesn’t hesitate. “Home,” he answers.

You don’t question it, you don’t look around to confirm it. You don’t need to. The term doesn’t reach the walls, doesn’t reach the house. It stops at him. (you already know you’re home.)

Andrew is here. ────────── “And this one?”

Your voice arose tenderly, already halfway through the ritual you had created weeks ago, fingertip resting against the ridge of an old scar along his shoulder blade, tracing its uneven edge like it was a delicate relic instead of skin that had once been torn open. Andrew didn’t answer straight away. He lay with his back pressed to your chest, curled so your arm could drape over his waist while the other danced across his skin, mapping him the way no one ever had, with hands that sought to understand rather than assess or judge, touching instead of taking, reverence instead of inventory. (One. Two. Three. Four. The body of the sinner, and no voice rising to call it that but his own.)

Your nail followed the line once more, lighter this time. “Andrew?” you murmured.

He exhaled. “Knife.”

Your hum vibrated against his back, the sound warm, thoughtful, like you were receiving the word instead of reacting to it, holding it somewhere gentle instead of letting it fall heavy between you. “How old?”

“Sixteen.”

Your finger lingered, tracing it again, slower this time, committing it the way you always did: like nothing about him was allowed to be forgotten once you had uncovered it. Your lips followed in a soft kiss, placed exactly where your fingertip had been, loving and deliberate and…reverent. Andrew’s breath faltered. (It always did. Because it didn’t feel like affection. No, it was something else entirely. A sentiment he did not have a name for. Close to absolution.)

Your hand moved again, drifting across his back with quiet intention, pausing at another mark, smaller, almost faded. “And this one?”

He swallowed. “A job.”

“Mm.” Your thumb brushed over it, smoothing it as if the years hadn’t already tried and failed, as if your touch could succeed where time had not. “It’s a very small one.” A kiss followed. Then another. (His angel making something holy out of what had only ever been used.)

 “And this one?”

“Prison.” The word left him flat, as always, but your hand didn’t falter, your touch didn’t recoil. You only traced it again. (Once. Twice. Three. Four. Even number. You knew now. That he needed it like that. He had told you once. Hesitant. Apologetic. How four made things silent inside. And you hadn’t turned it into something to laugh at.)

You leaned down, pressing your lips to it with the same tenderness as the others, no reluctance, no differentiation, no hierarchy in the way you touched the wounds that had shaped him. (No categories of deserved or undeserved. No measurement of them. You did not question which ones he earned. You kissed them all the same.)

The starving part of him, buried so profoundly it had forgotten its own name and fed on scraps and silence, stirred at being called back in the home of your embrace.

At the scar he got when he was young, your lips lingered longer, as if that one demanded more, as if the child he had been was still attached to his skin and needed to be acknowledged separately from the man he had become. Andrew’s eyes slipped closed, not a single muscle held in readiness, not a single instinct braced for impact. (He did not do this anywhere else. Because nowhere else did it feel like this. Being unmade. Not brutally. Not forcefully. Piece by piece. Each of his scars a verse. Each of your kisses the response. His angel undoing a life tainted by violence. Rewriting it in mercy.)

And in the quiet that followed, with your arm still wrapped around him and your fingers slipping once more into his hair, Andrew felt the overwhelming need to anchor himself before it could fall away, holding onto the sheet. Because if this: this warmth, this softness, this impossible, undeserved gentleness…if this was what it meant to have every mark acknowledged and not condemned, to be touched without expectation of pain…then maybe this was what people implied when they spoke of being forgiven.

And if this was what being cleansed felt like, he understood why people believed in God. ────────── He found it the day you asked him to leave for a while.

The request had not been cruel, nor abrupt, nor even unexpected, yet it had still sat inside his chest with a weight he didn’t know how to carry, your voice gentle but firm when you told him you needed some time, even just an hour, to process alone all that had happened without his eyes on you, without his hands reaching to help you when you were screaming in the middle of the night. He had nodded because you had asked it and loving you had already taught him that care didn’t always mean staying, that sometimes it meant stepping away even when every instinct inside him recoiled at the idea of leaving you unguarded.

He had driven without direction at first, counting. (One. Two. Three. Four. The trees. The houses. Distance from you measured in numbers instead of steps. Time instead of touch.)

The road had stretched ahead, quiet, the hills folding into one another beneath the afternoon light, and his hands had remained tight on the wheel, gaze scanning reflexively for threats that didn’t exist there, for movement that never came. His body still held in that rigid state since the warehouse, every nerve tuned to the possibility of harm.

And then he had spotted it. Small. Set back from the road. A chapel that didn’t announce itself, that didn’t demand attention, its wooden white frame worn by time, the door ajar, probably left open for anyone who might necessitate it and had not yet decided how to ask. He had parked without thinking. And inside, it had been silent. The kind that didn’t feel abandoned, but contained, preserved from the noise of the world outside, the light filtering across the benches and floorboards, dust flying in the air, undisturbed.

Andrew had not known what to do in a place like that. He had stood near the entrance longer than necessary, boots quiet against the floor, his gaze moving across the room, cataloguing details without purpose: the shape of the altar, the faint scent of old wood and candle wax, the way the space seemed to exist outside of time. (One. Two. Three. Four.)

He had not prayed. He didn’t exactly know how, no matter the number of times he had attempted. Him. Pope who couldn’t pray. But still, he had remained there for a while. Long enough for his breathing to slow. Long enough for the thought to settle. (This is where he will bring you. Where the world cannot touch what it doesn’t deserve.) - And two weeks later, he does. The door opens with a soft creak under his hand, the sound echoing inside the small chapel as he steps aside to let you enter first, his gaze moving to you rather than the room, tracking the way you cross the threshold, the slight hesitation in your step, the way your fingers curl loosely around the sleeve of his shirt before letting go. (One. Two. Three. Four. You’re steady. Still here. Still breathing. Still his to guard.)

You pause just inside and your eyes travel slowly across the space, taking in the light and the absence of anything that demands attention. “It’s…” you begin, your voice smaller than it used to be, not fragile, not broken, but tempered by everything your body has learned in the past weeks, “…nice.”

Andrew nods once, closing the door behind you with care. “It’s quiet,” he replies. (Quiet is safe. Quiet means no one is coming. A place set apart. Removed. Preserved. His angel does not belong to the world outside. Not to men like them. Not to what raised him. Not to the kind of life that stains everything it touches.)

You move further in, your steps unhurried, hand brushing along the back of one of the wooden benches, fingers tracing the grain absentmindedly, grounding yourself in the texture, in the reality of it while Andrew stays close. (Not touching. But near enough. A distance small enough to cross in less than a second. Close enough to intervene. Close enough to reach before harm does.)

You sit after a moment, choosing a bench near the center rather than the back, your body turning toward him when he lowers himself beside you, leaving just enough space between you that you can close it if you want. For a while, neither of you speaks. Your hands rest in your lap, fingers intertwined, your thumbs moving against each other in a slow, absent rhythm. “I like it here,” you murmur.

Andrew nods again. “I thought you might.”

You glance at him then, a faint curve at the corner of your mouth, not quite the full smile he knows, but closer than before. “You were right.” (He wants to keep being right if it keeps you like this. Breathing. Here. Untouched.)

Silence settles again, softer this time. You draw in a slow breath. “I…wanted to say thank you.” The words come carefully, each one placed with intention, your gaze dropping briefly to your hands before lifting again. Andrew’s body stills. (Thank you. For what? For doing what should have been done before they even reached you? For failing to stop it sooner?)

“You stayed,” you continue, your voice steady despite the tightening in your throat. “These past two weeks. You didn’t…leave me alone with it.”

Andrew’s jaw tightens, just a little. (There was no version where he would have left.) “I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly.

You nod, your fingers tightening together. “I know.” A small exhale. “I just…wanted to say it.” He watches you closely, noting the way your shoulders hold, the way your eyes avoid his for a second before returning. “And I’m sorry,” you add.

That makes him frown. “For what.”

You huff a small, breathless laugh that breaks halfway through. “For being…like this.” You gesture vaguely to yourself, your body, the invisible weight you’ve been carrying. “For being ‘sick’. For not…” You stop.

Andrew doesn’t. “For not what?” he asks, his voice still even but lower now.

Your gaze drops again. “For not being…normal,” you finish quietly. “For not…touching you. For not wanting to have sex righ-”

“No.” The word cuts through the air immediately, firm, leaving no space for you to continue that line of thought. You blink, looking up at him. “That doesn’t matter,” he says. (You being alive matters. You breathing matters. Nothing else comes close. The rest is irrelevant.)

You swallow, your lips parting slightly. “But it’s been weeks,” you murmur. “And I know that’s not-”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeats, softer this time but no less certain, his hand finally moving, resting over yours where they sit in your lap.

“You don’t owe me that,” he adds. (You don’t owe him anything. Not your body. Not your healing. Not your pace. He owes you everything. All that remains of him. That still knows how to be used for something other than destruction.)

Your breath stutters, your eyes searching his face, looking for doubt, for hesitation, for anything that might contradict the certainty in his voice. There is none. “You’re not…annoyed?” you ask, the word small, almost tentative.

Andrew’s expression shifts, not quite a smile, but something warmer. “No.” A beat. “Not once.”

Your lips tremble, a sound escaping you that is halfway between a laugh and a sob, your shoulders lifting slightly before dropping again, the tension breaking in small increments. “That’s insane,” you whisper, shaking your head.

Andrew tilts his head. “Why?”

“Because most people would be!” you reply, a soft, disbelieving breath leaving you. “Most people would have left by now or…” you cut yourself off, pressing your lips together.

“I’m not most people,” he says, voicing the thought simply. “And weren’t you the one who told me that it didn’t matter if I couldn’t be…intimate? That together was all you needed?”

That makes you laugh again, a real one this time, even if it’s threaded with tears, your head tipping forward slightly. “Yeah,” you admit. “That’s…true.” The sound lingers in the chapel, light, fragile, but real and Andrew can’t help but to watch you, committing it to memory. (This. This is what he protects. Not the absence of fear. The return of this. His light.)

Your hand turns beneath his, your fingers curling around his palm now, holding him rather than being held, your grip gentle but intentional. “I’m getting better,” you say after a moment.

He nods. “I know.”

You glance at him, a hint of curiosity there. “How?”

“You’re laughing.”

A small smile returns to your mouth at that. “Good point.” You inhale slowly, your gaze drifting toward the front of the chapel, toward the altar, the quiet space beyond it, your expression thoughtful. “I know I’m not…all the way there yet.”

“I don’t need you to be,” he replies.

You look back at him. “I know,” you say softly. “But I want to be.” A tear slips down your cheek then, unexpected, and you laugh again through it, wiping it away quickly with the back of your hand. “Fuck, I’m a mess,” you mutter.

Andrew shakes his head. “No.”

You huff. “Oh yes, look at me. Cursing in a church.”

He doesn’t argue further and reaches up, the pad of his thumb brushing beneath your eye, catching the remaining dampness there, his touch careful. (He has seen blood on this skin. Bruises rising. Hands where they should not have been. This, this he can handle.)

You lean into the contact without thinking, your eyes closing briefly, your breath evening out again under the motion. For a moment, the two of you remain like that. Quiet. Held in a place that doesn’t ask anything of you except to exist. Then you pull back slightly, a small, almost mischievous spark returning to your gaze, faint but present. “Hey,” you say.

Andrew raises an eyebrow. “Yes.”

“Do you think,” you begin slowly, “you could drive me to the grocery store after this?”

He blinks once. “The grocery store.”

You nod, a soft smile forming. “I want to try a new recipe.” (A recipe. Ingredients. Steps. Future.)

Andrew exhales slowly through his nose. (One. Two. Three. Four. You are here. You are choosing to stay. To build. To continue. He will buy you the whole store if he needs to.)

“Yes,” he answers.

Your smile widens, just a little. “Good,” you say, squeezing his hand once.

And in the quiet of the chapel, Andrew understands with a clarity that does not require words, does not require prayer, does not require anything beyond the rhythm of your breathing beside him that whatever this place was meant for, whatever it once represented to those who built it, to those who came here seeking answers… he has already found his.

It sits beside him. ────────── At twenty-one, Andrew did not ask questions.

He learned early that questions did not change outcomes, that answers were rarely given without cost, and that the only thing that mattered in the end was whether he had done what was expected of him, whether he had moved when told, stopped when told, hurt when told, because in that house usefulness had always been the closest thing to love that any of them were allowed to touch.

Smurf was sitting in the living room when she called him, not raising her voice. She never needed to. “Andrew.”

He was already turning before she finished saying his name, stepping into the room with that attentive posture that had been carved into him over years, his eyes finding her immediately, reading the angle of her body, the tilt of her head, the small details that told him what she wanted before she said it. She was smiling. The one she used when she had already determined someone’s fate. “Come here, baby.” He did. Of course he did. (One. Two. Three. Four. Called. Answered. That was how it worked.)

She was sitting with one leg crossed over the other, bracelets shimming when she shifted, her hand reaching for him the moment he stepped close enough, fingers sliding along his thigh in a slow, absent stroke. (He wondered if this meant comfort in other houses. Affection in other families.)

“You’re my strong boy,” she smirked, her gaze lingering on his face with a warmth that never lasted long enough to hold onto. “My protector.” Andrew stood still beneath her hand. (Protector. That’s what he was. That’s what he was for.)

“There’s a man,” she continued, “who forgot how things work around here.” Her fingers pressed against his leg. “Can you remind him?”

Andrew nodded. “Yes, Smurf.”

She smiled wider. “I knew I could count on you.” Her palm lingered a second longer before withdrawing, the absence of it immediate, noticeable, leaving behind that quiet, familiar emptiness that always followed once the task had been given. (He had to do it well. To come back. To be useful. Be worth it.)

The man was not important though, that Andrew grasped the moment he saw him. He was not a target because of what he had done, Andrew actually didn’t know what it was about, but because Smurf had declared he had forgotten, and forgetting, in their world, was sufficient.

“Please…” the man started as Andrew approached slowly. Not out of uncertainty, out of precision. The man kept talking, words spilling over each other, apologies, explanations, promises, the kind of desperate language people used when they believed there was still a possibility of being heard. Andrew didn’t listen. Listening would imply that the outcome could change. But here, now, it couldn’t. He reached for the man’s jaw first. “Wait, I have a family,” the man choked out, his voice cracking under the pressure. “Please, I have ki-”

The first hit cut the sentence in half. Andrew observed the impact: the way the man’s head snapped to the side, how the sound echoed in the room, the way silence pursued for a moment before the man tried again, his words slurring. (One. Two. Three. Four.)

Andrew adjusted his stance before continuing. Each movement controlled, measured in the similar rhythm he employed for everything else, the same manner he counted steps, breaths, distances, because this too was a task, and tasks required precision. The man’s voice deteriorated rapidly. Words turning into sounds. Sounds turning into broken attempts at forming something coherent. (One. Two. Three. Four. The mouth was no longer functional. This man was sentenced to months of silence, jaw rendered useless. Children without their father’s voice. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted his fist striking.)

He couldn’t halt, not out of rage or cruelty, but out of completion. Because stopping before the job was done meant coming back, which meant therefore failing the first time. The man ceased to speak long before Andrew stopped. And silence, in this case, meant success.

When he returned home, the house was empty, the lights were off. No music. No voices. No Smurf. No brothers. Andrew stood just inside the doorway for a moment, his hand still on the handle, the quiet pressing in around him, unfamiliar after the structured noise of the task, the man’s voice and the impact of bone and skin and breath.

The living room looked exactly the same: the couch, the table… Everything in its place.  Except there was no one there to tell him he had done well. No hand reaching for him. No voice calling him baby. No warmth. Just the absence of it. Andrew sat on the couch, in the same spot where Smurf had been earlier. His hands rested on his thighs, still, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, his body waiting without realizing it was waiting, as though the next instruction might come at any moment.

It didn’t. Minutes passed. Then more.

(What now?) There was no need for the question to form fully, because there was no answer. Just the quiet. And him inside it. - At twenty-one, you were not supposed to end up alone. Not with the way people gravitated toward you, the way your laughter filled spaces without effort, the way professors remembered your name and classmates sought you out not because they required something from you but because being near you felt easy, light, uncomplicated.

You studied psychology out of appreciation to understanding people. You enjoyed the way patterns formed, the way behavior made sense when you looked at it closely enough, the way even the most confusing reactions had roots if you were patient enough to find them. Your mother used to say you were good at seeing the best in others and of course, since she was your mother, you used to believe her. At twenty-one, your life had been full: classes, friends, late nights spent talking about nothing and everything at once, a future that stretched out in front of you in clear, manageable steps…

And then it wasn’t.

The hospital room had been too white, quiet, final. But your mother’s absence didn’t arrive all at once, no, it unfolded gradually in the empty chair at the table, in the silence where her voice used to be, in the way the house felt different even though nothing had moved.

You tried to go back to your classes, go back to your routines and the version of yourself that existed before, but everything felt heavier, louder. Too much. The words blurred on the pages, the voices felt distant and time stretched in ways that didn’t make sense. Until one day, sitting across from your father at the kitchen table, you said it. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.”

He looked at you for a long moment. Not disappointed. Not angry. Just…seeing you. Your sorrow, mirrored in his own eyes. “All I want,” he said quietly, “is for you to be happy.” And it shattered something open inside your chest, because you didn’t know how to tell your father you couldn’t recall how to be that anymore.

So you moved. From Los Angeles to Oceanside. You told yourself it would help: a nice change of air, a reset, a chance to find a life that felt manageable again. The apartment was perhaps modest, but clean. Boxes still half unpacked in the corners, you sat on the floor the first night, back against the wall, phone in hand with no one to call. You drew your knees to your chest, your chin resting on them, your eyes moving slowly across the unfamiliar space, trying to make it feel like yours.

(What now?) But you knew there was no answer to this question, just the silence. And you inside it. ────────── The notification is simple, clear. Just one sentence. You haven’t logged your period in 7 weeks. It sits there on your screen longer than it should, and for a minute, you don’t budge, you just look at it, your thumb hovering above the glass without touching it, without dismissing it, without opening anything else, suspended in that small space where nothing has changed yet but still, everything has. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)

The number doesn’t feel real at first, it feels misplaced, as though it belongs to someone else’s life, to a version of you that exists somewhere adjacent but not quite here, not quite now, not in this bed, not with him sleeping beside you.

Andrew breathes deeply against your back, one arm draped over your waist, heavy and warm, his palm resting flat on your stomach where it had settled sometime during the night without either of you noticing. His grip is loose in sleep but present enough that you can sense it, the weight of it securing you to the mattress, to the moment, to him. Your eyes drift down to his hand. (seven weeks.)

The skatepark returns in fragments, not as a full memory but as scattered impressions: sunlight, the sound of wheels, Andrew crouched in front of the little boy, your fingers brushing absentmindedly over your stomach while the idea had slipped into your mind. you think you’ll do it tonight. You never did. Everything after that moment had fractured, rearranged itself into something darker and harder to hold. The plan had dissolved somewhere between the truck, the warehouse, the three weeks that followed where time moved in uneven stretches and your body forgot how to feel like yours.

That’s what bodies do, you remind yourself, they shift without asking permission, break rhythm, lose track of time when stress settles too deeply into them, when fear rewrites the way they function. Your eyes remain fixed on the screen a moment longer. (you could just be late.) The thought arrives quietly, offering itself as something solid to stand on, something rational, something that makes sense in a way the other possibility does not. (you haven’t been sleeping properly. you haven’t been eating right. your body is still catching up. it would make sense.)

Your stomach is flat beneath Andrew’s hand, unchanged, unremarkable, offering no sign, no confirmation, no disruption of what has always been there. (no nausea. no difference. nothing.) But… (seven weeks. what if it is? worse, what if it isn’t? even worse, what if you let yourself believe it and it disappears?)

Your throat constricts around that one, the air catching for just a second before you force it down again, refusing to follow that path any further. Behind you, Andrew shifts at the change in your breathing, his fingers tightening against your stomach in reflex before loosening again, his body settling back into its quiet rhythm as though nothing has happened. Your hand lifts, hesitating only for a moment before resting over his, your fingers brushing against his knuckles. (you can’t tell him.)

The realization does not arrive all at once, it builds slowly, piece by piece, until it settles into something firm and unmovable. (not like this. not with uncertainty. not with a number on a screen and nothing else to hold onto. you won’t put that in his hands unless it’s real.) You know what his face would look like. You know the way he would still, the way everything in him would narrow down to that single piece of information, how carefully he would compartment it, how seriously he would take it, how completely he would believe it. (you won’t take that away from him.) Your eyes close, breath moving in and out with effort. (relax. he told you to count. one. two. three. four.)

The thought of the chapel returns then, threading itself through the moment, a reminder of the plan you both made the night before when he had asked you in that careful way of his, probably unsure whether you were ready to step outside after weeks spent mostly within the walls of the house. “There’s a place I want to show you.” You had said yes. And this, whatever this is, will have to wait a few more hours.

Lying there longer than necessary, you open your eyes now, fixed on nothing in particular while you listen to the rhythm of his breathing behind you, your own falling into it, counting without meaning to, matching the cadence you have learned from him, the one he uses when he thinks you cannot hear. (one. two. three. four.) - (one. two. three. four.) You don’t stop counting when the automatic doors slide open in front of you, the brightness of the store almost too sharp after the muted quiet of the chapel, the sound of carts rolling and distant voices folding into each other, almost unreal. The rhythm stays with you, something to hold onto while everything else threatens to shift too quickly beneath your feet.

Your only plan had been that. The chapel. Sitting beside him on the wooden bench, your shoulder brushing his, your hands folded in your lap while you spoke more than you had in weeks, words coming back slowly at first and then easier, thanking him, apologizing for things he refused to let you apologize for, laughing through tears until your chest felt lighter. (but you still had felt the need to know)

The thought had stayed quiet, waiting until you stepped outside, until the air changed, until he looked at you with that steady patience and you realized you couldn’t carry it any longer without moving. “Do you think you could drive me to the grocery store after this?” (you need to know. before you say anything. before you look at him and change everything.)

And now you’re here. The cart moves in front of you, your hands resting on the handle, your fingers tightening and relaxing without rhythm except for the one repeating in your head. Andrew walks beside you, close enough that your arm brushes his every few steps, his gaze drifting occasionally past you, past the aisles, scanning the entrances, the exits, the people moving in and out of his field of vision with that quiet vigilance he never quite turns off. You reach for the first thing you see. “Pasta.” It drops into the cart. “Tomatoes.”

He picks them before you do, placing them carefully inside. Olive oil. Garlic. You continue. Bread. Cheese. Something sweet you don’t need. Herbs you won’t use. You keep moving, your hands busy, your mind split between the list you’re building on the spot and the aisle you are deliberately not looking toward yet. (in, out, in, out.) You speak more than usual, not enough to draw attention, just enough to fill the space, to make this feel like an ordinary trip, an ordinary afternoon, something that does not carry the weight pressing quietly beneath your ribs. He answers simply, briefly, following your lead without question.

Your chest feels tight, your breathing just slightly off, enough that you notice it, enough that you slow for a second before forcing your body forward again. Effort quickly interrupted by the aisle you were looking for. Pharmacy. The cart stays still beneath your hands, your fingers pressing into the plastic while you keep your eyes on the shelves ahead, not moving toward them, not quite ready to close the distance.

You swallow. “Can you…” your voice is calm, almost, “…grab me a book?”

He looks at you. “A book.”

“There’s a section near the front,” you add. “I just…want something to read.”

He studies you, not questioning, not suspicious, just observing the small changes, the ones you cannot hide from him even when you try. “Okay.”

You wait until he disappears before you move. Fast. Your hand reaches for the box without hesitation, pulling it from the shelf in one motion before your thoughts can catch up, before doubt can slow you down. Digital. You don’t read the label. You don’t check the price. For a second, it rests in your hand, heavier than it should be, your eyes fixed on it without truly seeing it. (seven weeks. seven. seven.)

Quickly, you drop it into the cart, covering it with whatever is closest, pasta, tomatoes, anything, layering it beneath the groceries until it disappears completely from view, hidden. By the time Andrew returns, you are still, composed, your hands back on the cart. He hands you the book. You take it, your fingers brushing his for a brief second, leaning in just slightly to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” you murmur, your voice low, warm, real, “I’m sure I’m gonna love it.”

Andrew stills for half a heartbeat before nodding. “You’re welcome.”

You pull back, the book resting against your chest now, your fingers curling around its spine and not looking at the cover. You don’t need to. Together, you move toward the checkout and, thankfully, the line is short, quite the opposite from every grocery you’ve been in Oceanside, the number of people in there often overwhelming Andrew. The cashier begins scanning without much attention, items passing one by one over the machine, the soft beeping steady, repetitive, almost syncing with the rhythm in your head. (in, out, in, out.)

You keep your eyes on the counter, on your hands, on anything that is not…the box. It appears in the pile. Time stretches as the cashier picks it up, your gaze lifting to meet hers, and in that brief moment there is understanding there, immediate, quiet, unspoken. Don’t. The word never leaves your mouth. It sits behind your teeth, behind your throat, in the way your fingers press harder against the edge of the counter, in the way your shoulders hold just a little too still. Don’t say anything. Please. Andrew stands beside you, but not here, not fully, his attention angled outward, his gaze moving past the glass doors, scanning the parking lot, the cars, the people, every exit, every movement, the same way he always does.

The scanner beeps, the sound feeling louder than with any other product. Or maybe everything else has gone quiet. You don’t breathe. Not properly. Just enough to stay upright. The box is placed aside, not with the rest, not immediately swallowed into the routine of scanned items and rustling bags, but held for just a fraction longer than necessary, the cashier’s fingers resting against it as her gaze flicks up to yours once more, quick, knowing, the smallest shift in her expression that doesn’t draw attention and yet carries comprehension all the same.

The cashier doesn’t speak. She doesn’t need to. Her hand moves instead, deliberate but casual, folding the rest of the items into the bag before her fingers close around the box, separating it from the others, keeping it out of sight from the counter, from the open space between you and Andrew.

Then, as she passes the bag toward you, she slips it in. Not inside the bag. Not with the groceries. Into your hand. The gesture is small, hidden in the natural motion of handing things over, her fingers brushing yours for the briefest second as the box transfers between you, her eyes lifting once more, just long enough for a faint, almost imperceptible wink to follow. It’s quick, gone immediately, as though it never happened. Your hand closes around the box instinctively, your body moving before your mind can catch up, slipping it into your handbag in one smooth motion, the fabric shifting softly as it disappears inside, concealed, secured, yours again. Hidden.

Stepping away from the counter so Andrew can pay, your heartbeat is louder than it should be, your fingers brushing once against your bag as if to confirm it’s still there, still real, still within reach. All that remains is to find out which life you are about to step into. - “I’m just gonna…go change in pajamas, okay?” Your voice sounds almost normal when you say it, the words slipping into the space between you without weight, without urgency, like it’s the most natural thing in the world after coming back from the store and setting the bags down.

Andrew looks up from where he stands near the counter, one of the grocery bags already open, his hands moving through it efficiently, placing things aside in groupings before putting them away, his attention shifting to you as soon as you speak. “Okay.” No question. No hesitation.

You nod once, holding onto the strap of your bag before you turn away, your steps carrying you down the short hallway toward the bathroom while the sound of him behind you fades. The door closes, and just like that…the whole world narrows. The light in the bathroom is too bright, too sharp against your eyes, the mirror catching your reflection before you look down, hand already moving to unzip your bag with fingers that do not feel completely like yours.

The box is still there, but it feels different. Real.

Your breath comes shallow as you pull it out, the cardboard cool beneath your pads, the printed words blurring for a second before you blink them back into place. You glance at the instructions, barely. Words pass your eyes without quite settling. (it’s simple. it has to be simple. plenty of people do that every day.)

You follow the steps mechanically, your movements precise without being conscious, muscle memory forming where there was none before, guided only by instinct, by the need to finish, to know, to end this suspended state where everything exists and nothing is confirmed.

The test rests in your hand and for a second, you just look at it before reaching for your phone. Ninety seconds. The timer begins. Suddenly, there’s nothing else. The bathroom fades, the light dulls, the edges of the room slipping away until all that remains is the small device in your hand and the quiet, relentless ticking of time you can’t even hear but feel in your chest. Your body feels distant. Like you are watching yourself from a removed place, aware of your hands, of your posture, of the way you lean back against the sink. (this could be nothing. this could be everything. don’t hope. don’t ho-)

The timer rings. The sound cuts through the room. For a moment, you don’t move. Just stare at the test in your hand, your vision focusing, blurring, then settling again as you bring it closer, as the word comes into view, clear, unmistakable. Pregnant. It sits there and doesn’t change. There is a delay, a quiet gap between seeing and understanding, between reading and knowing. (pregnant.)

Your hand squeezes around the plastic. Your other hand lifts your shirt without thinking, the fabric bunching beneath your fingers as you look down at your stomach, turning on one side, then the other, as though something might have changed in the last few seconds, as though there should be a sign, a mark, anything to match what the test is telling you.

There is nothing and everything all at once. A tear slips down your cheek before you even register it, your hand lowering slowly, your fingers brushing once over your skin. (there is something inside you. a tiny part of him and you.)

It takes one second. Two. Three. Four, before you are moving, the hallway feeling shorter than before, the house coming back into focus as you walk toward the kitchen. Andrew is at the fridge, one hand braced against the door while the other places the food inside, his posture relaxed, unaware, steady in the way he always is when he thinks everything is as it should be. You stop behind him, hand lifting to rest on his arm as you lean in, lips brushing his shoulder blade and your breath catching against his skin. “Andrew…” Your voice is barely there. You press your forehead against him before the words find their way out, quiet, fragile, real as a tear falls. “I’m pregnant.”

The movement of his hand stops mid-motion, the fridge door still open, everything in him going quiet in a way that feels immediate, absolute. He turns slowly towards you, eyes finding yours, searching. Disbelieving, but not in doubt, just when something too important takes a second longer to settle. “Really?” he whispers.

You nod, your lips trembling and voice breaking. “Yes…Andrew…” Another breath. “We’re gonna have a baby.” Your hand lifts, resting over your stomach. “Our baby.”

Something in his face shifts and you have barely the time to register the movement before his knees meet the floor, his palms coming to rest gently at your waist, careful and reverent. For a second, he just looks. At you. At the place beneath your hand.

His fingers brush your skin lightly, almost hesitant, as he leans forward, pressing his lips to your stomach. Your fingers slide into his curls, holding him there, your other hand still resting over where his lips touch you, breath uneven now that your body finally catches up to the weight of this whole moment. A soft, broken sound escapes you. In between a laugh and a sob. And you don’t pull him away, don’t move. You just stay there, your hand in his hair, your body steadying around the place where his mouth rests.

Together. The three of you.

🏷️taglist. @tilldeathripsusapart @xoxo-mylove @doughy-tribbiani @honimoon @midnightbandito @linnea-apc @acn87 @yournamesnob @the-doctor-9-10 @clocksonthewall79 @thatcorporategirlie @littlezee80 @person-005 @baileythepenguin @bbykumori @woantohae @fertilise-me @reality-shift484 @headspacehaze @babeybambi99 @geekchic48 @materialgirl-97 @novaleeabbot @czarina55 @coooooooooooooulson @doesanyonereadthis @kaialovewrites @mistershotz @glitterymemesatretro-blog @tvfangirladdict @badwolfvexa @purplepickle69 @californiadreaminbaby

[love-quinn]

— FOUND OUT.

summary — as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.

warnings — implied age gap (you're late 20s, i believe pope is at least late 30s but that's not even really mentioned at all), mentions of armed robbery, aggravated assault, etc all the stuff they do in the show, i switch between calling him pope and andrew, reader exclusively refers to him as andrew, this isn't a slow burn but the first half is build up, reader’s boyfriend is verbally, financially and physically abusive (physical isn’t shown graphically), smurf cody, slut shaming, pope gets stabbed (also not graphic), kidnapping, murder (and like lowkey torture? he’s trying to make him feel the most pain while he dies),

18+ mdni mild exhibitionism (they want the neighbours to hear), dry humping, pope almost cums in his pants lol, mentions of m!masturbation, fingering, spitting, unprotected piv (bad), sliiiight sub!pope i think? breeding kink if u squint

word count — 11.2k

note — okay listen. i've never written for pope, i've also never written smut before. i had this stupid idea and i texted two of my friends about it and they hyped me up and now i'm here. if this sucks, that's on them, alright. i sat down to write this and figured it would be like 2/3k at most, and suddenly it had been a week and this is by far the longest single chapter fic i've ever written. i have never written smut and it is honestly much harder than it looks, the things i do for shawn hatosy </3

Pope had been waiting almost forty-five minutes.

A long wait wasn’t rare at Doc’s—the service wasn’t why he came after leaving Smurf’s. The diner, wedged by the overpass, sat forty minutes from his house without traffic. Pope didn’t care for the service, the sticky tables, the flickering lights, or even the food. The eggs were too wet, the bacon too dry, the coffee bitter. The sandwiches were both soggy and stale.

Sometimes they had pie, and that was something. Not forty-minutes-out-of-your-way something. But something.

No, there was one reason that Pope found himself in the corner booth at least twice a week, and she was currently being yelled at in the kitchen.

You looked radiant, a picture-perfect idea of a pretty girl. You moved fluidly between the coffee pot, the cabinet, and the sink, like you could perform the motions with your eyes closed. You twinkled while you walked, delicate gold rings on your fingers, earrings catching the light as your head turned towards the window. Like you were made of something that came from space. You looked more tired than usual, the dark circles under your eyes more prominent than usual.

The kitchen at Doc’s was always loud, so Andrew didn’t look up from his drink when shouting began. He had come in early, while the sun was still rising, after a sleepless night spent in his mom’s kitchen listening to his brothers plan a heist. Andrew hadn’t really paid attention to them, too focused on re-running the route from Smurf’s to the diner in his mind—a drive he could make in his sleep.

The line cook at Doc’s was an asshole. That was the first thing he’d noticed after pulling off the main road into the nearly empty parking lot. Andrew had stumbled in, bloody under his jacket. A deep gash, halfheartedly bandaged days before, ached beneath his clothes. He almost collapsed into the corner booth.

Johnny had been yelling then, too. But that time, he was behind the bar countertop, following you around as you tried to tidy up. “I don’t need to be babysitting you,” he scowled, getting in your way constantly. “First it’s the fuckin’ tickets, then it’s the drinks, for fuck’s sake. I know you don’t have much in that pretty head of yours, doll, but I didn’t realise you were honest-to-god fucking stupid.” He grabbed you at the scalp, not squeezing hard enough to hurt, and gave your head a shake. “Or were you too busy whoring yourself out tonight to remember you got a fuckin’ job to do?” His hand lingered, like he was unsure of what to do with it.

“Baby-” That word had snapped Andrew right out of it. He’d been dazed for days, since he’d got nicked right near his ribs and had lost so much blood he’d been tanner in prison. The harsh words hadn’t fazed him, he was ashamed to admit, but hearing you turn and address the man so sweetly, like he hadn’t just called you a slut in front of the empty dining room.

“No, no,” He snatched a white coffee cup out of your hands. “I get it. My big girl’s gotta do her big girl job. Right, honey? You think you’re something special ‘cause old Ron said you got a nice smile?” He slammed the mug down so hard that Andrew heard it break. You jumped about half a foot in the air and seemingly went into fight or flight. You’d scampered away, pulling the bar top up where it turned into a gate to come move around the dining room. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? I’m talking to you.” He’d called out your name, and Andrew had committed it to memory right then and there.

“I’m working, Johnny,” you’d turned around then, in a huff. Chest rising and falling, Andrew tried not to focus on the movement of your breathing. “Doing my job, like you told me.”

Johnny watched you wipe down a table and shove the chairs in haphazardly. “Yeah,” he scoffed. “Now you wanna fucking work. Remember that flashing your tits’ll only get you out of paying rent so many times, did you?”

“Hey!”

Pope hadn’t meant to shout. Hadn’t planned on drawing attention. He hated watching you be diminished by your boss and wanted to intervene. But he felt dizzy, and you looked like the kind of girl who’d rather no one witness her shame, as twisted as that was.

Both of your heads snapped to him. Johnny’s angry, yours petrified, and Andrew felt like maybe he had made things worse for you.

Pope knew he couldn’t go in too aggressively; you were already shaking your head at him, hoping desperately he wouldn’t make a scene.

“Can I order or what?” he said gruffly, pressing his hand to his side as he slumped into the booth.

He watched Johnny grip you by the arm, hiss something in your ear, and then push you toward him. You looked more shaken than hurt, embarrassed that he had seen it than sad it had happened.

With how sweet you had been to Johnny, he’d expected you to be kind of meek. Andrew had seen your type before. Small-town girl moves to her closest approximation of a big city. Too poor for San Diego, but dreams big enough to get as close as possible. Got saddled at a dead-end food service job with an ass for a boss. Didn’t need Pope white knighting for you when he just knew your boss was going to yell at you the second he left.

Instead, you came right up to him, locking your gaze with his. Like it had never even happened. “You know what you want?” You flashed him a smile, pen already poised to write down his order.

“Uh,” Pope hadn’t even glanced at the laminated menu on the table.

You snorted, covering your mouth with your notepad. “All that tough guy stuff, you didn’t even know what you wanted?” Andrew had been suffering blood loss for at least two full days by that point, but your laugh made him feel like he was floating. “How about some coffee, huh?”

He heard the kitchen door slam behind Johnny. You didn’t even look behind to where he’d stormed out. Didn’t even flinch.

“Ignore him,” you said softly, unbothered. “He’s a little bitch. Smiled at a customer too long, made him jealous.” You grinned like it was a joke—like his words were just a harmless flaw.

Andrew looked up at you. There was a red mark on your arm where Johnny had grabbed you. “So what’re you doing now then?”

You laughed again, brushing your fingertips against the arm he had resting on the table. “If you pick coffee, then I can make it right here for you, no kitchen required.”

That had sounded pretty good to him, so Andrew nodded. You beamed down at him, shoving the notepad in the front pocket of your apron. “Now, I don’t know what you heard from him.” You had jabbed your chin towards the pass to the kitchen, heat lamps basking the wall in warm golden glow. It didn’t hold a candle to you. “But I promise not to flash my tits at you.” You nabbed the menu off the table and turned back to step behind the bar countertop. “I won’t stop you from looking up my skirt, though.”

Andrew had laughed so hard he felt like he popped one of his shitty stitches.

It became routine after that. Whenever he had to pull an all-nighter, he’d stop by Doc’s and come get a cup of shitty coffee and a dose of lovely girl.

Johnny hated Pope, but you said that was normal with customers, telling him not to get a big head. Yet Johnny kept taking Pope’s money and letting him sit in the corner booth for hours. Pope always tipped big; the money was bloody, but better in your pocket than his.

He told himself that’s why he kept coming back. He wanted to help you out. You were a sweet girl. That was it.

The dining room was no longer deserted like it had been that morning. There were a few other waitresses and a few other chefs bustling around. You and Johnny seemed to always be there, though. Pope had already waved off two teenage girls who tried to take his order.

"You think you’re better than this place?”

He couldn’t hear your muffled reply, but he heard the way Johnny laughed.

“Nah,” Johnny got louder, voice deeper. “Some fucking clown tells you you’re too pretty to be holed up here and suddenly you’re too good for me?” There was the sound of metal on metal, ringing out through the diner. The other patrons all looked up, some nervously, some annoyed. “You think he likes you? Sweet little girl, always so pretty for him, huh? Letting him ogle you like that? What do you think is gonna happen, sugar? He’ll take you somewhere nice, pull you out of this shithole?”

He still couldn’t hear you, ears straining to make out words over the noise. Baby - being nice - love you.

“You know exactly how this is gonna shake down, don’t you?” Johnny lowered his voice just slightly. “He’ll fuck you, then he’ll run, and you’ll be left here asking me for a ride to work. You know that, right? I know you got nothing but rocks up there, but you can see that, surely?”

Pope couldn’t even make out your voice that time, but he figured you’d replied when Johnny laughed, roaring and cocky. “Oh, no, baby. Don’t you roll your fuckin’ eyes at me. You know exactly why I’m mad. You like me mad. You drop your fucking panties for any guy who walks in the door, and I’m meant to act like I don’t see it? No, baby, I’m not the bad guy. You do this shit on purpose. You push, and you push, and one of these days you’re gonna forget just how good you have it.”

Andrew already fucking hated Johnny, but the afternoon you’d sheepishly admitted Johnny wasn’t just your boss—he was your longtime boyfriend—made Pope’s blood boil so much that he’d almost crushed that fucking coffee cup in his hand.

“Yeah, my girl doesn’t need reminding who’s good to her, does she? Where’s your fucking attitude now, huh?” More murmurs, you sounded upset now, not soothing. “Yeah, not so fucking tough anymore. You think that fucking loser’s gonna save you-?”

Andrew heard your voice - don’t - and then dead silence. He thought for a sickening moment that Johnny had kissed you to shut you up, and that he was going to have to think about that on the drive home instead of how you’d traced the knuckle of one of his hands.

Then, you emerged. Head ducked, straight for his booth. He sat up straighter. Your chest was shaking, and this time, he didn’t have to stop himself from looking; his eyes were glued to your face.

He said your name softly, reaching a hand for you. You stopped short. “Can I get a ride?”

Your eyes were red, tears streaking thick black tracks down your cheeks. There was a mark on your collarbone. Pope was up in an instant. “I’ll fucking kill him-”

“He just grabbed me, I want to go home-”

“Just grabbed you?” He scoffed. You were both talking quietly, voices low to avoid the breakfast rush from feeding on your insides. “I’m going to fucking kill-”

“Andrew,” you snapped, “I want to go. Can I get a ride or not?”

Pope had driven you home a few times in the six months he’d been frequenting the diner. Sometimes you and Johnny would fight, and Johnny would take off without you, leaving you stranded and sheepish as you stood by the corner booth, looking like you wished the earth would swallow you.

But he’d never seen you leave without Johnny. This was new.

He handed you the fifty in his hands - the piece of pie he’d been waiting on plus tip (he wasn’t gonna let that asshole take it), and you didn’t argue, just shoving it in the pocket of your apron. You never accepted his money without a fight, usually, but that time you took it, stalking off towards where Andrew had parked his car.

“You wanna go to your place?” Andrew would never have asked, have given you any inkling you were welcome at his house, if you hadn’t looked so upset. He didn’t want you anywhere the fuck near his family - especially Smurf. She had no idea he’d been coming there three times a week for almost six months. It wasn’t any of her fucking business. Still, he wasn’t going to let his mom sink her claws into you the way she had with Julia. To maim. Not to cage, like with him.

But Andrew also knew that Johnny owned your apartment building. That was how you’d met him, apparently. At first, it had been kind of fun, you’d admitted to him one night the slight Johnny had hurled at you hadn’t been without merit. “Sometimes I couldn’t make rent that month, so I’d just have to… You know.” Pope felt like he was going to be sick. “It made me feel special, like I was in on something the other people weren’t. Then one time we had a fight and he wouldn’t get someone to fix my AC.”

Pope was going to fucking kill him, and there wasn’t anything he could think of that would stop him. He’d fantasise about the ways on the drive home some mornings, imagining the life draining out of Johnny’s eyes the way Pope had watched the life drain out of yours. Maybe he’d take a knife to him, watch his blood soak the concrete. He had a gun; he could use that. Or maybe Pope could just drag him out to the half-alley where Doc’s dumpsters were and beat the shit out of him until he was unrecognisable.

Those were second only to the other fantasies he’d have. The ones where you would find out, devastated by your boyfriend’s death, and turn to him for comfort. The ones where you’d kiss him and tell him he saved you. The ones so vivid he’d have to pull off the road and deal with it, lest he go and meet up for a job with a boner.

All of them involved your fucking boyfriend six feet under, and Pope getting the chance to show you how much better he could treat you.

Sometimes you chatted, airily telling him stories about funny customer interactions you’d had, or about something silly you’d seen on your phone. Sometimes you stayed silent. Most of the time, if Pope was driving you somewhere, it was because you and Johnny had gotten into a fight and he’d left you stranded.

“I’m gonna need to ask for your number,” you’d joked one night, standing in front of the open passenger door, bent at the waist to shove your head back in the car. “That way I can come and bug you whenever.”

Andrew would’ve handed it over without hesitation, but you’d giggled and shut the door, flouncing back up to the staircase leading to your apartment on the second floor. That afternoon, Johnny had taken your elevator pass, so Andrew dropped you off around the back. Your apartment building felt more like a motel: your front door was external, the apartment hallway served as an entryway, and a patio. He watched you bound up the stairs with the energy of someone who hadn’t worked the night shift, hauling yourself up on the railing and flashing him a beaming smile as you reached your door.

Now, you sat in silence. When Andrew pulled into the back lot of your place, you sat there, seatbelt buckled behind your back—which made Andrew nervous, but he was in no position to ask you to obey the laws of the road. “Do you want to come in?”

The closest Andrew had come to being inside your house was when he’d walked you to your door one night when it was raining. “Johnny…?”

You shook your head, still not looking at him. Your gaze was locked on your lap. That summer had been unbearable, so you’d opted for skirts rather than pants. You wore really pretty outfits a lot of the time, even if they were hidden under your apron. Floral sleeveless tops that showed off your collarbones and made him feel like a fucking teenager, practically salivating at the sight. Skirts that ended at mid-thigh, oftentimes shorter than the apron you wore tied around your waist. Your thighs were on display, and Pope had been very tastefully looking at them - you couldn’t ask him not to look, that wasn’t fair.

“He’s pulling a double,” you said, “Can’t flake out on it either, Doc’s is going under.”

That wasn’t necessarily surprising to Pope. Doc’s had a few die-hard patrons, people that he’d see multiple times a week or month. Other than that, it was usually empty. Which is why the line cook seemingly felt no shame in bullying his girlfriend in the middle of the dining room on a weekly basis.

Part of Pope felt bitter. Good. That asshole deserved it. Maybe they’d knock the building down and turn it into a Whole Foods or some shit. But most of him was thinking about you. Doc’s was your only source of income, and most of your money you got from his tips. Would you still see him if the diner closed?

He followed you up the stairs, standing guard beside you as you rifled through your bag for your keys. That was how Andrew felt about himself a lot of the time when it came to you. A guard dog. Someone to protect you, whether it was from Johnny or Smurf or guys who called you ‘darlin’ and got too close to your face at work. Not necessarily someone to keep around, but someone useful.

Your apartment looked exactly like Pope thought it would from the glimpses he caught through the windows (and the listing he’d found online) (your boyfriend had your apartment listed at all times, ready to strike if you pissed him off too bad) (Pope hadn’t mentioned it to you, but he kept it in the back of his mind always).

There were little touches that weren’t included in the estate photos he’d found online. The tack-on wallpaper you had up in the kitchen, the soft blankets you’d tossed over the couch.

“Sorry for the mess,” you sounded upset, but you had been since the diner. Pope didn’t want to think about it being his fault. What really worried him was the palpable sense of tension, as if there were too many words left unsaid hanging in the air. Pope looked back over at you, mouth open to tell you not to worry about it, but was interrupted by the look on your face. Eyebrow raised, eyes still red-rimmed from the incident in the diner, mouth curled downward. “No, stop. You’re gonna say it’s cute, or whatever, but it’s not. It’s gross, sorry. I didn’t think I’d have company today.” You seem to be in waitress mode even at home, straightening things and moving to put dishes in the sink. Pope caught sight of a dirty laundry basket and almost got lightheaded.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” You asked, kicking the laundry basket into another room and shutting the door with your elbow. Pope couldn't shake off a sense of impending crisis; each of your movements was more hurried than usual, like a tightly wound spring ready to snap.

Pope hovered awkwardly in the living room, scraping his eyes over as much of your stuff as he could. Your chipped mugs, the 90s girl-group poster covering water-damaged walls. Your things were clearly well-loved and well-worn, but seldom maintained. You took good care of your things out of love, but not enough to stop them from breaking. Enough to keep them useful. Pope wondered if his usefulness would run out. “Is the coffee better here?”

You snorted, untying your apron and dumping it on the sofa. “I won’t spit in it?” You offer like it’s some sort of consolation prize.

Pope couldn’t stop the words stumbling out of his mouth, “Why not?”

He wanted to ask him what exactly had gone down in the kitchen, talk to you about it, tell you to dump him, do a billion things to you. There was the small problem of you finding out how much of a fucking loser he felt about you.

“Sit,” you said softly. He sat. He watched you mill around, both cleaning the kitchen and making him a cup of coffee in the same motions. When you handed him the cup, he looked up at you. It was well and truly mid-morning by that point, and the sun was filtering through the kitchen windows and hitting your face.

“You okay?” He finally asked. He didn’t want to overstep; he also felt like it wouldn’t be appreciated. Pope wanted to be something, not just another asshole who took control of your life. You’d been in a rough spot when you’d met Johnny. Pope didn’t want to be another Johnny. So, he kept his mind firmly on the task at hand and not on the fact that your bedroom was on the other side of that wall.

You looked at him, and Pope felt his stomach fall. He’d never seen you look like this before. “I want you to kill him.”

It was a burst of anger, uncharacteristic of his sweet girl. Pope couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he still felt like he’d blinked and missed you already.

“Wha-”

You rolled your eyes, kicking off your sneakers and curling up on the sofa near him. He could smell your perfume. He was going insane —you were too close—far too close for how well-behaved he was trying to be. Too far away to do the things he was trying not to think about doing.

“I’m not stupid, Andrew,” you said, rubbing your eyes. “I know who you are. I know what you do. I know your whole schtick.”

Hearing someone call his family’s incredibly lucrative and prolific crime empire a ‘schtick’ kind of snapped him out of it. “You…?”

“Like, two weeks after the first time you came in, I went to a party and someone asked if I was Pope’s girl.”

Fuck. Fuck. He’d wanted to keep you all from it. From Smurf, from the rest of his family. From Pope.

When he was with you, he didn’t have to be Pope. He didn’t have to be whatever the fuck he was, whatever people called him. Didn’t have to worry about the fucking drugs, or the heists, or all the people he’d murdered at the behest of his mom.

Being asked to take care of someone wasn’t an uncommon thing for him.

You seemed to register the worry on his face, scooching closer on your small sofa. Pope felt dizzy. “I said yes,” you admitted, cheeks warm. “I don’t know why. I just wanted him to leave me alone, and when you were brought up, he seemed to think twice about fucking with me. It was nice.”

Your earlier words played back in his head, about how it had been with Johnny at the beginning. Like being in on something that no one else was.

Andrew said your name, low and mournful, like it might be the last time.

“I’ve heard stuff,” you rushed, needing to get your point across before he cut you off and walked out of your life forever. “Stuff about the Codys- you guys. About you, Andrew. Pope. I had a little trouble picturing you as him. You’re always so nice to me, I couldn’t imagine you doing something like that.”

Good. Andrew hoped to god it stayed that way. You were the one good thing he had ever let himself have, and he barely even fucking had you. Still, it had all managed to catch up to him.

“But then I thought about it.” Your voice was quiet. If Pope strained, he could hear voices behind him, on the other side of the wall. “And I thought about it. And I kept thinking about it every time I saw you. I can’t get it out of my head.”

Pope felt his eyes sting. He was not going to cry in front of you. He’d sooner run out the door and ghost you.

“Please say something.” It was clear you had expected him to be much further on board faster than he had been.

He just sat there for a moment. Every second that went by, every tick of the clock on the mantle, every drip of the kitchen sink Johnny refused to look at, every blink of Pope’s eyes, felt like they got longer and longer between them.

Pope had an issue. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to kill Johnny - Pope would’ve done so already if he had known you wouldn’t grieve his death like he had believed you would. But he didn’t want to be the guy you leant too heavily on and grew to resent.

"You want me to kill him?"

He’d expected you to look surprised, to tell him you hadn’t really wanted to take him up on the offer or whatever. Instead, your eyes sparkled as you nodded.

"I want him to die, Andrew."  You said it so gravely, so seriously, he had no choice but to believe you. Unless you’d become an informant, which, knowing his luck, was not out of the question. “You’re a good man. You deserve to do it. I can forgive you for it.”

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

You wanted to do it yourself, had ever since you’d found out about the habits of the sweet, quiet man who came in and stared at you too long. But wanting to kill someone and actually killing them were two different stories. This was giving you an out. You didn’t need to rely on Johnny, on his hot and cold, on his temper.

Doc’s was going under, and you’d been looking for another job. Looked at maybe going back to school. You’d been in your third year of college when you met Johnny. That was a lifetime ago.

If Johnny died, the building would be bought by Mr Carlton, the older man who owned all of the first floor and almost all of the second floor. Rent would be a little higher, but you wouldn’t have a boyfriend who could decide he wasn’t going to give you shifts while you were on your period, because if you couldn’t give him what he wanted, then why should you get what you want?

A steady source of income, maybe a future, control over your life again. Johnny had to fucking go.

And who deserved to do it more than Andrew? Sweet, sarcastic, charming, respectful, Andrew. He’d never overstepped, never once given you the ‘you deserve better’ spiel. Never once made you feel like he pitied you or judged you. Knew his place. His good behaviour deserved to be rewarded.

And so, you made a plan. He’d suggested planning it out to give you more time to chicken out, as he somewhat believed you would.

Johnny would be going out of town the month following, for a whole ten days. That meant there were ten days which nobody would notice his disappearance. Pope planned it all, how he would do it, where he would dump him, and the excuse he would give his brothers.

Baz had pulled him aside and asked if he’d gotten a girl, but Pope had stayed silent, stewing bitterly. It wasn’t out of any real interest in his life; it was out of selfishness. He’d noticed how long it had been since he’d caught Pope looking at Cath.

You quit Doc’s and started working at a coffee shop closer to your place. The hours were consistent, the pay was regular. You didn’t even care that your coworkers weren’t very nice, and you weren’t making as much in individual tips. You wanted something concrete.

You and Pope started “dating.” You suggested it as a reason you guys had been hanging out so much: if one of your neighbours squealed. All that involved was letting Andrew drive you home, letting him call you ‘baby’ in earshot of your coworkers, and letting him keep his hand on the back of your thigh for just a little too long.

Pope was paying your rent — something that annoyed you, but you couldn’t stop. Johnny had threatened to evict you when you and he split, done in a screaming match at Doc’s, surrounded by as many people as you could swing. It needed to be public and final. You’d almost been rendered homeless, but Pope had offered to reach up and spend more than the heightened rent Johnny had started enforcing. Andrew knew Johnny knew he wasn’t going to get more rent out of anybody than some sucker who wanted to fuck Johnny’s ex-girlfriend.

He spent the entire month leading up to it with his family. Made himself as available to them as he could. Told you not to call him while he was at Smurf’s, told you so softly and so sweetly they’d rip your fucking throat out that you had no choice but to listen. He forced himself into so many situations that, when the day came, they were honestly grateful for a reprieve. Nobody would be calling him that week.

Johnny was smoking a cigarette when Pope got him. Sharp and fast, a quick slash to the side under the ribs, grabbed by the hair. Kicked on the back of the knees and shoved to the ground. Some of it had been overkill. The grip Andrew had kept on Johnny’s greasy hair, almost ripping it out from how forceful he was. Zip ties to the wrists, enough shoved in the mouth that even when Johnny realised it was Pope and started yelling, only muffled groans could be heard. Nobody had been in the parking lot of Johnny’s - Pope had planned as much, but seeing it work out felt vindicating.

Not as vindicating as watching Johnny bleed out all over the tarp Pope had lined his trunk with for the occasion. His hands, the hands that had touched you in all the wrong places, were almost completely severed at the wrists. Johnny’s fingerprints would be burned off, and his teeth would be knocked out, but he wanted to wait until the bastard was dead for that part. Not to spare him the pain, but because he wanted to take his time on it without having to listen to that miserable fuck whine the entire time.

He was still alive when Pope pulled into your apartment. You’d been at work all morning and had just gotten home (Pope still felt guilty about making you take the bus, even though his car had been in use at your request). That way, when the coroners eventually examined him, if they found him too quickly, they’d get a time of death you were both well and truly accounted for.

He’d hoped he’d catch sight of one of your neighbours on the way in, had spent the past month stopping to chat to each and every one of them, so they wouldn’t think it out of the ordinary if he did it on his way up to you. The staircase, the patio, and even the parking lot were all dead.

So, he pulled out his keys and made a big show of dropping his keyring and clattering about with it before unlocking the door. “Baby?”

You were in the kitchen, still in your work clothes, looking radiantly at him. More dream than girl, Pope could’ve sworn you glowed. “Andrew,” you beamed at him, speaking a little louder than necessary. Not unnatural. “How’s Lena?”

He’d offered to take his niece out for the morning, which kept her away from Baz and gave Pope some time with her. Made for a really good alibi if someone asked him where he’d been that morning. He’d felt kind of gross for dragging the poor girl into it, but his desire to see her had won over.

“She was good,” Pope shut the front door, dropping his stuff in. “We went to the beach, got ice cream, had some lunch. She says hi.”

Lena absolutely did not say hi. Pope hadn’t let a single thing about you slip, even to her. But he liked to think that if she did know who you were, she would’ve said hi.

Pope discarded his jacket on the hook by the door. You didn’t keep your space particularly tidy, but since he’d started coming over, you had made more of an effort. Clearing room for him to keep his things, jacket on the hook, shoes on the rack, keys in the bowl. It felt so painfully domestic that Pope could almost pretend this whole thing was real.

After that first time in your place, Pope had been struck by just how much of the apartment felt like you. It wasn’t overly decorated, you didn’t make enough money to have one of those Pinterest board apartments Andrew knew you were secretly obsessed with.

But there was nothing in this apartment, even the first time he’d been inside, that indicated you had a boyfriend. At least... There hadn’t been before.

Now, Pope’s stuff was everywhere. His dishes in your sink, post-its on your fridge reminding you of when he was working or telling him when you were. One of his jackets over the back of your sofa. He was one step away from keeping a damn toothbrush in the cup with yours.

You came close to him, wrapping your arms around his neck and stretching yourself up so your mouth was right beside his ear. “Did you do it?”

Pope’s hands were pressed to your back, one of them lingering where the hem of your shirt sat, inches away from slipping his palm to lay against your bare skin. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. You squeezed him. “He’s in the car. I’ll hang out here for a while, then I’ll go dump him.”

He hadn’t told you where he’d been planning on taking Johnny. You hadn’t asked. You didn’t need to know where he was lying, just that he was rotting. That you’d never have to feel his hands on you again.

“No one saw me,” he said. He felt you frown against his neck. The two of you had been hoping at least one of your neighbours would catch sight of him organically. The building's walls were thin; you could hear people on both sides of you.

“Shit,” he felt you exhale. “We need someone to be able to validate that you’re here.”

He let his hands shift, rubbing the skin of your back gently through your top. His thumb brushed the sliver of bare skin with a featherlight touch. You didn’t move away.

The two of you stood there for a moment under the guise of thinking. There was the faint clatter of a dish being bumped into through the wall, followed by a muttered curse word.

“Maybe they could hear us doing something?” He suggested. “Like, we could talk really loud?”

You pulled back enough to see his face, but not so much that he had to let go. “What would they hear?” you asked quietly, a smile tugging the corner of your lips up.

The silence hung low in the air, filling the space and shoving the two of you closer together. You were wearing a pretty blouse and a denim skirt, straight from a morning at the coffee shop. Pope didn’t want to be the one to suggest it.

“Andy…” Your voice was soft in tone but loud enough in volume that he was pretty sure that your neighbours could hear. You’d never called him that before. Your hands moved from resting behind his neck to caressing his jaw with your thumbs.

“Hi, baby,” the words ghosted your face, barely audible. Your face split out in a grin.

“Wanna see my bedroom?”

Andrew had seen your bedroom before, but he had never been inside. He’d only ever caught glimpses when you came in or out, or through the cracked door, or on the online listing.

Your bedsheets had little daisies on them. They felt soft under his fingertips. Your duvet was bunched up towards the head of your bed. You’d shoved him inside, giggling at the absurdity as his knees hit the back of your bed.

“Okay, wait.” You bent over, desperately trying to at least half-make your bed while he was sitting on it. You weren’t actually going to fuck him, you just needed to make the neighbours think he was giving you a good time. Well, it didn’t have to be good, but it would hurt his ego a little if he couldn’t fake fuck you well.

Then, you sat down on the rumpled duvet beside him, unable to keep the grin off your face. “Okay, wait,” you said again. “Alright…”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before finally you let out a noise. A soft, barely-there, contented sigh.

Pope laughed.

You reached over and hit him. “Sorry, asshole, I’ve never tried to make my neighbours think I’m having sex before,” you hissed. He held his hands up in surrender, trying to take you seriously despite the situation. Andrew shifted so his legs weren’t hanging off the side of your bed, shuffling towards the head. “You do it.”

“I…” he tried. This was ridiculous. “I can’t, I’m sorry,” he was laughing so hard his shoulders were shaking, his back pressed to the headboard.

You rolled your eyes. “Oh, Andy,” you let out an exaggerated groan, snickering at him. Your voice stayed monotone, “Please, for me?”

You crawled closer to him, coming to sit right beside him.

Pope thought maybe he had died and gone to hell. He had you right there, so close to him he could smell the rosemary oil you insisted helped your hair grow. So close he could count your eyelashes if he could keep his eyes off your hands, dragging through the duvet to extend towards him.

He let out a groan, and you smiled self-satisfiedly. “Yeah?” you goaded. “You like that, Andy?”

Your voice was thick with wanting. Pope let out another noise, heat rushing to his neck. You were putting on a show, and not even for his benefit. A whine ripped itself from his chest, and the humiliation filled the cavity it left. Here he was, acting like a fucking virgin sitting with a pretty girl on her bed.

You still had that goddamn smile on your face, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. You were still moving closer, and Andrew felt frozen. He was trying so so hard, trying to behave, to not move you closer and grab any part of the expanse of skin you were seemingly haunting him by. He was trying to behave, and there you were, so close to him.

You were still giggling, even as you hauled yourself up and locked your legs on either side of his thighs. Pope’s hands were raised, hovering above your waist, not sure about the whole touching thing now that you were literally situated in his lap.

You opened your mouth, pushing a palm flat against the wall and letting out a slightly louder moan, looking him right in the eye.

Yep, definitely hell. You were settled in his lap, whining his name, gaze boring into his. He had to start thinking about geometry or baseball or something to distract himself from the fact that you were positioned right over his cock while wearing a skirt.

He was able to start on autopilot, matching your volume, throwing in a “baby” or a whine of your name every so often. He just had to keep a clear head for however long you decided sex with him would take and then wait so he could go jerk off and dump your boyfriend’s corpse. In that order.

You had one hand on his shoulder, one hand on the wall, still completely giddy from the venture. You seemed to be having a nice time, not burdened by the same hellish circumstance that he had found himself trapped in. Even more so when you shifted your hips slightly and had his cock twitch at the contact.

He felt you tense up and prepared for the anger. A slap, a spit, insults hurled. Something at least.

He couldn’t look up at your face, but unfortunately, your tits were the other closest things to his eyes. Instead, his head was turned to stare at the floral wallpaper, looking as far from your face as his head would physically turn.

“Andrew?” You whispered. He was shaking under your hands. He felt your hand move from his shoulder up his jaw, fingernails raking up his skin. You grabbed at his chin, pulling his face back up so he had to look at you. “Hey.”

This would be the last time he ever touched you, so he let his hands finally find purchase on your waist. “I’m so, fuck- I’m sorry. You can just ignore it; it’ll go away. I’m so fucking sorry, it’s not because of you.”

You pouted. “It’s not?” You rolled your hips, and Andrew felt his chest constrict. “That’s a shame.” You were moving consistently by that point, and he couldn’t figure out when you’d gotten such a mean streak.

“Fuck-” his head fell forward, forehead resting on your shoulder. “Baby, I-” he was interrupted by a whine yanked from his throat by the feeling of you grinding down on his crotch. “You… you gotta stop.”

“You want me to?” You asked innocently, pausing your movements.

Andrew lifted his head off your shoulder to look up at your face. You had never seen anyone look at you with such reverence.

Pope knew the good, moral thing to do was yes, to get you off his lap and then throw your boyfriend’s body in the ocean. What he chose to do was to lift his hips up to provide some of the friction you’d stopped giving him. “No,” he admitted. “Fuck- no. Please don’t.”

His face was still in your hand, and you gripped his chin, tipping his head back slightly. You ducked your head slowly, moving to press your mouth to his. Pope’s hands were roaming on your back, one of them finally slipping under the soft cotton of your blouse. Pope kissed like he talked, waiting for you to make the first move, but once you had, he cut himself loose. It wasn’t necessarily a good kiss; it was sloppy, mostly open-mouthed, and involved a lot of your mouth swallowing his moans.

But your brain seemed to reset, whether it was the feeling of his tongue slipping between your lips or the feeling of his erection pressing between your legs. The noises he was making, directly from his mouth to yours, were sending a buzzing feeling between your thighs.

You rolled your hips, he thrust up to meet you, and the friction set loose a high whimper that seemed to spur him on.

“Fuck,” he groaned, pulling off where he’d taken your bottom lip between his teeth. “You have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.”

He was embarrassingly close from the feeling of you grinding on him through his clothes. His hand squeezed your side, his entire body tense from the effort he was putting in to keep him from embarrassing himself. You let out a whine at the sudden move, and that had been his final straw.

Without warning, Pope wrapped a strong arm over your back and flipped you over so he was above you. You squealed at the impact, landing on your back, and the sound travelled straight to his cock. “Andrew-”

He kissed you again, his hand coming up to cup your jaw and rub soothing circles into your scalp. “Fuck, baby,” he groaned. Your legs fell apart for him to come move between them and press his chest to yours. Andrew took his free hand and stroked the back of your thigh, holding it up against his hip. “Oh, look at you.” He pulled up to take a good look at your face. Face flushed, pupils blown, and that stupid fucking smirk on your face.

The hand on your thigh loosened its grip and travelled upwards until it found its way underneath your skirt. As his palm made the connection with your damp underwear, you let out an embarrassingly high-pitched whine. “Andrew,” you shuddered against his touch.

“You want me to touch you?” he asked, voice low. You nodded, tilting your head up to try to capture his lips against yours again. “Yeah? Come on then, baby. Use your words.”

Your cheeks burned, more from annoyance than embarrassment. “Please, Andy…” That wasn’t enough for him; the most he did was press the heel of his palm firmer against your panties. “Want you to touch me,” you grumbled. Andrew knew you were miffed at not getting what you wanted without having to do what he wanted you to. You liked that he was so desperate for you, liked how he’d been hard under your touch without him even really touching you.

He pushed your panties to the side to run a finger through your folds. You whined, pushing your hips up at the brush of your clit against the pad of his finger. “Andrew,” you whimpered. He stayed by the nerve, pressing two of his fingers flat and rubbing small circles. He spent a few minutes switching up pace and pressure until he found one that you seemed to really enjoy.

Your moans went straight to his cock, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about that when you were so warm, so wet; all other rational thought went straight out the window. “Fuck, pretty girl. Hear how fuckin’ wet you are?” He kissed the side of your mouth and moved his hand off your jaw to press it against your hand. The back of your palm pushed up against your pillow, clutched tightly in his, anchoring him there to you. He moved away from your clit and ignored the pained whimper you pressed into his cheek, instead moving his fingers to slip them inside.

You gasped at the intrusion, your free hand clawing at his back. “Fuck, Andy,” your moans were high-pitched and breathy, unlike the deep and fake noises you’d been forcing out for the benefit of the neighbours.

“Oh, pretty girl,” he groaned into your neck. You were so tight, even just around his fingers. He wanted to pay more attention to your clit, but the feeling of your hand in his was too tempting to give up. Instead, he pressed his index and middle fingers inside while brushing the nerve with his thumb. It was uncoordinated, fast, and desperate, but you were whining into his ear, clenching the back of his shirt in your free fist, and squeezing his fingers so tight he could feel precome pooling in his boxers.

“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he groaned. “How am I meant to fit in here, baby?” He cooed, crooking his fingers up to press against your spongy center with the tips of his fingers and causing you to throw your head back, open-mouthed.

Pope felt you clench around him. “Wanted this so bad,” you admitted, pulling him closer to kiss him. It was so sloppy, half your words were said directly into his open mouth. “For- fuck- months, Andrew. I k-keep thinking about you,” you bucked up into him. “Johnny would always get angry because he said you wanted to fuck me-”

“Did,” Andrew grunted, fucking you with his fingers as far in as they could go, stretching you out. He hadn’t been joking before; there was no way he’d fit. “Do.”

You ignored him, still babbling on. “And I never believed him, but I really, really hoped he was right.”

Andrew pulled his fingers out of you again, but this time you didn’t whimper. He’d been talking a big game while he was on top of you. You wanted your sweetheart back. Stopping only to shove your panties down your legs and kick them off onto the floor, you wrestled yourself back on his lap. At the feeling of your bare core against his erection, Pope groaned again. “Fuck, baby, you felt so good, so wet for me. Was that all for me?” You nodded. “Fucking bastard, has no idea what he’s giving up, does he?”

Pope did not want you back on his lap because he was pretty sure that if you started riding him again, he’d come in his pants.

You seemed pretty gleeful at the concept of that happening, though, leaning down to attach your lips to his neck. There was a wet patch on the front of his pants where your bare core met the swell of his cock. “Andrew,” you rasped, “feels so good.”

His hips stuttered, hands on the backs of your bare thighs, debating whether to move up to your ass or down to your pussy. “Baby,” he groaned. “Say you want me.”

Andrew wasn’t a virgin. He’d had girlfriends, the occasional hookup. He had never been so achingly hard in his life, and you hadn’t even really touched his cock yet.

“You want me to want you?” You cooed. “Yeah, baby? I want you,” you husked, directly into his fear. “Want you so bad, Andrew.”

He tossed his head back, hitting the wall behind your headboard. “Fuck, you feel so good.” his hands squeezed the flesh of your ass, trying to find something to keep him from busting already.

“Yeah?” you encouraged.

Andrew nodded against your mouth, eyes rolled back in his head. “Yeah, fuck, baby. You look so pretty,” he said, looking up at you through his eyelashes. You could feel yourself soaking his pants, his erection catching on your clit, and sending your head fuzzy. “So, so pretty. My pretty girl.”

You reached for his belt buckle at that, desperate to satiate the pulsing between your legs. He made no move to help you, watching through blown pupils as you undid his pants and shoved them down as far as you could with him sitting down. You’d been able to see the wet patch on his dark jeans, and you’d assumed it had been made up of entirely your arousal, evidence of how much you needed him. But seeing the dark stain of precome pooled by his erection, you realised he needed you just as much.

“Andrew,” you breathed, lusting and listless. “Can I touch you, please?”

Andrew groaned like he was in pain, nodding and nudging his face up to kiss your cheeks. “Please, baby. I’d take anything, anything you wanna do.”

You liked how he wasn’t trying to pretend he didn't want this as much as you did. You waned him so badly you ached, you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for the friction his fingers had provided. “Yeah?” He nodded. “Can you open up for me?”

Andrew opened his mouth, eyeing you as you leaned over his face and let a droplet of your spit land on his tongue. Eyes rolling back, he closed his mouth and savoured it, and that was when you decided to take the opportunity to reach into his underwear.

He was bigger than you’d expected from how unassuming he was. Andrew was a big guy, with arms so huge you wanted him to wrap them around your neck until you saw stars. But he wasn’t super tall, so you’d figured he’d gotten so jacked in prison. He hung heavily over the waistband of his boxers, and his breath hitched when he felt you wrap your impossibly soft hand around him. Now that you had him where you wanted him, everything else seemed to be in the way. His shirt was ripped from his head, the buttons of your blouse undone by shaking fingers. Andrew let his head drop forward to mouth at your covered chest, hand palming the cup of your bra on the other side.

You’d intended to tease him a little, maybe pay back the favour of his fingers, but after less than a full stroke, he was whining at you. “Please,” he gasped out, stopping his task of soaking through your bra with his spit. “I need to be inside you.” Your name slipped from his lips so desperately that you felt your walls flutter.

You reached up to cup his jaw again, keeping the pad of your thumb pressed to his chin and pushing two of your fingers against his lips. He let you in immediately, moaning around your digits and maintaining sweltering eye contact as your other hand brushed his slit with your thumb. An especially loud groan brought you back to where you were, what the goal had been.

“That’s it, baby,” you cooed. “Let the whole building hear how much you want me.”

Once your fingers were well and truly lubricated, you reached back down to touch his cock. “Fuck,” he let out. “You fucking tease-” he was being louder as you’d requested, but only just. He wanted people to hear, sure, but this wasn’t some type of performance.

Pope was desperately running through topics in his head - counting sheep, trying to do basic addition - anything to distract himself from the feeling of your hand running along the vein he had on the underside of his cock.

“Are you gonna fit?” You asked him, lifting yourself up to discard your skirt. Pope took the opportunity of you being out of his lap to shove his jeans down his legs, leaving himself completely bare in front of you. All you had left was your bra, and he’d be perfectly content to keep mouthing at the fabric, but you discarded that, too.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” he sighed, moving to lay you down once again against your pillows. “I’ll fit.” He brought his thumb down to brush your clit again. Your wetness was pooling between your folds, about to start leaking down onto your bed. He actually wasn’t sure, despite how turned on you were, if he would fit. He was above average, but not by much. But the way you’d clamped down around his fingers made Pope feel like maybe Johnny hadn’t been giving you very much to work with. The two of you had been together for like six years, he was pretty sure. “You were fuckin’ made for me, weren’t you?”

You nodded.

He ran his fingers down your glistening folds, collecting your juices in his hand. Andrew had half a mind to bring them to his mouth, but he wanted the first time to be straight from the source. Instead, he let you take them in your mouth, mirroring what he’d done to you. You circled one of his thick fingers with your tongue, and he knew immediately he’d made a mistake, cock jumping at the feeling. He wanted to see you with your pretty lips wrapped around him.

Despite the slick mess between your thighs, his wet fingers were able to find purchase on your clit. “See how much I want you, Andy?” you moaned, and he knew the fucking neighbours heard the groan that pushed from his chest.

The head of his cock brushed your clit, and both of you whined into the open air. You pulsed under his touch, wanting and sensitive.

He took his hand away from your clit just long enough to take hold of his cock and guide it to catch on your entrance.

You look up at him, writhing and needy, and he ducks down to kiss you. “Fucking dreamt of this,” he admits. “Every time I’d watch you leave with him, I’d imagine pulling you away, making you feel so fucking good you forget every name that isn’t mine.”

His mind drifted back ever so slightly to the almost-corpse shoved in his trunk. The two of you had been plenty loud; the whole building had probably heard. Andrew wondered if Johnny could.

“Need you so bad,” you whispered. One leg wrapped around his waist, one bent at the knee on your side, looking up at him. “So fucking bad, Andrew,” you arched your back to bring your face closer to his, and he complied, kissing you roughly as he nudged his hips forward.

He felt you tense up, reaching down to rub distractedly at your clit with one hand and your jaw with the other. “Shit,” he hissed. “You okay?”

You nodded emphatically.

Once the tip was in, he stopped, letting himself stretch you out enough that every movement doesn’t catch a vein or ridge against your walls. You were squeezing him like he owed you money, and he had to put a lot of effort into holding himself up to watch your face.

Your bottom lip was caught between your teeth, eyes half closed. Half whimpers were coming out through your mouth, one after the other, cutting off the one before. “Baby,” he cajoled. “You gotta talk to me.”

It took you a second, too overwhelmed with the stretch and the fact that Andrew Cody was in your bed, and the man you thought would be ruining your life forever was probably dead. And maybe you were dead and this was heaven, not that you’d ever be sent there after what you made him do. “So good, Andrew,” you reassured him, bringing a hand up to clench his auburn curls. “You can go more in.”

He took the opportunity to slide in further, revelling in each gasp you let out as part of his head caught on a ridge inside your pussy. “Oh my fucking god,” he grunted against your neck, certain he’d never been sucked in as completely as your cunt was doing, and he was only halfway in.

You were breathing so heavily, and Andrew kept pulling away to check on you, that by the time he bottomed out, the thick tip of his cock brushing your warm center, both of you were almost embarrassingly close.

“Fuck, pretty girl, can I move?”

You nodded. He tried to kiss you but got taken over by a full-body shudder at the feeling of pulling out, missing, and instead burying his forehead in your shoulder. The sound was downright filthy, filling your bedroom with a wet slap of his thighs kissing yours.

“Feels so good, Andrew,” you moaned, breath stuttering as he pushed  back in. The thrusts were slow at first, trying to give you both something to stay grounded in. But you were so tight, and you were talking to him so sweetly, and when he pushed forward, you’d clench, and his chest would brush against your nipples, and he felt so pent up he was going to explode.

“Baby…” your name tumbled from his lips, begging and rough, out of breath. “‘M all yours. All yours, my pretty girl. Could do anything you wanted to me. Let you spit on me again.”

You could tell he was borderline asking for it at that point, so you shoved his head back down to connect to your lips, trying to collect as much spit as you could get in there. He swallowed it dutifully, along with a moan of your name.

He was on the brink, as he had been since he’d heard that first sigh from your mouth. He was grabbing at the flesh of your thighs, trying to claw desperately at something that wasn’t your fucking wall. With how hard he was squeezing, he’d probably put a hole in it and come face to face with your neighbours in their kitchen.

“Andrew,” you mewled.  “Need… fuck… need you-”

“Right here?” He flicked your clit. “‘M sorry, baby, you feel so fuckin’ good.”

He could feel himself getting there, and with the amount he’d been staving it off, he knew his climax wasn’t going to be soft.

Pope started playing with your clit, trying his best to replicate the rhythm that had gotten you so worked up at the beginning. You groaned, reaching blindly for him. “That’s it, right there.”

Andrew could feel you clenching around him, the walls of your cunt fluttering in time with his thrusts. “Fuck, you feel too good.” He kissed you. “Too fucking good, baby. So fuckin’ pretty for me, hey?” He was slurring his words, completely drunk on the feeling of you taking all of him inside.

“Andy-” the gasp was stilted, your fingernails gripping into his biceps. He was pretty sure you could cut him open with your nails, and he wouldn’t feel it, all of his senses completely attached to how fucking good you felt all spread out for him.

“You close?” He asked, more smug than he had any right to be, given how near he was to finishing. You nodded, and he kissed you. Kissed you. Kissed you. Each time, he got a little more lightheaded, and each time, you let out one of those soft sighs that made his arms shake.

“What do you need?”

You directed him, moving so you were half on your side, your leg anchored at his hip, whining as he hit a new spot inside of you. It was hard to find any part to lock on to with the mess between your legs, but he was still rubbing your clit. “Come on, baby. Show me how much you want me. Need to see it.”

You took his hand back in yours, mouth missing his lips as your orgasm hit you. Pope knew the second you came around him that he didn’t have long, but he tried to draw it out of you as long as possible, fucking you through it. “That’s my girl.” The feeling was white hot and dizzying, and for a second - though you’d never tell him this, smug bastard - all you could think of was Andrew.

You lay there, letting him fuck you, squeezing his hand and his dick. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that good, still rubbing your poor sensitive clit until you brought a hand up to swat him away. “Please, Andy,” you murmured, spare hand threading through his hair. “Please.”

“Where-” his thrusts were sloppy, barely able to string a single sentence together. “Where do you want me?”

He felt an aftershock rip through you as he hit your sweet spot, your voice sounding woozy and hot. “Inside.”

He stuttered. “In-”

“Want you inside,” you assured him. “Please? Want you so bad, Andrew- baby.” You whimpered, and he sucked in a sharp breath. “Want to be yours.”

He leaned heavily into you, putting his body weight on the thigh you had clamped around his hips. He groaned your name, “Want me inside? Fuck, want to be all full of me?” The idea of that alone was enough to have him spilling inside of you, breathing you in from his spot on your neck. The sheer force of his orgasm causing him to spill down your thighs as he pushed forward one last time.

He stayed there for a while before leaving with a soft kiss to go to your bathroom. He ran a washcloth under some warm water and returned to find you right where he’d left you. You and Andrew had never discussed whether you were on the pill or not - he had to assume you were, but as he wiped your sticky thighs down gently, he couldn’t help the way his chest constricted at the sight of him leaking out of you.

You, for all your charms while he’d been fucking you silly, had fallen into a blissed-out state of rest, watching him. “You going?”

His stomach did a flip. “Yeah, baby,” he finished with the washcloth, making a note to dump it in the laundry on his way out. Once he found his clothes. You sat up on your elbows, curling your legs inward so you were less spread out, and Andrew knew without you saying it that you wanted him to kiss you. “I gotta go to work.”

You nodded, beaming at him. “Hurry back.”

He discarded the washcloth and redressed himself, you going to pee and shrugging on a t-shirt and a clean pair of panties, meeting him back by the front door. You reached up to hug him again like you had when he’d arrived, this time placing a firm kiss on the side of his mouth. “You’ll come back?”

Andrew kissed the inside of your elbow, your arm resting on his shoulder, from where it was wrapped around your neck. He kissed a trail right up to your mouth, eyes blazing into yours. “I’ll be a few hours.”

Andrew wasn’t sure if you really wanted him back that quickly. He would usually spend an afternoon here and there sitting on your sofa or at your kitchen table, the two of you talking softly. He had only been coming over to establish a pattern of behaviour.

Though he reasoned it would be odd to break the pattern right along with your ex-boyfriend’s untimely demise.

When he pulled back into the parking space in your lot reserved for your apartment several hours later and smelling like bleach, he still hadn’t been sure if you wanted him there. He’d bought a bouquet of flowers from a roadside stall on a whim, and he felt stupid unlocking your door with them.

Your beaming smile at the sight of him had helped calm his nerves somewhat, though. The soft kiss you planted on him calmed the rest.

[abbotstudy]

[flowersforbucky]

break me down and i’ll call you mine

pope cody x reader ~ word count: 18.7k+

other than the men he brings home on occasion, you’re the only person who knows that deran cody is gay. when your best friend becomes anxious that people are growing suspicious of his sexuality, you suggest telling people that the two of you are dating. everything is going perfectly…until his brother is released from prison and you start feeling things that you haven’t felt in years.

warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, smut, oral (f receiving), reader is afab, no use of y/n, cheating but not really bc it’s a fake relationship, male masturbation, mentions of an abusive ex, mentions of alcohol, deran struggling with his sexuality, description of canon level injuries, fluff, baz and smurf erasure, hurt/comfort, pov switches but mostly reader’s pov, happily ever afters for everyone!

memories are in italics!!

{ 3 months before Pope’s release from prison }

“I think Craig is onto me.”

Blue eyes meet yours in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. Deran stands in the doorway behind you, leaning against the frame with his hands shoved in his pockets.

“Onto you?” You repeat, voice garbled around the head of your toothbrush.

“Yeah,” he huffs, looking down at the floor. “You know…onto me.”

You freeze for a moment before you resume brushing, your eyes still glued to him. He doesn’t need to elaborate. There’s only one thing he could be talking about - only one thing that Deran doesn’t want his brother to know. Something that only you know about him.

Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.

You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”

Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”

You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”

“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”

“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”

This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.

That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.

“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”

You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Thanks.”

You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.

Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”

You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”

“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.

You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”

You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”

He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.

“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”

“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.

That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.

You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.

You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.

Not healthy ones, anyway.

He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.

Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.

He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.

There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.

And there’s no cheating.

One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.

“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”

Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.

“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”

“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”

When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.

He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”

Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.

“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.

“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”

He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.

You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.

(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).

“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.

He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.

You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.

“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”

And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.

It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.

Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.

But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.

Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.

He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.

He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.

Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.

It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“You look like you’re having a blast.”

The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.

“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.

Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”

“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”

Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.

You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.

What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.

“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.

Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”

The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.

You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.

Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.

“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”

A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”

And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.

“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.

That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”

“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”

Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”

“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.

“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”

You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”

“At least a dozen people saw that.”

“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”

At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.

“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”

Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.

“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.

“It’s a surprise.”

It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.

And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.

Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?

The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.

As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.

“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”

You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”

You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.

He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.

A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.

“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.

You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”

From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.

You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”

You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.

You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.

“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”

You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.

“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”

The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.

If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”

You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”

You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”

You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.

It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”

Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.

The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.

But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.

“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.

“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”

He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”

Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”

It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.

That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.

And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope barely slept a wink last night.

He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.

One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?

And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.

Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.

Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?

Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?

He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.

Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.

Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.

But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.

The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.

He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.

“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.

“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”

Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.

Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.

(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).

Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.

You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.

“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”

Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”

“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”

Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”

He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”

You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”

He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.

Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.

Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”

He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.

“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”

There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.

He settles for a simple I promise instead.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.

She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.

It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.

Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.

When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.

You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.

Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.

Lena hadn’t, either.

Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.

You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.

Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.

The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.

“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”

You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.

“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.

She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-

Lena is staring at you.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”

“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.

You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”

She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.

“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”

“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”

She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.

But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.

Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?

You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.

Even if you wish he was.

And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.

None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.

You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.

You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.

You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.

Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.

“You got shot,” you hiss.

“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”

Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”

“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”

Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.

“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.

And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.

“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He follows you into the house without any protest.

“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.

You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.

It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.

Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.

Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.

“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”

“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”

“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”

He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”

“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”

“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”

He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.

“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.

“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.

Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”

A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”

“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”

“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”

You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”

The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.

Shit.

Your room…and Deran’s room.

“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”

It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.

Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.

“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.

Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?

You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”

The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.

You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.

At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.

You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—

But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.

“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”

Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.

Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.

“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”

Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.

“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”

Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.

He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.

Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.

“No.”

You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.

He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.

The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.

Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.

As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.

If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.

And that’s a very dangerous thought.

Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.

“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.

He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.

You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.

“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”

“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”

You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”

Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.

You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”

It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.

“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.

“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.

The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.

Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.

Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.

At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.

You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.

“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”

You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.

“Where’s Pope?”

Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”

“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.

“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”

Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”

The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.

“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”

You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”

Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.

Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.

When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.

Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.

All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.

Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.

You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.

It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.

The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.

He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.

Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.

When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.

He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.

Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.

If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.

You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.

Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.

Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.

Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.

But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.

So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?

Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.

You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.

You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.

He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.

“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”

“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”

“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.

“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”

You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.

Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.

And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.

You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.

You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.

You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.

“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”

“You were right.”

He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”

You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”

He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.

“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”

No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.

“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”

You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.

“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”

“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.

“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.

“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”

“Why?”

You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”

You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.

His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”

Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”

“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”

You swallow. “Now…”

Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.

For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.

His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.

“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”

“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.

“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.

You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.

Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.

He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.

You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.

His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.

Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.

The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—

Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.

“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”

Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.

You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.

“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”

You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.

“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”

“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”

Really smooth, idiot.

Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.

“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”

A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”

Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”

For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.

After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.

“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”

Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”

The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.

And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.

It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.

“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.

You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.

“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”

You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.

“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”

She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”

You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.

Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.

“Oh—”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”

Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”

“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”

That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.

Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.

Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?

When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.

By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.

“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.

“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”

Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”

“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”

He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”

You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”

“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”

You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.

What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?

No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.

Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.

Pope’s mouth is on your throat.

Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.

An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.

He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.

“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.

“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”

His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”

A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”

“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”

Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”

You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”

You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.

You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.

Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.

“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.

“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”

Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.

Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.

“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”

“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”

Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”

And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”

You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.

“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”

You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.

And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.

Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.

And he knows you very well.

Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.

He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.

Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.

But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.

Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.

He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.

Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.

Still. He never expected it to be Pope.

But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?

He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.

His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.

When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”

You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.

“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”

Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.

The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.

But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.

He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”

You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”

“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”

“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”

“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”

You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”

“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”

You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”

He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.

“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”

He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”

You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.

“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.

He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.

You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”

“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”

He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”

You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”

That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.

Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.

Let me know how it goes.

You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.

How pissed is he?

He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.

It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.

Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.

Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.

When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.

“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”

But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.

He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.

It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.

You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.

“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”

“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”

“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.

You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.

“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”

His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.

And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.

He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }

“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”

“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.

“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”

“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”

The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.

A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.

“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”

He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.

“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.

“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”

Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.

And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.

They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.

Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.

Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.

It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.

“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”

“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”

He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”

“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”

He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”

The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.

“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.

“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”

Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”

The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”

By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.

Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.

You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.

“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.

You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.

He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”

“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”

“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”

Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.

The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.

Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???

thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

if you reblog/comment i love you forever <3

[sargeant-bxrnes]

code: unresolved

summary: you and jack have been at each other’s throats since day one. getting locked in the on-call room together was supposed to fix that. it did. just not in the way anyone intended.

warnings: +18 / Explicit NSFW. Dirty talk, Oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, teasing /edging, orgasm denial, jack being an insufferable smug tease, situational power dynamic (attending/resident)

wc: 4.7k

my masterlist

It was bound to happen.

The multi-vehicle collision event had gone sideways (at least partly) because of yours and Jack’s incessant arguments. His stubborn ass thought his triage calls were the only way, but your approach would’ve worked just as well. Better, even.

Since Jack insisted on doing things his way and you insisted on following yours, the ER split in two. Residents gravitating toward you, the senior attendings backing Jack; and as was pretty obvious by now; they lost a patient they might not have.

That only unleashed what was probably the worst argument you and Jack had ever had. There was a lot of shouting in the corridor, eyes being rolled, you shoved a chart into his chest and he only stepped closer to keep going. Dr. Robinavitch had to physically get between the two of you.

The rest of the staff could agree on one thing; they were utterly done with the attitude of both. Something had to be done. You and Jack were important to the floor, but hardly useful if you two couldn’t function in the same trauma bay.

Which is why, after a quiet word between Robby and the charge nurse (and probably half the senior staff) you and Jack got locked in the on-call room. Alone. For the remainder of the overnight shift and into the morning.

It was Dana who turned the key. She didn’t even look guilty about it.

There was just one cot shoved against the wall, a small bathroom barely big enough to turn around in, a plastic chair, and a narrow counter with a coffee maker that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since 2019. No charts. No phones, those had been confiscated with alarming efficiency. No room to get lost and ignore each other.

“You happy now?” Jack was the first to talk, his voice low and flat as he stared at you from across the small room. He was leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, still in his scrubs, the kind of stillness about him that came from years of being in situations a lot worse than this one.

“Oh yeah,” you said, dropping into the plastic chair. “Thrilled to be locked up with you for the next however-many hours. Lucky me.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t undermined my calls in front of the whole floor.”

“If I hadn’t—” You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “My triage was sound, Abbot. You were moving too fast, skipping steps, making calls based on gut instinct when we had time to be methodical. And because you couldn’t hear that, we lost a patient.”

“We lost a patient because the situation was already a mess when they came through the doors.” His jaw was tight. “Not because of me.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

Jack let out a dry, humorless sound —not quite a laugh— and shook his head, looking away. He pulled out the chair from beneath the counter and sat down heavily. “You’re so damn sure of yourself for a resident.”

Maybe you were. Perhaps you were as certain as he was immovable.

But you were also right. It wasn’t arrogance, your approach had been methodical, controlled, built on protocol and pattern recognition. Jack’s had been all instinct and speed, the kind of approach you took when you’d been doing this in a combat zone and didn’t have the luxury of time.

Jack’s calls were all aggression: rapid assessment, immediate intervention, full force. Even Robby had backed him in the moment.

Your calls were all strategy. Systematic. Prioritizing the most salvageable in sequence, working through the board steadily instead of attacking the loudest problem first. It took a fraction more time, but would’ve been more efficient. Less chaos. Better odds.

But Jack was immovable. Had refused to even entertain it.

“I was right, you know,” you said, crossing your arms over your chest and looking at him steadily. “Systematic triage was the right call.”

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, not looking at you. “If you wanted to move at a crawl while people bled out.”

“That’s not what happened and you know it.” Your voice stayed even. “A mass casualty isn’t a combat zone. I’m sorry, but you can’t just default to battlefield medicine every time volume spikes. The situations are different.”

“Are they?” He finally looked at you, and there was something sharp and certain in his expression. “Because from where I’m standing, chaos is chaos. You work efficiently, you work hard, you make the call and you move. Hesitation costs more than mistakes.”

“And recklessness costs more than caution.” Your tone rose slightly. “They weren’t all critical. Some of those patients could’ve waited four minutes. Four. But you had everyone sprinting, doubling up on rooms that didn’t need two people, leaving the actual criticals understaffed—”

“I had a system—”

“You had a reflex.” The word landed harder than you meant it to, but you didn’t take it back. “There’s a difference.”

Silence fell over the on-call room after that. He looked away. You did the same.

Things with Jack had always been like this. You two could never agree on approach, could never seem to get through a complicated case without ending up on opposite sides. Usually Robby or one of the charge nurses stepped in before it fully escalated.

But now it was just the two of you. With however many hours left to argue without anyone running interference.

It got boring. Really fast.

The lockdown was meant to get the two of you to talk. There were no charts, no phones, no computers. Someone had even taken the coffee maker’s power cord, which felt personal. Nothing to do but sit in the pale fluorescent hum of the on-call room and stew.

But talking was the last thing either of you wanted. So you found ways to pass the time, even in the limited space.

You were sitting cross-legged on the cot, running a pen cap absently between your fingers, end over end, just to give your hands something to do.

Jack, however, had exhausted the options available to him. He’d leaned back in the chair until it creaked, stared at the ceiling, stretched his neck, and was now just… sitting. Still. Watching you with the attention that came from a man who was very good at staying alert when there was nothing to be alert about.

“Are you just going to stare at me?” you asked, not looking up from the pen.

Jack clicked his tongue, but didn’t look away. “Why, does it bother you?”

You stilled for a moment, pen balanced between two fingers. Then you made yourself keep spinning it. “Try with annoying.”

“Right,” he said, with the smallest nod. “Your undying problem with me.”

“It’s not a problem with you,” you said, faster than you meant to. “You just happen to get under my skin.”

“Don’t like being contradicted?”

“Don’t like being dismissed.” You corrected, eyes still down. “There’s a difference.”

“I never dismissed you.” His voice was quieter now, the edge of it softer.

“You talked over me in front of the whole floor, Abbot.”

A pause.

“…Yeah,” he said, after a moment. “I did.”

You looked up at that, because you hadn’t expected it. He was looking at his hands, forearms on his knees, that same careful stillness.

“You say things like that,” you said, more quietly now, “and then I don’t know what to do with you.”

“You can’t stand me because I push back,” he said. “That’s all it is.”

“Which is the same reason you argue with me.”

“We wouldn’t argue if you’d slow down long enough to see that sometimes the instinct call is the right one.”

“And sometimes the methodical one is,” you returned, without heat. “Neither of us is always right, Jack.”

He looked at you then. And for a moment, neither of you said anything.

“Hard calls aren’t always the right ones,” you said, eventually.

“No,” he agreed, which surprised you again. “They’re not.”

That small honesty didn’t resolve anything, exactly, but it loosened something in the air. You both retreated into quiet for a while, and you ended up stretched out on the cot, not really sleeping, just resting your eyes.

“So,” you said eventually, loud enough to carry across the room. He shifted in the chair, indicating he was listening. “Why are you so intent on not hearing me out?”

“I hear you out.”

“You hear me talk,” you corrected. “That’s different.”

A pause. “…Fair.”

“All that experience and you can’t stand being challenged by a resident.”

“I can stand it fine.” A beat. “It’s more that you challenge me like you’re not a resident.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“It’s an observation.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was watching you, the way he did — steady, unreadable, but not unkind.

“When you’re not in combat mode,” you said, “you’re actually not terrible to work with.”

“High praise.”

“I mean it.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You’re a good doctor,” he said, simply, like he’d been sitting on it. “Better than most residents I’ve seen come through. That’s not nothing.”

You blinked. “…Thank you.”

“Don’t get used to it.” But there was something close to dry warmth in his voice.

“Are we in confession time right now?”

“Apparently.”

You stared at the ceiling again. “Okay then.” A breath. “That shift, two months ago—”

You felt him go still across the room before you even finished the sentence. You’d wondered when one of you was going to bring it up. Or if either of you would ever.

“The overnight after the pileup,” you said, since he wasn’t stopping you.

“Yeah,” he said, carefully. “I remember.”

“If Kwame hadn’t walked in when he did—”

“Don’t,” he said. Not harshly. Just quietly.

“I’m just asking.”

A long pause.

“I don’t know,” he said. Which meant he did.

FLASHBACK

It had been a brutal forty-eight hours.

The tail end of a double shift —your second in a row, covering for a sick colleague— and the ER had not let up. A multi-car pileup, a pediatric sepsis case that had everyone on edge, and somewhere in the middle of all of it, Jack had been in the thick of a SWAT callout that had gone longer and uglier than expected. He’d shown up at the end of the overnight still in tactical gear, blood on his sleeve that wasn’t his — mostly — and a gash along his forearm that he was absolutely refusing to acknowledge.

You’d noticed it when he reached past you for a chart.

“That needs to be looked at,” you said.

“It’s fine.”

“Abbot.”

“I said it’s fine.”

You’d looked at him directly, and he’d held your gaze for a second before his eyes cut away, the particular kind of surrender that wasn’t really surrender, just acknowledgment. He followed you to one of the empty curtained bays at the quieter end of the floor.

“Sit,” you said, snapping on a glove.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and you pulled the rolling stool close. This was the thing about Jack at the end of a long call — the combat-ready stillness was still there, but something underneath it was tired in a way he didn’t show anyone. You’d only seen it a handful of times.

You didn’t comment on it. Just worked.

You cleaned the gash carefully, assessing the depth, asking him in clipped clinical questions to keep him talking while you worked, not because you needed the distraction, but because silence with Jack at 4am felt like standing too close to something you didn’t have a name for yet.

“Hold still,” you murmured, repositioning slightly to get a better angle.

“I am holding still.”

“You’re tensing.”

“That’s just how my arm looks.”

You glanced up at him. He was watching you work, attentive and unhurried, and for a second your eyes met and neither of you looked away immediately.

You refocused.

“This is going to need a couple of sutures,” you said.

“Fine.”

“You’re not going to argue with me?”

“On this one,” he said quietly, “no.”

You worked in silence after that. The floor was dim, the curtain drawn, and the particular hush of a hospital at 4am had settled over everything. You were close enough to him that you could feel the warmth of him, closer than you’d needed to get, technically, but you hadn’t moved back.

His free hand had drifted, at some point, to rest near your knee on the stool — not touching, just near.

You tied off the last suture, and when you looked up he was already looking at you.

“There,” you said, softer than you meant to.

“Thanks,” he said, equally quiet.

Neither of you moved for a moment. The space between you was very small.

Then his hand did move, slow and deliberate to the edge of the stool, and when you didn’t pull back, he tilted forward slightly, just enough, and when your eyes met again there was a question in his that you answered by closing the distance first, just barely, and then his mouth was on yours.

It was careful at first. Unhurried. The kind of kiss that had been thought about more than either of you had been willing to admit to yourselves.

His hand came up to the side of your face, and you’d caught the front of his tactical shirt in your fingers, and the quiet of the floor seemed to seal around the two of you—

“Yo, has anyone seen—” Kwame’s voice preceded the curtain being yanked back by about half a second. He stopped. Stared. “Oh. Oh damn. I-my bad. Sorry. I’ll— yeah.” The curtain closed again.

You both pulled back.

Jack pressed his lips together, looking at a point just past your shoulder.

You let go of his shirt.

For a moment neither of you spoke.

“I should finish charting,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said.

You both looked everywhere but at each other as you gathered the suture kit.

END OF FLASHBACK.

You knew what the unfinished question in Jack’s voice had meant. The same question lived in your own chest, coming back at inopportune moments, quiet moments, end-of-shift moments, the moments when you found yourself in the same corridor as him and had to actively choose not to look.

If Kwame hadn’t walked in, you didn’t know exactly how it would have ended. But you knew neither of you would have stopped.

Instead, you’d both been interrupted, and then pretended —very, very badly— that it hadn’t happened. Things didn’t get easier after that. If anything the tension shifted into something harder to name, not the hot friction of a straight-up argument, but something underneath it. A current.

Sometimes, in the middle of a disagreement with him, when his voice got that low, firm quality and he leaned in slightly without realizing it, all you wanted to do was close the distance and settle it some other way. Which was an insane thing to want. You were a resident. He was an attending. It was already complicated enough.

And Jack —who was not prone to thinking about things he couldn’t act on—had found, to his own quiet frustration, that he thought about it anyway.

You’d announced you were taking a shower mostly to get some space. The bathroom was small enough that the hot water ran out in under five minutes, which was probably fine, you didn’t need long. You just needed to stop being in the same twelve square feet as Jack Abbot for a little while.

It didn’t help.

The moment you were alone with the sound of the water and nothing else to focus on, your mind went exactly where you’d been keeping it from going all night. The curtained bay. 4am. His hand on the side of your face.

Damn him for bringing it up.

You’d managed, more or less, to keep it in a locked room in the back of your head for two months. You’d been professional. You’d been focused. You’d argued with him about triage protocols and talked yourself into believing that was all there was between you: friction, disagreement, the particular frustration of two people who were too similar in the ways that caused problems.

You turned off the water and stood there for a second, dripping, trying to recalibrate.

You reached for where you’d left your clothes.

They weren’t there.

You stood very still.

They were on the cot. Where you’d left them before you got in, because the bathroom had no counter space and you’d been distracted and hadn’t thought it through.

You wrapped the towel firmly around yourself, tucked the corner in, and opened the door.

Jack was sitting on the edge of the cot, your clothes next to him, which meant he’d noticed, which meant he’d been aware of it the whole time and hadn’t said anything. His head turned toward you the moment the door opened, instinctive, and his eyes moved over you once before he looked away. Deliberate. Respectful.

You crossed the room toward him. He looked up again when you were close, and the careful neutrality on his face had the particular quality of someone working to maintain it.

You reached for your clothes.

He stood up. Not for any reason you could name —there was no reason, the room was small but not that small— he just stood, and now he was right there, and he was taller than you in a way you were suddenly very aware of.

You looked at him. He looked at you.

You took one step closer, slow, measuring. And that was all it took before the thread holding both of you back finally, decisively, snapped.

Jack’s lips met yours with a certainty that surprised you, not rough, not tentative, just decided. Like a call he’d already made and was done second-guessing. Both his hands came up to frame your face, and you kissed him back, your fingers curling into the front of his scrub top.

It wasn’t a small kiss. It was the kind of kiss that had been sitting in the back of a throat for two months, getting heavier.

He pulled you closer by your hip, the towel the only thing between his hand and your skin, his fingers pressing in like he was trying to feel through it. You caught his lower lip between your teeth and felt him exhale hard through his nose, his grip tightening.

His tongue slid against yours and you grabbed a fistful of his hair, and the sound he made against your mouth —low, involuntary— sent heat straight down your spine.

The kiss deepened. All the friction of the last however-many hours, all the clashing and the arguing and the careful distance, collapsed into it. You tugged at his hair and he groaned into your mouth, his arm pulling you flush against him, trying to close every last inch of space between you.

He was the one who broke it.

His hand stayed on your hip, deliberate, so you’d know, and he pulled back just far enough to look at you, his breathing uneven. His eyes moved from yours to your mouth, to the line of your throat, then back up. Darker than usual.

The question was there without him having to say it.

You nodded. Once, clear.

That was enough.

His mouth was back on yours with the same certainty as before, and this time neither of you were holding anything back. You worked at the hem of his scrub top, pulling it over his head without breaking the kiss for more than a second, and the towel hit the floor a moment later, leaving you bare—your tits heavy and nipples already tight from the cool air and the heat of his gaze. His eyes raked over them, then lower, lingering on the slickness already glistening between your thighs.

His hands moved over you, warm and unhurried now that he wasn’t reining himself in anymore—one palm cupping the swell of your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until you arched, the other sliding down to grip your ass and pull you tighter against the hard length of his cock straining through his scrubs.

You two found your way to the cot in a series of half-steps, his lips moving to your jaw, your neck, the curve of your shoulder. It was narrow —barely wide enough for one person, let alone two— but neither of you suggested the floor and neither of you suggested doing this differently.

Stubborn. Both of you, constitutionally incapable of the easier option.

He laid you back against it and followed, caging you in, and when his mouth moved lower, to your collarbone, the valley of your tits, he took one nipple between his lips, sucking hard enough to make you gasp, tongue flicking over the peak before switching to the other. Your hand stayed tangled in his hair, and you let yourself stop thinking about anything except this.

He was thorough. Annoyingly, devastatingly thorough, in the same way he was thorough about everything, like he was making up his mind about something and wasn’t going to be rushed. His mouth traced a slow path down your stomach and lower, spreading your thighs with steady hands. When his lips pressed to the inside of your thigh you made a sound that you immediately wanted to reclaim.

“Jack—”

“Yeah?” His breath was warm against your skin, so close to your cunt you could feel the heat of it.

“You know what.”

He pressed a kiss just below your knee. “Not sure I do.”

“Don’t—” He kissed the inside of your knee. “—be a—” the middle of your thigh— “—you know what you’re doing.”

You could feel him almost smiling against your skin. “I really don’t.”

His breath ghosted over your clit and you tried to close your legs on instinct, more out of principle than anything else. He stopped it easily with one forearm across your thighs, and when he looked up at you the expression on his face was the same one he got when he knew he’d made the right call and was waiting for you to admit it.

You hated it. You also needed him to keep going immediately.

“Fine,” you said, with as much dignity as you could manage flat on your back. “Please.”

“Was that so hard?”

“Incredibly.”

He laughed,— a real one, quiet and warm— and then his mouth was on your cunt, lips wrapping around your clit, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue swirling slow circles before flicking fast over the swollen bud. His fingers parted your folds, sliding two thick ones inside your wet heat, curling against that spot while his tongue worked your clit relentlessly.

You were right at the edge embarrassingly fast, your breathing wrecked, your hips pressing toward his mouth without permission, cunt clenching around his fingers… when he stopped.

Pulled back. Completely.

“What—” you opened your eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

He was looking at you with that infuriating almost-smirk, his chin resting on the inside of your thigh like he had all the time in the world, lips shiny with your arousal.

“Jack.”

“You were saying?”

“I will actually never speak to you again.”

“Mm.” He pressed a single soft kiss to your inner thigh, then higher, tongue dipping once more into your cunt just to tease. “No you won’t.”

He was right, which made it worse. You grabbed his hair again in something that was closer to dragging than guiding, and he came willingly, his body covering yours, his mouth back on your throat.

“I hate you,” you told him.

“Yeah,” he said, against your collarbone. “You mentioned.”

“I mean it.”

“Sure.” His lips curved against your skin. “You want me to stop?”

“If you stop I will end you.”

He laughed again, and then his hips shifted against yours. He shoved his scrubs and boxers down just enough to free his cock—thick, hard, the head already slick—and dragged it through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your entrance and brushing your clit with every slow pass until you whimpered.

The pace he set wasn’t slow. Neither of you had the patience for slow at this point. He thrust in deep in one smooth stroke, filling your cunt completely, stretching you around his cock. The cot frame protested audibly with every movement, knocking rhythmically against the wall as he fucked into you hard and steady, and at some point one of the legs gave a sharp crack —not breaking, just threatening to— and you both stilled for half a second.

You looked at each other.

“If we break this cot,” you said, “I’m blaming you.”

“Obviously,” he said, and his hips rolled against yours again, cock driving deeper, hitting that spot that made your eyes roll back, and you forgot what you were going to say next.

He’d shifted the angle slightly, and you felt it differently now, his pelvic bone grinding against your clit with every thrust, his cock dragging along your walls, filling you over and over. Your nails found his back and stayed there, and he made a low sound that rumbled against your ear, and all the careful professional distance of the last two months burned off completely.

When you came it was with your cunt pulsing hard around his cock, walls clenching tight, thighs shaking, your face pressed into his shoulder and his name leaving your lips in a way you’d never said it before. He followed shortly after, thrusting deep one last time as he spilled inside you, hot and thick, his breath rough and uneven at your ear, cock twitching with each pulse.

Then everything went quiet except the two of you trying to remember how to breathe.

He didn’t immediately move off you. His weight settled, cock still softening inside your pussy, and you let it.

After a while he shifted to the side, which on a cot this narrow meant he was still pressed against you, one arm crooked behind his head, staring at the ceiling. You stayed where you were, recovering, feeling the slow drip of his cum leaking out of you.

“That was—” you started.

“Yeah,” he said.

“We’re going to have to talk about this.”

“I know.”

“Not right now.”

“No,” he agreed. “Not right now.”

You were quiet for a moment. The on-call room felt different than it had four hours ago. Smaller, warmer, the fluorescent hum somehow less hostile.

“You still think your triage call was right,” you said.

“I do,” he said. “You?”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Good,” he hummed, and there was something almost satisfied in it. “I’d be worried if you’d changed your mind.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was already looking at you, that steady, attentive quality he had, the one that had annoyed you for months and that you understood now, in a different way.

“You’re impossible,” you told him.

“So are you,” he agreed. And then, quieter: “It’s not the worst thing.”

You looked at him for another moment. Then you settled back, shoulder against his, and stared at the water-stained ceiling of the on-call room.

“When they let us out of here,” you said, “this is going to be complicated.”

“Probably.”

“Are you worried about that?”

He considered it, the way he considered most things, fully, without rushing.

“No,”

You thought about it.

“Me neither,” you said.

Outside, the hospital kept going. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughed. A gurney wheel squeaked past the door. The shift went on without you.

In the on-call room, for the first time all night, neither of you had anything left to argue about.

[buckys-lover]

P!LINKS | SHAWN HATOSY CHARACTERS <333

JACK ABBOT

med student!jack de-stressing after a rough shift

it’s 3am and jack is working, but you’re ovulating and can’t let this opportunity pass by

he may be old, but he can still put in the work

there are advantages to jack working nights, it means you can have mornings like this

he loves the way you squeeze and cum around his fingers

bonus!: you can be such a pain in their ass, so robby and abbot decide to do something about it

POPE CODY

he’s just a little sensitive…

pope loves it when you play with him

his favorite place to be is in between your thighs

tattoo artist!pope who just can’t resist your weeping pussy

after baz said pope would never have a child, you’re on a mission to prove him wrong

what can he say, he’s curious

SAMMY BRYANT

sammy is tired of all the guys teasing, he’s gonna get his precious housewife pregnant no matter what

DA won’t prosecute, perp got away, and sammy needs to take out his frustration on you

sammy shows you what can happen when you don’t lock your windows OR (see titus)

you’re giving attitude about living in castaic, sammy puts you in your place

he’s your husband, he shouldn’t be wearing a condom anyways

while on solo patrol, sammy finds you looking so lonely, he can fix that

BRETT RICHARDS

It’s tough being chief, all he wants to do is come home and sink into you

he loves the way you look so helpless under him, he can’t help but cum inside

he works hard and works up quite the appetite

CHARLIE REID

this is what you get for running, now he has to teach you a lesson

you wanna be brat? know your place

he knows you’re not on birth control, he cums inside anyways

why should he pull out?

TITUS DANFORTH

you’re too precious to kill, no, titus needs to breed you instead, he needs an heir after all

for all the fight you put up, you sure are greedy for him cum

a sweet girl like you living all by yourself? well he just had to stop by and make sure you’re well cared for OR (see sammy)

sometimes, he just wants to be your good boy

I genuinely cannot stop thinking about this old man

and mini self promo of my abbot smuts: ache & drool

nsfw masterlist

[talaok]

The crush

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x f!reader

Summary: Jack’s had a huge crush on you since you started working at the Pitt two years ago. He’s been able to hide it from you all this time, but when confronted with physical proof of how much he likes you, you finally find out the truth. (aka Jack gets a boner while you medicate him)

Warnings: Soft/Sub! Jack, getting hard at an inappropriate moment, the man’s down bad. Smut| unprotected p in v sex, creampie, sex at work.

Jack had managed to avoid being alone with you for two years.

It appeared today was the day his luck had finally run out.

“Oh, sorry,” You exclaimed in surprise, “I thought one of my patients was here.”

Jesus Christ

He could already feel himself blushing.

He’d lost count of how many times Robby had made fun of him for it. For this stupid, growing, distracting crush he had on you.

The type of crush that had him forgetting how normal humans acted- the type of feeling that had his heart pick up dangerously fast and his hands lose all purpose... which wasn’t ideal given his job was to save lives.

Of course, you had to be the one to catch him here, naked from the waist up, as he tried to self-medicate the wound on his back.

“Uhm- It was empty when I came in.” He glanced up at you for an instant before busying himself with the instruments on the tray in front of him.

You seemed lost for a moment, trying to remember the room your patient actually was in, before you finally focused on the scene before you.

“What happened to you?” You frowned.

You’d taken a step closer, and as embarrassing as it was, Jack couldn’t help but flex, trying to act nonchalant while all he could hear was the heart pounding in his chest.

“Bullet grazed my vest,” he shrugged, clearing his throat to prevent his voice from shaking. “Nothing serious.”

Your eyes widened at his words, and you hurried to look at his back.

“Jesus,” you breathed, inspecting the wound.

“It’s- it’s nothing really.”

“Doesn’t look like nothing.” You arched a brow, watching as he tried to bring the Q-tip over his shoulder, failing miserably.

You observed him struggle for a moment before wordlessly moving to close the curtain and put on gloves.

“What are you doing?”

“What you clearly can’t,” you smiled, taking the Q-tip from his fingers and getting to work on disinfecting the cut.

He stiffened the moment your hand found his back for balance, and shivers ran through him as you began taking care of him.

“Sorry,” you murmured, thinking he was reacting to the sting.

“I-I’ts fine.”

Huh. You really didn’t peg him for the type to complain about a little burning.

“Why do you do this?” You couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

I mean, why would anyone who’d already survived a war choose such a violent part-time job... not to mention someone whose main occupation was already stressful and heavy on its own.

“My therapist said I needed a hobby,” he joked humorelessly, his attention only on the way your touch was warming every inch of him... even parts that had no business reacting at the moment.

“Funny.” You huffed with a laugh.

Silence spread around the room as you continued your work on his skin, but as you did, your mind couldn’t help but start to wander- about him, specifically.

Now, the thing was, that you were about 90% convinced he was the hottest man you’d ever seen. He was handsome, strong, capable, calm, and just plain... hot.

You’d noticed it from your very first day here. I mean, it’s not like it would be hard for anyone to notice; he was the type of man who stood out.

And while the first year you resigned yourself to daydreams about hot, sweaty nights with him... Now you were an R4, you’d been working here for a while, and as the months passed, you couldn’t help but think that maybe acting out on your desire wasn’t that much of a big deal... quite the opposite, it would be a great idea.

Which was wonderful, if he wasn’t for the fact that he was so... weird around you.

“So...” you hummed, biting down a smile, “Is there a reason you don’t like me?”

You were never one to mince your words.

The reaction was immediate. He stiffened as if he’d just stepped into an ice bath, his breath getting caught in his throat.

“W-what?”

“I’m just wondering,” you explained. “Did I do something wrong, or is it just my vibe you don’t like?”

He was speechless, staring at the curtain in front of him as he tried to understand what was going on.

Why would you even think that?

“I’m not mad, I just wanna know,” you shrugged.

He didn’t have it in him to turn around and look at you; he feared the words about to come out of his mouth would die on his tongue if he did.

“I like you,” he stated timidly, his voice rough.

“Sure doesn’t seem like it,” you chukled softly. “You’re so... friendly with everyone else, and yet you barely talk to me.”

His breathing was starting to falter as he wished he’d never come to the ER today.

“I... I talk to you.”

“Mh-mh,” you nodded jokingly, “When we’re working on a patient, you do. But outside of that... I can’t even remember one time.”

Oh Jesus

Moments ticked by as he tried to think of what to say.

I mean, he sure as hell couldn’t say the truth. I don’t talk to you because every time you’re near, I start acting like a prepubescent teen around his first crush, didn’t seem like an appropriate thing to say.

“It’s ok, you don’t have to explain.” You surrendered after the silence went on for too long, your work on his wound done. “Could you pass me the bandage, please?”

It took him a second to snap out of the daze and do as you asked.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking the plaster.

Your fingers connected for a second with the action, and Jack wanted to punch himself for the effect such a small contact had on him.

His old heart skipped a beat as the hair at the back of his neck stood up.

Fuck

Your hands were so soft against him, and his traitorous brain couldn’t help but imagine them touching you on a different occasion... one where your sweet voice moaned his name as he thrust himself into you over and over again.

Fucking damnit

Jesus Christ, this couldn’t be happening- he was getting hard.

“There, all done.”

“Already?” he blurted out involuntarily, causing you to smile.

“What, need me to kiss it better too?”

Heat crawled to his cheeks, and the image of your lips on him went straight to his dick.

He tried to think of something else, anything really, but then your fingers reached higher and grazed the hair at the nape of his neck, and he blanked.

“Fuck-”

You frowned, confused.

Was he still hurting? Did he get hit somewhere else?

“Are you-” You began asking as you started to get back in front of him, but then... Then you got distracted.

He tried to hide it. He tried to grab his shirt and yank it on his lap- but he wasn’t fast enough. You saw it.

You saw the tent in his pants and then the blush on his chest, neck, and cheeks, and even ears, and you... You could only grin.

“You weren’t lying.” You couldn’t help but tease, “You really do like me.”

“I-” was all he could master.

He was staring at his lap, desperately wishing to disappear.

“I’m sorry- I-I-”

Jesus, he could almost feel his brain melting and leaking out of his ears.

“I’m sorry, you’re just... I- Fuck- I didn’t mean to, you were just... I-”

“Jack,” You interrupted his rambling.

He swallowed the lump in his throat as he gathered the courage to look at you.

He raised his head, his eyes apologetic, resembling those of a kicked puppy.

He was prepared for you to be grossed out, to laugh at him- everything but what he found.

You were smiling, not in a mean way, but in a... intrigued way.

“Come with me.”

__  __  __

Jack’s breath was heaving as you guided him into the storage closet. But it stopped altogether as you closed and locked the door behind you.

“Sit”

He didn’t even hesitate for a second before obeying your command. The old gurney creaked with his added weight.

He stared at you as you began stalking closer to him, a sly smile pulling at your lips.

“What are we doing here?”

“I think you know what we’re doing here.” You tilted your head, close enough now to place a hand on his still naked shoulder.

God, he was broad.

You let yourself stare anabashedly at him, at the freckles on his skin, and at the few hairs covering his pecs.

“So this is why you avoid me?”

There was no point in denying it at this point. You had the proof of the effect you had on him plain as day before you.

“This doesn’t... I don’t...”

“Get hard every time I’m around?” you laughed softly, finishing his sentence as you undid your bottom scrubs and let them pool at your ankles, before stepping out of them. “I’d hope so.”

He froze at the sight, blinking mesmerized at you.

Wordlessly, you climbed onto his lap, feeling him stiffen, his body unsure how to react, and his lungs failing to work.

You grinned, your hand traveling to his lap so slowly he wondered if you’d put a spell on time.

You toyed with his zipper, reveling in the way his breath hitched, before undoing it and letting his dick out of the confines of his underwear.

He was big in that delicious way that wasn’t too overwhelming, but that could definitely take care of each and every need you would ever have.

“You just...” he breathed, his eyes on your mouth, desperately wishing he could feel your lips on his, “You make me dumb.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle.

It was fascinating how a man so sure of himself and borderline cocky with everyone else seemed to turn into the shiest little lamb when you were near.

And the funniest part was that you had no clue until now. You’d never understood why he treated you differently and had mistaken his shyness for hostility.

If only you’d known before... You would have made this happen years ago.

“’S that right?” A grin pulled at your lips as you started to gently stroke him. “You flatter me, Dr. Abbot.”

His mouth opened, but speaking actual words seemed impossible at the moment.

As he said, you made him dumb.

You shook your head, biting down a smirk as you pulled your panties to the side.

“Your shift doesn’t start for a little while, right?”

His shift? He completely forgot about his shift.

He could only nod, swallowing nervously as his gaze panned to the newer skin you’d uncovered between your tights.

Jack was sure he’d get a heart attack any moment now.

Good thing you were in a hospital.

“Good,” you breathed, unhurriedly sinking down onto his shaft.

While you tried to silence your moans and managed to bite them into small whimpers, Jack’s groans were deep and much too loud.

You were so fucking full of him- it was like he fit perfectly inside you.

Your eyes had closed in the moment, but then you felt Jack’s hands on each side of your head as his forehead fell to yours, and once you blinked, all you could see was him- his gentle brown eyes clouded with lust and desperation.

You were breathing heavily against each other’s mouths, trying to recover from the feeling... that was until Abbot couldn’t wait anymore.

He met his lips with yours with such need that he could have been starving.

It all started slowly, cautiously, until you lost all patience and let your tongue infiltrate his mouth, exploring him as he began exploring you.

You moaned into the kiss, and as heat spread down low, your hips couldn’t help but start to grind against him.

The sound that rumbled from his chest at that was so deep and so fucking hot.

You weren’t even thinking anymore; you were just a doll at the mercy of your body’s needs as you started to ride him.

The feel of his dick plunging into you over and over again was making you want to scream. His tip was hitting the deepest, most sensitive parts of you with each bounce, and he was still desperately kissing you.

“Y-you feel so good,” He breathed hoarsely, his head falling to where your neck met your shoulder.

The sound of your wet heat accommodating his girth filled the room with a nasty sound you prayed couldn’t be heard from outside.

“Fuck- you feel so good too,” you moaned, fingers going to grip his hair. “So big- so deep.”

He groaned something incomprehensible as his mouth connected with the skin on your neck, causing shivers to break out down your spine.

You were moving frantically now, desperately chasing your high as the gurney creaked beneath you and your breathing got more and more erratic.

Jack’s hand infiltrated underneath your scrubs to reach your tits, caressing your nipples gently and making you smile in bliss.

“Fuck, Jack,” you cried, your fingers fisting his silver locks as you unashamedly used him. “I can call you Jack, right?” you asked with a grin.

It took a moment for him to even hear you.

You see, the only thing on the poor man’s mind since he’d first gotten inside you was: don’tcomedon’tcomedon’tcome

He nodded, mouth back to yours as that familiar sweet ball of tension started building in your belly.

“Y-yes,” he murmured, out of breath even if he was doing nothing. “Please tell me you’re close.”

You grinned amusedly as you instructed, “Touch my clit.”

He obeyed the order as if you’d suddenly turned into his commander.

“Fuck” you gasped at the feeling.

Jack groaned at your walls tightening, but as much as he wanted to close his eyes and fill you up, he watched with amazement the ecstasy portrayed on your face.

He listened to the sweet sounds you made just for him, willing them to memory forever.

“Right there,” you murmured barely audibly. “Fuck Jack...f-fuck”

Your orgasm hit you like a truck. Your head fell back as you forgot all about where you were and moaned like a maniac.

While Jack... Jack had begun coming from the very first second you did- finally letting go. He growled onto the skin of your neck as he held you impossibly close.

You remained like that, holding onto one another as Abbot’s cock softened inside you and his come started leaking out of you.

It was you who regained consciousness first, taking a deep breath in as you leaned away enough to meet Jack’s half-lidded eyes.

Your lips pulled into a soft smile at the astonishment on his face- it was like he was still catching on to what had just happened.

Your mouth found his in a gentle kiss, “We should get going,” you murmured, finally standing back up again.

He was too disappointed by your leaving to tuck himself back in right away, but he eventually managed after you were dressed up again.

You were so goddamn beautiful even when your face was flushed, and your hair was messy, that he didn't know what to do with himself.

“You’re staring,” you eyed him, but his mind was elsewhere completely.

“What- what does this mean?”

The moment the words left Jack's mouth, he regretted ever having thought of them.

What kind of fucking question was that to ask?

He was standing in front of you now, forehead creased in a frown, heart still pounding.

“What this means...” You smirked, your fingers raking through his hair to try and fix them, “Is that we’ll do this-” You eyed the gurney “many more times... and we’ll figure the rest out as we go. Sounds good?”

“Good- great,” he nodded eagerly, causing a chuckle to flee your throat.

“Perfect,” you murmured with a quick kiss to his lips, “Now I think you should get started with your shift, Dr. Abbot.”

__  __  __

“You two found what you were looking for in the storage closet?”

The very last thing that Jack wanted was to talk to Robby right now. But he had no choice.

The day shift’s attending had a shit-eating grin stamped to his lips as he eyed Abbot knowingly.

“I keep my mouth shut when you and Whitaker sneak off in there.”

Robby’s smile only widened, presumably at the memories that small, dirty closet held.

“I’m just happy you two finally sorted things out,” Robby chukled, patting the man’s back. “Now maybe you’ll be able to stop acting like a sixteen-year-old around her.”

[creekbeds]

shawn hatosy arm appreciation post

[erwinsvow]

𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐝𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐟𝐭 — 𝐣.𝐚.

summary: the inside of your mind has always been an anxious place. you once thought no one could understand exactly how you feel. but when you start working the night shift, your attending makes it look easy.

pairing: anxious, intern!reader x jack abbot

word count: 24.1k

warnings/tags: anxious/night shift/intern reader, attending jack, descriptions of ptsd/anxiety from pittfest, as much medical jargon/scenarios as i could fit in, power imbalance relationship (and the associated guilt!), yellow mug mentions galore! descriptions of being creeped out by an uncomfortable patient, as much slowburn as i could try, smut - oral (f receiving), cute first time with jack things. unprotected sex, jack likes overstimulating you, lots of gratuitous praise kink, they really are a couple of idiots in love. one (1) emma x joy mention because i adore them. robby would not behave like this towards anxious reader, but for the sake of fiction, i suppose...

ao3 link

based off of the night shift reader blurbs

thank you to my amazing beta reader @attheheartofmylove without whom i'm certain this would have never been finished ♡

though you didn’t really understand it at first, you now know clearly, that the attendings have their own favorites.

they’re all cut from the same cloth—high achieving, independent, confident. they rattle off the answers to complex questions and are caught up on the latest literature and they’re the ideal resident, each in their own way.

you are not one of them. you think robby tolerates your slowness and your occasional confusion and profoundly apparent lack of confidence because it’s been a couple months since the pittfest shooting, and he feels bad. 

it makes sense from the outside, you suppose. you are just an intern. you thought the whole point of this year was to adapt and understand and try to figure out where you fit in within the food chain that is the hospital hierarchy. 

day to day it depends on the senior resident you’re assigned to. you try, really hard, to stay caught up, to not let your mind wander, to have the right answer and make diagnoses as quickly as you can.

you think maybe there’s just something wrong with you. it hadn’t always been like this. you were getting better. 

and then everything happened and its felt like one step forward, two steps backward ever since.

robby is the one that finally caves and approaches you. he must have gotten enough complaints, or he must be fed up with your zoning out and freezing up, because he pulls you aside for a chat at eight in the morning.

“how do you feel about switching to the night shift for a little?” 

his idea, as he’d explained it to you, was that maybe being on the night shift would help your skills to grow. that the pace and the little extra time in between patients and dr. abbot’s tutelage might help you get more adjusted to the environment. 

i am adjusting, you want to argue, i’m trying my best. but your best is not enough when it comes to life and death. 

you know where your faults lie. slow to get to the answer, slow to move without thinking. even your muscle memory is slow—you feel like you’re always waiting for someone to tell you what to do, before you start doing it, just to make sure you’re not doing the wrong thing. 

it hurts your chest to think about it. you’d matched emergency medicine wide-eyed and excited. it’s hard to think about when you enjoyed the hustle and bustle, thought it was exhilarating to be in trauma rooms instead of terrifying, when you were excited to help people with their bad days and stopping them from getting any worse.

it’s you now that has the perpetual bad day. coated in embarrassment and anxiety, worried sick that you’re not doing good enough, that you’re going to be on the chopping block if you don’t get it together.

and then the rush of gurneys and yelling brings you back to the chaos of pittfest in an instant, and you think dealing with the triage patients’ burns and sutures is all the commotion you can handle for now. 

on your last day shift for the foreseeable future, you tell dana that you’ll see her at sign-offs tomorrow night. 

“you sure you’re doing okay, kid?” she asks, and you feel her concern like it’s something visible hanging in the air. 

you’re not doing okay. you don’t know the last time you felt okay. 

but you’re also not a nutcase. you don’t need any rumors at work that you’re not cut out for this—you don’t need to feel that burden weighing down on you, not on top of the others that are already there. you don’t think you could handle it, don’t think your own brain would let you process it. you might be close to giving up if that happens.

you snap out of it when dana repeats your name.

“i’m okay,” you lie, “just not sure about this sleep schedule. i need to set up my black-out curtains,” you say with a forced laugh, hoping she can’t see right through you. 

dana looks back at you a little quizzically, like she’s trying to figure out the real meaning behind your words, but she gets called away before she can finish her assessment.

“just let me know if you need something, okay?” 

“i will,” you lie again. it sucks—you don’t like lying to dana. she’s everyone’s work-mom and you know she actually cares.

maybe you don’t fully understand it yourself. you want to tell someone how you feel, but you don’t want to put your burden on her shoulders either, not when she already has so much going on, so much to worry about. 

it’d be unfair, you conclude as you head out for your walk to the bus-stop. 

it’d be unfair to put the task of helping you and listening to you and fixing you to someone else’s already long to-do list. 

and as you go to sleep that night, trying to stay up as late as you can to sleep in as much as you can, you think—and maybe hope a little bit too—that robby is right. maybe night shift is what you need.

𝜗ৎ

“she’s not doing that good,” robby admits, his eyes following you as you handle your triage sign-offs with parker. he turns back to jack. “she’s anxious. a little slow, but i’m not saying that-”

whatever robby is saying to him briefly fades into background noise. jack’s eyes go to where robby was looking—watching you for a moment.

he knows who you are. he knows your name, knows you’re an intern. he knows robby is mildly concerned about you, knows that he set you up in triage and chairs because you were having trouble with the trauma cases. 

jack knows that it’s not right—an intern needs to experience what it feels like to be in the thick of it. there’s no short-cuts when you become a second year and third year and beyond—you have to know how to conduct yourself. it’s a non-negotiable part of the residency program, it’s how their program creates competent residents and good doctors.

he follows you with his eyes again. you blink fast and play with your necklace while explaining the last of your cases. 

he knows you’re going through the pertinent history, the acute presentation, your assessment and treatment plans and what’s left to monitor for continuity of care.

it’s not what you’re saying. it’s how you say it. you look like your heart is racing, like someone’s about to cut your tether to the hospital if you say the wrong thing. like you’re waiting for someone to stop you and tell you that you’ve messed up.

even from the across the room he can tell something’s wrong. he feels something strange move around his brain and make its way into his chest. he dismisses it immediately—maybe it’s because he hadn’t noticed the issues you’ve been having himself. jack thinks he’s usually pretty good at that sort of thing.

when parker moves on to the next patient and cassie takes over, jack is still looking at you. your shoulders, which seem to be perpetually up by your ears, relax a little. you let go of your necklace and take a deep breath.

“jack?” robby’s voice says, and he doesn’t hear it until robby repeats himself.

“yeah?” jack answers, turning back to face robby. 

“so, what d’you think? does it sound like a good plan?”

“what plan?”

“have her come to night shift for a little while. show her the ropes. work her way back up. sounds good?”

honestly, jack can’t tell if it does sound good or not. on one hand, there’s less residents working on the night shift. there’s not as much cherry-picking, and everyone has to lend their hand equally. you would get to see everything you’ve been missing out on during the day shift. 

he’s sure that parker could guide you well. jack thinks for a moment that taking on another responsibility wouldn’t be a good idea, but watching your sullen expression as you finish sign outs, like you’re counting down the seconds until you can leave, he thinks it’d be better to get you help now, rather than delaying the inevitable.

jack almost snorts. he’s one to talk. 

he concludes that maybe this might be a good idea given that you’re only an intern and you still have so much to learn and you’re much too young to be stuck in this feeling forever. your sad expression lingers in his head even after you’ve walked back to the lockers.

maybe, just maybe, jack could help with that.

when he looks up at robby to respond, he’s half way across the room.

“thanks a lot, brother,” robby half-shouts, and this time, jack does groan. 

well after the day shift has left, he tries to think about the best plan of approach. he has to tell parker, obviously, since some of the responsibility will fall on her too. he’ll tell john the next time he sees him. 

he could start you slow. a step-up from chairs triage, starting with some urgent cases and working your way up. 

if too many people is the problem, you’ll be good as gold after a few shifts. he thinks about the rest of the plan, how he can get you started on incoming traumas and maybe if there’s something you can read to work on a step-by-step approach, if that’s where the issue lies—he doesn’t know since robby didn’t tell him anything else—but he gets distracted all at once.

your sad, pretty face hasn’t left his mind since robby pointed you out. jack can’t tell exactly why, but it feels unfair, almost. unfair to you that this is what you’re going through during your first year as a doctor. 

jack understands the nerves. he would expect you to be nervous, everyone is. it’s the fact that it’s not followed by excited. nervous and excited. 

nervous and excited and gaining confidence, all things you should be feeling. 

it’s the combination you have instead that worries him. nervous and anxious and sad and pensive. 

and well, if that’s what you’re going through, maybe he can help you after all.

𝜗ৎ

jack doesn’t know how much robby’s told you. he keeps it simple on your first shift of nights—tells you that you’ll be working on the remainder of the patients from the morning and then jumping on the most urgent of the chairs alongside parker until you feel (or he decides) that you’re ready to handle it solo. 

jack doesn’t know what he expects from you, if anything. 

it’s a colder night than usual, and you wear a cream-colored underscrub with the sleeves pulled over your hands. he notices a jacket on the chair behind you, baby pink. and just before he approached you, you set down a yellow water bottle.

but when he meets your eyes, the words go out the window. 

sad and pretty. you look at him with your full attention, like looking away would get you in trouble. you nod to everything he says, even though he knows you must be getting anxious at his words. you try to hide it well, but your hands—chewed nails, he notices—go to your necklace right away.

huh, jack thinks. so that’s your tell. 

and just before he leaves, heading out to finish up with robby’s patients from sign-outs, you speak to jack abbot for the first time.

“i’m sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry you have to do all this for me.” 

jack swallows. you’re incredibly beautiful, and almost devastatingly sad. how can he respond to that—he hasn’t done anything, not yet at least. he showed up for work like any other day. he gives you an assignment like he would any other resident. there’s nothing to be sorry about, but you still are, and he thinks that he really needs to understand why. 

jack dwells on it for half a heartbeat, trying to figure out what to say, but you smile—half heartedly—and turn around to go find your next patient.

oh no. 

𝜗ৎ

the night shift is, like robby had told you, a little better for you. it hasn’t even really slowed down yet, but there’s something about the environment that just feels a little more digestible to you.

maybe it’s those things that you were trying so hard to bury—how your feelings of incompetence increase even further when the 4th years on their rotations seem to move faster than you, seem to have the answer quicker than you. 

maybe it’s extra worse because when you were doing your audition here—you had been that student. ever-eager, trying to prove your worth to whichever resident you’d been assigned to that day. you went home and studied rosen’s emergency medicine textbook and listened to case-report podcasts on your commute to the hospital. you answered questions quickly and you didn’t let it show when you got tired and you did everything right, just to end up worse than when you started.

you can’t wrap your head around it. there’s something deeper going on with you—bubbling beneath the surface of your skin, trying hard to rip through and make its way out. you’ve been suppressing it ever since that night, watching how everyone around you made their way back to normal, wondering why you’re the only one that’s lagging behind. 

or maybe they’re not back to normal. but it’s obvious to you that everyone is better at hiding it than you are. 

case in point—you’re the only one that robby shipped off to the night shift. 

you guess you need to earn your stripes back. the first mission towards that goal is convincing jack abbot that you’re not a complete dud. 

maybe the thing that’s been setting you off so much lately is that you have no idea what’s going to come in from those two doors. you can distinctly remember a few short months ago where that feeling was exciting, almost exhilarating. you were seeing something new every single day, the pages of your textbooks coming alive in patients that you finally got to treat, instead of waiting and watching and observing. 

that’s why working out of chairs feels so much safer. the list is endless—sprains and allergic reactions and lots of sutures. it was, at the very least, predictable. 

you smile at your patient—a little girl who was playing with scissors instead of finishing a school project, despite, you’re sure, the many times her mom told her to not do that. mom is heavily pregnant and watches you suture her hand, near tears herself even though the little girl is taking it like a champ. 

“all done,” you hum, wondering if you can go find a lollipop somewhere for her. “you did great.” 

you look up at mom, offering her a tissue for her tears before explaining the rest of the steps. you’re about to find the written suture care instructions just incase, when parker pokes her head in.

“incoming, five minutes. we’re up. meet you out there.” she’s gone before you can even say anything. you spend two of those five minutes making sure the mom gets the instruction paper she needs, and then you walk towards the ambulance bay.

parker is already gowned and gloved up, and dr. abbot is pulling the yellow material on, and you can even faintly make out the outline of his arms under it. 

standing there, it hits you all at once. your feet feel frozen to the ground. the ambulance is maybe sixty seconds away, and you can hear the sirens, and in the craziness of the day shift, the noise didn’t stand out as much as it does now. 

it almost sounds multiplied. like there’s a dozen sirens going off. you can’t fathom that your brain is making it up, so there must be some sort of crazy trauma with tons of patients and absolutely no time for you to shut down. you can almost hear it—the noise will fill the space soon. screaming and crying and that sound that tires make when the person driving slams the brakes too fast.

you are not ready for that. you thought dr. abbot said something about working your way up, slowly, that you’d deal with the lower tier cases before jumping back into incoming traumas. maybe you’d misheard him—you’d felt so embarrassed that he even had to have this conversation with you to begin with, and he was looking at you so earnestly.

he was probably wondering what was wrong with you. you’re asking yourself that question every day.

dr. abbot takes a few steps towards you, and for some reason, you take a step backwards. as if the extra foot of space would protect you from what’s about to happen. 

the part of your brain that’s always reminding you about how you need to get it together has momentarily gone silent. where is it, when you really need it, like right now? the part that reminds you that you’ve done this before and that this used to be something that excited you and that the person coming in that ambulance is counting on you to help save their life? where did it go?

you don’t know how you must look to him. a mess, probably. appearing like way more work than he signed up for. you should apologize again, maybe, like that might help your situation. you are on his night-shift for the foreseeable future. 

“um, dr. abbot, i-” your heart is pounding in your chest.

“that’s okay,” he says, taking a step closer, shrinking the space between the two of you. the sound of the siren gets louder and louder—

but he’s not very far from you. looking up at him, you see hazel eyes that are focused on you. his hair is actually curly—you hadn’t noticed before.

“i-i thought that-”

“you’re fine, kid. you’re not jumping on any traumas until you’re ready. why don’t you go find bridget and get started on something to present to dr. ellis?” 

your relief must be visible to him—your shoulders sink down, your heart slows down a little, and you blink like you’ve just been rebooted. 

“okay,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-”

“stop apologizing,” jack says, walking towards parker, towards the trauma, snapping gloves over his hands. he stops for a moment. “take a deep breath. come find me if you need me.” 

“okay. i will.” 

it’s like your feet need a minute to thaw before you can move. you stand there, processing what dr. abbot just said and your own feelings and why you locked up at the very sound of an incoming trauma for a little longer, as if you won’t spend the rest of your shift and all night and all day tomorrow thinking about it.

and you don’t catch it—but jack looks back at you before he steps outside. stuck for a moment, your fingers going to your necklace, before you turn around. and he turns around too.

𝜗ৎ

your next patient is a man who just flew back from england earlier today. his calf aches and his chest hurts. he tells you how he’s been worried sick since he got back home, and he’s never usually like that.

must be nice, you think, scrambling to find parker once her and dr. abbot leave the trauma room. their patient is going up to surgery and you see dr. walsh in the room.

you feel better once parker’s in the room with you, and then you think about how messed up that is. you should feel perfectly confident with or without someone beside you. you shouldn’t require a babysitter, and maybe you need to make your next goal figuring out how to gain some of that confidence back, but—

“so, walk me through it. what’s next?” parker asks, her gaze going towards the monitor to evaluate his stats.

“dopper ultrasound of the lower extremity. uh, CTPA, order a d-dimer. monitor stats to see if we need supplemental oxygen.”

“good. and?” she asks, and you blank for a moment.

“and?” you repeat. you don’t know why your brain does this. hurry up, you think, he could die while you’re waiting to figure out what else he needs. “and, um-” 

through the glass, you see dr. abbot walking by. he glances in, locking eyes with you for a second, and then he walks away, like he’s not worried about what’s happening in the room. 

“and we start him on anticoagulants after the imaging.”

“good,” parker says, nodding. she explains the next steps to the patient, and one of the night-shift nurses whose name you don’t know yet gets the bedside ultrasound ready. “hm.. let’s see. how about virchow’s triad?”

you shake the ultrasound gel bottle and warn the patient that it’s a little cold. 

“venous stasis, hypercoagulability, and endothelial injury.” 

“good job,” she states, and you appreciate the comment, just because it’s been a while since you’ve heard it. while you work the probe up, she monitors the screen with you. “now, what are we looking for?”

“a darkened area, where the veins don’t compress. no flow on the doppler.”

“uh-huh. bingo. see that?” 

“yeah,” you breathe. “i do.”

it’s a small thing, but handling the case with parker feels good. you’d already been taught times to never assume what the diagnosis is, even if everything is pointing in that direction. coming up with the answer—the correct answer—feels good. 

there’s nothing wrong with wrapping up ankles and stitching up lacs. but you feel a step closer to whatever goal it is that you’re trying to achieve.

the patient heads off to get a ct scan and you and parker go back out to find the next case. 

while you walk back to central, she brings it up. it’s inevitable, and you should have thought ahead.

“so…” she starts, and you swallow. “i didn’t know about the thing with the incoming traumas.”

“i, um,” you blink, heart rate increasing again. you feel your hand going to your pendant, moving it around your fingers. “i’m working on it.”

“that’s okay,” parker says, reassuringly. “well, you did great in there.”

“thank you,” you breathe. “i’m not sure what they told you-”

“don’t worry. abbot told me afterwards. no traumas until you’re ready, i got it.”

“he said that?” 

“you can ask him yourself,” parker says, her eyes going to somewhere behind you. you turn around to see dr. abbot walking towards the two of you. 

“how’s the patient?” he asks, though he’s looking at you. 

“good. um, he’s up in ct right now. we’ll start anticoagulants once we get the results. he was stable, though.” 

“good, good. who’s next?” 

“working on that right now,” parker replies. she turns to you next. “i’ll come find you.”

you nod, turning back to face dr. abbot. your eyes go to his badge for a moment, clipped to the pocket on his scrub top. jack. it’s hard to think of him like that when he’s only ever been dr. abbot to you, the shoulders you see from behind swaying as he shifts his weight from leg to leg, talking to robby at seven pm or the camo backpack walking out at seven am. 

you zone out for a moment, but dr. abbot snaps you back into it.

“you doin’ okay so far, kid?” 

you wish you weren’t the person that everyone had to ask that question to. the embarrassment alone is enough to make you want to work even harder to get back to day shift, to get back to the level you were at before.

“i’m okay,” you respond after a pause. your heart rate hasn’t slowed down. “i, i-i’m sorry about earlier. i don’t know why-”

“i told you to stop apologizing,” jack repeats, and it comes out a little sterner than he wanted. but it gets your attention. you look up at him, blinking quickly. 

“dr. abbot-”

“these things don't change overnight. you…you can’t expect yourself to get back to normal in a day.”

you go quiet, contemplating his words. without even meaning to, you feel your waterline brim with hot tears. 

“i feel like everyone else did,” you admit quietly. “i’m so behind. i feel like i’ll never catch up.”

you take a deep breath, and then you widen your eyes. these are things that you’ve never even admitted to yourself, never given your brain enough time to mull and mope on. and now they’re pouring out in front of your attending, a man you’ve had maybe three conversations with, most of which were today. 

“i’m so-”

“stop,” dr. abbot says firmly. “no apologies. you’re not behind in anything. thinking like that is only going to make you feel worse. you don’t have to say anything, just nod if you understand.” 

you feel your head nodding before you even realize you’re doing it.

“before you leave night shift, you’ll be caught up in whatever you feel like you’re behind in. okay?” you nod again. “good. i’m sure dr. ellis has a case for you, if you’re ready.” 

you release a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in. your hands fall to your side. your heart slows down a little. you start walking towards parker but then you pause, turning back again.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.” 

you smile at him again—that quick half-smile, and you’re gone before he can even try to stare. 

𝜗ৎ

your first night shift is, overall, a success. you don’t jump on any crazy incoming traumas, though you help treat a man who took a spill down some stairs around midnight that came in via ambulance. you mostly attend to the rest of the people in chairs, switching off between the lacs and dislocations to the more urgent cases as they come in. 

it’s almost four before you know it—and during one of the lulls, you go to the empty break room and make yourself a cup of tea. you try to get as much of your charting done before you see the next person and before your tea gets cold—the longer it takes you, the longer dr. abbot has to wait before he can review them, and the longer he has to stay after the shift ends.

you started yawning because you don’t think your body has adjusted yet, or even will adjust for the next few weeks. mid-yawn, stretching your arms, you had looked around and saw that dr. abbot was already looking in your direction. 

you turned quickly and went back to the charts. god knows you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of him enough today.

despite whatever you think and assume, it seems like he can almost read your mind. you start feeling anxious when you notice everyone coming in for the day shift, going to the lockers and preparing to come back out. 

it’s your first time doing sign-offs for night shift. it’s clear to you that everyone knows there’s something wrong with you, and that’s why you made the switch. even if they don’t know, they’re about to find out. 

but before you can think too much about it, dr. abbot comes up to you. it’s quick, just in passing before he goes to robby, no doubt to tell him how you did. 

you feel doubly embarrassed that you’re even a topic of conversation for your two attendings.

jack abbot tells you you did great, kid. see you tonight, and walks towards robby. and the hand that was coming to play with your necklace falls to your side. when you do sign-offs, you forget to be nervous. 

for once, you think you had a some-what decent shift. and you know what, or rather who, is responsible for that.

but this is just one shift. you have a lifetime of them ahead of you. you need to take it day by day, hope for progress with each passing one. 

(when you go home and shower and then crawl into bed, with your gray curtains completely shut, despite the fact that light pours through regardless, and a sleep mask that you bought during medical school, you think, for the first time in ages, that you’re not dreading going to work tomorrow. it’s not dread. it’s not excitement either. it’s something in between, something that makes you want to get up in the afternoon because you know what’s waiting for you in the evening. or rather—who is waiting for you in the evening. someone kind and patient and who understands you without needing to say anything at all. and then, you fall asleep.)

𝜗ৎ

you’re back under the fluorescent lighting of the hospital before you know it. you elected to leave your house early today—you couldn’t sleep past two and you had time to do everything you wanted and then some. 

you made yourself a big lunch. you tidied up your apartment, put in a load of laundry. you paid bills and scheduled a dentist appointment that you can actually go to now. even with all of that, you still had enough time to leave early and buy yourself an iced chai before your shift.

you take sips of it while working on your charts once you find a moment to sit down. it’s mostly melted ice and milk now, but still, you’ll take any caffeine you can get. 

you’re mid-yawn, covering your mouth when he walks over and stands behind the computer screen. 

“oh,” you say, putting your hand down. “sorry, dr. abbot.”

“what did i say about apologizing to me?” his voice is gruff, but he has a teasing lilt to it. 

you wonder if he talks to all his residents like this.

“sorry,” you say inadvertently, and then you freeze, realizing what you did. “you know what i mean.”

and then dr. abbot laughs.

you can’t help the smile that takes over your face. his laugh seems contagious to you, and you start laughing before you can help it.

staring at his smile, you realize that you can’t remember the last time you had laughed in the hospital. it always felt like there just wasn’t any time during the day, with so many people to take care of, with so many conversations happening that you didn’t realize where you could even fit in.

it doesn’t really feel that way now.

“so,” dr. abbot starts, and you focus all your attention on him. 

you wonder if he’s going to want to talk about it—your freeze-ups and whatever blanks robby didn’t fill in for him. he must be curious, at least, why you needed the change so quickly, so out of nowhere. at least, that’s what you think, because surely, you’d be curious too if someone—

“-how’d you sleep last night?” 

you stare at him. the thoughts circling your brain shut up mid-sentence. 

“um, good?” you answer, tentative. as if you could possibly be giving him the wrong answer. “how about you?” you ask, brightening up a little, pleased that you can have a real conversation not only about a patient with someone at work.

“uh, fine,” he answers, his eyebrows furrowed like he’s a little confused. “i just meant, i know the first shift on nights is hard. hard to fall asleep during the day.”

“oh.” you want to smack your ipad against your forehead. “oh, yeah, definitely. i mean it was hard, but it was fine. i fell asleep eventually. and then i-i woke up and i couldn’t go back to sleep. so i left early to-” 

your eyes flick down towards your melty chai. the plastic cup’s left a ring of condensation on the station where you were typing up your notes. dana would have your ass if she saw water on the counter—

jeez. your mind is bouncing around at a mile a minute. what were you even talking about?

you look at dr. abbot blankly, and he looks like he’s suppressing a laugh, like your behavior is entirely amusing to him. 

“-i’m gonna… stop talking now.” stupid. stupid stupid stupid. you have one coworker who kind of gets you and he happens to be your new attending and you can’t stop looking like a fool in front of him and he’s staring at you with these hazel eyes—

“don’t stop on my account,” he laughs with a quiet laugh, and you feel your face burn. but you can tell he’s not laughing at you, something you’ve forced yourself be able to discern quickly. he’s laughing with you, or rather because of you. “i’ll, uh, let you finish your charts.”

“thank you,” you reply, a little too quickly. you just need a moment alone, maybe, like that could fix the things that are wrong with you. “sor-” you close your mouth before the word can come out. 

the look that dr. abbot gives you is a new one. you’ve seen a couple so far, notably the one by the ambulance bay and the one at sign-offs this morning.

this one is almost approving. like he’s pleased you’re listening to what he says. pleased that you’re doing what he tells you.

“try the black-out shades. those are really helpful.”

“oh, really? i-i will,” you lie between your teeth. the black-out curtains you ordered are sitting in a discombobulated mess by your window. you had tried putting them up for all of fifteen minutes before giving up and going to bed with your quilt pulled over your head. 

“yeah. i can’t sleep without ‘em.” 

“good. that’s good. i will,” you get out before he walks away. you release a breath and finish the rest of your chai before throwing it away.

𝜗ৎ

your shift is going just like the one from yesterday. maybe even slightly better—now that your apparent inabilities have already been broadcasted to the team, you don’t have to explain yourself or try to work up some twisted excuse as to why you can’t assist on traumas.

you take care of three fractures—two scaphoids and one pinky toe. you suture up a few different lacs and correctly diagnose a hot appy which gets sent up to surgery.

and right now you’re with a mrs. wilson, a sweet older woman who fell at her house. her daughter drove her in and you take her back almost immediately, getting her a ct and waiting for her bloodwork.

she’s got a small cut on her forehead from the spill that you’re using dermabond to repair when parker stops by.

“what’d we got here?” she asks you, and you rattle off the case information. “do you use a blood thinner, ma’am?”

“i never forget to take my eliquis,” she responds, and you smile brightly at her.

“that’s great, mrs. wilson.” you turn to parker. “her daughter just ran to get a coffee. uh, history checks out, head ct’s negative. labs are all normal. she’s on an anti-hypertensive. i think it was orthostatic.”

“agreed. what’s next?”

“-what’s next is that you need to get me that gentleman’s phone number,” mrs. wilson interjects. she’s staring past the open curtain towards central, and you move your eyes almost involuntarily to see what—or rather who—she’s looking at. 

you blink quickly. your mouth feels a little dry.

parker turns to look too, turning back with a laugh. 

“that’s our attending,” she says. “i’m sure he’ll be around to check on you shortly.”

“no, dear, i need his phone number-” she starts again, locking eyes with you. “unless, of course, he’s married-” 

you blink faster.

oh my god. mrs. wilson has just made you realize that you’re a complete idiot. 

you turn your head again to stare at him, waiting five seconds before he picks up an ipad with his left hand. dr. abbot has a black wedding ring that he’s been wearing this entire time. and here you are, staring at him and falling asleep thinking about him and looking forward to the night shift because he’s making your life somewhat easier, easier than it’s felt in months and months, and—

“i-i’m so sorry, mrs. wilson,” you stammer, a little too quickly. you can feel parker’s eyes move to you. “i think is he married.” 

the news seems like a hit to the both of you.

“aw,” she starts. “my daughter. she’s divorced. i’ve been trying to set her up for months, but, well, all the good ones are always taken, y’know, i told her—”

“actually,” parker says quietly. “he’s not. but, mrs. wilson, right now, we need to focus on your-”

your eyes go a little wide. it takes all your strength and willpower not to zone out again while parker discusses the next steps in patient care with mrs. wilson. 

her daughter comes back with that cup of coffee while you explain how to take care of the wound at home. and you hate yourself—hate—because you find yourself looking at her, groaning internally because she’s very pretty and very nice to you. 

and you file away the new information you’ve learned to a small, hidden part of your brain. dr. abbot is not married, but he wears a wedding band anyways. and then you go see your next patient.

𝜗ৎ

you think you’re beginning to find a rhythm. it’s hard, but with each passing day, it feels like it’s getting easier. 

(you bury thoughts of your attending deep inside your head and then you close the door and lock it up with chains, placing a mental do not open sign in front of it. it might be working.)

your focus should be on your medical education. you’re almost positive that’s the only thing dr. abbot is concerned with, anyways. 

at least, you think that’s the only thing he’s concerned with.

you groan as bridget hands you the ipad detailing the information of the next case. fifty-three year old man, chief complaint of priapism. 

“really?” you sigh, and she shoots you a sympathetic look. 

you think you’ve been doing better. you haven’t worked up to the level of severe incoming traumas just yet, and you know you’d be useless if there was a few back to back, but you’re trying your best for now. the night shift doesn’t have as many of those incidents as the day shift, so you’ve begun collecting back your confidence in bits and pieces.

this doesn’t phase you. you celebrate the small victory, that you can handle the urgent chairs cases alone, that you’re not stuck in that familiar pattern you had been only a short week ago. 

(you try not to dwell on the reason why you’ve escaped the pattern.)

your only concern for the patient you’re about to see is what he’s taken and how much he took. you know the procedure, having assisted once with cassie, what seems like forever ago. the order is nerve block, aspiration, irrigation, and then injection.

you’re thinking about where you saw john last. you’ll have to report to him and then both of you will have to do the procedure. you’re going to have to track him down—it’s getting to that part of the night where he’s on the hunt for a snack, once his coffee runs out.

you pull back the curtain and smile politely at your patient.

that might have been your first mistake. you introduce yourself, and while you confirm his name and date of birth, the only thing you can think is sleazy. this guy looks sleazy.

there’s a reason why he’s in the emergency room with priapism at two in the morning, and you don’t think you want to know why, though you’re about to find out.

and a little while later, across the room, jack is looking for you. it’s become his latest bad habit—he likes to have eyes on you, like he’s worried you’ll slip away if he’s not careful enough. 

(he does need to be careful, he thinks. it’s been a week of watching you get more and more comfortable around him. a week of watching you take on new, different cases and do your sign-offs without seeming frightened of the task. it’s been a good feeling. maybe, too much of a good feeling—)

“bridget?” he asks, approaching central. “have you seen my intern?”

his intern. the word comes out like a freudian slip. it’s supposed to be the intern. 

if she notices, she doesn’t say anything. though, jack thinks she’s looking at him a bit more oddly than usual. 

“priapism in bed ten,” bridget says. “i think she’s getting the history before—oh, speak of the devil.” 

he turns around and you’re approaching him.

whatever part of jack abbot understands you, whatever’s inside of him that always seem to know what’s going on with you and how to fix it, and whatever compels him to care so much about you even though you’ve only been here for a short while, gets triggered on high alert when he sees your expression.

he doesn’t even say thanks to bridget before walking up to you, meeting you half-way. 

you look uncomfortable. and jack has never seen you look like this before. it’s written all over your face and your body language. you don’t touch your necklace like when you’re anxious. no, you’re wringing your hands, rubbing your arms like you’re reminding yourself they’re still there.

“what’s the matter, kid?” he asks, and you look incredibly apologetic. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. it makes him want to take care of you forever. 

whatever precautions he was thinking about taking because maybe he’s getting a little too worried about you and a little too pleased with your progress goes out the window.

“um, i need help with my patient,” you start. “i’m sorry, i-i-”

jack is too much in his head about you. his hand hovers over your back, leading you to an empty corner against a wall. it doesn’t look all that professional, though there’s barely any eyes that are paying attention to the two of you. 

he’s got a patient up in ct he’s waiting on for results. two people to discharge. and john is out there manning the front lines by himself for a few minutes.

but nothing else seems to matter when you need his help. 

“what’s wrong?” he repeats, and something in his chest starts to churn uncomfortably. like a hand squeezing his heart at the speed that yours must be going right now, undoubtedly. 

he wishes he could pick up your hand and feel your pulse, but he can’t. he knows he can’t. his fingers still twitch at the thought, though.

“um, my priapism patient is being really creepy. i-i don’t feel uncomfortable going back unless you come with me, maybe? or-or john. i know you’re busy, i-”

“what did he say?”

“um, dr. abbot-”

“what did he say?” 

your eyes go a little big. 

“he said something about… he’ll stay awake for the procedure if it’s me doing it, and…”

“and?” jack is beginning to see red.

“-and he won’t need the procedure if i would just help him out-”  

jack has always been pretty decent at handling his temper, especially in the hospital. people are scared, people are frightened, people are worried about their life and limb and say things they don’t always mean. he keeps it under check because he knows better.

most of the time. 

his hand turns into a fist while he’s talking to you. your eyes flick towards it before you go back to meeting his gaze. 

“dr. abbot?” you say quietly, blinking fast. 

“why don’t you go find bridget and find a new case to work on?” jack sounds surprisingly calm. 

you should have expected it—of course, he’s calm. he’s your attending, after all, all-knowing and knows how to keep his cool in a situation like this much better than you do.

you couldn’t even handle it yourself. you ran to get help as soon as you felt uncomfortable. a different intern might have been able to handle it. you’re not sure how exactly, but you know someone else could have figured it out, someone smarter than you. a different intern might not have needed help—

“are you sure, i-”

“i’m sure, kid. go ahead.” dr. abbot pauses for a moment, like he’s assessing you too. you want to shirk under his gaze. “if you need a break you can go sit down for a little-”

“no,” you interrupt, fiddling with your necklace, “i don’t need a break.”

you do need a break. that guy was so, so creepy. you need to go sit down and watch videos of cats playing with yarn and eat something before you can go see someone else. but that’s not how this job works, you don’t just get a break because—

“why don’t you go find a protein bar and i’ll come get you?”

“no, dr. abbot, i-”

“find something to eat. break room,” he says, and you want to protest, feel the words almost coming out, but before you can, “-now.” 

he walks away, leaving you in the corner, blinking stupidly at his back as you watch him go. you don’t know what it is—it seems like he can just read your mind, like your thoughts are out on display for him all the time. 

you don’t think you like it. 

you decide to be a good intern and listen to your attending. 

you head to the break room and nibble on a granola bar that’s been in your jacket pocket for god knows how long. you pick up your yellow mug with the intention of making a cup of coffee, but you can’t stop pacing.

you just need to work on getting faster. thinking quicker on your feet. if you could figure out what to say, instead of freezing up and running away, you could probably solve half of your problems yourself, without needing help.

and you can’t stop thinking about what dr. abbot said.

not even exactly what he said, but more of how he said it. like he wants you to listen to him, like he’s not going to let up until you do. like you deserve snack breaks and time to sit down and recollect your thoughts after a bad encounter. 

you don’t deserve that. a better intern wouldn’t need those things. a better intern would be out running head first into traumas, coming up with miraculous saves and not being too scared to answer questions and not feel their heart rate spiking every time they’re too close to the ambulance bay.

because on the night of the pittfest shooting, that had been where you—

“hey,” bridget says, and you look up quickly, snapped out of your thoughts. “i got a midnight fall two minutes away, and i can’t find anyone. are you—?” 

“yes,” you reply, setting your empty mug down onto the table a little too hard. “i’ll be right there.”

you leave it as it is, shoving the granola bar back into your pocket. you forget for a moment that dr. abbot told you to stay put, but you certainly can’t ignore the patient to follow his instructions.

(something inside of you feels uncomfortable at the idea of not complying, though.)

you walk by the closed curtain where the creepy patient was currently residing. you can make out two pairs of shoes, one being dr. abbot and the other being john, you assume, and the sounds coming from behind the curtain almost make you stop in your tracks. 

your mind wants to dwell on it for a little longer, but luckily, this time you don’t have a choice but to focus on your new patient, who is also fifty-three and tripped on a dog toy, courtesy of his new puppy, while trying to open the door to let her out. 

you’re pleased with yourself at being able to run through the entire thing with a few watchful eyes. bridget leaves to find parker while you order your head ct and x-rays, though you don’t think there’s anything serious going on. 

the thoughts are momentarily subsided—like each achievement can temporarily ease the burden they leave on your brain. the constant voice echoing that reminds you of how you should be doing better stays quiet while the patient smiles at you and thanks you for your help. 

and you even end up eating the other half of your granola bar a little later, sitting at your station and working on notes until you’re needed next. you drink water to distract yourself from your tiredness, being thrown off your usual routine today. 

john ends up finding you first. 

“well,” he says, leaning on the other side of the counter. he buries his head in his hands for a moment and then stretches. “that was fun.”

“i heard,” you reply, pausing and taking a breath. “i, um, i’m sorry that i didn’t-”

“no biggie,” he interrupts, before you can finish the entire apology. “that guy was a weirdo. better me than you.”

you swallow uncomfortably. 

“thank you.”

“i only have abbot to thank. he said we’re going to conveniently lower his pain meds and i said i was extremely in-”

you laugh, and then feel bad for doing so. while you try to come to terms with what john just told you, your head feels like it’s ringing a little bit. he didn’t have to do that, you think, feeling guilty about the patient’s pain. and then you remember the slimy way he’d spoken to you and suddenly you want to find jack abbot and give him a—

“so, you hold down the fort for us?” john asks, rustling through one of the drawers until he finds what he’s looking for—a packet of poptarts. 

“uh, i tried,” you say with a small smile. “incoming who tripped over his dog’s toy. i think it’s a broken tailbone. dr. ellis is waiting on the ct, and then i thought i’d catch up on my charts, so..”

“yeah, good idea. don’t wanna leave those until seven. abbot will-”

“i will, what?” you turn your head to look at where his voice came from, but you falter as  soon as you see it.

your yellow mug. in your attending’s hands.

if john’s confused, he doesn’t say anything. they keep talking and you hear laughter, see dr. abbot’s smile as he jokes around with john. your head feels like it’s ringing even louder, if possible. 

well, it’s not like you’d announced it was your mug, or anything. people in the hospital share stuff like that all the time. there’s other communal mugs too, you’ve seen them. you just usually keep it tucked away, but you left it on that table, and maybe he thought—

dr. abbot turns towards you and he puts the mug down next to your keyboard. you stare at his freckled forearm for a moment too long.

“i thought i told you to take a break,” he says, and your mind goes empty.

your gaze flicks between the cup of coffee, that somehow looks exactly like the cup you make every night, and your attending, who is staring at you.

“i…i did take a break,” you finally get out, quietly. you finally tear your eyes away from your mug to look at him.

dr. abbot has incredibly pretty hazel eyes.

“it’s okay if you need a moment. that would have been a lot for anyone.”

“i… yeah, i guess so.” 

he shakes his head, blinking at you. 

“not a guess. i know it was. did you eat something, at least?”

“yes,” you answer, suddenly breathless. “but there was just a patient, so i-”

“yeah,” john pipes up, and the two of you break the seemingly endless, prolonged eye contact. oh my god, you think. john’s been there the whole time, watching as you gape like an idiot. “parker’s with the slip and fall now. and young padawan here handled it all by herself.”

you feel like your chest is going to explode from the emotions swarming around inside. dr. abbot smiles at you, meeting your eyes again—

“good job, kid. drink your coffee.” 

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

he walks away, towards the trauma room where parker is. you have to force yourself to remember that he’s your attending, not just some guy who’s been sweet to you for the hell of it. his whole job is making you better at this. your chest still feels warm and fuzzy and you have to ground yourself, worried you’d float away with your thoughts if you don’t.

his job is to check on you, all of you. you’re not special just because—

“huh,” john says, peering over the counter and at the yellow mug resting by your hands. “he’s never made me coffee before.”

the coffee becomes a regular occurrence. each shift, around a quarter past one, your mug is delivered to you by your attending, no matter where you might be at the moment.

he leaves it at the desk where you type your notes. he hands it to you when you’re coming out from behind a curtain, telling you to sit down and drink it before it gets cold.

and before you can reply, almost as soon as thank you leaves your mouth, he’s off, walking in the other direction and going to help someone else.

parker and john have noticed. they’d be idiots not to. (one thing you know for certain is that you are the only idiot on the night shift.)

you try to brush it off mentally, almost like if you admitted it, if you said it out loud or even thought about it for too long, the walls would come crashing in around you. 

you have so much on your plate as it is. you’ve just started getting better at this, having a better grip on your emotions, not spiraling every time you don’t know the answer to a question or getting nervous when someone looks at you for instructions.

you push it aside and decide it’s because you feel comfortable with your coworkers. not that you hadn’t before—but the fear of failure was so much more jarring with the day shift. the night shift seems decidedly more calm. there’s less people, so less opportunities to embarrass yourself. everyone’s been nothing but kind so far. 

you feel supported and encouraged. and when dr. abbot tells you that you’ve done a good job you feel every nerve in your body tingle with joy. and when you drink the coffee he made you, it tastes better than any cup you’ve ever made yourself. 

you used to have a countdown until your next day off, mentally ticking off the shifts, waiting for minutes and seconds to pass until you had a day of freedom, but now—

whatever jack abbot has done to you, it makes you want to work every day of the week. 

and much to your displeasure, that’s not how the schedule works.

𝜗ৎ

when jack comes in at six forty-five, he thinks it’s a little weird. something feels off. parker shows up at six-fifty. shen at seven on the dot with his iced coffee.

and you are usually here at six-forty, five minutes before him. you’ve usually put your jacket on that chair you always sit at and have your ridiculously bright water bottle perched under the counter, waiting to be pulled out when you start your midnight charting session. 

his eyes linger on your empty seat during sign-offs. he thinks he’s not being very obvious, until—

“even interns have days off, you know,” parker says, and john nods in agreement. jack hears the familiar noise of ice moving as john shakes his drink.

“actually, two. tonight and tomorrow night. golden weekend for the intern,” he replies, shaking his head. “where was mine when-”

parker and john continue chatting, but it fades into background noise. he doesn’t even realize they’re poking fun at him, that it must be obvious that he’s searching for you, even on your day off.

he’s your attending. he should really know about things like that. but you hadn’t brought it up last night, not even when he’d brought you your usual cup at two in the morning, right when he goes to get another cup of coffee—a little behind schedule this time. 

you had smiled at him. sleepy. tired. thanked him sweetly like you always do.

you’d made sure all your notes were submitted and reviewed before seven, regardless of how much you yawn while finishing them. 

and you are currently out celebrating your first few days off since you’ve started the night shift. you must be happy, he thinks, with two nights off in a row, and that too on a weekend. you must be celebrating all the small victories you’ve achieved, all the patients you’ve saved. he’d make you celebrate double for every patient you helped that came in on an ambulance, because even though the two of you haven’t talked about, it’s clear as day to him that—

you’re celebrating right now. and he feels oddly unhappy about it, because he’s not there with you. 

and a few hours later, his head perks up at bridget, telling him to get ready for an incoming. female, twenties, alcohol poisoning. not very far from here, that bar just a few blocks away.

and by the time jack walks up with parker, the ambulance is already there, unloading the patient. he’s just pulling on his gloves, about to ask what do we got? when he hears it—

your voice.

his stomach drops. his feet move even faster, and then he braces himself, getting ready to see you on the gurney.

“you can’t escape this place, can you?” parker shouts, over the blare of the sirens. you take the paramedic’s hand to help you get off the rig. 

“i guess not. gcs nine, i think. sorry, i had a couple drinks too,” you say apologetically, like you should be chastised for drinking on your day off, as if you should have been aware this would happen. 

for a moment, you look back at the ambulance, blinking fast, chewing on your cheek, rubbing your arms. jack almost misses your expression—but he’s relieved you didn’t catch him staring at you again. all your attention focuses onto your friend once you walk into the hospital.

the girl on the gurney looks delirious and tired. her head is rolled to the side and jack’s almost positive her eyes are closed. 

“so this is where you work?” another voice pipes up from behind you. another girl, someone your age, he assumes, walks behind you, staring around. when her eyes go towards the fluorescent lights, she winces and looks down. “jeez. that’s bright.”

jack’s first question in these cases is always how much did she have? and he looks up at you to get the answer—you’re still saying something to parker, filling her in on whatever happened on the rig—and then he locks eyes with you.

parker’s placing orders and setting up fluids when jack realizes he shouldn’t have done that. it’s the first time he’s ever seen you out of scrubs, and he can’t stop staring.

your hair is done up all pretty, a little mussed up from all the commotion. your eyelids are glittery and your lips are shiny. you’re wearing a short skirt and he realizes he’s never seen the skin of your thighs before—

his eyes go up, following your exposed thighs to the skirt that’s going to plague him, all the way up past your shirt, to your fingers that are playing with your necklace. and then you two lock eyes again. 

“i don’t know how much she took,” you say, chewing your cheek, like you want to say i’m sorry, but you know better. “we turned around for five minutes and she was downing shots-”

“that’s okay, kid-”

“well, i didn’t think she’d take all of the shots,” your other friend interjects, covering the light with her hand to protect her eyes. “we were supposed to be celebrating you, not her-”

“it’s okay-”

“it is so not okay,” your friend argues, and he feels an overwhelming amount of gratitude for her. 

because it’s not okay. 

it’s one of your two days off during the chaos of your intern year. you work the night shift now, which means you can’t just go out for drinks with friends anymore, because your schedule doesn’t work like that. 

and from everything he knows about you, he knows you don’t do things like this very much anyways, even when you were on days. he shouldn’t be annoyed, but he is, annoyed that your golden weekend was ruined. annoyed that you somehow ended up back in the hospital. annoyed that—

well, he’s not annoyed about that part. the fact that he gets to see you after he spent most of the last four hours grumbling internally about how you weren’t there certainly doesn’t hurt. 

the outfit you’re wearing—he can’t dream of being annoyed by that. the way you squeeze your friend’s hand and keep checking her vitals even though she ruined your night out. the way your other hand doesn’t leave your necklace.

all things he can’t be annoyed about.

bridget pokes her head in. 

“thought that was you,” she says, and you look towards her, turning your worried expression into a smile quickly. 

“what can i say? can’t go a night without my favorite charge nurse.” you stay smiling but shift on your feet, on what he assumes are uncomfortable, pretty shoes. 

“oh, i’m gonna tell dana you said that.” bridget’s eyes glances towards your friend, and then towards jack. he’s still staring. “you want me to bring you some scrubs?” she asks, facing you again.

“oh, no, that’s okay. we’ll just wait in here until she wakes up. thank you, though.” you turn towards your friend again.

and jack doesn’t need anyone to tell him that you’re nervous. that you feel bad. that you’re embarrassed that you’re here, that you couldn’t take care of your friend. 

“sure,” bridget replies, and then she looks at jack again. there’s something in her expression he can’t quite understand. “got another one pulling up in three minutes. let me know if you need anything.”

“sure. i’m coming,” jack says, though he wishes, momentarily, that he didn’t have to leave the room. he walks around the bed, next to where you are, and your eyes stay on him. “she’ll be fine, kid. you did everything right. and i’m not sure how much closer you can get to handling an incoming trauma than that, so-”

you interrupt him with a laugh and a smile. a winning combination in his eyes.

“thank you,” you say quietly. 

“we’ll be back after to check on her. you should get some rest if you can.”

“yeah,” you reply. “i’ll try.”

your eyes turn back to your friend, and he slides the door to step out, and just as he’s about to close it, he hears it—

“so,” your friend starts quietly, still shielding her eyes. “which one is jack?”

“oh my god, shh-”

he smiles the entire way to the ambulance bay.

by the time he makes his way back to the curtain where they’ve moved your friend for monitoring, he’s seen three and a half extra patients, not including the incoming he originally got called away for. 

it’s well past two, and jack feels a certain… displeasure bubbling inside of him. it started the moment he’d realized you would be stuck here all night on your day off, and hasn’t subsided since john had made a joke about giving you some scrubs and giving you a few of the overflowing patients.

the displeasure rears its ugly head, and turns into something worse, something he can’t describe, when he pulls back the curtain.

(yes, he’s supposed to be checking in on your friend—the patient—but it was really an excuse to see you. he tries to deny it, tries to reason with his subconscious that he spends every other shift making sure you’re okay, so tonight doesn’t feel any different. he’s not sure if he’s winning that argument.)

your other friend is asleep in the chair. the patient is still knocked out, snoring now, with stable vitals.

and you’re standing, looking between the monitor and your friend while you yawn and rub your eyes. 

you turn at the noise and smile instinctively, fingers going to your necklace right away.

“hey kid,” he says quietly. he gestures with his hand, motioning for you to follow him, and you do, quietly closing the curtain behind you.

“how’s it goin’ in there?”

“oh, uh, good. they both fell asleep, but, i guess it is late for them.”

“but not for us. congrats, you’re a real night shifter now.”

you smile and laugh. you are tired, he knows, because he can tell. you’re supposed to be asleep now too, back in your own bed, without any alarms to wake you tomorrow morning.

you should be doing whatever it is people your age do on their days off. he wouldn’t have any idea about any of that. you’ve mentioned some stuff and he’s overheard others in passing—something about the public library and a coffee shop and those heated workout classes that sound like a nightmare—

“dr. abbot?” you question, saying his name quietly like you feel bad for interrupting his train of thought.

“yeah. sorry, uh, just wanted to come check on you-” you smile again, a little wider, before he realizes what he just said. “uh, you and the patient. but it seems all good, for now.” 

“yes. yeah, it’s fine. i can monitor, too. i’m basically sober now.” your eyes travel—darting from him to your shoes quickly.

“don’t let shen hear you. an hour ago he wanted you on the floor.”

you laugh—which jack has come to realize is his new favorite sound.

“no, he just hates suturing. i’ll be back before he knows it.” 

“sorry this happened on your day off,” jack says, and without meaning to, he moves his head, trying to catch your eyes. you look up slowly, locking gazes.

“that’s okay,” you say, sounding much too close to a default, rehearsed answer. 

he’s positive that you won’t give your friend a hard time about this tomorrow. that you’ll neglect to mention how you paced for two hours and didn’t sleep or sit down until you were sure she’s okay.

displeasure turns into anger at the very idea that someone might take advantage of all of your sweetness, all of your caring and your anxious nature that doesn’t let you admit that it’s not okay.

it’s not okay, certainly not when he’s seen you freeze up when you take one step too close to the ambulance bay. how you try to hide how you really feel when you hear the sirens pulling up. why, even a few weeks in, he’s still easing you in to the noise and the chaos as much as he can.

“it’s not okay,” he says firmly, eyes latched onto yours. 

you blink fast, tears suddenly welling up at his words. that’s silly, you think, crying over your attending’s words. he’s just trying to make you feel better, like he always does. in that moment, standing in front of jack abbot, you realize that he doesn’t really have to try. 

he does make you feel better.

“it’s just that sound,” you admit quietly. you feel embarrassed but you can’t find the energy to care, not in your tired, barely-tipsy state. “the sirens. every time i get too close i feel like it’s that night all over again. it’s stupid, i know-”

“it’s not stupid.”

“no one else that works here feels like that. no one else lets it interfere with their work. it’s just me that-”

“it’s not just you. i promise it’s not. and there’s nothing wrong with needing to talk to somebody about it.” 

something in his chest burns and shifts, like lava seeping through his veins. you’re so young to be feeling this way—like you’re all alone in the world, with no one who can understand what you’re going through.

how can he show you that he knows? that he understands, probably better than anyone else in this hospital? that you should talk to him, not here, not even today, not in scrubs under bright lights too close to the source of your worry. 

somewhere else, somewhere quiet, where he could explain to you all the reasons why it’s okay to feel what you’re feeling. talk to you about how great you’ve been doing. show you that you won’t feel like this forever—and that he knows because he didn’t either. 

it’s an entirely unprofessional thought that lingers for much too long. in a few months, you’ll be back on the day shift and this will all be a distant, faded memory. a few months after that you’ll be a second year resident and maybe he’ll see you on nights again.

but right now you’re an intern that he has no business thinking so much about. yet, still—

“how do you always know?” you ask, blinking at him. your wet eyes gnaw at him. he knows he’ll be thinking about them long after you’ve finally gone home.

“know what?”

“what i’m thinking. how i feel. before i say anything.”

“i know a little something about how you’re feeling, kid.”

“really?” you breathe.

“yeah. that, and you have a tell.”

“i do?”

“your necklace. it’s a wonder that thing hasn’t fallen off yet.”  

you smile and he smiles too, and he’s thinking about what he could say next, when your friend says your name from behind the curtain. 

“go ahead,” jack says, before you can think about apologizing for cutting the conversation short. you step towards the curtain and he turns to walk away, when he hears you.

“dr. abbot?” 

“yeah, kid?”

“thank you.”

“you’re welcome.”

𝜗ৎ

just like you said, you’re back at work before you know it. monday evening at seven pm, you’re greeted by parker and john, who ask you how your friend is doing and joke about your brief interlude at the hospital this weekend.

and you tell them the truth—that she’s doing fine now, and has mostly learned her lesson about back to back shots past a certain age. 

what you don’t fess up to is how thoughts of your last conversation with jack have kept you completely preoccupied through the rest of the weekend. they don’t need the details of that, though you feel like you’re suddenly hiding something. 

you don’t like that feeling, either. hiding something usually means you’re doing something wrong, which can have brutal consequences if you’re not careful. and you don’t know if what you’re doing is wrong or not, though your moral guide is usually much sharper than this. 

the truth is that jack abbot makes your head spin. 

you feel suddenly breathless when he turns towards you to quietly ask you a question—usually revealing that he already knows something about you that you’ve been trying so hard to keep hidden. you’re close to lightheaded when he brings you your daily coffee. you get dizzy when you think about someone seeing, someone noticing what’s going on between you and the attending.

because that is wrong. you can’t justify that. attending-intern relationships are strictly frowned upon—you know this because they made you sit through a seminar at orientation with all the other first-years.

you also know this because you’re not that much of an idiot. you’ve watched the steamy doctor tv-shows. you’ve even lived it these last few months, when you overhear nurses gossiping about some resident upstairs who fell for the married attending.

john and ellis are still talking about something you can’t pay attention to when your heart starts racing. you think of how it might feel to be the intern that everyone’s talking about, for everyone to know that you have feelings for jack—

shit, you think. his name is dr. abbot. dr. abbot, your attending, not jack, the guy who seems to know you better than you know yourself. 

dr. abbot, dr. abbot, dr. abbot—

you conclude that you’d have to find a new job. you remember how overwhelming and scary the process had been to find this job, but you think there could be nothing worse than leaving right now.

you’d just began making progress again—the good kind, that makes you excited over small victories, and has you less and less nervous with each shift that you complete. co-residents that you feel comfortable with, that you can approach with questions easily. nurses that you can make silly jokes with. 

you feel like more and more of yourself is coming back with each night shift.

(you have to ignore why exactly that is, just to stomach the thought.)

you can’t possibly mess it up now, you decide, taking the ipad from parker and visiting your first patient of the evening for an evaluation of a burn. 

you repeat it to yourself while you debride the wound—you can’t mess this up when you finally have something to lose. you remind yourself of it when you finish up with the patient, trying to find john instead of dr. abbot to report back to. 

you almost zone out to your thoughts while bridget asks you about your friend from this weekend when she comes to help you with the discharge papers.

and you keep it going for as long as you can, doubling down even more when you hear gossipy chatter coming from somewhere behind you as you try to type up your charts during a brief lull.

you can barely deal with everyone knowing that you couldn’t handle the day shift anymore, much less the fact that you’re falling in love with your—

“hey, kid,” he says, and you look up so quickly that you feel your head rush. “you okay?”

the strength that was holding what little resolve you had melts down like ice cream in the sun. jack abbot, six hours into a busy shift, checking in on you during what’s likely his first opportunity all night to sit down.

“i’m okay,” you reply quietly, trying to move your eyes back to your computer. “just working on these notes. do you have a patient for me?” 

you try to change the topic, hoping he’ll do that thing he always does, read your mind before you’ve even fully spelled out the thought yourself. 

we can’t be something that people gossip about at two am, we can’t, we can’t, i can’t—

“not yet.” 

jack leans against the counter, forearms set up right near the edge of your monitor. your eyes move between the screen and his arms quickly. if you look for too long you’ll start staring at his freckles, and you definitely don’t want that.

“i just wanted to ask, uh, how-”

“oh,” you breathe, interrupting him, even though you know you shouldn’t. you know what he’s about to ask. “she’s fine now. feeling a lot better. i talked to her this morning, so…” you drift off and blink at him, trying to regain your focus.

it’s just so hard when he’s around you.

“oh. that’s good,” jack says, with a small smile that makes your heart thump loudly in your chest. “but i was going to ask how you’re doing?” 

you think that you must look like a confused fish right now—your mouth parts, your eyes widen, and you keep staring at him until you snap out of it. jack smiles like something’s funny about this, like it’s amusing that he turns your brain into a puddle of nothing with a few simple words.

you keep blinking, while a million thoughts run through your head. you’re so hardwired to worry about other people that you didn’t, for a moment, assume that jack was going to ask about you. 

and you’re so afraid of your own anxiety and the thought that you might be doing something to make your own life harder, that you spent a whole half-shift away from the one person that seems to have a knack for finding your off-switch.

“uh… kid?” jack questions, tilting his head in a mix of confusion and concern. 

“yeah?” you reply, the sound of your heart thumping in your ears. it’s getting louder with each passing second.

“how are you doing?” 

you breathe out and the sounds of the emergency department return all at once. monitors and the ceaseless chatter and even your foot tapping against the floor.

“i’m okay,” you answer, and for once, you’re being truthful. “really.”

“good,” jack replies, and for a moment, you stare up at him, wondering if he’ll say anything else.

the truth is that jack doesn’t need so many words to understand you. he stays like that for a moment, watching your shy smile and deciding that this time, he does believe you.

why you thought he’d be asking about your friend is beyond him. jack knows you took care of her even after you’d left the hospital that night. he has no doubts about that, not with the way you care and worry so deeply.

for a moment he lets his mind drift off and wonder how it might feel to be on the receiving side of it. 

“uh… dr. abbot?” you question hesitantly.

“yes?”

“i just wanted to say-”

“hey, abbot, just got a call about a multi-car pile up on the bridge. three incomings, five minutes out-” the shout comes from half way across the room. both of your heads turn immediately towards the nurse. you watch as john and parker move quickly on their feet towards the ambulance bay, and you even steady your hand on the counter, rising on your feet instinctively. 

jack says something back and turns to look at you. he takes a step closer.

“you don’t have to help if you’re not ready,” he says, locking eyes with yours again. 

the truth is you don’t know if you’ll ever be completely ready.

but you feel compelled to follow him, to help him for once, help the others, instead of being the one relying on help and strategic timing and praying for one less ambulance. 

“i-i’m ready,” you say, and once your feet start moving, they don’t stop. you follow jack to the ambulance bay, pulling out a yellow gown and blue gloves for yourself. 

if parker and john are surprised, they don’t say anything. they head outside first and while you quickly tug on the gown, you feel him standing behind you. jack ties the strings behind your neck and waist. warmth radiates from his touch and would make you a little feverish if you weren’t so anxiously awaiting the incoming.

you half expect him to say something about it being okay if you need to leave or tap out, because you know, even now, what he must think of you. you’re still figuring out your trauma skills and this is the equivalent of being thrown into the deep end, and still—

every time you think you know what jack abbot is going to say to you, you end up surprised.

“if you need something, just let me know, okay?” jack says quietly, and you find yourself nodding. 

he doesn’t seem like he’s doubting your abilities. he doesn’t seem like he’s worried that you’ll run out in the middle of the trauma or freeze up to the point that you’re politely asked to leave, like you had during the day shift.

it seems like, to the best of your discernment, that jack believes in you. he thinks you can do this and you don’t want to prove him wrong. 

you and jack follow parker and john outside, and as the sound of the ambulance sirens gets nearer, your hand creeps towards your neck. but when jack meets your eyes again, you feel it fall somewhere by your side. 

it must be silly, the way it feels around him. the noise of the sirens is dimmed. the voice in your head quiets down enough for you to hear and process your own thoughts. 

that’s exactly what happens. you end up on opposite sides of the patient, a woman who looks only a few years older than you. so far she’s got broken ribs from the airbag and a fractured leg. your job is on the e-fast, and you go through the views, glancing up at jack and parker for confirmation while you state your findings. 

you shift over to the other lung when you see it on the monitor, a black area that makes you stop in your tracks.

“there’s a huge hemothorax on the left-” you start, adjusting your probe to get a clearer view. 

“she can thank the airbag for that,” john comments. someone had read the vitals out just a few minutes ago, and you find yourself wondering how she’s still stable with this much fluid in her chest. a nurse pokes her head into the room, telling them that parker needs help, and john leaves, telling jack he’s got it. 

the thought comes up and around your head quickly—you don’t know everything. another one, more quietly—leave it to the real adults, you’re just an intern. 

but today is not the day to listen. 

because you’re not afraid of being wrong around him. because there’s no punishment for you if you say the wrong thing. there’s no one coming to drag you away. just the soft hazel of jack’s reassuring gaze on you.

“i think we need to intubate, because-” you’re interrupted by the blare of the monitor. another nurse reads off the vitals, her oxygen tanking quickly, and you watch as they bring the ambu bag to her face.

“good call,” jack says to you. “c’mon, kid. you up for it?”

you nod. 

you’ve intubated before—a few trauma patients and the dummy in the skills lab pop into your mind immediately—but this seems a little different. you position the scope into the patient’s mouth while the nurse pulls the et tube from a drawer for you.

and it’s almost like muscle memory. the patient’s head is tilted back, you move the tongue, and just as you’re holding the tube in your hand, scope heavy in your other one, getting ready to insert it, you freeze.

it seems like an eternity. the tube in your hand is moving in slow-motion, but your mind locks up. there’s a million thoughts in a second—starting and ending with the last time you intubated someone. 

it was a young girl from pittfest and though you’d thought she was stable, she wasn’t. you’d also thought you could do it, but just like then, you’d frozen up for a moment. that day, luckily, mel had been walking by and helped you. luckily, they got her up to surgery in time.

but it wasn’t because of you. you had almost failed her.

and you’d thought that some other day you’d be alone, without anyone to help, and you’d have to figure it out by yourself, and you’d fail. 

you’d fail yourself. fail your patient. let that poor girl die or get irreparable brain damage from hypoxia because you weren’t fast enough. 

they tell you that in emergency medicine, the difference between life and death is a matter of seconds. 

and this does take a second—one, maybe two—to think and process. to debate—flight or fight? which one will you step up to today?

and then one glance at jack standing next to you, looking at you intently, but not with concern, not with fear or worry, but rather something closer to trust. waiting for you to keep going. the safety net that he provides feels like a catch-all that could protect you through anything and everything.

you extend the neck further until you’ve got a straight shot down to the vocal cords. the tube glides in and by the time you secure the bag and check the end-tidal, the surgery team in rolling in to pick up where you and jack left off. 

another head pokes in—bridget, telling jack that john and parker need him, and he looks back at you quickly.

he says good job, kid, and leaves, and you stay there, a little stunned at yourself, filling in the gaps for the surgeons, answering questions and watching as they work quickly, seeing where you can help.

in that moment, there’s no time to overanalyze everything. you work as quickly as you can to do the best you can for your patient. you don’t stop to think that you’re doing the wrong thing, that judgemental eyes will cast down on you if you take an extra second to think about your answer.

it comes back like a soreness, the good kind, like a muscle you’ve been neglecting to train. 

by the time she’s been wheeled up to surgery, you take a breath and slump your shoulders. one of the nurses is on the phone, calling the patient’s emergency contact number, but you ask if you can do it instead. 

you call her parents, leaning against the wall while you tell them that she was in an accident and was brought to ptmc, and that she has a few broken bones, one of which punctured her lung. you tell them that the team was able to stabilize her and get her up to surgery, and the relief in their voice, and the feeling that you helped contribute to saving her, gives you a rush unequal to anything you’ve ever felt.

it’s almost strange, feeling adrenaline rush through you and causing this sort of reaction. usually it’s coated in anxiety, sticking to every thought inside of you, resulting in thoughts that you try to shove down and away.

today it’s a high. one that will likely only last a little while longer—there’s head lacs and chest pains waiting to be seen, and they don’t care that you were saving that girl’s life, just that you took so long to see them, and you’ll have to calm your beating heart when you start stitching people up, but for now—

for now, you want to find jack and thank him for believing in you. 

there were three gurneys that came from the accident on the bridge. your patient is wheeled upstairs, another gurney is parked by the nearest curtain, with the night shift nurse practitioner whose name you still don’t know suturing their wound. 

and the last gurney is in the other trauma room, parallel to the one you’d been in. you peak in, but whatever excitement had been in your body dissipates as quickly as it had seeped in. 

jack is doing compressions, covered in a sheen of sweat you can see from the window. but from the way john and parker look at each other, there was no reason to keep going. 

you step away from the glass, wanting to give them privacy. it’s entirely unfair—you get to feel good about your save, only for the universe to take that feeling away from jack and john and parker. 

it’s almost an hour later that you see him. parker had come by and you’d given her the update on your next two patients.

“so, how was it? back on traumas?” she asks, and you smile, but wish you hadn’t.

“reminded me why i’m doing this,” you answer sincerely. “i’m sorry about your patient, though. can i do anything?”

“no, but thanks. his family should be here soon.”

“do you want me to-”

“nah, don’t worry. we’ll work on these discharges. abbot will want to speak to them himself.” 

you swallow uncomfortably.

“yeah, of course.” you pause, tiptoeing the line between professional and self-serving. “do you know where he is?”

“if i had to guess, the roof.”

“w-why would he be on the roof?”

“uh,” parker starts, trailing off. you look at her with a quizzical expression, but before she can meet your eye, she’s looking somewhere in the distance behind you. her face changes too—into an expression of surprise. “to get some air. but forget i said that. he’s over there. and i think he’s looking for you.” 

“me? uh-” parker doesn’t wait for your answer, taking off towards the curtains.

when you turn around, jack is walking towards you with your yellow mug in his hand.

“oh. thank you, dr. abbot,” you say, as he sets down the cup. 

jack is mostly a mystery to you. you know him through bits and pieces, you think, through how he treats you and how he is with the others. he makes silly, stupid jokes and always reminds the residents to eat when they can. he’ll take over any trauma if it’s getting to be too much for one of you. 

and he never fails to make you the perfect cup of coffee. sweet and much too delicious for regular hospital brew, though he has managed to perfect it. it can’t even compare to the cups you used to make hurriedly in between one and two during the day shift. 

you’re sure that this cup will prove to be no different. you take a sip, feeling the warmth rush all over you, and when you meet jack’s eyes, you know it’ll turn from warm to hot, like always. his stare is as intense as they come, right now during the lull between patients and in the trauma rooms like you were earlier. 

intense. in a way that you have gotten way too familiar with.

but when you look up to meet his eyes, they don’t seem that way. 

jack looks, maybe for the first time, the closest you’ve ever seen to sad. 

and it’s heartbreaking. for someone that you know through bits and pieces, it pulls at your heartstrings immediately. there’s no smirking smile, no reminder for you to sit and drink your coffee and work on your notes or take a break. 

you don’t actually remember when or where you’d heard it. something about your attendings—robby and abbot—and the roof and getting some air after a bad patient. you hadn’t understood it at the time, mostly confused, thinking if they needed air, they should go out to the ambulance bay. there’s a tiny bench by the side of the wall, hidden from plain sight, and when you used to go and sit there and cover your ears, you should have understood what they meant about the roof.

but he didn’t go to the roof today. he went to make you a cup of coffee instead.

something hot and smoldering burns inside your chest at the thought. you want to say something, say the perfect thing, the thing that makes him feel better and makes him laugh and makes the horrible, aching feeling of losing a patient go away, even if it’s just for a few heartbeats.

but you’ve never been good at that sort of thing. that’s jack’s job.

“you’re not okay, are you?” 

the words come out softly. too soft to be spoken to your battle-hardened attending. there’s just the two of you by the desks at central, everyone else running around or looking for a caffeine fix. but suddenly, it feels like the entire hospital is empty.

“don’t worry about me, kid,” jack replies quietly, and you feel your heart sink. “i’ll be fine.” 

he won’t be fine. this is the sort of pain that gnaws at you for a while, keeps working until it’s through the skin and down to the bone. jack will move on and treat fifteen other patients before sunrise but when he goes home, he’ll think about the one he couldn’t save.

that’s always how it is. you know it firsthand. 

and maybe for the first time, you think there’s not that many differences between you and jack abbot.

and he—well, he always takes care of you. always. in the room with the trauma. with the patient who harassed you. with your own emotions that are always battling against you. 

maybe it’s your turn to prove to him, show him that you can take care of him too—

jack turns to leave, about to pick up his hand from where it rests near your cup, but you move faster than he does, putting your hand over his. he turns back around slowly.

“kid, i-”

“i know,” you say quickly, not wanting him to finish his sentence. “i know. but i can’t just let you be sad all by yourself. you never let me be sad by myself.”

“i’m not sad,” jack starts, taking a step back towards you. your hand burns where you touch his rough, warm skin. “i’m… i don’t have a word for what i am.”

how silly, you think to yourself, that a few hours ago you were worried about you and jack abbot becoming hospital gossip. it seems so small and inconsequential now, when you look into his pensive, pretty hazel eyes. 

you’re holding your attending’s hands while you talk about the patient he lost. this isn’t just hospital gossip, it’d be front page news if one of the blabbermouths saw the two of you. but it’s so hard to care.

so hard to even think about that when you know what he’s feeling. hard to process that your all-knowing, all-seeing attending, who can discern your feelings from across the room, might be going through something just like you right now. 

that you might be the only person here today that could help him through this. that you might be the reason he didn’t go to the roof.

“it’s okay,” you say, supplying words that he’s told you before. “you don’t have to know what it is. i don’t either, sometimes. but, you’re not alone. whatever you’re feeling. i feel it too.” 

“you don’t have to,” he says, with a sad, quiet laugh. “you did great tonight. you saved your patient.”

“but i want to.” the words slip out before you can stop them. 

“kid, i-” you interrupt him before he can finish.

“it’s not about being happy or sad. you’ve helped me every single time i needed it. why can’t i help you when you need it?”

jack pauses, his intense gaze boring into your eyes. then he looks down at your yellow mug, and looks back at where your hands are touching each other.

“you already did.” 

“because you didn’t go to the roof?” you ask, biting your cheek. 

it might be too bold, but you feel like you have to know, feel like there’s an answer that’ll make your head spin. 

and jack thinks it too, keeping the thought in his grip tightly. 

something about how when jack feels like this, he doesn’t want to go to the roof for air. 

he goes and does the one thing that gives him an excuse to see you. 

you, with the uncanny ability to make him think twice about his feelings. you, that he’s looked at for weeks, and wondered why you doubt yourself, why you feel like this, like he used to, when he’s there to help you through it. and so caught up in those emotions, he forgot that at the core of all of this, is the way you think about everyone and everything in this hospital.

think about what others are feeling, what others are thinking. what they’re doing and why they’re doing it. the overthinking intern that he wanted to coax into trusting your gut and calming your fears, while almost forgetting that it’s also your biggest strength.

you can see through jack in an instant. you see the worry and the pain underneath—the urge to take care of everyone stemming from a need to fix what he can, to make sure that the things he does have control over are taken care of. how uncertain it can feel when the things you thought you had control over fail you. when a patient doesn’t come back even though you did everything you could.

“because i didn’t go to the roof,” jack replies. 

“if it’s worth anything,” you start quietly, eyes fixed on your overlapping hands, “i’m glad you didn’t. i… i don’t know what i’d do if you went to the roof.” 

“you’d figure it out, kid.”

“maybe,” you reply, reflecting his sad smile back at him. your hand feels like it’s holding his a little tighter. “but i sure don’t want to find out.”

you use your other hand to take another drink, setting the cup closer to him. jack picks it up and takes a sip.

and he turns and leaves, going towards the viewing room and waiting for the family—a wife and two young kids. you stay there and finish your notes. 

and until seven am, the two of you don’t stop thinking about each other.

𝜗ৎ

robby finds jack at six-fifty am on a wednesday morning. the shift was no different than any other, though he has a harder time remembering the patients and the traumas now than he ever has before.

jack skims through his memories and picks up a few easily—the cup of coffee he made you at midnight. the way you took a sip and then offered him one. he drank it, even though it’s insanely sweet compared to the way he takes his—just plain black. he remembers bringing you a protein bar at three, your sweet smile followed by a yawn, and the faded purple of your underscrub today.

“jack?” robby asks, and he blinks. 

“uh, yeah? sorry. lost my train of thought.”

“no problem,” robby says, more confused than suspicious. “was your shift okay?”

it’s a harmless question which also carries the weight of a freight train. okay is relative these days, jack thinks, because there’s a bias forcing him to think he’s okay, even when he’s not.

or rather—making him think he will be okay, even if he’s not right now. you sit next to him for thirty seconds and talk to him in a soft, gentle voice like no one else should be allowed to hear what the two of you are saying.

and then you smile at him with reassurance, something you’ve had to work on since he got you here. it’ll be okay. we’ll be okay. 

“it was okay,” jack answers. “what’s up?” he stretches his neck, trying to see where you’ve gone off to. you had helped him with the last incoming car accident at six, who is currently stable and waiting in trauma two for surgery. you had done the e-fast, intubated, found a pouch of free fluid and two broken ribs.

and he found himself smiling on the way out, telling you good job, teasing you without meaning to. you feel warm and don’t say anything but you don’t stop smiling either.

you’re smiling now, talking to king and kwon about your sign-offs. 

it wasn’t even that long ago, he thinks, maybe yesterday or the day before. joy had come up to him around seven, groaning as she handed him the tablet he was searching for.

“get me out of here,” joy had said, and jack had looked at her with his usual, confused expression. her gaze is focused somewhere across the room, and when he looks to see what she’s looking at, jack finds himself smiling.

you. you’re talking to the new nurse—emma, he thinks—smiling and laughing with her. the two of you were wearing the same flower-patterned underscrub.

“what?” jack asks, and joy tears her eyes away from the two of you (mostly emma, he surmises), before groaning again.

“dr. bambi and nurse thumper. i didn’t realize i was working at the woodland animal clinic.” 

he turns back to look at you, finding himself agreeing with that assessment. dr. bambi can’t be the worst nickname he’s thought secretly in his head before. the others aren’t nearly work-appropriate.

“be nice,” jack says, though he knows joy doesn’t mean it like that. he beats around the bush—the two of them are two idiots in a pod, staring at that coworker they’re not supposed to be staring at.

“now those two could have saved bambi’s mother, i’m sure.”

jack snorts. even looking at you now, the memory feels fresh. dr. bambi—

robby clears his throat.

“uh, well, i’ve been thinking maybe it’s time to bring her back to days. what’d you say?”

jack whips his head back.

“what? she just got here-”

“it’s been almost a month. and it seems like she’s doing great. i mean, i’m noticing a big change. haven’t you?”

fuck. 

something in jack stirs, a sad, ugly thing that rears its head. he wants to lie, instantly, for purely selfish reasons. to keep you by his side a little longer, to protect the little bubble the two of you work inside of. a bubble made of late night coffee and early morning smiles and taking care of each other without really trying that hard. 

it’s always been easy for him, he thinks, to try and take care of you. he’s only just begun to realize that it might be easy for you too, to take care of him. 

and he’s selfish, he wants to keep you there forever. if not just for him—

he wants you where he can see you, can reassure you, can make sure you don’t go back to that place he just snuck you out of—full of doubt and fear and anxiety. 

but it is for him, at the same time. you push away thoughts that he once felt he could never escape from. teaching you a new procedure or complimenting your work gives him a rush unequal to anything else—your grateful smile is just one part of it.

he has been beating around the bush with it, taking his time, trying to protect you, protect this, whatever this is, not rushing things and regretting anything.

but now—

he can’t lie. 

lying would mean… saying that you’re not ready to leave. that you haven’t improved, that there hasn’t been any changes. that you’re not incredibly smart and competent, that you just needed a little push and a little encouragement and the safe space that jack abbot’s night shift team seems to provide you.

lying would hurt you. impact your education. if you found out that he said those things, things that he didn’t even believe, well, he might not be able to forgive himself.

he stares at robby, head swirling between the two ideas, wondering how, if at all, he can get out of this conversation. he briefly considers telling robby he’ll tell him later but right now he’s going upstairs, but robby’ll just follow him.

and you—well, you’ll follow him too.

“yeah. big change,” jack says, the words feeling painful to get out. 

get it together. she’s your intern. this is a good thing. 

right? 

“al-right, then. maybe starting up at the end of the week? friday morning? i can go talk to her before-”

“no, uh, i’ll talk to her. i got it,” jack says, and robby’s expression is more suspicion than confusion now, but he doesn’t notice.

and you feel it before you hear it—the noise of thunder outside, the strike of lightning. you’ve already had one car accident today because of the wet, slippery roads and heavy rain, and you’re sure it’ll only be worse as the day goes on.

you’re grateful again for the night shift, because now you get to go home and fall asleep to the rain.

(fall asleep and dream, because all you’ve been doing recently is dreaming. about your attending, about his kind words and actions and big hands that make your yellow mug look so incredibly small.)

you say goodbye to parker and john, watching as they disappear with their umbrellas to the parking garage. you usually walk to the bus stop, but you stand by the door, waiting for him.

for jack. it’s something of an unspoken routine—you wait for the other. he walks towards his car, and you walk towards the street, and you don’t say anything besides get some rest, dr. abbot, and he replies with, you too, kid. 

and that’s it—but it’s after every single night. and you’ve always been a creature of habit, so you wait, thinking he’s running a bit late. 

you stare at the rain—too heavy to brave it without any backup. you look through your bag for your umbrella, but it’s nowhere to be found. it would be obvious—it’s yellow, like your mug.

you must have left it at home. 

you unlock your phone, trying to find the rideshare app, scrolling when—

“hey, kid.”

“oh,” you breathe, your heart thudding in your chest, turning to face him. “hi.”

“i need to talk to you about something. it’s-” jack’s eyes flick towards your screen for a moment. “what’s that?”

“i, uh… forgot my umbrella,” you admit sheepishly. “and i didn’t want to get soaked walking to the bus stop, so-”

“you forgot your umbrella?” he questions, raising an eyebrow. 

you think a few weeks ago your face would burn at the line of questioning. silly mistake from a silly intern. now you know that everything jack says to you has an automatic layer of concern on top of it. 

it still makes your face burn a little bit, though.

“well, i-i didn’t realize it would be raining when we left.”

we. you shouldn’t have said that—it’s not even really the truth. you and jack leaving together every shift is not a promised thing. 

it’s just a coincidence, you try to convince yourself. 

you hope he doesn’t notice, and you start chewing on your cheek at the idea that may he does—of course he does—your hand coming to toy with your necklace when he responds.

“i can bring you home, kid,” he says, his hazel eyes staring at you with a different kind of intensity than you’re used to. 

he looks almost… wistful. 

you try to dismiss the thought—why would jack be wistful about driving you home? you’d be a filthy liar if you hadn’t imagined what it might be like to sit in the passenger seat of his truck, to listen to the music he likes, to watch his arms and hands while he—

“that’s okay, dr. abbot,” you respond before you completely give yourself away. “i can just call the-”

jack sighs, smiling a little, like he’s trying to hide it from you. but it’s not what his smile is usually like—sweet and amused like he’s watching a fawn walk on legs for the first time and resisting the urge to swoop in and help. 

it’s something you can’t quite place.

“c’mon. truck’s over here,” he says, and you drop the challenge immediately. you follow him out, through the door that you never go through, the one that you watch him disappear past every day when you leave for the bus stop. 

and stupid as it is, when you walk towards the passenger side of his truck, you notice that he’s following you instead of going to the driver’s side.

“oh. um, do you-?” you get out, a little confused. 

jack steps in front of you, opening the door. 

“oh. thank you.”

“you’re welcome, kid,” he says. you take a seat and he shuts the door, pausing for a moment outside the window while you put your seatbelt on. you meet his eyes through the glass for half of a heartbeat before he walks away.

when he takes his seat and puts on his seatbelt, you realize you’re terrible at this.

“are you okay?” you ask, staring at him.

it’s gloomy outside and the sky is painted in gray and white, the heavy rain making everything a little damp and slow. including your brain. 

but you can’t help it. something seems off about jack today and you need to know what before it drives you crazy. 

normally, you imagine you’d be beside yourself at the idea of sitting in his truck and soaking in the feeling of knowing that he’d drive you home even when it’s out of his way, but you can’t think of that when there’s something he’s not telling you.

“i’m fine, kid,” he says, and you don’t believe him for one second.

you decide to be bold.

you take your hand and put it over his, and he turns to look at you. you think this is what it feels like to melt. jack’s eyes reveal whatever he doesn’t want to tell you, and you feel your heart start to beat faster.

“what is it? it’s okay. you can tell me,” you say, starting to get nervous. 

his skin feels warm where you’re touching it, realizing this is twice in a week that you’ve held jack abbot’s hands in your own. 

the thought is… grounding. like there’s nothing that could be so bad as long as you have him with you to help you get through it. you think stupidly that you could do anything if you had him with you. 

you had already done everything with him beside you. 

“kid, i…” jack trails off, and your fingers twitch, rising for a moment, as though perhaps you’ve done the wrong thing.

oh god. had you completely misread this—was this something else entirely? 

you thought being in his car meant you were a step closer to whatever it is that you want to be, whatever it is that the two of you won’t put into words or even coherent thoughts. it’s just the semblance of hope that hangs in the air, that maybe, somehow, someday, this might be more than just an attending and his intern. 

had you misjudged him this badly? the thought lingers for a second, and you pick up your hand, bringing it back to your lap like a child who just got scolded for doing something wrong.

“i’m so sorry, i-”

“no, no, it’s not that,” jack starts, staring at you with those eyes again. he looks away, running a hand through his messy curls, and you watch, your heart dropping into your stomach. the light catches on his wedding ring.

“it’s okay. i-i can just walk home. we, um, we shouldn’t, if you don’t want to-”

“no, kid, it’s not that.” jack keeps his eyes focused on the dashboard, his hand tightening around the wheel. you watch the veins of his arms tense up. “robby, uh… robby wants you back on the day shift. i was trying to figure out how to tell you inside.”

oh. 

you swallow uncomfortably, not sure if this is better or worse. your mind starts to spin, creating two alternating scenarios that start to fight with each other. robby wants you back on the day shift. you’ve finally done what you set out to do in the first place, earned your way back, gotten better at this job the way you’ve always wanted to—

but it’s only because of jack. his gentle guiding. the way he doesn’t stop believing in you even when you’re having a severe deficiency in that area. the way he makes you coffee that tastes perfect every time. the way he knows when you’re feeling anxious before you can even process—

“hey,” he says, and you blink, looking up at him. “what’re you thinking?”

“i… do you think i should go back?”

“i-,” he pauses, taking a breath. “i think you’re ready to. you’ve been doing great these last couple of shifts. it’s not about what i think though. it’s about how you feel.”

and the way jack says it, with so much sincerity that it’s practically dripping from him, makes your heart thud around in your chest. the blood rushes to your ears at the thought—no more night shift.

no more sleeping in until the afternoon. scheduling appointments during the day and not missing them when the day shift runs over. actually having time to finish your charting instead of staying behind until eight pm to catch up.

no more jack abbot.

the realization hits you squarely in the chest, getting hard to breathe like walls are closing in around you. it’s not that serious but it is that serious. you even try to justify it internally while jack looks at you with what can only be described as pure concern in his eyes.

you’re just scared—no more jack means having to face your shifts alone. the safety net would be gone, and it’s just as well—it’s not like you could have relied on him forever. robby’s a different type of mentor. he’s not going to walk you through your freeze-ups or notice when you’re playing with your necklace that it means you need a break. 

no, robby couldn’t do any of that. nor, you think, is it his responsibility. his job is to run the emergency department and make sure that everyone inside is running too.

everything that has happened in the last month has been something special—something born of jack’s desire to take care of you, for whatever reason he had decided on. 

you hadn’t asked and he hadn’t pushed, it had just come together the way it did. and it was nothing short of perfect.

and now, it’s over.

“yeah, of course,” you reply, hoping your face doesn’t completely give you away. 

you take a deep breath and then release it, holding your hands firmly to your side. you don’t want to make it any easier for him to see through your lie.

“kid, you can take some time to think about it. it’s not an easy decision,” he says, and you turn your head to look at him, tearing your gaze away from your lap.

he’s got his elbow angled, leaning against the steering wheel. the tight, dark shirt he wears looks like it’s a size too small in the dim light of his car. or maybe you just feel that way because his arms look ready to tear right out of the fabric. his curls are mussed up where he ran his fingers through them, but the silver still reflects brightly.

and worst of all—his stupid eyes and his stupid smile. looking at you like they always do—filled with concern, like there’s nothing more important than making sure you’re okay. 

you’ve denied it long enough, but now, with the very real possibility that this—whatever this is—is coming to an end, the thought doesn’t seem to leave you as easily as it has on other days. 

“well i had to go back eventually, right?” you finally say, locking eyes with him again. 

“yeah, kid. i guess so.” jack looks like he’s about to say something else, but you suppose he decides not to. he puts on his seatbelt instead, his hand moving to the gear stick. “c’mon kid. let’s get you home.”

𝜗ৎ

you tell jack your address, and just like you expected, he already knows where it is. you have to remind yourself that he’s been living in pittsburgh for most of your life, that the street signs and neighborhood names aren’t just words you throw around. 

he’s probably got a memory in every street corner. a memory, you think sadly and a little selfishly, with his wife who isn’t here anymore. 

you’re not the person who’s supposed to be seated in this passenger seat. you’re just the intern he’s a little too nice to at work.

and soon, you’ll be known as that girl who went back to the day shift.

you watch the black of his ring on his hand as he grips the steering wheel. he puts his arm around the headrest of your seat while he backs up, and he’s on the road after. you stare out the window, listening to the harsh, loud raindrops as they hit the roof of his truck. 

his car is just what you expected. clean, though not in the way that would scare you off if he was a stranger. it feels weird to think, but his truck is almost… homey. there’s pieces of mail laying the console between the two of you. receipts tucked into the sun visor. dog tags, maybe intertwined with a necklace, hang from his rearview mirror.

and it smells like him. 

you close your eyes for a moment, trying to soak it in. it’s your first and last time being in this car, being with him, if you’re really going to start the day shift again. 

his truck has a cd player, something you might have commented on if it wasn’t for your current state of mind. 

you’re too sad to think of something funny to say, so instead you lean against the headrest, listen to his beatles album, and watch the city waking up for the day. 

it’s four, maybe five songs before jack says something.

“we’re almost there, kid. are you-” he stops himself, trailing off. “are you okay?”

“i’m okay,” you lie. “just thinking about it, i guess. it’ll be a big change. i was just getting used to the night shift, i think.”

it goes unsaid—i was just getting used to you.

“you’ve already seen it during the day. a lot longer than you did nights. it won’t take that long.”

“yeah. you’re right.”

“i think, uh…” your head perks up at his words, wondering if he’ll say what you think he’s about to say. “i think you’ll be just fine.”

“thanks, dr. abbot.” 

when the car slows down, the rain sounds louder. jack pulls into the lot of your apartment complex, putting his truck into park. 

you’re about to turn towards him, thinking of what you can say to make this feel different. to make it easier, but nothing comes to mind.

you’ll settle for whatever half-assed goodbye leaves your lips, when the heavy rain turns into a torrential downpour. 

“oh god,” you say, without even realizing it. the rain is hitting his windshield so quickly that you can’t even see the brick of your building in front of you. “can you drive home in this?” 

you turn towards jack, expecting him to be concerned about the shift in the weather. an annoying drizzle into the pittsburgh version of a monsoon. but when you look, he’s not looking outside. his eyes are on you.

“i’ll be fine.”

“maybe-” you start, a sudden surge of boldness overcoming your anxiety, for once, “you should wait it out. t-to be safe.”

“uh, kid, i-”

“you live across town, don’t you? i don’t think that’s safe. last thing you wanna do is end up back in the pitt at eight am.” 

he chuckles at that, and you feel satisfaction bloom inside of you.

“um, i can make us tea, if you want?”

“oh,” jack says. “i was just going to wait it out in here.”

“oh,” you echo, feeling your entire face burn with heat. “sorry, sorry, i-”

“don’t apologize,” he interrupts. “i could… go for tea.”

“really?” you question, not sure if he’s trying to play into it to protect your embarrassed feelings from entering into utter humiliation. 

“yeah, kid. i… love tea.”

(jack abbot does not love tea. he doesn’t even drink tea. the only thing he knows about tea is from when he makes you a cup of hot water on days where you’re too wired to have a cup of coffee. you keep little packets of the stuff with you and it’s always a new, odd color when he glances into your yellow mug.)

you end up on either side of your kitchen counter with jack abbot, tea lover. you’re both soaked, despite running to the door of your complex. his curls drip water onto the granite of the countertop, his shirt clinging to him as though it’s a second skin.

you feel cold. you’re in your damp underscrub, your scrub top thrown into your hamper. you bring him a towel for his hair and try to dry yours, before giving up entirely. 

the only thing that might make you feel better is a long, hot shower once jack abbot leaves your apartment. 

whenever that might be. in fifteen minutes, the rain hasn’t let up even once. you can hear it hitting the windows, the gusts of wind that sound scary, even from a few floors up.

you rub your arms as the kettle begins to whistle quietly. mugs, you tell yourself, opening your cupboard. you glance back to see jack drying his hair, his arms flexed as he stretches, and you look back to your significantly less interesting dishware with a dry mouth.

you put two mugs on the countertop, opening the drawer of your tea packet options.

“um, do you know what kind you want? i have a bunch,” you say, and he looks at you blankly.

fuck. maybe he shouldn’t have lied about the tea. he’s about to get caught red-handed, when you interject again.

“i have chamomile. it’s caffeine free, if that’s okay?” you ask politely, and he swallows hard, nodding.

“sounds good.” 

you put the packets into the mug and pour hot water over them. jack glances around your apartment. the entire place is a testimony to you. it’s organized but comfortable, filled with clean clutter and warm colors. there’s a candle you’ve almost completely burned through on the countertop next to him, and enough books to fill a library on different shelves in your living room.

you hand him the mug and he can’t help but smile—

it’s yellow, a carbon copy of the one at the hospital. in your hands is a third duplicate, as you swish around the tea bag. he copies your motions.

“so,” he starts, a little stupidly, because he’s unsure of where the sentence is leading. “chamomile.”

“yeah,” you breathe. “they say chamomile is good for anxiety, so…”

there’s something else, a suppressed thought that you won’t let out hiding beneath the surface. jack’s determined to get it out before he leaves. 

when you take a small sip, he does too. the drink isn’t half bad—he prefers the taste of black coffee, even if it’s decaf, but jack supposes he could get used to this too.

the second thought fills him quickly—there is no getting used to this. 

this is about to end. this is the final act, the goodbye.

“kid, i-”

“no,” you interrupt, a little out of character. “don’t. i, um… this is hard enough for me as it is. i don’t do good with change. in fact, the only reason i even did good with this change is because of-”

you don’t finish your sentence.

“i just wanted to tell you that-” jack starts, but you don’t let him.

“i don’t think i wanna leave night shift,” you blurt out.

oh. 

“that’s okay,” jack says, his voice trying to stay calm and steady. something burns inside of him though, smolders at your confession. it echoes his—i don’t want you to leave night shift. 

“is it?” you ask, picking up your mug to take another drink. “because i’m pretty sure i’m not allowed to make calls like that. i mean, if robby wants me back, i have to go back, right?” your voice sounds pained, something he really, really doesn’t like. 

jack takes his cup into his hand and moves a little closer to your side of the island. your mug looks comically small in his hands here too.

“if you’re not ready, then i’ll talk to robby. he’ll understand,” jack says. the liquid is still too hot to drink, but he does anyways, just to give him something to focus on besides your pretty, sad expression and wistful eyes.

“that’s the thing,” you finally confess, tears building up before you can stop them. “i am ready to go back. i just don’t want to.”

“kid,” jack breathes. “don’t cry. please, don’t cry-”

“i-i was trying to not think about it. about you. but it’s so hard,” you say, those tears that are much too familiar to him streaming down your cheeks. it’s no fair—you’re even pretty when you cry. “i’ve never felt like this before. it-it can’t be that wrong, can it?”

“it’s not wrong,” he says, taking a step to bridge the distance between the two of you. he puts his hand over yours, and your skin feels like it’s burning where the two of you touch.

jack swallows when your big, teary eyes turn to look at him again. 

“i… i haven’t felt like this in a long, long time,” he admits, and you watch him with careful anticipation. “i just… it’s wrong but it’s not. when he asked me if you’re ready to come back, i almost lied. just so i could keep you with me a little longer-”

you don’t wait for jack to finish this time. you lean up to find his lips before your fear can stop you. 

jack’s lips are soft, and his grown out scruff is scratchy against your soft skin. it’s hard to care, though, when he’s kissing you.

jack abbot is kissing you. 

“oh my god,” you breathe against jack’s mouth, and he pulls away for a moment, his hands coming to cup the side of your face gently.

“what’s wrong?” he asks in that light, calm tone that drives you crazy. it’s barely above a whisper, his hazel eyes shining down on you. you’re so close that you can even make out the specks of brown—

you answer with another kiss, pressing your lips together again. your arms wrap around his neck, and his hands leave your face, wandering down to hold you firmly by your waist. his fingers sneak underneath the wet fabric of your shirt until he grips the bare skin of your hips. 

you moan into the kiss. the feeling of jack’s hands on you is close to unreal. it’s everything you thought it would be and more, feeling how hot his mouth is, how deeply he kisses you. you don’t think you’re breathing but it’s hard to care, exactly.

you yelp into his mouth when you feel his hands on the globes of your ass. he hoists you up, placing you onto the countertop, your legs wrapping around his while he keeps kissing you. 

your hands pull eagerly wherever you can—namely, his stupidly tight shirt. the two of you detach for a second, just to get the stupid thing off, which takes a moment since it’s melded onto his chest.

but once it’s off, you feel your body go a little weak and limp. jack’s shoulders seem even broader like this, his chest somehow wider, his arms somehow bigger. you can make out the veins that you’re always admiring in the shitty hospital fluorescents, where they start all the way to where they end. 

it takes all of your power to not start tracing them.

you’re snapped out of the thought when you hear jack’s low, rumbling laugh and the way his chest vibrates with it.

“you’re laughing at me?” you ask, a little dumbly. 

“you’re cute like this,” he says, leaning in close again, his shirt discarded on the ground. you bring the palm of your hand flat against his bare chest, soaking in how his skin feels against yours.

“cute like what?” you ask, but you don’t get an answer. jack leans in for another burning kiss, and your mind goes empty.

you grip his shoulder, finally feeling the muscles under your hand. they tense and flex as he keeps kissing you, and as he moves his mouth down to your neck, your nails leave little crescent shaped indents on his frecked skin.

that’s the other thing—he has so many freckles. they’re all over, hundreds more than you had expected. he must have spent all of his life shirtless in the sun, or something, you think, before it dissipates. 

jack works his way to your collarbone, pressing a warm kiss there, over the metal of your necklace, and then another right on top of the pendant. 

you sigh, your fingers tangling themselves in his wet hair. you don’t pull, rather enjoying the sensation of the strands while you follow his head wherever it leads. 

he doesn’t go any further. you hold back a whine, letting go to lift your shirt off, when jack stops your hands from moving.

“what is it?” you ask impatiently. your lips are swollen and your eyes are blinking quickly at him. jack brings his fingers to your jaw, holding you in place gently.

“are you sure about this, kid?” you nod eagerly. “we can stop whenever you want. we don’t have to rush this-”

“stop talking,” you breathe, crashing your lips against his again. you’ve waited so long to do this—to kiss your attending, to be left breathless and flushed by him, that stopping it to talk seems so stupid.

jack’s hands go back to your hips as he keeps kissing you, swallowing your soft moans and whimpers as he explores your skin. finally he holds you in his grip, lifting you off the countertop while your legs tighten around his waist.

he carries you, leading into the open door of your bedroom, a yellow-walled room with gray curtains. he sets you gently on the bed, hovering over you, still not pulling away.

jack’s mouth is hot on yours, and you sigh into him, your hands resting on his chest again.

“jack,” you whimper, as you feel his hands tease around the hem of your shirt. 

“easy, sweetheart. lift up for me,” he instructs quietly, and you comply. he peels off your underscrub and then your bra, working down until your scrub bottoms are the next thing to go. 

you’re bare in front of him, just in your panties that you had no idea he would be seeing. you would have made a wiser choice, maybe, if you knew this was even your last shift with him, just in case, but—

“jesus christ, kid,” jack breathes, and you feel your stomach flip into a jumping jack over and over again. “you’re perfect.”

“stop talking,” you repeat, leaning up to catch jack’s mouth again. this time, his hands wander everywhere, exploring the miles of smooth skin he’s revealed, feeling as your body trembles under his touch. 

you’re sensitive everywhere, he can tell, and he wonders how to explain to you that he needs to take his time with you. you don’t seem particularly patient right now.

he pulls away again.

“jack,” you whine, but he doesn’t pay attention this time. he starts kissing down the soft skin of your chest, working down until he’s at your stomach. he wants to take his time—tease your perfect, peaked nipples until you’re crying, kiss you all over until he’s memorized the taste of your damp skin. 

you won’t let him right now, he knows, but the thought still lingers. he’ll have to choose his battles with you, and this is not one he wants to fight right now.

instead, he moves your hands into place for you, just like he knew you’d like. he arranges you until you’re squeezing your tits, fingers playing with your nipples while he stares at you.

open mouthed, gasping from pleasure, while he watches. and then, once he’s finally ready to look away, he rubs his nose against your clothed clit.

“jack—!” you cry out, thrashing up against him. he keeps one hand on your stomach to hold you down, his eyes glancing up to tell you not to stop, to keep going, like he told you. 

you comply, going back to teasing your sensitive nipples while he thinks about what he’s going to do to you. 

he places an open-mouthed kiss against your cunt, lapping at the wet spot that’s already formed there. you’ll cringe with heated shame, he knows, but he inhales deeply, soaking in the scent of your wetness. 

there’s a thin piece of cotton separating him from what he really wants. he should really just slide it off, but it seems like too much work now, right when he’s got you exactly where he wants you. 

you look down to see jack ripping your panties, tearing the fabric into two pieces, letting it fall somewhere on the floor of your bedroom.

“you’re doing so good, sweetheart.” 

your head thuds against your pillow while you moan into the air.

“jack,” you beg, your legs beginning to shake. “please, jack, i-”

he doesn’t let you finish. jack dives in to lap against your leaking cunt, licking his way up and down until your moans fill the room. 

your entire body spasms when you feel his mouth tighten around your clit. 

“oh my god,” you cry out, fingers leaving your nipples to weave into jack’s hair. you keep them there, pulling his hair while you buck up against his tongue, feeling his nose nudge against your most sensitive parts—

until he stops.

“jack?” you breathe, your throat dry and scratchy. “what-”

he moves up slightly, just to take your hands out of his hair, and put them back on your chest, covering your tits again.

“oh,” you whisper. “i’m sorry, jack, i-”

“keep teasing your nipples for me,” he says, and your entire body feels like you’ve been lit on fire. 

your attending is saying those words to you, an hour after the night shift got out.

it’s something out of your wildest dreams, jack’s head between your legs, licking at your cunt like a starved man, his thick fingers—the very ones that you’ve watched insert chest tubes and plug bullet holes and save lives—are prodding at your cunt.

it’s hard to think about when he plunges two wide fingers into your leaking hole. you moan so loud that you’re sure your neighbor can hear you, before your exhausted, horny brain supplies you with the fact that no one’s home right now.

everyone’s at work. another perk of the night shift.

you listen to jack, teasing your nipples until sparks of electricity are coursing through your entire body. jack thrusts his fingers in and out, timing it with the way he laps the flat of his tongue over your clit, teasing you and giving you everything you want at the same time. that familiar hot, burning coil tightens in your belly, feeling even stronger when you feel jack’s brute strength keeping your legs pried open.

no matter how hard you tried, you wouldn’t be able to overcome him and the thought is enough to make you cum instantly, though you resist.

it’s not until you feel it—feel him talking to you, or rather to your cunt, that you begin to truly lose control.

his lips vibrate around your clit, the words coming out low and soft. the obscene squelch of his fingers fucking you fills the room, and you think this is the wettest you’ve ever been—and he hasn’t even been inside of you yet.

“c’mon, kid. be a good girl for me. like you always are,” jack says, repeating the words until you feel the ground beneath to slip out from under you.

“oh god, jack, please, please can i come, please-”

“come on, sweetheart. come for me, come on,” jack encourages you, and everything goes white. 

that tense feeling in your stomach tightens, and then gives out completely, snapping until the white-hot sensation rushes through your whole body. 

and all you can think the entire time is that it’s jack abbot making you feel like this. the thought makes you sink into your bed, eyes fluttering shut, fingers going lax against his hair.

you feel boneless and tired when jack greets you with another soft kiss.

“hi,” you whisper.

“hi, kid,” he breathes. you smile before you can help it.

your eyes dip lower, looking at the waist of his scrubs. you can see the tent where he’s hard underneath, and your hands start to wander there, but jack stops you. he catches your wrist.

“what happened?” you ask, staring back at his pretty eyes.

“it’s okay. we don’t have to do anything-”

“but i want to,” you whine, looking determined. “don’t tell me after all of that you’re going to leave me hanging-”

he shuts you up this time, pressing a searing kiss to your swollen mouth. whatever you were saying turns into a sweet moan, one that he gladly swallows.

he listens intently, keen on remembering these noises forever. your hands stay pressed against his chest, your fingertips digging in around his pec.

when he pulls away to let you breathe, you sigh with contentment. 

jack sits up, smiling at your wide, eager eyes as you stare at his every movement. he sets his feet against the rug of your bedroom floor, his hands moving down to pull on the hard shell of his prosthesis, tugging until it’s fully removed.

you slide closer to him, leaning against his back, your arms resting against his as you watch intensely.

“can i help?” you ask, your eyes moving to meet his, and jack releases a rush of air—a breath he didn’t realize he was holding in.

“no, kid, i got it,” he says, turning back once he takes off the liner. his pants are next, his hands fiddling with the belt and the zipper.

you smile eagerly, excitedly, but he notices it again—your fingers playing with that necklace again.

now he knows what that necklace feels like against his lips.

“are you sure about this?” he asks again.

in another world, maybe you’d think it’s because jack’s having doubts. but in this one, you know he doesn’t. he’s trying to make sure that you don’t. 

“are you sure?” you repeat, bringing your bottom lip between your teeth and biting. jack hovers carefully over you, and you slink down into your sheets, until the two of you are lined up, bodies melting into each other.

“i haven’t done this in a while, kid,” he says, and you bite your cheek to hold back a laugh.

“that’s okay,” you whisper. “i’ll be gentle.”

you and jack both laugh, the quiet sound filling the space of your apartment. it feels unreal—jack hovering over you, his skin against yours, feeling the soft breath of his laugh against your neck.

you lean up, pressing a kiss to his nose. 

“you don’t know how long i’ve thought about this,” you admit in the form of a whisper. the confession feels bold, especially for you, but it seems like there’s no better time for him to know.

maybe, you think selfishly, if you tell him he’ll move. do something, anything, than tease you like this, without even trying to.

the thought is striking. jack abbot is too good at taking care of you.

“yeah, kid?” jack says gruffly, and you feel your body shudder under him. he takes himself in his hand, stroking gently, and then roughly, and it’s all you can do not to moan out loud—

“yeah,” you breathe, continuing on. “i couldn’t decide how it would be. gentle or-”

“always gentle,” he interjects. the words are in the form of a moan. that feeling returns to your stomach, hot and tight and winding up again. “always gentle with you—”

jack prods the thick head of his dick to the entrance of your cunt, moving it slightly up and down to collect your wetness. your eyes snap shut, mouth falling open at the sensation—unlike anything you’ve ever felt before.

of course it is, you think dumbly. how could anything, any stupid toy or your own fingers compare to this? 

you suck in a breath and it turns into a cry, one that comes out as jack’s name, as he pushes in just barely. even the tip stretches you open, a delicious, gentle burn that washes over your entire body. you feel it all over, your toes curling—

“jack, please, please-” you moan, not realizing that you had started begging. 

he thrusts the full length of his dick into you, and your moan turns into a scream. you hold onto his arms like they’re a lifeline, your eyes snapping shut.

your ears are still ringing from when he made you cum all over his tongue. this doesn’t help matters. jack is speaking to you, saying quiet things that you’re sure would make you lose your mind, but you can’t hear it right now.

all you can think about is the stretch of him. it’s unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, and stupidly, you wonder how you were ever satisfied by his thick fingers. 

he thrusts in and out, his hips brushing against yours with every turn. it’s all too much—the fullness and the way you feel him in your stomach and your chest and all over, your skin burning as his pace increases. 

jack leans down to give you another kiss, hot and wet, and you finally hear whatever he’s been saying—

“you’re perfect,” he says, the words a stuttered, pleasured grunt. “you’re perfect for me-”

your eyes shut tightly, soaking in the words. you didn’t even have to tell him, you think dumbly, he just knew. 

isn’t that what he’s always like? somehow, he always knows. whether in the hospital or your apartment or inside your very mind, at the core of your being—jack abbot knows.

you meet his mouth halfway, lips colliding as hot tears stream down your face. it’s all too much—the emotions that are lingering behind every word, how jack stretches you out, how he’s ruined you for anyone or anything else.

you don’t let him pull away from the kiss, demanding more while the pace of his hips gets faster and faster. the noise is just as obscene as you imagined—filling your room, the sound of your wetness and the scent of you and him combined in the air. 

you pulse around him when he pulls away—murmuring more words of praise for you, making your stomach tighten and your cunt clench around him. 

jack moves a little and you whine—he’s suddenly too far away for a kiss. but you can only linger on the thought for half a second, before you feel his rough fingers tracing circles on your overly sensitive clit again.

your legs jerk up, trying to kick against him, thrashing as much as you can from the position. jack’s body weight still holds you down, while he fucks in and out of you, his eyes singularly focused on where the two of you are combined.

“oh, jack—!” you cry out, the sensation of his fingers and his thickness suddenly too much. 

“come on, sweetheart. be good for me,” jack says, and that’s all it seems to take.

he doesn’t stop even for a moment, working you through it while your entire body tries to jolt up.

it explodes through you, a match lighting a flame that leads to a brilliant, hot blaze that burns through you. it’s almost painful, how sensitive your entire body feels, your cries and moans reduced to a throaty breath, panting while you try to regain your senses.

the senses remind you that jack’s still fucking you, your sensitive cunt spasming around him, clamping down in a way that you didn’t know was possible. 

“jack,” you repeat, the noise coming out as hiccup and a moan in one. he leans over you, bringing your lips together again. “jack, please-”

you beg, though you don’t know what you’re begging for. but just like always, you don’t have to say it for jack to know what you’re thinking.

your nails dig into flesh of his back and you feel it—jack’s hips start to stutter, and he buries his face in your neck. he says your name and over and over again, until it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore, and then—

“please, jack,” you beg. “i want to feel it-”

jack moans into your ear, his hips finally snapping almost painfully against yours, until you feel his body tremble. he finishes, hot spurts of cum filling you, making your eyes roll back in your head at the sensation. 

you can’t help but giggle when you feel jack’s body weight sink on top of you. it’s only a moment before he moves, but you think you could have stayed like that forever. 

he shifts the both of you until you’re nestled comfortably next to him, his thick arm wrapped around you, your eyes shutting again as he presses a kiss to your forehead.

the two of you stay like that for what feels like forever.

“i think it stopped raining,” jack says, and you sigh against him.

“can you stay?” you look up to meet his eyes. he doesn’t give you an answer just yet, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to your lips instead. you smile at him and he smiles back.

you lean your head against his chest.

“of course i can.”

“jack?” you ask quietly a few moments later, from your place in his arms. 

“yeah, kid?”

“do i still have to go back to the day shift?”

“no, kid. don’t worry about it right now.”

“okay,” you agree quietly. “jack?”

“yeah, sweetheart?”

“can you help me put up the black-out curtains?”

thanks for reading! ♡

[lovebugism]

⋆˚꩜.ᐟ TAKE CARE OF BUSINESS FOR ME ─── jack abbot

summary: your relationship with jack has always been 50/50: he buys you everything, and you let him. this arrangement, as he calls it, works perfectly - until you start to worry that you may not be the only one who's doing it with. (4k)

characters: jack abbot / fem!reader, mentor!michael robinavitch, baran al-hashimi, samira mohan

contents: friends with benefits, sugar daddy!jack, jealousy, angst, hurt/comfort, so much sexual tension cw for mentions of injuries, medical procedures, medical inaccuracies, heavy mentions of smut 18+ (MDNI)

( NAVIGATION ) | ( MASTERLIST ) | ( AO3 )

Jack Abbot rushes into the ER with a high-velocity GSW, a close call of his own, and a terribly smart mouth. 

Splotches of dark crimson stain the camo of heavy-duty tactical gear as he bursts through the double doors of the ambulance bay, squeezing rhythmically at the intubation bag he holds in a bloodied hand. You rush instantly from the work station to meet him halfway without a second thought.

“I thought you were off today,” you tell him, in lieu of a greeting, as you escort him to the nearest open trauma room from the opposite side of the gurney.

“Well, my therapist said I needed a hobby, so…” he quips, with sweat dripping from his greying curls. He manages to flash you a playful look in the midst of all the chaos as you situate the unconscious policeman in the center of the room. “What about you, huh? You’re supposed to be off, too— What’s your excuse?”

“Well, I had a strange feeling that I might see a pretty man in uniform today,” you shrug, slipping on a pair of gloves. “So I decided to work a double— See if my wish would come true.”

The corner of Jack’s mouth lifts into a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “Well, if you like this, you should see me as a flight attendant—”

Robby rushes in with Dr. Al-Hashimi just behind him a second later, shattering the playful tension between the two of you with a thousand different questions. You’re left as the only resident in a sea of attendings and nurses; Dr. Al passes you the reins accordingly. “This is a learning hospital, right? Time for you to learn how to be the boss, R4.”

“Hear that, Abbot?” you joke as the older man migrates inevitably to your side, smelling of blood and sweat and the cologne he always leaves on your pillow. “I’m the boss here.”

“Well, you could try to be a little more humble about it, sweetheart,” he squints and tugs on a disposable PPE gown, which Perlah helps him tie in the back. “Let’s do some skin hooks— 4 Shiley. Sound good?”

You hiss through your teeth and drag the clear blue sleeves of your own gown over your shoulders, while Robby stands behind you to knot the garment in place. “I don’t really like the curve of a Shiley… Especially not if we’re about to rush him up to the O.R.”

“I didn’t know you were so picky.”

“Well, you should know better than anyone, Dr. Abbot,” you grin. “Cut me an ET tube, will you? 6-0?”

“Yes, ma’am…” the older man nods and holds back his giddy grin until he turns away from you.

Robby grumbles a noise of disgust in the back of his throat in the meanwhile — quickly realizing that the two of you were much easier to stomach when you were working night shifts together, and he only had to see you for half an hour in passing, at most. 

“Jesus Christ— Get a room, you two.”

“Well, technically, this is a room,” Jack quips distantly as he returns to your side with the endotracheal tube in tow. You make room for him at the head of the gurney on instinct, and drape a thin blue cloth over the patient’s neck, centering the aperture over the gushing wound. 

Robby moves to the opposite side of the bed and pulls the haphazardly placed intubation bag from the man’s mouth with careful hands. “One without me in it, preferably,” he argues.

“Ooh…” you lilt. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Dr. Robby.”

“Just focus,” he scolds in a gritty tone of voice.

“You need to find the second and third tracheal rings,” Dr. Al instructs, sliding between the crowd and motioning to his neck with her gloved pinky. “You’ll be able to feel them with your fingers— just make the incision through the cricoid cartilage and be careful to avoid hitting the vocal cords, yeah?”

She flashes you a dark, doe-eyed, and distantly unamused look, seemingly immune to the playful banter surrounding her. 

You nod once, scalpel in hand. “Yes, ma’am.”

You make the incision while Jack preps the tube. You work together with deft hands and a relative silence, aside from a few procedural directions. For the most part, the two of you communicate without words — you locate the man’s ruptured trachea in a sea of bright red blood while Jack slides the thin tubing to make an airway.

“I’m in,” he blurts after a few tense minutes. “Balloon up.”

The rapid beeping of his dropping SATs begins to even out almost instantly. 

“I’ll sew the tracheal to the skin,” you announce within a sigh of relief. “2-0 silk, please.”

Jack passes you the round of sutures with a proud nod and a quiet smile. “Not too shabby, Doc… We make a pretty good team.”

“Or maybe I’m just really good at telling you what to do, Abbot,” you quip.

“Yeah,” he shrugs. “That, too.”

Robby and Dr. Al take their leave when the chaos dissipates, and Garcia comes down from the O.R. for a consultation. They trade the crowded trauma room for an equally crowded emergency department — slowly filling to the brim, like a pot bound to boil over. But, even still, it’s not nearly as tense as whatever you and Abbot have going on.

“Are they always like that?” the woman wonders aloud, nodding her tied-back curls towards the room behind them.

“Yep…” Robby nods with a heavy sigh, rubbing hand sanitizer between his calloused palms. “But they’re not usually dayshift, so… My philosophy is— let the night crew deal with it.”

You and Jack decide to follow Robby’s advice and find a room of your own — on the half-abandoned wing of the eighth floor, where everything smells like dust and time gone by, and the dying overhead lights only work a quarter of the time. It’s a good enough place to be alone with him, though; it gives you ample time to patch up the wound on his shoulder, and saves Jack the trouble of getting caught with the injury and being forced to fill out a mountain of paperwork accordingly.

He sits on the edge of the hospital bed with his shirt off and his broad arms crossed over his chest. The tendons in his freckled back twitch despite himself when you smooth a fresh bandage over his freshly cleaned scrape.

“Does it feel okay?” you ask him.

“Yep…” he nods once, trying and failing to get a peek of the gauze from over his shoulder. “Fine.”

Your concern doesn’t waver. Your brows lower with it, in a palpable look of worry that etches across your face. “You’d tell me if you were, like, in pain, though, right?”

Jack ponders for a moment, lips jutting faintly. “No, probably not,” he answers, too blunt for his own good.

“Well. At least you’re honest…”

You sigh and turn on the heel of your sneaker to chuck the dirtied napkins and crumpled wrappers into the bin across the room. Jack watches you go with something mischievous glimmering in his gaze.

“But I am fine, though— If you’re really all that worried about me,” he assures you with a quiet smile. “I’m a little banged up, but… I’ll survive.”

“So I can still come over tonight?” you wonder, half-shy.

Jack nods slowly and tilts his scruffy chin to keep your gaze when you walk the short distance back over to him. “Yes, sweetheart— I still plan on buying you dinner tonight,” he answers in a dry, sarcastic lilt.

Because that’s usually how it goes nowadays. You keep him company for a night, and he gets you food, pays off your grocery bill, or covers your rent — and then you go to work the next day like none of it ever happened. 

It didn’t always used to be that way, though, this quid pro quo thing that the two of you had struck up over time. Jack bought things for you because he cared about you, because he didn’t want you to go hungry or homeless when he knew he had the money to help. It was all a part of his job, he figured, to help his residents out whenever he could. But, somewhere down the line, he became more than just your attending, and a whole lot less than your boyfriend. It was more like a secret, third thing that the two of you never bothered to put a label on.

You frown. “That’s not why I was asking, smartass.”

“Well, that’s the arrangement, though, right?”

“Calling it an arrangement makes it sound like I’m your— mail-order bride or something,” you scoff and cross your arms over his chest, following his form with a squinted gaze as he reaches for his discarded shirt. “You don’t have to make it sound so formal, Jack. I know this is fun for you, too.”

“Well, I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t…” he quips with a faint wince as he slides the thin black t-shirt over his head, grimacing at the burn that blooms beneath the bandage as he does so.

“And no pressure or anything, obviously, but, uh…” You trail off and swallow hard, struggling to find the courage to continue as your eyes flit everywhere but at the man before you. “My student loans are about to hit for this month, and I—”

“I know,” Jack interjects with a polite nod. “I already took care of it.”

You lose your breath almost instantly, for a reason you can’t quite name.

“…Seriously?”

He scoffs like it’s obvious and rises from the bed, towering several inches over you. “Well, yeah. I told you, sweetheart— You don’t have to worry about that stuff anymore. As per the arrangement...” he croons lowly, with a playful half-smile, before bending softly at the waist to press a fleeting kiss to your lips.

You’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe to respond.

You struggle to finish the rest of your charting through the thoughts of Jack still plaguing your mind. You don’t think you’ve been so taken care of before; so seen, so held. You’re not entirely sure what to do with all of it now — these feelings that you’re harboring for your boss, of which you’re almost certain there is no room for in such an arrangement, as he so lovingly calls it. 

Because he doesn’t take care of you because he loves you. He takes care of you so you’ll come over at the end of every night, and remind him what it feels like to be a little less lonely. And even still, you run hopelessly to his side anyway — half-ashamed because you don’t even care that he’s using you; half-ashamed because you like it.

“Have you seen Dr. Abbot?” Samira wonders through panted breaths, disrupting your distracted train of thought. She enters your tunnel vision from the opposite side of the desk, and all of a sudden, you’re back in the E.R. The distant droning of constant noise fills your ears when you’re shoved back to reality again. “I’ve been trying to find him for, like, ten minutes at this point.”

“Uh… No— Not recently, no,” you stammer.

Her chest deflates with an exhaled breath. “Shit…”

Your eyes narrow as they scan over her form, frazzled and sweaty, with dark curls falling out of her claw clip to frame either side of her face. “You okay? What happened?”

She sighs and leans her elbows on the desk in front of her.

“Nothing, I just… I should’ve planned this better,” she murmurs, mostly to herself. She talks with her hands as she rambles, “My patient doesn’t have any insurance. And he’s already in a mountain of medical debt as it is, so I was gonna send him home with some supplies, right? But then I lost him, and I was gonna Uber the stuff to his house, but then Dr. Abbot said he’d pay for it, and… Now I can’t find either of them, so…”

She trails off with a deep huff.

You forget that it’s your turn to respond, too hung up on the fact that Jack had offered to help her pay. It shouldn’t bother you as much as it does, but it hits you like a punch to the stomach all the same. Because you weren’t special, Jack was just kind; and you’re only realizing now that this arrangement of yours was never exactly exclusive.

“Sorry,” Samira shakes her head. “I know I’m rambling. It’s just… been a long day.”

You blink rapidly, clearing the haze of hurt from your eyes. “No, I— I totally get it. You should check upstairs. He might be with Hiro in the O.R.”

“Thanks,” she says with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes, that disappears the second she heads back for the elevator across the room.

You return to your charting when she’s gone, but forget to do any of it. You lose yourself in the void of the stark white computer screen, instead, while your hurt and distant jealousy scratches at your chest from the inside out.

Robby watches from afar, giving you a few minutes alone, before dismissing himself from the interns and shattering your cynical stream of consciousness. “How’s the charting coming along?” he asks in lieu of a greeting as he walks to stand at your side.

“Great,” you deadpan, muffled into the hands holding up your heavy head.

He scoffs out a quiet laugh. “Not to say I told you so, but… I did kinda tell you so…”

You turn slowly, peeking at him with one glaring eye as he leans against the desk beside you with his arm crossed over his chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you question in a gritty monotone.

“I told you not to get involved with Abbot,” Robby shrugs. “Not until you were done with your residency— ‘cause you already repeated one year, and if you want that neuro fellowship, you can’t have Jack screwing with your head.”

“Oh, yeah?” you squint, feigning interest as you slouch back in your chair. “The same way you screwed with Heather’s? When you got her pregnant when she was your resident?”

You say it to hurt him, and you can tell that it does, though it doesn’t feel as rewarding as you thought it would.

“Yeah, actually…” Robby nods and scratches at the greying patch in his beard. There’s a hurt look swimming in his dark eyes that almost makes you cower when he peers down at you. “Look, kid. I don’t care what you and Abbot get up to in your free time. That’s not what this is. But I’ve known you since you were an MS3— and I know you’re gonna go off to do great things, because I’m the one that taught you, right?”

Your frown deepens.

He smiles wider. “I just don’t want some relationship getting in your head, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s not, so…” you trail off with a less than convincing waver in your voice. 

“Really?” he hums, eyes narrowing in a challenging squint. “Have you checked in with that fellowship you wanted?”

You smack your lips against your teeth. “Not yet…”

“And why’s that?”

“When did you become my mom, exactly, Dr. Robby?” you joke and spin in your chair to face him. “‘Cause it feels a little like you’re reprimanding me here—”

“I am reprimanding you,” he tells you, only partially joking, before turning at the distant call of his name. He stands to full height again and flashes you a playfully stern look as he walks away. “Take care of it, alright? Or else I’m grounding you.”

“For how long?” you call after him.

“However long it takes to get your head out of your ass—”

You’re left reeling for the rest of the day, trapped in a merciless cycle of want and unwavering doubt. 

Jack is not yet close enough, even when he’s all but smothering you in the center of his bed, pressing you into the mussed sheets below with his broad body propped on top of yours. He smells distinctly of sweat, stale cologne, and the steak dinner he took you to after your shift ended. 

You wrap your arms around his freckled shoulders in a feeble attempt to pull him impossibly closer, careful to avoid the bandage still stuck on his left shoulder blade. You bury your nose in his greying curls while he sprinkles warm, wet kisses along the tendons of your neck, relishing in the salty tang of sweat staining your skin.

But even as he slots himself between your spread thighs, even as he marks his territory in the lovebites he litters on your collarbone, you can’t shake the feeling that he’d rather be somewhere else — that there’s someone else he’s thinking of, someone else he’ll call after you’ve left for home, someone else he’ll take care of when you’re gone.

The train of thought leads you inevitably back to the root of your cynicism, which you struggle to shake out of your mind once the visual has entered it.

“Did you ever find Samira?” you hear yourself ask, shattering the honeyed quiet of his lamplit bedroom. 

Jack’s head is far too cloudy to hear you properly the first time. 

He pulls away from you with a quiet smack and sits back on his haunches. Your hands fall to your stomach, clad only in a thin white tank top, while his rest over your bare thighs, propped on either side of his waist. Your cotton panties are the only thing keeping you hidden from him now, and his form-fitting boxers cradle a hardening length that threatens to make your mouth water.

He wears a swirled look of confusion across his scruffy face, along with his spit on his swollen, kissbitten mouth, as he asks, “Did I ever find what?”

“Samira,” you echo, brows raised to your hairline. “She was looking for you a little bit before we left— Said she needed your help paying for something.”

“Oh. Yeah,” Jack hums, pale shoulders bouncing in a lazy shrug. “Her patient needed some supplies Ubered to his house, so… I took care of it. No big deal.”

He bends down to kiss you again, but freezes with his nose pressed against the bridge of yours when he feels you tense below him. His heavy sigh fans warm across your jaw before he sits back again, features screwed in a faint grimace.

“And I’m realizing now that that’s probably not the best phrase to use, but… I was just helping out a friend— a patient, actually,” he rambles. “That’s it.”

Your eyes narrow in a playful squint. 

“That’s it?” you echo.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” Jack scoffs and shifts between your thighs, lifting your hips with his wide hands cradling your ass and bending at the waist to press his mouth over the bow in the center of your underwear. “The only girl getting her student loans paid off by me, is you.”

He leaves another chaste kiss on the cotton of your panties, right over the place where you throb like a heartbeat for him. Your stomach blooms with warmth.

“Because I’m special or because you don’t have the money to afford anyone else?” you ask.

Jack squints, light eyes glimmering with mischief in the low light. “Because you’re special and because I don’t have the money to afford anyone else. How about that?”

You roll your eyes despite the soft smile hinting at the corners of your mouth. “Just get to work, Dr. Abbot,” you scold in a distant monotone.

“With pleasure,” he mumbles, right before sliding his fingers through the hem of your underwear, pulling them to the side, and kissing your glittering pussy the way he would your mouth.

The lamplit bedroom swells with panted breaths and the heavy scent of sex. 

Jack slouches against the headboard, heavy-eyed and wearing a mixture of your cum and spit down to his scruffy chin. His toned chest is coated in a thin layer of hair and glittering sweat. You watch a rogue bead trail down his sternum from where you’re perched on top of him — with the sheets bunched around your hips, and your thighs straddling his waist. Your pussy still clenches with the aftershocks of your orgasm while his spent cock softens slowly inside of you. 

His calloused hands trail slowly up and down the length of your torso — from your shoulder blades, down to your ribs, over the bend of your waist, and up again. His touch is softer than summer rain, warmer than the cum leaking slowly out of you now.

“Do you think you could write me a letter of recommendation?” you ask, tracing the freckles on his chest with your pointer finger. “You know, for the neuro fellowship we talked about?”

“Wow…” Jack croons drily, brows raised to his hairline. His words slur slightly together as he comes down from the remnants of his high. “No aftercare, huh? Not even a little pillow talk? Just… straight to the point?”

You flash him a playfully stern look from beneath your lashes, lips quirking in a shy smile. “‘M just asking a question…”

“Yeah, while I’m still inside you,” he scoffs a tired laugh. “You know you don’t have to sex with me to get what you want—”

You frown. “That’s not what I was—”

“—You can just ask.”

“I’m having sex with you because I like it, Jack,” you blurt, very foreignly stern with him, as your eyes harden in a glare. “And I’m asking you for a letter of rec because I respect your opinion—”

“And because you don’t trust Robby to give you a good one, I’m assuming?” he quips with an arched brow.

“Exactly,” you nod.

Jack laughs. You can feel it rumbling in his chest beneath your palms. “I’ll e-mail it to you later. How about that?”

“There’s no rush,” you assure him. “Seriously. I haven’t even applied for it yet—”

“Don’t worry about it. I already wrote it.”

He steals the breath from your lungs for the second, third, or hundredth time that day.

“You already wrote it?” you echo, brows furrowed. “When?”

“When you told me about it the first time,” he confesses, bouncing a bare shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I knew you’d need a letter of rec eventually, so... I wrote while I had some free time and just… waited for you to ask, I guess.”

Your face screws with skepticism. It burns somewhere in your chest, too. 

Even with him softening inside of you, leaking out of you, you can’t help but feel slightly suspicious of his sincerity. You still can’t quite believe that he cares about you this much.

“…Really?”

“Yeah,” he laughs and squeezes gently at your sides. “Why do you look so shocked? I do care about you outside of… all this. You know that, right?”

“I didn’t…” you confess, painfully shy, and lacking the courage to meet his gaze for several long moments. You focus instead on your hands, and the shapes you trace along his chest. “Not until now…”

“Well, what do I gotta do to prove it to you, huh?” Jack asks within a huff as he rises from his slouched position against the headboard. 

The mattress creaks softly as his weight shifts. His warm chest presses firmly to yours, smothering your breasts against his heartbeat, as he cradles you to his chest. His glittering eyes dart back and forth between the two of yours as he says, “I’ve already given you everything, sweetheart…”

“I don’t want everything,” you murmur with a shake of your head, unable to tear your gaze from his attentive one. “I just want you.” 

[amandamariee]

jack abbot fic recs (my military doctor husband)

scar tissue by @inlovewithquestionablecharacters

rumors by @yawnlovescookies

lost and found by @zivistardust

↳ i gave it to her by @/zivistardust

in the way by @mehchuis

a little old for you by @thesewordsareallihavetogive

emergency contact by @imaginesofwonder

plenty of fish by @katchamb3rs

place your bets by @theadventuresoftheunknown

doc, i think she's crashing out by @softundermoonlight

after hours by @abbotafterhours

night shift by @lilyswritings

coming around again by @lovebugism

nanny by @bitters-n-sweets

honesty is the best policy by @moondustfairies

prove you wrong by @cryonme

is this it by @lovableapocalypse

cologne and money by @relaxdiva

don''t worry by @abbots-go-bag

she's my wife by @petalsforjoy

call me by @butyoudidthis4what

these walls have eyes by @asxgard

the night shift by @betonlosingdogs

this fic by @belleeebelleee

let me take care of you by @voidsagent

↳ 10 things i hate about you by @/voidsagent

↳ tiny hands by @/voidsagent

a side of sweetness by @i-love-hozier

tuesday by @notyourlovemonkey

emergency contact by @kalila

busy bee by @mercvry-glow

cry into him by @richeeduvie

too sweet by @pencil-n-pen

↳ you've ruined my life by@/pencil-n-pen

distance by @s-writing-s

where the hell is my husband by @imaginesofwonder

↳ happily married by @/imaginesofwonder

married? by @yawnlovescookies

on me by @snoopysupe

kisses and made up by @targaryenluvs