...part of a personal illustration i've been working on that started in 2022 but was never totally happy with, reworking the original idea into a new illustration of Sophie + Howl in my art style. still got a bit to go before finished
summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you're an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
tags: accidental marriage, slow burn romance, HR involvement, nosy coworkers, reader is a PGY-4 resident, jack is not a widow in this fic, possible medical/legal inaccuracies, fluff, smut
word count: 8.7k
a/n: ahh it's the final chapter😭 honestly such a bittersweet feeling. i've loved writing this fic and finding that passion again, and i can't thank you guys enough for being here and encouraging me! it's been such a blessing to have you engage with this fic almost every week for months now (!) i appreciate you all lots!! i'm gonna take some time to write the other things i've been wanting to, while, of course, still checking in on these two here and there :D and who knows, maybe someday, i'll even write a sequel...😚 as always, i hope you enjoy!! <333
p.s. to anyone who cares, i might go back in the future and edit the chapters (stuff like minor grammar things and sentence structures that i don't like etc)
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series!
Diagnosis: Married | Masterlist
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
Previous part | The end
The early afternoon sun beats down on the backyard as you stand a few steps from the pavilion, one hand shielding your eyes while you squint up at the string lights.
Jack, balanced on top of a chair, glances over at you. "Higher?"
You nod. " A little."
He raises the strand another inch.
You tilt your head, taking another step as you study it. "That's perfect."
He climbs down, brushing his hands together as he steps beside you.
The pavilion stands in the corner of the yard, a couple of tables stashed under it along with some chairs. White tablecloths flutter gently in the breeze, little jars of wildflowers scattered across the tables between empty serving platters waiting to be filled.
Jack had spent most of yesterday putting it all together, with the help of Robby, refusing to sit down for more than a few minutes at a time until everything looked just right.
"One more thing to cross off the list," he says.
You sigh. "Only twenty thousand more to go."
"Hey," he murmurs. His fingers find your chin, gently turning your head toward him. "Breathe. We've got this."
You take a slow breath as you look into his calm eyes. His thumb brushes along your jaw before he releases his grip.
"We need to get the drinks outside—they're ready in coolers inside the garage—but I'm gonna wait to bring them out. Otherwise, they'll get warm." His hand finds yours. "We'll fire the grill after the guests have arrived. Everything needed for that is either by the grill or in the fridge." He glances around the yard as his thumb brushes your knuckles absentmindedly. "What else do we need to do, honey?"
You take another breath, collecting your thoughts. His fingers squeeze yours gently. "Uh… The welcome drinks still need to be made. More chairs. Oh, and the snacks need to be plated and brought outside." Your gaze sweeps over the yard before finally dropping to yourself. "I also need to get ready."
Jack nods. "I've got the chairs and snacks—" He waves away your concern. "Robby'll be here any minute to help me."
Your brows pinch together. A flutter of nerves runs through you.
He steps closer, his expression softening. "You go get the drinks and yourself ready, okay? No stressing. This is supposed to be a fun day."
"Yeah… You're right."
"I usually am." He smirks and pinches your side gently. Your startled yelp dissolves into laughter before he catches your lips with his. His kiss is warm and eager, and you happily let him drag you closer.
"Ahem." Olivia's voice cuts through the moment from the open patio doors.
You freeze in Jack's arms but still allow him to steal one more kiss. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch her standing in the doorway, hands planted firmly on her hips.
"When I agreed to come by and help," she says, "I didn't realise that meant you two making out and me doing all the work."
"We are working," you reply.
"Mm." She doesn't look convinced.
You slip out of Jack's arms and turn towards her, gesturing to the pavilion. "Look."
"Very pretty," she concedes, "But I've been watching from the window. No one did any work the last ten minutes."
"Creep," you mutter.
"Please," she waves you off. "Somebody had to make sure you two actually got something done."
You stick your tongue out at her.
She rolls her eyes but can't hide the smile that tugs at her lips. "Come help me before I start looking through your closet for my sweater. I know you have it."
"It's my sweater," you shout as she disappears inside again. You turn back to Jack. "I'd better go."
He grins. "I didn't know your thieving streak went that far back."
"I didn't steal her sweater."
He shrugs as he steps closer. "Well. You keep stealing my hoodies, so the evidence—"
"It's not the same," you argue but still step into his arms again.
His face nears yours again. "Is that so?"
"Mm," you hum. You press a quick kiss to his lips, then spin out of his grip before he manages to hold on. You point at him from a few feet away. "Snacks. Chairs."
"Yes, ma'am." He gives you a mock salute.
You grin, shaking your head as you slip away to the kitchen.
The kitchen counters are a mess by the time you walk in. Half a dozen bottles clutter the island alongside empty bowls, bunches of mints, straws and more glasses than you remember owning.
Olivia is standing in the middle of the chaos, wooden spoon in hand as she stirs a huge bowl of punch.
She looks up when she hears you come in. "Finally."
"I didn't take that long," you say.
She sends you a look.
You nudge her shoulder as you pass her to wash your hands. "Cut me some slack. It's a special day."
"I'll cut you some slack after we finish these drinks." She shoves a lemon into your hand, the second after you've dried your hands, then points to the mountain of citrus fruits lining the counter. "You'd better start cutting if we wanna be done before the guests arrive."
Your eyes widen, lips turning downwards. "Damn."
"Yeah," she laughs. "You were the one who wanted to decorate the drinks."
"I regret that now," you murmur.
A comfortable silence settles between you as you work through the pile of fruit. Olivia begins pouring the punch into glasses, carefully finishing each one with slices of citrus and fresh berries.
Having Olivia here since yesterday has been your saving grace. She's so in tune with you that she knows exactly when to tease you and when to go easy. She's kept track of everything your frazzled mind has forgotten, stepping in to organise Robby and Jack whenever they needed direction. You honestly don't know what you'd have done without her.
"So," she says after a moment as she begins cutting strawberries. "How are you holding up?"
You shrug, reaching over to grab a watermelon. "I think I'm okay."
"Yeah?" She looks over at you.
You nod. You're nervous, yes—but underneath it all, you're excited. "I just want everyone to have a good time."
"Oh, trust me. They will," she assures you. "I honestly can't wait to see their faces."
You grin at her before turning your attention back to the cutting board. You cut the watermelon into bite-sized pieces, placing them in a bowl that Olivia brings you.
She leans against the counter next to you. "You know, I'm really happy for you. I know I've said it before, but—"
You blink, caught off guard by the emotion in her voice.
"I've seen you in relationships before, and yes, you were happy," she says, "but this is different. You're different."
"I am?"
"Yeah. It's a good different," she says, popping a strawberry into her mouth.
"Phew," you say, laughing.
She pushes her foot against your leg. "You know what I mean. I'm just—I'm happy for you."
You send her a soft smile. You do know what she means.
Because it is different.
You still work ridiculous hours. There are days when you barely see Jack because day shift needs help, and all you get of each other is a few minutes during handoff. Some mornings are nothing more than sleepy kisses over coffee before you crash. Some evenings are takeout on the couch because neither of you has the energy to cook.
It's so different from what you shared with previous boyfriends. It's also so much better.
It's not just the easy days. It's knowing when he needs his wheelchair and getting it without him having to ask. It's him reminding you that you've earned your job—that you're good at it—on the nights you can't believe it yourself. It's showing up for each other when there's nothing glamorous about it all.
You wouldn't change a thing about it.
"I'm happy, too," you admit quietly.
Olivia smiles as she steals a bit of watermelon. "Good. You deserve to be."
The room falls quiet for a moment as she helps you scoop all the fruit into different bowls.
"I was also," she says as she sets a bowl down, "wondering if the two of you have talked about…" She looks at you, wiggling her eyebrows. "You know."
You narrow your eyes at her. "We're barely married."
She scoffs, glancing down at the stone that glints off your finger. "I don't know anyone who's getting married twice."
You make a face at her.
"Besides, with the two of you, you never know."
"Oh, so that's how it is, huh?" You point a spoon at her. "What about you and Robby, then? How was the drive from the airport yesterday? Did you talk?"
She glares at you before lifting both hands in surrender. "Okay. Truce. You fight dirty."
"That's what I thought," you say, grinning smugly. You clap your hands as you look over the counter of finished drinks. "All done."
Olivia nods. "Just missing you, now."
You glance at your strawberry-patterned pyjamas. "I don't know—I feel like this screams 'Summer Barbeque' attire."
She huffs and grabs your arm to pull you with her. "You and Jack need to work on your jokes. He's been making the same ones all morning. We get it. It's not just a barbecue."
Through the open bedroom window, a muffled burst of laughter drifts in from outside. You don't say anything, but you notice the way Olivia's mouth pulls into a tiny smile at the sound of Robby.
She stands beside the chair she'd ordered you into, a makeup brush tucked between her fingers and an open eyeshadow palette balanced in her hand. She's already worked her magic on your hair, rearranging loose strands until every piece sits exactly where she wants it.
She sweeps a shimmer across your eyelids, tilting your head gently with her fingertips whenever she needs a better angle. It feels strangely familiar.
For a moment, you're back in college—sitting on her dorm room floor while she helped you get ready for parties. It's the same teasing, the same steady hands, the same feeling that she's got your back no matter what.
Twenty minutes later, she twists the lid back onto your lipstick. "Done," she says.
"Can I look?"
"Not yet." She steps over to her bag and returns with a pair of small blue pearl earrings. "Your something blue."
"Oh." You hadn't expected that. Warmth spreads through your chest as she helps you put them in. You catch her hand. "Thank you."
She just nods at you, then takes a step back. For several seconds, she just looks at you.
"Liv?"
Her smile wavers, and she blinks rapidly. "You look stunning." Her voice comes out softer than usual.
You swallow around the sudden tightness that has climbed up from your chest. Before either of you can get too emotional, she reaches for the dress hanging in the closet.
"C'mon. Let's get you into that dress before you make me cry."
You laugh softly as you step out of your pyjamas and into the dress. It's a white, flowy dress that you found a couple of weeks ago. It's simple enough that nobody would think twice about seeing you wear it to a summer barbecue, yet beautiful enough that it feels perfect for today. Olivia's fingers work quickly, tying the delicate bows on top of each shoulder before smoothing the fabric across your back.
When you look into her eyes, they're glistening. She blinks and smooths a wrinkle that isn't there.
"Hey, don't. You'll make me cry," you say.
"Don't you dare," she warns you. "I just spent ages doing your makeup."
"Well, you stop then," you argue, but your voice comes out hoarser than intended.
Olivia clears her throat and nods toward the mirror. "Go look."
You walk over to the full-length mirror. For a second, you just… stare. The woman looking back at you looks completely at peace. No pretending. No forcing a smile. She's just… happy.
Beside you, Olivia leans against the dresser.
"I…" You laugh softly, smoothing your hands down the fabric. "I actually look nice. Thank you."
She snorts. "Nice? You're drop-dead gorgeous."
You huff but don't disagree, turning to wrap your arms around her. She hugs you back just as tightly.
She lets you go after a moment. "Right. I should probably make myself look presentable." She nudges you toward the door. "Go make sure everything's ready outside."
"You sure?"
She nods. "I'll be out in a minute."
You step into the living room, heels clacking against the hardwood floor. The patio doors stand halfway open, carrying in bursts of conversation from outside as well as the scraping of chairs.
Just as you're about to head outside, the door slides fully open.
Jack steps into the house, a clean dish towel in one hand. He's changed into the navy polo you'd once casually mentioned brought out his hazel eyes.
He looks so handsome.
He takes one step, then looks up. Then he stops.
Completely.
The towel slips from his fingers onto the floor.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. His eyes travel over you slowly, lingering as though he's trying to memorise every detail.
Your smile turns shy. "Hi."
He doesn't answer. His throat works around a swallow. For a moment, he just looks at you.
"Jack?"
He blinks once, dragging a hand across his jaw. "…Hi."
You laugh softly. "Are you okay?"
He lets out a shaky breath, finally meeting your eyes. "I don't…" He shakes his head, sneaking another glance across your body. "I don't think I've ever seen anything as beautiful as you."
Heat blooms across your cheeks at the awe written so plainly across his face.
"You.." He laughs quietly to himself, still looking completely overwhelmed. "Sweetheart…" He shifts his weight uncertainly.
You close the distance. As your arms wrap over his shoulders, his hands find your waist automatically. "You really are trouble."
You grin. The nickname has followed you through almost every version of yourselves—colleagues, friends, something complicated in between, and now this.
Now love.
You lift a hand, brushing your thumb gently beneath one of his eyes. "Are you crying?"
He catches your hand, but instead of pulling it away, he presses it closer to his face. For a moment, you can see him considering a lie, but then a tear slips free and lands on your skin.
He closes his eyes. "…Maybe."
"Oh, honey." You laugh.
He laughs, too, and the sound is lighter than it usually is. He cups your face carefully, looking you deeply in the eye. "I can't believe you're mine."
You tilt your cheek into his hand, nuzzling closer. "Well, you'd better believe it soon, because I'm not going anywhere."
"Good." He kisses you softly. "I wouldn't be able to take it if you were."
Your lips part to answer, but Robby's voice booms through the open doors before you can.
"Abbot! Where should I put the chairs?"
Jack closes his eyes briefly. "…Give me ten seconds," he shouts back.
"You've already had ten!"
You giggle.
Jack sighs dramatically, but the smile gives him away. He presses one lingering kiss to your lips before he steps back. "I should probably go make sure he doesn't leave them all in one pile."
When he reaches the doors, he glances back, still grinning. Still looking at you with that expression that makes you feel like he can't quite believe you're standing there.
By the time you step back outside with the final tray of welcome drinks, the backyard is buzzing. Music drifts softly from the speakers, mixing with the chatter of half a dozen conversations. Coolers are already open, bottles clinking as people help themselves. The snack bowls are half empty, and the fruit platters already have generous gaps in them.
It's rare for healthcare workers to have time to eat without being interrupted, and judging by the speed the food is disappearing, everyone's making up for lost time.
"Oh, wow." Parker sidles up beside you, looking you up and down with an appreciative grin. "You clean up pretty well."
You laugh as you do a spin for her.
"Honestly," Trinity cuts in, reaching for a piece of watermelon. "Abbot better watch out. If he ever fumbles this, you let me know."
"Girl, get in line," Parker says, throwing her a sideways look.
You shake your head, laughing at them. You hand them both a drink.
Parker smiles. "What? I can't remember the last time I saw you out of scrubs. I'm allowed to appreciate it."
You hum, shrugging lightly. "Not that many chances to get all dressed up."
"I invited you out last week?" Trinity says.
"Okay," you concede. "Not that many days where I'm off and can get dressed up. Better?"
She scrunches her nose, but nods. Her gaze then drops to your hand where your engagement ring glints in the afternoon sunlight. She blinks. "Damn. Abbot's loaded."
You roll your eyes, but before you can answer her, Shen appears with a drink in hand. "I'm letting you know as a courtesy that I expect this to be a yearly tradition."
You raise an eyebrow. "Oh?"
He shrugs, taking a sip. "Yeah. Good food. Good company, and nobody's calling me about a patient. Only thing missing is—"
"Coffee," Parker finishes with a groan.
"That's not what I was gonna say," he says, turning to her with an affronted look.
"Uh huh."
You smile as you watch them get into their usual bickering.
Before you can linger, someone catches your arm, and the next twenty minutes disappear in a blur.
A hug from a nurse you worked with in your surgical rotation. A quick conversation with one of your old pediatric attendings. A resident from the ICU stopping you just long enough to compliment your dress before getting distracted by someone calling their name.
The backyard feels impossibly full. Nurses, residents, attendings, people from departments you only crossed paths with during rotations—somehow they're all here now, laughing together like they've known each other for ages.
Most importantly, your people are spread all over the garden. Mel sits nearby with Frank, Dennis, Perlah and Princess, all waiting their turn to hold Donnie's baby. Dana stands near the grill with Robby, Jack and Lena. Lily catches you as she passes by with her boyfriend, squeezing your arm with a smile, before heading to the corner where the other nurses sit and chat.
Jack's friends from SWAT start arriving not long after. Introductions are fleeting but still warm, and Jack's face lights up as more of his teammates arrive.
Someone compliments the decorations. Someone else asks where you found the flowers. Two of Jack's teammates stop you to properly introduce themselves, explaining that they've heard so much about you. They also try to convince you to get Jack back on tasks, which he hasn't done since that day. You tell them politely that it's up to Jack, secretly grateful that he hasn't been back.
Somewhere between the drinks and the laughter and people filling the backyard, you realise how much bigger your life has become. From being the disappointment at home, the daughter that never could be enough, to being and working with people who think you're enough as you are.
For a moment, you just take it all in.
You catch Jack's eye as your gaze sweeps over the yard. He tilts his head, asking a silent question, and you nod. You walk steadily through the crowd toward him as he mutters something into Robby's ear.
Just as you step up onto the patio, Jack clinks his bottle, the clear ringing note carrying across the space. Conversations slowly begin to fade, heads turning to you. Jack's arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close.
He clears his throat, his fingers tightening around your side for the briefest moment before relaxing again. "Thanks for coming, everyone. We know getting this many healthcare workers together on the same day is basically impossible. So…thank you for making it happen."
He takes a slightly deeper breath than usual as he glances around the yard. "Now, I know we called this our end-of-summer barbeque—"
You feel your heartbeat start to pick up. Jack's thumb strokes absentmindedly along your side, grounding you like he knows exactly what your nerves are doing.
"—but there was another reason we wanted everyone here."
Confused looks pass through the crowd.
"We've all heard the complaints," you say. "So…" You take a slow breath, a twinkle beginning to shine in your eye. "We figured we'd do something about it."
You can see Shen's frown deepening.
"We thought…maybe you'd all like to come to our wedding?"
For a moment, nobody reacts. Samira stares at you. Parker looks from you to Jack, then over at Dana, who's already smiling, clearly trying to figure out if everyone else knew something she didn't.
Trinity is the first to find her voice. "You're kidding."
And then it starts to click. The dress. The decorations. The way you and Jack had been acting about this 'party'. The realisation moves through the yard like a wave—then chaos erupts. It's a loud jumble of disbelief, laughter and cursing.
Shen is still trying to process what just happened. You catch Parker shaking her head at you, grinning wider than you've ever seen. Off to the side, Olivia is already recording the moment with a wide smile.
Robby steps forward beside the two of you after people begin to quiet down. He grins. "Shall we get to it?"
He gestures for people to move closer, and waits until everyone has settled, then he turns to look at you and Jack.
"So, I was one of the people complaining I didn't get to be there for the first wedding. I guess my nagging paid off because you asked me to officiate this one."
You smile.
Robby's smile softens. "I'm really glad you asked. But frankly, I would have been offended if you didn't—I've aged at least ten years because of you two."
"Okay." You hold up your hands as Robby laughs.
"It was worth it." He turns back to the crowd. "Because you two were always meant for each other."
"I've known Jack for a long time." He glances at him. "When I first met him, I honestly wasn't convinced anyone would ever be able to put up with him."
Jack glares at him.
Robby continues, nonetheless. "He works too much. Forgets to eat if no one reminds him. Also keeps insisting he doesn't need help when he very obviously does. Like earlier when he tried to carry seven ch—" Robby's voice catches as Jack puffs his shoulder.
Dana laughs loudly.
"Never mind." Robby's gaze shifts to you. "And then you came along." The teasing leaves his voice. "I've never seen him happier."
You glance at Jack. He's already looking at you.
"I've also never seen him so thoroughly outmatched."
Jack laughs.
"You keep him honest. You remind him to slow down. And somehow…" He smiles at you both. "…your craziness matches. You make each other better."
He turns back to you. "You were a pain in my ass when you were a resident. Headstrong. Unafraid. Always getting into trouble." He lifts a finger when your mouth opens to argue. "So damn argumentative. But you were also one of my best residents. So smart and brave. Always able to see things from a different perspective. We were lucky to have you."
You swallow.
"Now, Jack's the lucky one."
"Damn right," Jack murmurs.
Robby takes a slow breath. "So. Speaking as someone who's had a front-row seat to every stupid thing these two have done…" He looks from Jack to you. "I can't think of two people better suited for each other."
He lets the silence linger for a moment before clapping his hands together. "Right. I am, apparently, supposed to say something official." He reaches into his pocket and unfolds a piece of paper. "We're here today to join two people in matrimony—well, for the second time. We're here because marriage isn't just one day. It isn't just paperwork. It isn't even the vows you're about to hear."
He looks up. "It's every ordinary day that comes afterwards. It's the early mornings, the late nights, the takeaway dinners because you're too tired to cook. It's choosing each other over and over again. On the easy days, and especially on the hard days. Today isn't about starting your marriage. It's about celebrating it."
He folds the paper in half and slips it back into his pocket. "Now, I think that was enough from me." He looks between the two of you. "I believe you have something you'd like to say."
You nod and feel every gaze settle on you. Jack smiles, his eyes warm with reassurance.
You unfold your paper. "When we met…" You start, already laughing softly as you admit, "I tried really hard to find a reason not to like you."
Laughter sounds across the yard.
"But you just kept being nice and being ridiculously good at your job. And..." You glance at Jack as a grin spreads across your face. "Well...being really fucking hot."
Jack laughs.
"You've always been the person I looked for first. The person I wanted to tell things to. The person I wanted beside me after a difficult shift."
Your eyes don't leave his.
"I used to think love was supposed to be the big moments. The ones people write stories about." You shake your head gently. "I was wrong. It's coffee waiting for me when I wake up after a night shift. It's the way you always know when I need a hug before I ask for one."
A smile tugs at your lips.
"It's you pretending not to notice when I steal your hoodies. It's arguing over what to order for dinner, knowing we'll end up sharing anyway. It's coming home and knowing you're there. It's laughing until we can't breathe because one of us said something stupid. It's every ordinary day somehow becoming extraordinary because you're in it."
You crinkle the paper between your fingers. "When everyone talks about soulmates..." You swallow. "I don't think they're talking about someone who completes you. I think they're talking about someone who makes you feel yourself completely."
You bite your lip. "That's what you've given me. Somewhere I never have to be anyone but myself. Somewhere that feels like home."
Jack's jaw tightens, blinking a bit more rapidly than usual.
"I know our story hasn't been... conventional." A few guests smile knowingly, assuming you're talking about the elopement they'd all heard about. Only Robby and Olivia nod with a truly knowing smile.
"But if I had the chance to do it all again...I'd do it. No hesitation."
You hear someone sniffle behind you. It sounds suspiciously much like Lena.
"I promise..." You reach for Jack's hand. "…to keep choosing you. When life is easy and when it isn't. I'll remind you to eat lunch."
Robby chuckles.
"I promise to tell you when you're being stubborn."
Jack raises an eyebrow. "When am I ever—"
You squeeze his hand, sending him a look, and he drops it. You laugh softly before continuing.
"I promise to celebrate every victory with you and help carry every burden. I promise to keep laughing with you. To keep dancing with you in the kitchen. To keep making this house our home."
"And lastly..." You smile through the tears gathering in your eyes. "I promise I'll never stop feeling lucky that somehow...after everything..." Your voice catches. "...I get to call you my husband. "
Jack lets out a shaky laugh, squeezing your hand tightly. Tears drip down his face, but he makes no effort to hide it.
"How am I meant to go after that?" he jokes, wiping his face.
He reaches into his jacket and slowly unfolds his own piece of paper. "Well..." He chuckles softly. "I should probably start by admitting I liked you straight away."
Everyone laughs as he takes a moment to gather himself.
"When people ask how we met, I usually give them the short version." He glances at you. "The real version is a lot messier and involves a surprising amount of paperwork."
You huff a quiet laugh.
"I don't think either of us expected any of this. I definitely didn't expect to fall in love." His voice softens. "But then you kept showing up. Every shift. Every conversation. Every bad day."
He shrugs lightly. "And somewhere along the way... you became the person I wanted beside me for all of it."
He folds the paper and slips it back inside his pocket, then reaches out and grabs your hands. "I like to pretend I have everything under control. I push away the things I don't want to think about. You've seen me at my worst… and yet, you stayed."
The words hit you harder than you expect.
"You love me despite it. Because of it." His voice catches. "And I don't think you realise what a gift that has been."
Now, it's your turn to cry.
"I've never met anyone who gives so much of themselves to other people. You worry about everyone. You carry everyone. You'll stay an hour after your shift ends because someone needs help. You'll pretend you're not exhausted because you don't want anyone else to worry."
He gives your hands a gentle squeeze. "I wish you could see yourself the way everyone else does." He pauses. "The way I do."
A tear drops down. Jack reaches up automatically, brushing it away with his thumb.
"You make every place feel like home." He smiles. "I don't care where we live. This house. A tiny apartment. Somewhere halfway across the country. As long as you're there... I'm home."
Robby sniffles, trying to be discreet but failing.
Jack smiles without looking away from you. "I promise..." He takes a steadying breath. "...to keep choosing us. Even when life gets busy. Especially when life gets busy. I promise to never stop flirting with you."
"Yeah, no kidding," Parker mutters.
Jack ignores her. "I promise to keep making coffee for you every day, because you still don't know how to use the machine."
You laugh.
He grins back. "I promise to hold your hand every chance I get. I promise to dance with you in the kitchen...Even though I can't dance."
"You really can't," you whisper.
"I promise to remind you that you don't have to carry the world on your own. You've got me now, too." His eyes search yours. "And I promise..." His voice breaks, and he laughs at himself. "...I promise I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make you as happy as you've made me."
You can barely see him through your tears.
Silence settles over the yard once more. No one speaks. No one moves. Looking around, you can't find a single dry eye.
Jack leans forward just enough for only you to hear. "I love you."
You smile. "I love you, too."
Robby quietly clears his throat, wiping discreetly at one eye. "I think..." He glances toward Olivia. "...it's time for the rings."
Olivia steps forward from where she'd been standing beside Bridget, carrying a small velvet box in both hands. She stops in front of the two of you with a warm smile. "I've been told these are important."
She opens the box. Nestled inside are two simple wedding bands. Nothing extravagant. Just the two rings you'd chosen together months ago, now engraved with two dates. Your fingers brush over the tiny inscription before you lift one from the box.
The date of the convention. And today.
Jack takes the second from her.
Olivia closes the empty box before looking between the two of you. "I love you both." The words are quiet enough that only the three of you really hear them.
You step forward and hug her. "Thank you."
She kisses your cheek, squeezes your hand once, and quietly rejoins the others. You barely hear Robby through the rush in your ears.
All you take in is the feeling as Jack reaches for your left hand. The gold catches the late afternoon sunlight as he holds it just above your fingertips.
He looks up, waiting, as though silently asking one last time.
You answer with a smile and a nod. Always. He slides the ring onto your finger smoothly.
You slide the ring onto his finger with slightly shaky hands. Jack's fingers fold into yours. He looks elated, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins at you,
You're married again.
The words "You may now kiss the bride" barely leave Robby's mouth before Jack surges forward.
For the next twenty minutes, you're fairly certain neither you nor Jack actually touch the ground. Applause, whistles and laughter erupt across the yard after the kiss. People talking over one another as they surge toward the two of you.
Dana reaches you first. She's crying before she even wraps her arms around you. "Oh, sweetheart."
You laugh into the hug. "I know."
"You sneaky little thing."
"We've been planning it for weeks."
She sighs. "I should've noticed."
"You really should have. You're losing your touch. "
"It won't happen again." She pulls back just enough to cup your face. "You look beautiful."
"Thank you."
"And your vows—" She stops, pressing her lips together as her eyes fill all over again. "You've built such a beautiful life."
"Oh no," you laugh. "Don't. You'll make me cry again."
"I'm trying."
You hug her again, feeling her laugh through the tears.
Parker is next. She shakes Jack's hand firmly before immediately pulling him into a hug anyway. "I'm happy for you."
"Thanks."
She steps back, looking between the two of you. "You've done well."
Jack glances at you, unable to hide his smile. "I know."
She rolls her eyes, but it quickly softens into a grin. "The dress should've tipped me off."
You beam at her.
Shen steps up beside Parker. "I knew."
Parker raises an eyebrow. "You absolutely did not."
"I suspected it."
"Yeah, yeah." You laugh. "You can't take credit for this one, too."
After that, the congratulations blur together. Trinity nearly squeezes the air out of your lungs. Lily's eyes are already shining before she even reaches you, mumbling heartfelt congratulations. Perlah and Princess both admit they're impressed you managed to keep such a huge secret.
You just shrug. If only they knew.
Beside you, Jack is surrounded by his SWAT teammates. They clap him on the shoulders, pull him into hugs, and give him enough grief that his laugh carries all the way across the yard.
The conversations begin blending together after that. Someone starts arguing over who cried first. Trinity insists it was Robby. Robby loudly denies it, but video evidence is quickly produced, and he ends up conceding.
At some point, Dennis ends up standing on a chair, trying to organise everyone into something resembling a group photo while at least three people completely ignore him.
You don't move straight away. Instead, you watch.
Dana is already fussing over the food despite repeatedly being told to sit down. Parker has somehow accumulated a drink and three different appetisers. Lena is laughing so hard she has to wipe at her eyes while Vivi quietly shakes her head beside her. Across the yard, Jack catches your eye and smiles, then turns back to the grill.
Olivia quietly slips beside you while Dennis is still unsuccessfully trying to direct traffic. She doesn't say anything at first. She simply loops her arm through yours. You lean your head briefly against hers.
You laugh. "I don't think this is how weddings normally go."
Olivia follows your gaze. "No." She pauses. "I think yours is better."
Ten minutes later, as you're scanning the coolers to make sure there's still enough drinks, your hip gets nudged softly. Jack stands beside you with a plate in his hand.
"Eat."
You narrow your eyes. "Is that an order?"
"It's a request." He pushes the plate into your hands. "You've had approximately one strawberry and half a glass of spritz all afternoon."
"You've been monitoring my food intake?"
He shrugs. "I'm married to you."
"So?"
"So I know exactly how easy it is for you to forget."
You smile despite yourself. "Well, what about you?"
He lifts the plate he'd been hiding behind his back. His brow lifts. "Gotcha."
You scrunch your nose at him.
His smile softens. He turns your hand over, his thumb brushing slowly across your wedding band. For a long moment he simply looks at it. "This feels different."
It does.
"Everyone was here." You hadn't realised how much it would mean to share this part of your story with them. You lean over and kiss him. "I love you."
"I love you." His forehead rests against yours for a second. The hiss of the grill interrupts you.
"You should probably save dinner."
Jack sighs. He starts walking backwards. "I'll be back." He disappears into the crowd, greeting someone who immediately claps him on the shoulder. Still, he glances back one more time to send you a smile.
Jack has just finished rescuing a couple of burger patties from Robby's questionable supervision when the two of them find themselves alone by the grill. Well…as alone as either of them can be with fifty or so people scattered around the yard.
He puts the final patties on and closes the lid of the grill, resting the spatula on the plate next to it. "Almost done."
Your laughter carries across the yard, and Jack turns toward it without thinking. He finds you standing with Olivia, both of you laughing loudly. He smiles at the sight.
Robby crosses his arms next to him and follows his gaze. "They're something else when they're together."
"Tell me about it." Jack nods. Most of last night had been spent screaming in excitement about the following day, catching up on the latest gossip, and, of course, teasing Jack.
He loves it when Olivia is in town.
Tearing his eyes away from you, he flips the lid to turn the patties. "I don't think today's really sunk in yet."
"No?"
He turns back to look at you. "I never imagined…" He shakes his head, pulling Robby into a hug. "Thanks, man. For everything."
Robby nods, clapping his back twice. "Of course."
Jack clears his throat and moves to flip the final patties onto a plate. He closes the valve, waits for the lines to clear and then turns off the knobs. When he turns back, he finds that Robby is still looking across the yard.
You're laughing at something Parker says as you steal a sip of Olivia's drink. A second later, you splutter dramatically, and Olivia doubles over laughing at your expression.
The corner of Robby's mouth lifts before he seems to realise he's smiling.
Folding his arms across his chest, Jack nudges Robby's shoulder lightly with his own. "Careful."
"What?" Robby asks, still watching.
"She'll catch you staring."
Robby tears his gaze away a little too quickly. "I'm not staring." He reaches for the tongs, unaware that Jack has already turned off the grill.
Jack just raises an eyebrow. "If you say so."
It takes all of five seconds before Robby's eyes drift back again. The tongs hang between his fingers, forgotten again.
Jack chuckles.
Robby huffs. "You're no better."
"She's my wife," Jack says, unable to hide his grin. He slides the burger buns onto a platter before glancing sideways at Robby. "What are you two?"
Robby's jaw twitches. "Shut up."
The evening slips by almost without you noticing. As the sun sinks lower, the warm string lights begin to glow around the garden, casting everything in a softer light.
One conversation melts into the next as music drifts through the yard. The last of the burgers has disappeared, and most of the dessert has already been devoured.
You duck into the kitchen in search of more ice.
"So this is where you're hiding."
You look over your shoulder, finding Robby leaned against the doorframe. He's got an empty stack of bowls in his hands.
"Jack put you on clean-up duty?" You sit down to rummage through the fridge.
"Volunteered." He shrugs, stepping toward the kitchen.
"Who are you and what have you done with Michael Robinavitch?" you gasp.
"Ha. Ha." He sets the bowls down.
You laugh, pulling open another drawer. "I think we're officially out."
"Good."
You glance back at him. "Good?"
He nods. "Means people are having a good time."
You guess he's right. You close the fridge, standing up to lean against the counter. Neither of you moves to go back outside just yet.
From here you can still hear the party through the open patio doors—bursts of laughter, the clink of glasses, and soft music.
Robby leans against the island opposite you. His brown eyes trail over your face. "You belong here."
You blink. "What?"
"With us." He gestures toward the yard where most of the Pitt is having fun. "You're family."
Your throat tightens. This is everything you'd wanted for years without quite believing you'd ever have it. Before you can find the words, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.
Robby stiffens for only a heartbeat before hugging you just as tightly. He's never been particularly comfortable with emotions, but he's always shown how much he cares in quieter ways—in the hours he gives his patients, the way he looks after his staff, the loyalty he shows the people he loves.
When you step away, he clears his throat and moves for the patio door. Without looking back, he says quietly, a smile in his voice, "See you at work on Monday."
There are orange streaks in the sky when Jack finds you standing by yourself. People aren't gathered in one big group anymore. Instead, they're scattered wherever there's room—chairs pulled together, people leaning against tables, conversations stretching lazily into the evening. Some have left for work, others heading home to get some sleep before their day shifts. It's everything you hoped for.
Santos is halfway through a story that has Princess and Perlah laughing loudly. Mel sits next to Dennis, whispering follow-up questions that he tries to answer. Shen and Parker sit off to the side watching it all with an amused smile.
A little further away, you spot Olivia sitting with one of Jack's SWAT friends. She's laughing at something he says, while Robby pretends hard not to look in their direction. He keeps failing.
"What's so funny?" Jack asks. He holds out a glass of water for you.
You accept it gratefully, and nod your head to the right.
He follows your gaze. "Ah."
"Yeah."
"That's not the first time he's been staring at her."
"Oh?"
He nods. "He thinks he's being subtle."
You look back toward Robby. "He really isn't."
Jack laughs. He turns to face you fully as the song drifting through the speakers changes into something slower.
The last of the sunlight catches in his hazel eyes, making the green seem brighter than usual. He holds out his hand. "Dance with me."
"Here?"
"Why not?"
"There's no dance floor," you say, but step closer to him anyway.
He glances down at the grass beneath his feet. "Looks good enough to me."
You laugh, letting him take your drink and set it aside. He draws you closer until one hand settles naturally at your waist. The other stays wrapped around yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. It isn't really dancing. Just the two of you swaying beneath the lights, more interested in being close than keeping time.
"Was it everything you wanted?" you ask.
"Even better," he says.
You look at him. His thumb traces slow circles against your back while the two of you sway.
"I love you." You've lost count of how many times you've said that tonight.
He presses his forehead against yours. "I love you, too, sweetheart."
Neither of you notice when another couple joins you. Then a second, and a third. At some point, Olivia stands, walking over to Robby and offering him her hand. He looks surprised for half a second, hesitant for another, but then smiles and takes it.
Little pockets of slow dancing appear all over the yard.
"I love this," you say. Your hands settle at the back of his neck, your fingers disappearing into the soft grey curls there.
"The dancing?"
"The people." You look around. "All of them."
Jack lifts his head to look around, then he quietly kisses the top of your head and continues swaying with you.
At last, when all the dessert is gone and most of the coolers have been emptied, guests gradually trickle out until only you, Jack, Robby, and Olivia remain.
You're collecting trays into neat piles while Jack stacks chairs nearby. To your left, Olivia stuffs paper plates into a rubbish bag as Robby makes his way around the garden, gathering empty bottles.
She catches your eye, and you raise an eyebrow, nodding subtly towards Robby. She shakes her head, eyes narrowing immediately.
You fight back a smile.
Looking around, there's still so much to be done. Cushions scattered across the lawn, empty glasses on every flat surface and enough washing up to keep you busy until morning. However, instead of tackling it now, you turn to Jack.
"Let's save this for tomorrow."
His eyes hone in on the mischievous twinkle in your eye, and he catches on quickly when he spots Olivia's glare. A slow smile appears on his face. "Yes. That sounds like a plan."
He turns toward Robby. "Couch's yours." He grins. "I hope it doesn't take out your back like it did last time."
Bait set. Now, it was up to Olivia to take it.
You laugh quietly, tugging him toward the door before either of you burns from the heat of their glares. You're almost at the threshold when he pulls you back.
"Wait. I've got one wedding tradition I'd quite like to keep." Without another word, he bends, slips one arm beneath your knees and the other around your back, and lifts you clean off the ground.
You yelp, immediately laughing as your arms wrap around his neck. "Jack!"
"What?"
"I can walk."
His lips turn up at the corners. "Despite everything, so can I."
Jack ducks through the patio doors without so much as a stumble, and continues until he's inside the bedroom. Once inside, he lowers you carefully onto your feet.
He looks at you, his eyes soft. "Hi, wife."
You smile so widely your cheeks ache. "Hi, husband."
He steps closer. You're not sure who moves first, but your lips meet in a gentle kiss. You tug him with you toward the bed, your fingers reaching under his shirt to pull it up. He obeys without hesitation, lifting his arms to help.
"I need to take off my leg, honey." He reminds you when you try to push him down on the bed.
You kiss his cheek. "Let me."
He sits on the edge of the bed. You roll up his trouser leg before carefully unfastening his prosthetic. Pressing a kiss to the skin just above the scar, you set it beside the bedside table. He makes quick work of his pants, tossing them somewhere across the room.
Then he pulls you up. You climb onto his lap, your thighs settling on either side of his.
"God, this dress…" he murmurs as he begins sliding the straps down. He kisses your shoulder softly, trailing down to your collarbone. His fingers brush against heated skin, goosebumps fluttering in their path.
He presses another soft kiss to the skin just above your boob before the fabric slowly falls down, revealing your chest to him. With one hand, he guides the other side to join the pooling fabric at your waist.
You push your chest toward him, and he takes the hint without teasing. His mouth closes around one nipple, tongue swirling before he sucks lightly.
"Feels so…" you moan, holding onto his shoulders.
"Yeah?" he hums, lifting his head to look at you. Your lips find his neck, trailing kisses up and down, before nibbling lightly at his earlobe.
He pulls back. "I'm losing my mind, sweetheart. No more teasing. Are you ready or do I need to—"
You grab his fingers and pull them under your dress. He groans when he feels how soaked you are. "Christ. Where's your underwear?"
You gesture at the ground. "Took it off when you weren't looking." You grind down on his cock, and his hips lift at the sensation. "I'm ready."
"You sure?" He looks into your eyes. "I don't mind."
Tired of his talking, you reach down to free his cock. His head falls back down onto the mattress when you glide it against your folds. Then you sink down.
The dress pools around your thighs, hiding the spot where he disappears into you, but the slick that sounds around the room is unmistakable.
Jack's eyes grow darker. "Jesus. How'd I get so lucky?"
You grin.
"I mean it," he says, his hands tightening their grip on your waist. He punctuates the following words with separate thrusts. "Luckiest. Man. Alive."
A hand reaches up to cup your boob while the other trails down under the dress. His thumb finds your clit easily, putting just the correct amount of pressure on it that gets you gasping.
It doesn't take long to send you over the edge. Jack tries to stay steady through it, but the tightening grip around his cock proves too hard to resist. He comes with a long groan, thrusting himself deep into you.
You collapse against his chest. Both of you take a moment to regain normal breathing, his hands brushing soft patterns across your back.
"I'll go get you a washcloth," he murmurs into your hair.
"Just one more minute." You nestle closer, burrowing into his heat.
"One." He relents, pressing a soft and content kiss into your hair.
The first thing you notice when you wake is the smell of coffee. Its rich scent entangling with the clean scent of the duvet sheets. You don't open your eyes, but stay there, wrapped in warmth as memories of last night wash over you.
Lights. Drinks. Jack. Vows. The ring.
You twirl it around your finger, smiling into your pillow. You got married to Jack.
Again.
But this time it was even better than last time. This time you both meant to. This time he chose you.
Married on purpose sounds a lot better than accidentally.
You hear the quiet scrape of the bedroom door being pushed open. The familiar shuffle of Jack's slightly uneven gait. The thump as something gets set down on the bedside table and the clunk of something placed on the floor.
Then the mattress dips beside you. A warm hand brushes your hair away from your face before a soft kiss meets your forehead.
"Morning, wife."
You finally open your eyes. "Morning, husband."
Jack grins at you. Sleep has left his soft grey curls sticking up in every direction.
You grin back. "You made breakfast."
"I did," he says. He settles fully down beside you. "How are you feeling?"
"A little hungover…" You glance around the room. Sunlight spills through the half-open curtains. Your dress hangs over the chair, Jack's trousers lie abandoned in the corner, and the empty ring box still rests on the dresser. "But very happy."
His hand brushes your shoulder. "Good."
You sit up, taking the cup he holds out for you. "You?"
He looks down at his coffee, then at you. "I couldn't be better."
"Yeah?"
He nods and reaches for your hand. His thumb traces slowly over your wedding band. "I meant what I said last night."
"About making me coffee every day?"
He laughs softly. "That too. But also about being lucky."
"Well. I guess we're both pretty lucky." You hold your cup up. "To us."
He clinks his cup against yours. "To us."
"And to forever." You clink your cup against his again. "Oh, and to—"
He pinches your chin with his free hand. "How about we workshop it before we try again?"
You nudge his shoulder, huffing. He just grins, wrapping his arm around you and pulling you into his chest.
a no-touch rule sounds smart on a beach vacation with your secret boyfriend, especially when he happens to be your brother's best friend and twenty years your senior. unfortunately, neither of you is very good at keeping your hands to yourselves.
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
PAIRING jack abbot x robinavitch!reader
WARNINGS 18+ MDNI explicit smut, age gap (reader is late 20s), girly girl reader, reader is robby’s little sister (and reader and jack play in this man's FACEEEE), reader wears sunscreen but no mention of burning/redness/etc, jack applies sunscreen to reader, jack and reader just tease each other all day every day, reader and jack take a shower together!, brief inspection kink mention, flirty!jack abbot, flirty!reader, sexting, lots of pet name usage (baby, doll, sweetheart, honey, etc), munch!abbot, oral (f receiving), reader wears a dress, jealous!abbot, someone mistakes jack for your dad, reader goes along with it soooo lowkey dad!bf jack??? but not really it’s more of just a joke, alcohol mention, tipsy!reader, lowkey some angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it folks), twinkie (creampie is a banned word in this household), light breeding kink, kitchen sex, jack gets punched
WC 9.5k | REQUEST here!
You had no ill intentions when you sought Jack out on the beach. Truly. None whatsoever.
Your conscience was pristine. Clean enough to eat off of, if a person were inclined toward that sort of thing. And Jack would more than likely be inclined toward that sort of thing.
Which is neither here nor there and definitely not the point.
The point is that he happened to be the first available person you spotted who wasn’t elbow-deep in the cooler, manning the grill, hauling folding chairs closer to the water or otherwise occupied in some way that would’ve made your request an imposition.
He happened to be seated in the shade, sand-dusted calves stretched out and both hands conveniently free. You happened to wander over with your sunscreen and your very normal, very defensible need for help reaching the center of your back.
Never mind that your eyes tend to find him first everywhere.
Your first choice, always. In the hospital, in crowded rooms, in Friday-night bars, and now here, on a stretch of beach sand full of towels, melting ice cubes and boozy coworkers.
If Jack is there the geometry of the universe settles.
Noise levels drop. Potential catastrophe politely steps back in line. Statistically, things improve by, what, twenty percent when he’s within arms reach?
The only time Jack’s presence ever seems to tip from reassurance into danger is when Robby is nearby.
Your brother, his best friend, currently planted beside the grill with a pair of tongs in one hand and a beer sweating in the other, wholly unaware of just how intimately you know the man sitting a few yards away from you reading a book.
No idea that you even know Jack beyond hospital stories and holiday small talk. No idea that you’ve counted the freckles on Jack’s torso the way other people count blessings. No idea you know the small mole just above Jack’s hip because you’ve watched it disappear beneath the push of his own thigh when he’s folded you open beneath him. No idea you know how his forearm looks when it flexes beside your head, that raised vein appearing when your heels hook into his back and he grunts your name into his mouth. No fucking idea you know the pale scar on his ribs that becomes your personal tactical obsession whenever he cages you against a doorframe and breathes against your ear, quiet, sweetheart, unless you want your brother to ask questions.
You slip into the little wedge of shade cast by Jack’s umbrella, hip brushing the arm of his chair.
It takes half a second for Jack’s gaze to lift. First to your face, because he is decent, or because he has spent forty-nine years perfecting the performance of decency and can probably do it under sedation.
Then his eyes dip lower, catching on your chest and the heroic and doomed labor of your bikini top, the poor thing doing its absolute best with limited resources and no meaningful administrative support, and for one brief, gorgeous second, Jack Abbot’s whole face goes blank.
You unscrew the sunscreen cap with the patience of a saint and the moral character of someone much worse, pretending you don’t see a thing. It’s easy. You’ve been playing dumb your whole life, and Jack happens to make it especially rewarding.
“Hi, Jack.”
He blinks as though dragged out of a dream he has no intention of describing in mixed company.
The paperback folds around one finger; he swallows civility into a single neutral “Hey,” though his ears are flaming traitors.
You bounce once on your toes just to watch his eyes track the up-and-down movement. “Mind helping me with my back?”
A phantom movement ripples down his arm, the muscle memory that usually ends with his thumb sliding up the tender inside of your knee.
Half-second later he remembers the clause you made him swear to the night before you left, the one you recited while sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but your earrings and a very serious expression: no contact during this trip. Not in front of Robby. Not in private. Not even the little absent-minded touches Jack was so fond of giving and so terrible at pretending were accidental.
He had listened with the patient, faintly amused face — oh, of course, let’s discuss boundaries — all while his hands were already easing your thighs apart, palm spanning half your quads. “That’s smart, sweetheart,” he had murmured, barely out of his mouth before he fucked you so hard you spent the first two days of this trip remembering him every time you sat down, crossed your legs, climbed stairs, breathed wrong, existed.
Day one started with Robby squinting at the careful, not-at-all-in-pain way you eased into the passenger seat.
“Pull something?” he asked, suspicion crinkling the corners of his eyes.
Jack, loading your suitcase into the trunk, had only said, “She’s fine — just overdid the beach volleyball warm-up.”
Now, beneath the umbrella, he eyes the bottle in your hand.
“You’re asking me to put sunscreen on you while I’m currently under express orders not to touch you,” he clarifies, mouth twitching. “Little contradictory, don’t you think?”
“It’s medicinal, Jack. Doctor-ordered sun safety. That puts it squarely under the ‘acts of basic care’ exemption we definitely agreed on.”
There is, of course, no exemption. But you say it with such polished confidence, such gorgeous little liar convocation, and Jack’s eyes keep distractedly slipping to your cleavage, you figure you might be able to gaslight him into believing otherwise.
Jack tilts in, voice dropping to bedside-manner dark. “Preventive exams are also acts of basic care, sweetheart. I offered to give you one last night. Head to toe. Very thorough. You didn’t seem to keen on the idea. Funny how selective you are with these exemptions.”
He knows perfectly well keenness was never the issue.
Keenness had been present and accounted for, actually, sitting upright in bed with a racing pulse while Jack spent nearly forty minutes vibrating your phone off the nightstand at one in the morning, apparently deciding the no-contact was less a boundary and more a diagnostic puzzle he could brute-force with persistence, semantics, and an irresponsible number of filthy hypotheticals.
How firm is the rule?
You had answered, Very.
Define very.
Jack.
I’m serious. Are we talking legally blinding or more of a strong suggestion?
I can’t sleep knowing you’re down the hall.
I keep thinking about your ass in that tiny fucking bikini.
And your mouth.
And the noise you make when I’m tasting your pretty pussy.
So if "very" has any flexibility, now would be an excellent time to disclose it.
You had flushed at that, instinct dragging your hand south, fingertips tucking beneath the elastic of your pajama shorts, privately checking how much trouble you were in.
Spoiler: a lot. Still, you forced your breathing steady and tapped out the grown-up response you promised yourself you’d give him.
Too risky. Robby’s awake.
Riskier to ignore symptoms.
You seemed flushed at dinner, baby. Could be heat exhaustion.
Standard protocol is immediate evaluation. Full tactical assessment of any sensitive areas.
Better I handle it now than you collapse tomorrow, right?
“The walls here are paper thin. I just didn’t want everyone to hear you,” you murmur, eyes flicking toward the grill where Robby still holds court.
Jack’s gaze drags over your face, patience fraying.
His head cants. “Me?”
An accusation rather than a question.
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too hard.
It’s bullshit.
Jack makes sounds in bed, sure, these low rough little things he tries to swallow down into silence, but you are, historically, the problem. You are the one who forgets walls even exist, who gets whiny and breathless, saying his name too sweet and loud.
Still, riling him up is half the fun.
“Mhm. All those grunts you do? Very compromising. You really should work on that. I was just protecting your reputation.”
His mouth tugs into that bare-bones smile, parched and cutting, like a fence post bleached under Georgia sun.
“That’s interesting, doll, because I seem to remember you nearly getting us thrown out of that hotel in Atlanta.” He pauses, eyes steady on yours. “Had to clamp a palm over your mouth halfway through just so the folks next door would quit pounding on the wall.”
You make a thoughtful, entirely disingenuous sound. “I don’t recall.”
Liar, you think, but only to yourself, because the scene is seared onto the backs of your eyelids: big palm, slick with sweat; your own pulse popping under his thumb.
“Convenient,” he says. “Concerning, too. Memory loss at your age.”
The urge to fire back — your age, grandpa — sparks under your tongue, but you swallow it, knowing you’ve already won.
He’s picturing that night, too. You can see it in the way his jaw resets, in the way his fingers flex like they’re aching to reprise the role of impromptu gag.
“Memory loss and melanoma.” Your fingers skim your collarbone, then your shoulder, making a tiny show of your poor exposed skin. “That’ll be on your conscience, and you have so many sins already, Jack.”
Jack’s glare fractures, concern muscling past amusement.
“Turn around,” he orders.
His palm resignedly lands on your back and the first sweep of cool lotion is an instant balm, a hush in every raw, sun-tight cell that’s been screaming since day one of this self-inflicted separation.
Water to a dying flower. Oxygen after a held breath.
The peppermint chill kisses the nape of your neck, then fans outward in broad strokes, each pass ironing the ache right out of your skin.
Three whole days without his hands, seventy-two hours of pretending you didn’t need this, and now his thumbs slip beneath your bikini straps like they own the territory, tracing the warmed skin that’s been begging for him with every salty breeze.
“Missed you,” you murmur under your breath, words a little wobbly and petulant.
He huffs a soft laugh and bends to brush his mouth against your shoulder blade. “Yeah, missed you, too, angel.”
He smooths another cool ribbon down your spine.
You angle yourself towards the grill to allow him better access only to see Robby nudging the spatula at Mateo like a relay baton. Take over, man.
Mateo blinks, grabs the grill tools, and Robby wipes his palms on a dish towel as he starts striding across the sand.
Panic sparks hot in your belly. Abort, abort —
Jack’s fingers press reassuringly at the base of your neck. “Easy.”
Robby arrives, squinting against the glare.
Jack doesn’t miss a beat, straightening just enough to greet him over your head, palms still settling the lotion. “Need a second set of tongs, man? You were talking about that pineapple glaze.”
“Yeah, figured you could baste while I flip,” Robby says, oblivious.
“Sure thing.” Jack rubs the last of the lotion on your shoulder before flicking the cap back on the bottle.
Robby tips his chin at you, hooks an arm around Jack’s neck like a big brother claiming turf. “And watch it, man. Give her an inch and she’ll have you painting her toes next.”
Jack shoots you a wink. “Wouldn’t put it past her, bit on the spoiled side, isn’t she?”
You don’t get to be alone with Jack again until later that evening.
After a twelve-hour gauntlet of being herded from one little duty to the next, karmic punishment apparently being less fire-and-brimstone and more Robby glued to your elbow, Samira asking about plates, Dana hunting for towels.
The house had stayed swollen with noise, doors opening, voices carrying, bodies constantly moving through every room, leaving nowhere private enough to breathe, let alone get a second with your secret boyfriend.
And you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like torture, spending the whole day brushing past Jack close enough to catch bits and pieces of him but never close enough to keep it, catching his stare across the deck and breaking first because if you hold it too long, even for one more second, your face will say everything your mouth has forbidden to.
By the time you get into the shower, you’re wound so tight you feel one wrong move might split you straight down the middle. Steam flattens the bathroom, fogging the mirror in milky layers while condensation beads along the floor beneath your heels.
The water comes down nearly scalding over skin still balmy from the sun, rinsing the day off you in slow, glittering streams. Salt, sunscreen, sweat, sexual frustration, little crescents of sand, all of it spiraling together toward the drain.
You brace both palms against the wall and hiss when the spray finds the tender knot tucked between your shoulder blade and spine.
You don’t have time to decide whether the sting is pleasure or pain because suddenly the door latch is clicking.
You spin, palms crossing over your breasts, ready to apologize for… something (what, exactly? You’re not sure, because last time you checked you weren’t the person barging into an occupied bathroom.)
But then the silhouette resolves into Jack and the apology dies on your tongue.
He shuts and locks the door with a soft snick, arching a brow through the haze.
You hiss under your breath, “What — Jack, what are you doing?”
He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks. His gaze drags leisurely, like a hand down your body, over your breasts, the water-glossed dip of your waist, the slick shimmer on your thighs, then hovering at your bare pussy before climbing back to your face.
He looks utterly unhurried. A man content to feast with his eyes first and speak when the hunger becomes unbearable.
Fire pools low in your belly and you shift, thighs pressing together in a useless bid for modesty. “Seriously, what if someone saw you come in?”
He closes the distance until your breath clouds a small circle on the glass pane between you.
“Just grabbing my razor,” he says, offhand, like you’re the one overreacting as he tips his head toward the shelf behind you. “Promise I’ll be two seconds. In, out.”
You give him a long, squinting once-over, as though you can spot the lie on his skin. He just wiggles his fingers — see? Harmless — so you huff a tiny laugh and shift aside.
“Fine. Two seconds,” you mutter, watching him carefully.
You pull the slider door open.
The instant rush of cooler air leaves gooseflesh in its wake, and Jack’s shoulders seem suddenly much broader than you remember as he steps through.
“Appreciate it, honey.”
He ducks under the spray, and the stall feels two sizes too small.
Jack plants himself in front of you, torso filling your peripheral vision, trunks plastered to powerful thighs.
He doesn’t touch you, but the warmth radiating from his body seems to crowd every spare inch of space.
When his chest rises you feel the ripple in each breath through yours.
“You okay?” His tone drips false innocence as he reaches around you for the razor, the damp fabric of his trunks gliding over the sensitive swell of nerves between your legs in a feather-light pass.
You suck in a harsh breath.
He straightens as if nothing happened, twirling the razor between his fingers, eyes glinting with pleased mischief.
Dick-Face.
Your vision goes momentarily starry, the lost friction leaving you empty.
You rally with a shaky grin. “‘M fine.”
“Mind if I shave in here, then? Better water pressure and keeps the sink hair-free. Know you hate that.”
You squint up at him, water streaking your lashes.
“Jack…” One elongated syllable loaded with I know exactly what you’re doing.
“Relax, angel. Two seconds,” he reminds, though the slight tilt of his hips say otherwise.
He angles the razor at his jaw, drawing the first careful stroke. You watch the silver path he leaves on skin, the way tiny beads of water race after the blade. His face, stripped of stubble in increments, is almost too handsome. Straight nose, freckles you could count, lips made for kissing yours.
He catches you gawking and smirks. “Gonna nick myself if you keep staring like that.”
You tilt your chin, droplets collecting at the curve of your collarbone, mustering your usual sparkle, “Then focus, doctor. I won’t be held responsible for self-inflicted injuries.”
He lets the razor dangle forgotten at his side as he studies you a beat longer. His hand slides forward, knuckles skimming the silky bloom of your hip, then dipping inward to follow the hollow where muscle meets bone.
A shiver flutters through you. He feels it and grins, this slow, predatory spread of lips.
“Focus is a tall order,” he says, thumb brushing a streak of water off your stomach. “Pretty as you are.”
Your breath stutters as his thumb skims lower, and you grab his wrist. “Uh-uh. Hands to yourself, remember?”
“Don’t make me beg, sweetheart.” The husk in his voice slips through you from head to toe. “Because I will, if that’s what you want — say please a thousand times, just to prove how badly I need you.”
Before you can answer, he sinks to his knees.
Once again he doesn’t touch, free hand splayed on the grout, but his mouth hovers near the crease of your hip, close enough that every exhale fans liquid fire over your pussy.
His eyes flick to yours, desperate, waiting for the single syllable that will break every rule you set.
“I can keep my hands to myself, if that’s the rule. Just let me use my mouth, please. Need to taste you, angel.”
“I — Jack, we said —”
Your grip on his wrist feels fragile, ceremonial.
“That a yes, baby? Gotta hear the word.”
Steam curls between your bodies and it’s almost suffocating now, filling up your throat and nose and ears until you start to feel a little dizzy.
Rules clang in your skull — not here, not now — but the week-long ache in your belly chants louder: need, need, need.
You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, eyes slipping shut.
When they open again, the answer is already there, shining in resignation. “Yes. Please — yes.”
He doesn’t waste another second.
He dives in like a man reprieved from drought. Three days and three nights and water turned to wine in his tongue. He presses it flat, dragging through your folds until your knees threaten to buckle.
The first targeted flick to your clit punches a helpless cry out of your throat and the second has you clawing for purchase on the handlebar to your left.
Jack mumbles something that feels like so sweet against you, vibration sparkling up your spine, then seals his lips and sucks hard, alternating pressure in prodding intervals.
You don’t think you’ve ever gotten to that blissful edge so fast before, seconds away from splintering, vision tunneling as pink and blue stars flare behind your lids.
It all comes crashing down when a brisk tap-tap-tap cuts through your near-climax.
Jack freezes, mouth still full of you and hot on your cunt but now motionless, eyes snapping up to meets yours. Beautiful eyes with pupils blown.
Santos’s voice filters through: “Whoever’s in there, hurry up!”
The pulse that was about to break erupts into silent, aching stasis instead. You bite your fist, whole body trembling on the cliff-edge he’s left you hanging from.
You choke back a whimper and call, “Be out in a sec!”
And like you said, you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like pure fucking torture.
Jack tries to remind himself that he has, by every measurable standard, survived worse things than this.
War, for one. Heat that cooked straight through the soles of his boots, nights sawn open by rotor blades and gunfire. The terror of deciding who needed his hands first when everyone needed them at once.
He lost a leg and learned how to walk again, then somehow went back to medicine because apparently nearly dying had not cured him of the instinct to run toward other people’s emergencies. He has cracked chests, led resuscitations, talked shaking interns through their first patient death, spent his free time embedded with SWAT because golf had always seemed both dull and something he wouldn’t thrive at.
He knows pressure. He understands discipline. He has built an entire life around refusing to be governed by fear, pain, adrenaline, or lesser impulses.
None of those facts seem to feel reassuring right now as he watches you from across the bar.
You’re burrowed into the center of a brand-new constellation of people you just met, telling one of your well-worn stories with the same sparkling conviction you gave it the first time, chin tipped up, bracelets chiming as your hands sketch the scene into the air.
Jack knows every beat.
Knows when your eyes will widen, when your mouth will pull into that scandalized little O, when you will pause just long enough to make everyone lean closer before delivering the line that sends the table into laughter.
And they do lean closer. Even the bartender’s polishing rag pauses mid-swipe.
That is the thing about you. You make strangers feel chosen. Make a whole room feel handpicked, lit from within, as if you opened the door just for them and meant it. Then you’ll drift away, leaving them there in the aftershocks, still facing the space you occupied like worshippers after the god has already one.
Jack knows exactly how dangerous that is because he has made that mistake himself.
More than once.
Sat across from you and read too much into every smile, every soft little lock of your focus, every gooey, honey-thick stretch of your attention. Mistook being seen by you for being chosen.
And then life, perverse as ever, let him be chosen after all. Let him earn the real thing.
Which only makes watching other men bask in the counterfeit version feel worse.
The feeling metastasizes when one of the men catches the opening after your final line and moves into it, all expensive veneer-looking teeth and effortless posture, bending toward you as though the room has naturally made space for him there.
He says something Jack cannot hear over the bass, punctuates it with a small, self-satisfied shrug, and wears the expression of a person who thinks being near you is already a kind of accomplishment.
Jack studies him.
Young. Smooth. Unscarred, at least where the world can see. A body that has probably never needed to be negotiated with before something as simple as walking barefoot across a beach. No prosthetic to strap on before dawn, no phantom pain flaring where flesh ends, no inventory of what still works and what must be accommodated.
He looks right beside you. No one would glance twice, no one would do the math. Robby could clap him on the shoulder, laugh at his jokes, maybe even approve.
Certainly wouldn’t have to excavate a grave under the rental deck.
Jack counts that as strike three.
“Jack.” Robby’s voice breaks across the table, dragging him back by the collar. “Tell ‘em I’m not making this up.”
Jack blinks, wrestles his gaze off you, and pretends he’s been part of the conversation all along. Dana and Baran blink back at him.
“You’re usually making something up,” he says and it earns Victoria’s laugh, though he hasn’t the faintest idea what improbable tale he’s just failed to corroborate.
It seems to be enough of an answer for Robby though, because he laughs too, his hand thumping Jack’s shoulder hard enough to slosh the liquor.
Jack drinks anyway, holds the bourbon like a tongue depressor to his worst instincts. Swallows. The burn chars every jittery nerve that wants to turn around and see if Mr. Linen Shirt is still siphoning oxygen out of your orbit.
But he wants to know. Wants to know whether the man has moved closer, whether you’re still smiling, whether Jack is about to make a decision that leaves the bastard sipping his own drink through a wired jaw.
He shouldn’t go that far. Healing hands and all. But he can make exceptions.
He lets boredom rasp across his tongue as he clears his throat. “Your sister know those guys?”
Robby looks over on reflex. Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Robby’s face will tell him everything. “What guys?”
“Dunno. Thought one of ‘em looked familiar.”
Robby squints past the crowd.
“Nope. Don’t think I recognize any of them.” Robby decides, pushing a tired breath through his teeth, knuckles rasping over two-day stubble. “She does this everywhere she goes. Draws attention like wildfire. I swear, half my blood pressure medication is because of her.”
Jack’s arteries would corroborate that, but he lets the confession smolder unheard behind the rim of his glass.
“Well, can you blame ‘em? She looks like that.”
And Dana’s comment is the invitation he’s been waiting for. Lets him gorge on the sight without raising suspicion.
The little dress, the glossed-up lips, the endless stretch of your legs under the bar light. Your hair falling loose around your shoulders, your face animated as you talk, every feature sharpened by laughter into something almost indecently alive.
A cherry-red straw clacks against your teeth when you sip your rum punch, each drag leaving a perfect lipstick crescent on the plastic rim.
You are beautiful in every standard category and several highly specific ones Jack suspects may exist solely to inconvenience him.
“Don’t mean she needs a swarm,” Robby grumbles, waving his bottle at the cluster around you. “She treats everybody like they’ve known her ten years, then acts shocked when half the room starts trailing after her. And somehow I’m the prick when I tell ’em to give her some space.”
“I don’t mind being the asshole,” Jack pipes up. Across the table, Dana’s attention narrows, and Jack realizes, half a beat too late, that he may have sounded a little too willing. So he adds, “If you’re tired of the job, I mean.”
Robby snorts. “You’d scare the hell of ‘em.”
“That’s generally the point.”
He lifts his bourbon before the thought can show on his face, lets the rim conceal the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.
Robby, thankfully, is already smiling, visibly seduced by the prospect of outsourcing his least charming brotherly obligation.
“Be my guest,” he says. “Tell her I sent you.”
Jack tips his glass, drains what remains, then taps the rim against the tabletop.
Signal received. Assignment accepted. He doesn’t need to be told twice.
By the time he is halfway across the room, you’ve already noticed him.
Your eyes flare with a brightness he can feel from here, and whatever polished little nothing Mr. Smooth is feeding you dies unattended between one word and the next.
He keeps talking anyway, poor guy, unaware that you’ve left the conversation without moving an inch. By the time Jack reaches the bar rail, your attention has funneled to one point, him, and nothing else.
It stirs something dormant in him, the same dark pull he felt in the shower, his pants suddenly tighter, less cooperative. He sees exactly what he would do without the table of coworkers and one eagle-eyed best friend behind him.
He would hook a hand around the back of your neck, pull you flush to his chest, and kiss every little thought clean out of your head. Kiss you until the gloss smeared, until your lipstick feathered over his mouth, until your lips went swollen and every polished stranger nearby understood, without needing it explained, who had put that dazed look in your eyes.
Instead, he leans one forearm against the bar and says, pleasantly, “You drinking enough water, sweetheart?”
“I could be persuaded to drink more.” Your lips curl around the straw again, eyes fixed on Jack with a private little shine.
The younger man follows your attention to Jack and gives him an affable nod. “Man, your dad’s on top of it. Mine would’ve let me dehydrate out of spite.”
Jack nearly coughs up his previously swallowed drink.
He can feel every one of his years arrange themselves in descending order between you. The gray at his temples. The scars. The apparently paternal concern over your fluid intake.
Fuck’s sake.
He parts his lips to correct the record, a dry little execution already waiting on his tongue, but you beat him to the trigger.
“Oh, he’s the best,” you gush, peering at him sideways. “Always checking on me. Sunscreen, hydration, curfew. Super over-protective.”
Jack gives you a long, level look, one that says he knows exactly what you’re doing and plans to deal with it later.
“She keeps me busy. Full time job, most days,” he finally says, playing along.
And it is a full-time job.
Just not remotely in the way this poor kid is imagining. You are a twenty-four-hour on-call position with no protected sleep and an astonishingly generous benefits package.
You need to be kissed before he leaves the room, touched whenever he passes within arm’s reach, listened to with grave concentration while you explain some internet drama involving some show he’s never watched and a man named Sincere he will never meet.
Then there is the other hunger, the one that wakes beside him already stretching toward his body, that has you squirming into his lap after dinner or whispering again against his mouth when any reasonable person would be asleep.
Jack is always on his toes with you, anticipating needs you have not articulated yet, figuring out whether a pout means hungry, horny, tired, or all three braided together.
It is exhausting in the way a life worth living is exhausting.
He has never minded work when the work matters, and taking care of you has become the most selfish labor he has ever loved.
The younger guy clears his throat, trying to recapture the momentum. “Anyway, like I was saying about the jet-ski tomorrow —”
“Actually,” Jack interrupts, “we’ve got to get back. Curfew, you know.” He aims a polite nod at the man, who now looks decidedly dejected, then drapes a guiding hand along the back of your stool in perfect over-protective-father form. “Appreciate you keeping her company.”
Your mouth twitches around the straw. Jack can already tell you’re going to make him suffer for this. The prospect improves his mood considerably.
He starts to walk you back to the table, when he spots Robby, who’s laughing much too loudly at something the new intern just whispered in his ear.
The girl is angled toward him, smiling with that shy, pleased little tilt people get when they think they’ve successfully surprised him, and Robby, miracle of miracles, looks genuinely interested.
That is information worth preserving. Worth interrogating later, too.
But for now he takes that opportunity for what it is and herds you into a corner out of view.
As soon as you’re tucked between a stack of surfboards and the dim EXIT sign, his fingers close over the curve of your backside, giving a quick pinch.
A startled “hey!” pops out, alcohol-loose and breathy, and you bat at his knuckles.
He catches your wrist, holding it against his chest as amusement darkens his gaze. “You’re testing me, angel. Missed me so much you had to start getting other men’s attention just to see if I’d come take you back?”
“Missed who? The pervert or the overprotective dad?”
Jack clicks his tongue and leans in until the tips of your noses nearly touch, crowding the joke right back into your mouth.
“Hated every damn second of that. Couldn’t lay a finger on you while that kid flirted his ass off. And you knew exactly what you were doing. Wanted to see how fast you could make your old man lose his cool?”
“Thought you liked being challenged?” You tilt your chin, lashes dipping. “Besides, you’d been ignoring me all night. What was I supposed to do, sit there looking pretty for no one?”
“You know that isn’t how it is. I’ve been following the rules you set, angel. Your rules.”
“Yeah, well, last night kind of blew those up, don’t you think?” You lean closer. “The line’s already smudged. Seems silly to keep pretending we can still see it.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve got no attachment to that line. I’ve wanted my hands on you from the second I saw that dress.” He leans closer, voice dropping into something meant only for you. “But you’d better mean it. You don’t get to rile me up all night and then act surprised when I collect.”
Your eyes flick toward the neon Restrooms sign, then back to him, lashes heavy. “Meet me by the bathroom in sixty seconds. If you’re late, I’m starting without you.”
One quick sweep confirms the coast is clear.
“Bought and paid for, angel. Be there in fifty-nine.”
You giggle, turning on your heel with a bounce that sets your dress fluttering. He tracks every inch as you stroll off, head cocked like you know he’s staring; the last thing he sees is the curve of your ass rounding the corner.
He waits just long enough not to make it obvious, then starts toward the hall, pulse already ticking off the seconds.
Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.
“Jack.”
Shit.
Dana catches him mid-stride. When he turns, she is watching him over one lifted brow, empty glass raised loosely in her hand. “You getting another round?”
His gaze flicks toward the corridor before he can stop it. Mistake. Dana follows it, then looks back at him.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.
“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re on a mission.”
And what can he say to that?
Yeah, Dana, good eye. I am on a mission to follow my girlfriend into a seedy beach-bar bathroom and fuck the living daylights out of her before Robby notices either of us are gone. By the way, she is his little sister and young enough that, from a distance, strangers apparently assume I helped raise her.
So Jack does what any sensible man would do under pressure.
He lies.
“Just gotta take a leak.”
Dana lets out a low hum, the kind that says she believes exactly none of him. “Sure.” And Jack thinks that’s it, but suddenly she shakes her head. “Just do yourself a favor and be careful.”
“Careful about what, exactly?” Irritation flicks hot across his scalp, mostly because it coats the thin, unfamiliar ache of fear.
She tips her chin, eyes dull with shift-long exhaustion, offering him nothing but that tired little smile that says You already know.
“Don’t make me say it out loud.” Her gaze dips toward the restroom sign, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it. Jack doesn’t. “I don’t care about the sordid details. But secrets like this don’t stay contained forever. People get hurt when they come out.” Her expression softens by a fraction. “And she has more to lose than you do.”
He doesn’t get the chance to answer before Dana slips past him, already lifting two fingers toward the bartender and calling for another round.
She has more to lose than you do.
Jack knows that. Or at least, he should’ve.
He is established. Difficult to shame in any lasting way. People already know who he is, have decided what sort of man he is, and most days he can live with that.
You, meanwhile, are still being decided. Every room you enter is another jury, every mistake fresh evidence for peers and others alike.
And men tend to survive a scandal differently.
Jack might lose Robby, take a hit to his reputation, become the subject of a few whispered conversations at work. Then the weeks would pass, another crisis would arrive, and people would remember he was useful.
The world permits men to outlive their mistakes.
It does not extend women the same courtesy.
You would be remembered through it, reduced to it. People would search backward through every bright smile and short skirt as if the proof had always been there, call you foolish where they called him weak, promiscuous where they called him lonely.
Even the people defending you would talk as though you needed defending from your own decision.
Jack suddenly feels sick because Dana is right, and because somewhere along the way he let himself pretend the risk belonged equally to both of you.
Half his, half yours. Fair.
It never had.
Jack lets the sixty seconds expire and stays exactly where he is, rooted with his hands by his sides and the first honest understanding of what protecting you might actually require.
Tonight, when you go looking for Jack, your intentions are not merely ill.
They are terminal. Premeditated. Your conscience is nowhere to be found, certainly not sparkling, certainly not clean enough to eat off.
Whatever small moral voice usually lives in you has been smothered beneath a white-hot blend of anger and a bruised ego, two things currently holding hands and skipping merrily through your bloodstream.
The house has only just begun to settle after several hours of drunk postmortems, everyone still riding the bar’s momentum and apparently determined to delay sleep through sheer noise pollution alone. Somebody had thrown up in the upstairs toilet, although nobody was admitting to it and Whitaker had somehow staggered into Jack’s room and passed out starfished across his bed, fully clothed, one shoe still on, leaving Jack exiled to the downstairs couch.
It’s almost completely dark when you creep down the stairs.
A small lamp glows beside the sofa, casting a little island over Jack and the book open in his hands.
The rest of the room dissolves into shadow, cluttered with the aftermath of everyone else’s good time: cups lined along the coffee table, half-empty glasses, plates abandoned with crusts and smears of dip.
You ghost past him without a glance, feet soundless on the hardwood.
Only when he murmurs, “Can we talk?” do you pause, but only long enough to throw a breezy, “Later — busy,” over your shoulder.
Jack pushes off the sofa, trailing you a step. “Busy with what, exactly?”
Busy making your life a living hell, you think, scrubbing dried food from a plate. Busy returning the favor. Busy ensuring he experiences even a fraction of the private humiliation you swallowed in that bar bathroom, standing beneath a flickering light panel while sixty seconds stretched into two minutes, then five, your invitation curdled into foolishness.
And when you had finally emerged, Jack was back at the table with the others, but every stiff line of him betrayed where his attention really was. Fresh drink in hand, barely touched. Shoulders set. Gaze locked on the corridor.
He had chosen not to come, but he had not stopped watching.
Jack would sooner lose his other leg than abandon you tipsy in a strange bar, and even furious, you knew that. He had been keeping vigil over the door, tracking who went in, who came out, waiting for your face to appear. But that garnered no brownie points from you.
When you approached, confused and annoyed and still stupidly hopeful, he had only leaned close enough to breathe, “Later,” against your ear.
As if it were of no significance. You were of no significance.
You snatch up another abandoned cup and tip its watery remains into the sink.
“This,” you say. “Some of us respect shared spaces.”
“Mm. At two in the morning?” Jack leans one hip against the counter, arms folding over his chest. When you dont stop, he adds, “All right. Scoot over. I’ll help.”
Jack has never encountered a mess, emotional or otherwise, that he did not believe could be improved by putting his hands on it. A wound, a crisis, a woman mad enough to scrub ceramic like she means to erase the glaze. Same instinct. Reach. Steady. Fix.
You turn before he can.
Dishwater slips from your fingers in clear little tracks, the oversized sleep shirt grazing high over your thighs as you square yourself toward him.
“No, thank you.” Your gaze stays fixed on his. “I’ve learned I can manage without help.”
He comes closer, and closer still, until your damp fingers have nowhere sensible to go except flat against the edge of the sink.
“That’s very independent of you, honey,” he says. “Always loved that about you.” His hand lands beside your hip, bracketing you in. His gaze searches your face, lightening at the edges. “But I don’t think we’re talking about dishes anymore, are we?”
You tip your chin up, refusing to let the gentling in his eyes sand down your irritation. “No, we’re not. We’re talking about you saying one thing and doing another. Apparently promises are more of a loose suggestion when they’re coming from you.”
“Give me a chance to explain, sweetheart.” The words slip out on a breath, softer than the rattle of the faucet. “You can be mad after. Hell, you probably still will be. Just hear me out first.”
You do not want to hear him out.
Explanations are unpredictable things, doors that open both ways, and you already have the sickening suspicion that whatever is waiting on the other side will hurt worse than not knowing.
Because yes, objectively, Jack failing to follow you into a bathroom means very little.
No fidelity breached, no grand betrayal, no concrete proof of anything beyond bad timing and worse communication.
But the small flutter in your stomach does not care about what your mind tries to litigate away.
It knows this feeling. Knows this small retreat before someone leaves, the subtle cooling, the moment affection starts becoming obligation.
Maybe he has simply had his fill of you. Maybe the novelty wore off and now you are no longer the bright, entertaining little thing he wanted to sneak around with, only a woman who talks too much and needs too much and has begun expecting permanence from something built in shadows.
And maybe now he has seen enough of the real thing to know he cannot imagine building a life around it.
So you do not give him the chance.
“Nothing to explain,” you say, seizing the sponge and escaping the cage of his arms for the opposite counter.
You start cleaning with theatrical diligence, collecting bottles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs into your palm as though the fate of the rental deposit rests entirely on you.
But you did not come downstairs to rescue countertops. You came because you need proof that Jack still wants you.
Any kind of proof. Emotional, physical, desperate, selfish. You would take whatever he gives you.
And if you cannot bring yourself to ask whether he still sees a future with you, then you can at least find out whether he still wants to put his hands on you.
So when you bend to retrieve a fallen fork from the ground, you let the hem of your sleep shirt climb unchecked over the backs of your legs until it bares you completely, exposes that you are wearing no underwear, your thighs parted just enough for Jack to see every soft, private inch you left uncovered for him.
Cool air brushes your pussy.
His stare burns hotter.
“Jesus Christ, honey.” The words leave him rough and disbelieving, dragged up from the well below his throat. Behind you, the counter creaks faintly beneath the sudden weight of his hands. “What the hell are you doing?”
You count to one before straightening.
You turn with the fork still balanced between two fingers, arranging your face into its sweetest approximation of confusion.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Right,” he murmurs. “Must’ve imagined the whole thing.”
You drop the fork into the sink with an accusing clatter. “Probably. Memory goes with age, remember?”
He steps in behind you before you can turn away, chest brushing your back, one palm flattening over your stomach while the other slides beneath your shirt.
His knuckles skim the soft inside of your thigh, then settle exactly where you’re naked.
“Yeah,” he growls against your ear. “Didn’t imagine a damn thing.”
A whimper threatens and you bite it back so hard your jaw aches. In that stilled heartbeat the fight drains out of your muscles and your body answers him first, arching back, begging in the only language it trusts.
But the panic bubbles back up in fiery waves.
“Please don’t,” you say, and the plea is not the one he expects.
Jack’s hand freezes.
You close your eyes.
“If you’ve changed your mind about me, just say it.” Every word hurts your throat. You turn your face just enough for him to see what the anger has been hiding all night. Fear. “If you don’t want me anymore, then don’t touch me like you do. Don’t make it harder than it already is.”
Jack’s hand vanishes so abruptly from beneath your shirt, your knees dip with the loss.
Then he’s turning you, big palms framing your cheeks, thumbs parked just under your cheekbones. Your own slick glosses his knuckles. He tips your chin up so you can’t look anywhere but straight into the brown storm of his.
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about, baby?”
Your mouth opens, but what escapes first is a wet, hitching breath.
The tears rise fast, flood-waters breaching the levee before you can blink them back, Jack’s outline smearing into watercolor.
“I don’t know,” you hiccup, which is not true at all. You know too much. “You left me there. And then you acted like I was being dramatic for expecting you to show up when you said you would.” Your fingers curl around his wrists, not pushing him away, just holding on. “And maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s about how easy it would be for you to wake up and realize I’m not… serious-person material. I’m fun, I know that. I’m pretty and I make you laugh and I’m good in bed, but that’s not the same as being someone you actually want a life with.” Your lips tremble. “People always like me better at first.”
Immediately his face caves, all the structure in it imploding: brows hitching, mouth parting, a stricken slackness that makes him look ten years younger and infinitely more breakable.
“Don’t say that,” he says, too sharp at first, then immediately dampens. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Say whatever you need to say. I’m just…” He shakes his head, jaw tight, eyes shining with something close to a fear that matches yours. “I hate that I made you feel like that.”
His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, holding you there as if he needs you to understand this with your whole body.
“You are serious to me. More serious than anything I’ve let myself have in a long time.” He exhales shakily. “You think I don’t picture a life with you? I picture it constantly.”
You just stare, lungs cinched tight, tears marooned mid-cheek as though gravity’s on pause. The room narrows to the pulse thudding in your ears.
“You’re… you’re serious about me?”
Jack makes a quiet, wounded sound. His hands come back to your face, thumbs stroking the wet tracks beneath your eyes.
“Christ, baby. Yes. Of course I am.” He bends closer, as though proximity might help drive the truth into you. “I don’t know how I let you believe otherwise… I didn’t follow after you tonight because I got scared for you, not of you. I should have told you. I should have found you, explained, apologized. Instead I left you alone with your worst thoughts. That was cruel, even if I didn’t mean it to be. Please let me fix it.”
Another hiccup rattles through you as you try to process the words at face-value. “Scared for me how?”
“Because if this blew up, I didn’t want you caught in it.” He says it simply, like there is no question which of you matters more. “I don’t give a damn what people think of me, baby. I care what it does to you.”
You shake your head inside the cradle of his hands.
“I don’t care what people think either. I don’t care about any of it.” Your voice snags, but you push through. “I love you, Jack. That matters more.”
His eyes close for half a second, like the words are almost too much to take standing up.
When they open again, he kisses you senselessly soft, both hands still holding your face as though you might vanish.
He kisses you once, twice, a third time, each one a little messier than the last.
“Love you too, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”
The brine of your tears slick the seam of your mouth. Jack doesn’t flinch, drinks it in like proof of living.
You surface for one ragged sip of air, barely enough, your lips still grazing his, fists knotted in his shirt like ballast against weightlessness.
“You mean it? You’re really serious about me?” you whisper again, softer this time, almost shy with it.
Jack lets out a low, guttural sound and grazes the corner of your mouth.
“So serious, honey.” Another kiss, deeper now, his hands sliding from your face to your waist, pulling you flush. “Want to put a ring on that pretty little hand. Want a house with your clothes everywhere and your shoes in places I’m gonna trip over.” His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your gasp before he adds, rougher, “Want a kid, if you want one. You want a baby with me, angel?”
“Yes, please, Jack.”
The words are still warm in the air when he fits his mouth to yours, a groan vibrating through both of you.
His palms squeeze your waist, then lift, your stomach swooping as he sets you on the cleared stretch of counter. Cool laminate kisses the backs of your thighs, shocking against the furnace heat of him stepping between your legs.
Your sleep-shirt scrunches between his hands, creeping, creeping, until the hem gathers at your hips and you’re bared to him again.
“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You’d give me that?”
You nod so eagerly the room tilts, fists in his collar, yanking him closer. “Anything.”
“My perfect girl,” he breathes, kissing you again, softer now, as if the tenderness makes what follows any less filthy.
His hand slips beneath the gathered cotton at your waist, fingers gliding south until one settles between your folds. He drags the wetness up in a lazy sweep, humming appreciation that burns brighter than the touch itself.
“And what’s all this, hm?” he asks, studying your face while his finger toys idly with your clit. His eyes darken, attention dropping to where his hand disappears between your legs. “You sittin’ here imagining me filling you up with a baby, sweetheart?”
Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, chasing pressure he has no intention of giving you yet.
“No teasing,” you whimper, breath breaking around the words. “Please, Jack. I need you inside me.”
Jack swears under his breath, hand leaving your clit only long enough to undo his pants. The zipper drops. Fabric loosens. Then he is back between your thighs, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds once, twice, gathering the wetness you have made for him.
The sight of him nearly makes you stupid.
It has only been a few days, which is nothing, really, barely enough time for a normal person to miss anything, but your body has become accustomed to him, used to the heavy stretch of his cock at least once a day, sometimes twice when neither of you has somewhere to be.
You’re practically drooling, inner muscles fluttering around emptiness while he takes his sweet, sweet time wetting himself in what you’ve made for him.
You shift on the counter, thighs widening of their own accord, a needy sound slipping free when the head catches against your entrance and pulls away again.
“I know, honey. I know.” His voice roughens as he traces the head up your inner thigh. “Should’ve given you what you needed hours ago.”
Then he finally does.
He braces one hand at your hip and pushes forward in one long, steady stroke, the thick head breaching you first, then every heavy inch following.
Your cunt flutters, welcoming, molding around him until there’s no space left unexplored.
The counter shudders with the low sound that tears out of both of you.
The inexorable pressure sutures the empty ache that’s haunted you, stuffing it full until there’s no room for jealousy, no space for worst-case scenarios.
There is only Jack.
Your thighs cinch hard around his waist, heels gouging into the backs of his legs like spurs demanding more.
He doesn’t stop until pelvis meets pelvis, forehead thunking against yours while both of you gasp as if you’ve sprinted a mile in the sand.
He retreats a heartbeat’s width and your walls seize around him, possessive. He curses under his breath.
“This tight little cunt missed me, didn’t it?” he asks, already driving back in.
He starts pumping into you at a saint’s tempo, each drag of his cock thick and thorough, his hips grinding flush against you at the end of every thrust.
Your arms lock around his shoulders as your body rocks with him, bare thighs trembling against his sides.
Pleasure gathers everywhere at once, starting at your pussy and climbing until your whole body feels tuned to the rhythm of his hips.
You try to tell him that. Try to say yes, missed you, feels so good, but what comes out is a breathless spill of syllables, half his name and half a sound you would be embarrassed by if your brain were still capable of embarrassment.
His hand slips between your bodies, two fingers finding your clit.
“You’re mine, aren’t you? All mine,” he growls, cock still working inside you. “And I’m yours. Never gonna be anybody else’s, you hear me?”
Your answer is a helpless chain of nods and breathy mewls, but he isn’t satisfied with that.
He catches your jaw, thumb pressing your cheek until your eyes snap to his.
“Look at me. Hear me.”
“Y-yes, Jack… yours — love you, love you s’much,” you babble.
“Love you, angel.” He presses a kiss to your trembling lips. “Want me to fill this pretty pussy up? Want me to leave every drop inside where it belongs?”
“Yes, please. Need it — need you — m’so close.”
The first warning licks up your spine. A trembling in your calves, nipples pebbling hard against your shirt.
Pleasure stacks in breath-stealing layers, so heavy it feels like quicksand pulling you under.
Jack’s tells flare with yours. His hips snapping hard, hands tightening on your waist until his knuckles blanch.
Sweat beads at his hairline, drops down to your skin, and your walls clamp down in greedy pulses, each flex beginning for the flood he’s a second away from letting go.
“Keep looking at me,” Jack pants, curling a hand from your waist to the back of your neck. “Need to watch you fall apart.”
“Can’t — can’t hold it,” you whimper, thighs shaking.
“Don’t hold a damn thing,” he growls. “Give it to me, come on, baby.”
The quicksand finally liquefies and the world folds to white noise.
Jack breaks with you, a strangled — fuck — on your lips, thrusts turning short as he empties himself in thick bursts.
You cling to one another, quake for heartbeat after heartbeat, until the tremors fade into breathless, boneless warmth.
When Jack’s breathing finally steadies, his mouth roams in slow increments. First your collarbones, up the column of your throat, over the quiver of your lips.
He eases back only to reach for a paper towel, thumb already swiping at the mess seeping down your thighs.
“Don’t,” you plead, catching his wrist. “Wanna keep it.”
Jack huffs a low laugh before moving to kiss away your protest. “Sweetheart, you’re not making it five steps up those stairs with that sliding down your legs.”
Even as he says it, he dabs gently between them.
The light friction has your hips ticking forward, little whimpers breaking free.
“Sensitive, huh?” he tuts.
“Thought you wanted to put a baby in me?” you argue.
Jack’s thumb circles your thigh. “Oh, I plan on it — but not until there’s some extra hardware shining on your hand. One thing at a time, yeah?”
Old-fashioned as he is, you probably should’ve expected that.
Jack Abbot is the kind of man who still opens doors, calls restaurants instead of booking online, and apparently requires jewelry before intentional procreation. There is probably a proper sequence filed away in that stubborn head of his: ring, vows, house, baby.
You find, to your own surprise, that you do not mind the order at all.
You tap his chest with a teasing finger and dopey smile. “I can live with that. I do love shiny things, after all.”
What he does not tell you is that the shiny thing already exists, hidden in his sock drawer, waiting for the right moment.
You won’t find that out for another two months, until after the two of you finally sit Robby down and tell him everything, until after Jack takes one clean punch to the face without even trying to dodge it, because fair is fair, and until after Robby’s anger burns itself down into something survivable.
By the time Jack slips the ring onto your finger, his lip is healed, your brother is calling him Jack instead of Dick-Face (you can’t be sure where he learned that insult from), and the future no longer feels like something borrowed.
It is yours.
MARIA NOTE this lowkey was supposed to be like 1k words and the ideas just kept flowing and it turned into a full psychological case study on why making ur brother's best friend jealous is both a terrible idea and, unfortunately, very effective. also jack saying ring first, baby later made me briefly black out. hope u enjoyed!! <3
word count: 4,537
ship: Garrett Graham x reader
rating: PG-13
summary: for someone who claimed to never have time for a girlfriend, garrett graham is pretty good at the whole 'boyfriend' thing
notes: i have a masterlist now bc i've lost control of my life
notes2: gifs are from this gifpack :)
There were rumors that spun around Briar U about your relationship with Garrett Graham and how you managed to tie down someone who notoriously ‘never did girlfriends’. Some ranged from the ridiculousness of blackmail to the ‘stream over rock’ concept, which is essentially just about wearing him down enough until he agreed. At the beginning, these ideas annoyed you—it wasn’t anyone’s business why you and Garrett decided to take a long-term friendship and turn it into something more. But then you realized that most people talking were just jealous or far too curious for their own good. The point in all this? For someone who insisted he’d never be someone’s boyfriend…he’s ridiculously good at it.
That’s not to say that Garrett hasn’t always been thoughtful or kind or hadn’t gone out of his way to do something for someone else before dating you. It’s just that now, with that rose-colored lens of being exclusive, everything he does just tips you closer and closer into falling in love with him.
As if you weren’t standing on that precipice already.
—
You’re not sure whose grand idea it was to have a party in the woods, yet here you are. You suppose it’s aesthetically sort of pleasing, given that it’s October and the spooky vibes are slipping into everything your friend group wants to do. Don’t get it wrong—you love this time of year, you love Halloween and pumpkin carving and hay rides and decorating and dressing up. Woods, however? is kinda where you draw the line.
Garrett’s arm slips around your waist as you sit in front of a small bonfire, tucking you back into his chest. You breathe out, turning your head to offer him a small smile. He smiles back, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You know he can feel how stiff you are, shifting every so often, your gaze caught to the woods just beyond where everyone is…
“You know the likelihood of us getting killed by a forest witch is like…low, right?”
You huff at the teasing in his voice, “But never zero.” You mumble.
Garrett smirks, squeezing around your waist. “I think you need to lay off the horror movies for a while, babe.”
“I think you should do more research,” You squirm, an uncomfortable feeling settling in your lower belly. “Literally these movies are available so people don’t make stupid decisions in the woods.” Your nose crinkles, “The minute Dean disappears, we’re leaving. Don’t even think about going to look for him either. Big fucking trap.”
A laugh rumbles in Garrett’s chest and you know he’s looking around the bonfire for his friend because, yeah, if anyone disappears in a horror movie first you’re pretty sure it’d be Dean.
“I think we all should probably leave the woods if Dean is our canary in the coal mine.” Garrett comments, taking a sip of his beer.
You shift again, suddenly uncomfortable. Though after a moment of taking account that it’s not the woods giving you the creeps (it is, but this is something else), you hone in on that sharp ache that’s touching on your lower belly. It blooms suddenly across your abdomen and—
Oh no.
It’s cramps. It’s cramps but—you tug your phone out of your pocket, checking your period tracking app and…three days early. You’re usually never early. If anything, you’re a one to two days late kind of girl. Shit.
“I’ll be right back.” You say suddenly, getting up so fast you nearly elbow Garrett in the shoulder.
His eyebrows draw together, his hand gliding down from your waist to rest on your outer thigh, “I’m pretty sure you told me that’s a death sentence in some of these movies.”
A laugh strangles up your throat. Jesus Christ, he does listen to your horror genre rambles, “I’m just using the bathroom. If I’m not back in five minutes, send a search party,” You lean down and kiss his cheek, “Just kidding, but avenge my death.”
“That’s not funny.” He calls after you as you begin walking towards the bathrooms but you can hear a twinge of humored warmth in his voice.
You quickly make your way towards this stone-like structure in the woods which, at the very least, isn’t porta-potties. It reminds you of a park bathroom that doesn’t have a closing door but an open entryway that leads to three stalls and sinks. Running water, at least, which feels like a win. You shiver against the cold as you slip into one of the stalls, missing the warmth of Garrett’s body and the bonfire. It’s always so damp in these sorts of things.
Tugging your jeans down, you groan as your suspicions are confirmed. You got your period early and there’s blood in your underwear and…staining the back of your jeans. Jesus. You pinch the bridge of your nose before rifling through your purse and—
“Seriously?” You mutter to yourself, realizing you brought a smaller bag tonight and not your usual purse which has all your period supplies.
You bite down on your lower lip, frustration and annoyance pinpricking the back of your eyelids. You are not about to do something stupid like cry in the middle of the woods in a shady bathroom. You’ll just text one of your friends—odds are, they’ll have something for you to use.
You use a wad of toilet paper in the meantime, tugging your jeans back up. Heading back out to the sink, you wash your hands and—
There’s the sound of someone coming. Large footsteps, shuffling leaves, branches breaking and—
You hear Garrett call your name just outside the doorway to the bathroom. You sigh out of your nose, your hand coming to rest on your hammering heart. Jesus.
Moving around the corner, you see him standing near the entrance, “Hey, consider this the search party you wanted.” There’s a small smile at the corners of his lips until he gets a good look at your face, “What’s wrong?”
God. This is so embarrassing. Look, you fully believe that if a man can’t talk about periods and blood and whatever comes with it shouldn’t be anywhere near fooling around with you on good days. But…you still feel heat kiss the back of your neck all the same.
“I uh, I got my period.”
Garrett shifts on his feet, his gaze brushing over you in what feels like a gentle caress. He opens his mouth to say something but you start rambling,
“I’m early and I brought a stupid tiny bag tonight so I don’t have anything. And my jeans are ruined and uhm,” Emotion clogs the back of your throat, “And here I was worried about a vindictive forest witch when I should have been worried about my own body turning against me.” A strangled laugh escapes, “Like—how dumb is that?”
He takes a step closer to you, brushing a hand over your cheek. It’s not until he pulls away that you realize a tear escaped from your eye. Fuck.
Garrett slides his leather jacket off, handing it to you to hold for a moment as he tugs that purple hoodie he likes to wear over his head. Your eyebrows draw together in confusion, watching as he trades the sweatshirt into your hands to put the leather jacket back on. And then he’s…
He’s tying the purple hoodie around your waist, hiding the back of your jeans. The sentiment is so easy and so gentle that more tears slip down your cheeks. This is so—
You quickly wipe them away, sniffling. “Thank you.”
He gives you a small smile, his hand resting on your shoulder. His thumb traces back and forth over your neck, “Okay, two options. One—we go back to the Jeep and I have some stuff in the trunk. I don’t actually…know if it’s what you need, but—”
You blink, tipping your head back to look at him, “You have period supplies in your trunk?”
Garrett rubs the back of his neck now, seeming uncertain, “Yeah. It’s just the pads, I think. I thought maybe you might need them at some point, like an emergency stash—”
You press yourself up on your toes to kiss him. You can feel him smiling against your lips, wrapping your arms around your waist to press you in close. His hand trails up and down your spine before settling on the back of your neck, squeezing the tense muscles there.
When the kiss ends, Garrett rests his forehead against yours, “Or option two, we can go home. You can get a shower and I’ll set up the couch with your favorites.” Meaning lots of blankets, a heating pad, a bowl of ice cream and salty snacks. “We can even watch something that’s going to give me nightmares.”
You can’t help but smile at the reluctance in his voice, cupping his cheek to stroke your thumb over the bone, “My hero.” You tease.
He rolls his eyes but his smile is fond as his hand slips into yours, guiding your way back towards his Jeep.
—
You’ve been dealing with migraines for as long as you can remember. They’re usually brought on by stress, which, it’s like you want to tell your body that there’s no other version of yourself that you can be at college. Regardless, this one lecture never fails to cause tension to pinch the back of your eyes. Usually you’re able to stave it off, take your meds, drink a lot of water and deal with a regular headache.
Today though? It knocks into you like a cinderblock to the temple.
A grateful noise leaves your lips as you make it back to your dorm room, toeing your shoes off and making a b-line for your bedroom. Your hip bumps into your desk and you curse whoever decided that was a good place for it to go. You can’t see out of your right eye and your head is pulsing along with the beat of your heart. You don’t even bother changing your clothes or reaching for the blinds because if you don’t sit soon gravity is going to take over and you’re going to fall.
Lying face down on your bed, you bury your face under your pillows, hoping the cacophony of sounds and light and pounding stops soon.
—
You’re not sure what time it is. You think you hear a door open and close and low voices in the living area of your dorm. Your roommate and…someone else. Maybe her boyfriend? Regardless, you don’t move. There’s an aching soreness to your temples and behind your eyes, a grating sort of pain that’ll get worse if your body shifts at all. It’s not…it’s not as bad as when you first got back to your room, but it’s teasing the edge of tipping into something that’s worse or getting better. There’s no way to tell other than just waiting it out.
A soft sigh leaves your lips and more sounds gently fill the space. Your door opens, you think—blinds are being pulled down? Someone takes off your shoes and then slowly crawls into bed beside you. You draw in a breath, the smell of cologne mixing with laundry detergent and something purely Garrett.
It’s like your entire body relaxes when you feel his hand gently trail up your back.
You move just a fraction, your face peeking out from underneath the pillow. He offers you a small smile, “Hey,” He whispers, brushing some of your hair out of your face, “How you doing, champ?”
“Bad,” You whisper back, the word crackly and tired. Your eyebrows draw together because you’re not sure how he figured out you were here—
“You missed your shift at Malone’s,” He fills in, his hand sneaking up and under your shirt to smooth his fingers against your skin. It feels really nice.
“Fuck,” You clear your throat, shifting just enough to get yourself above the pillows. Garrett moves closer, his arm tucked around your waist, “I completely forgot—”
“I told Della that the only reason you’d miss is because you were sick,” He assures, “She knows about your migraines, right?”
You nod, your hand coming up to rest against your face. It’s quiet for a few moments, just the sounds of the dorm settling around you and your shared breathing. Garrett pulls a blanket free to drape over you, pressing a kiss to your forehead,
“I didn’t mean to wake you,” He mumbles a moment later.
You shake your head, “You didn’t.” You pull your hand from your face, your arm resting along Garrett’s side, tucking it underneath his hoodie. “I was kinda in and out.”
Garrett is quiet for a few moments, his big hand rubbing along your shoulders, squeezing every so often. Despite sometimes feeling far too overstimulated and emotional, it feels good having him here, that unwavering silent support alongside you.
“Do you need anything?” He asks. He doesn’t try to force you to eat or nag you about pills, he doesn’t try to assume he understands the inner workings of what your migraine might be doing to your emotions or your body. He’s just offering whatever might make you feel like you’re more in control.
And he has no idea how much that means to you.
Eventually shaking your head, you inch closer to him until your face is tucked against his chest, your leg sliding between both of his own. He breathes out, his lips and nose burying themselves in your hair.
“I just need you.” Your soft reply comes a moment later and Garrett squeezes your body to his before relaxing against the mattress.
—
One of the many things you love about Garrett is how willing he is to be completely ridiculous with you. He’s silly, which you don’t think many people realize. He’s very dedicated and determined and hyperfocused sometimes on his future, on hockey, on things that really matter. But when he allows himself to unwind, when he smiles freely, when he laughs hard and jokes with you just to get you to smile—it’s one of your favorite things.
It’s late and the bar is packed. You’re a bit more tipsy than you usually allow yourself to get, but it’s your friend’s birthday and the shots have been steadily flowing since you got here. Garrett came late because he was finishing practice, so he’s a few drinks behind you, but that doesn’t stop him from dancing when you ask.
His moves are wildly dorky, but in this charming kind of way that makes you bend a bit in full bellied laughter. Garrett is somehow awkward and boxy with some of his movements and yet it doesn’t stop him from being attractive, either. It’s not something a lot of people can pull off. You grin when he grabs your hand to twirl you and when the song gets to the chorus, you can’t stop yourself from bouncing along to the lyrics. Garrett doesn’t jump but he does hold onto your hand, a laugh slipping free every time you use his arm to push yourself up further.
When you stumble over Garrett’s shoe after another spin, he wraps an arm around your waist and gently holds you to his chest, “Alright,” He chuckles, “C’mon, how about some water?”
“How about a kiss?” You pout, your hand moving to touch his cheek.
Garrett smirks, turning his head to press a kiss to your fingers before he leans down and captures your lips. It’s slow and easy and the way his tongue sneaks into your mouth makes your toes curl. You want to whine that it’s far too short but he peppers a few against your face when he pulls back and you suppose that’s good enough for now.
Leaning against the bar once you get there, Garrett grabs a water from the bartender and sits it down in front of you. “Also paying for her tab.” He says over the music, motioning to you.
You take a long sip of water, about to protest because you can pay for it, or at the very least half but two girls that you definitely recognize from other Briar U parties and hockey games come right up beside Garrett. Puck bunnies.
They’re pretty, if not carbon copies of one another—blonde and tall and giggly when they talk to him. One of them is offering shots while the other is asking Garrett if he wants to dance and while he fixes both of them with a polite smile, he declines. You scoff softly as they nod, looking disappointed and pouty before disappearing.
You chew on your straw as Garrett turns his attention back to you, raising his eyebrows, “You’re pouting.”
You sip on your water, definitely sounding like a little gremlin when you voice, “I am not.”
Garrett lets out a sudden laugh, “Okay.” Then, “You know there’s no reason for you to be jealous.”
Oh my god. The back of your neck heats from the audacity of this man (and because he’s so right). And yet, “I am…I’m not jealous.”
Your boyfriend hums like he doesn’t believe you and…you suppose he shouldn’t. You’re still looking at girls who approached him further down the bar. Before you can say anything else, Garrett hooks your chin between his fingers and kisses you again.
Heat curls all the way down your body and you swear you can feel yourself melt directly into the floor. Your fingers curl into his shirt, holding onto him, and all other thoughts fade away. Especially the ones that don’t matter.
—
In the morning, when you wake up in Garrett’s bed, tucked against pillows and too many blankets—there’s a bag of fast food on the nightstand along with some aspirin and water. The bag has a note written on it;
—practice, see you later :)
A small smile presses itself onto your face despite your hangover.
—
Garrett is a boyfriend to keep, and as it turns out, you’re pretty good as a girlfriend too.
—
It’s not often that Garrett gets into fights on the ice, but it does happen. You’re not sure what’s up with this player on the other team, but 32 won’t keep his mouth shut. You may not be close enough to hear what’s being said, but you have eyes. You tend to follow your boyfriend as he plays and 32 won’t let up. You can tell that Garrett is getting increasingly pissed off the longer the game goes on. You’re not sure whether the other player is trying to just…throw Garrett off his game so that he fucks up? Or get him in the penalty box? You can’t be sure.
But the entire thing makes you nervous.
The game is so close to being over—in fact, Briar U scores the last goal and the crowd goes wild, music playing and horns going off.
You feel like there’s a moment in which you can exhale; both teams are lining up to congratulate one another on a good game played. Which would be fine, business as usual, except 32 opens his mouth for one last chirp. Whatever he says has Garrett seeing red, he launches himself across the line, gloves off, throwing a punch. Logan and Dean are quick to draw him back so it’s not as bad as it could have been? But fuck.
You can’t sit in the stands anymore. You turn on your heel and rush through the crowds of people, trying to pass and get through. Your fingers play with the keys to Garrett’s Jeep, the cool weather a refreshing kiss to your flushed face once you get outside. You linger near the exit where the players come out and as time passes, a lot of them head out for the night. All but Garrett.
When Logan opens the door next, he connects eyes with you, his gaze soft, “He’s still in the locker room.”
You swallow, “Is he okay?”
“I think he’s just trying to calm down.”
Your legs move you forward and past Logan as he holds the door open. You don’t even realize he’s behind you, making sure you get past any lingering security so that they don’t escort you out. He disappears once you push the locker room door open, seeing Garrett sitting in front of his stall. His body is bowed, still in some of his gear, his elbows on his knees and his hands hanging loosely between his legs.
The door gently closes behind you and you walk forward, “Garrett.” Your voice is loud in such a quiet room.
He glances up at you, swallowing over emotion thick in his throat. He straightens his shoulders, centering himself, “How did you get in here?”
Chewing on your lower lip, you stand in front of him, not touching him. Not yet, “Logan.” A moment passes, “Actually, I ran past him when the door was open. He just made sure I wasn’t tackled by campus police.”
A ghost of a smile pulls the corners of his mouth, gone as soon as it appears. Close up now, you can see how upset he is. Like a livewire, barely contained, his hands shaking and breathing slightly shallow. You don’t want to ask him what happened because you don’t want to wind him up more than he already is—and honestly? It doesn’t matter what set him off. The point is that he’s having a hard time coming down from it now.
That’s your priority.
You breathe out and step closer, nearly bumping his one knee. You drag your fingers through his damp curls, getting them out of the way of his face. His head tips back and the stark emotion in his expression, the slight mistiness to his eyes—it’s like a punch in the gut.
“Are you hurt?” You ask softly.
Garrett looks down at his hands, which are still trembling, but he shakes his head, “No, I just—can’t get out of my head.”
You nod softly, knowing how much violence is a trigger for him. How he struggles with it. You really wish you could speak your peace to Phil Graham, because you have so much to fucking say. But Garrett has never had you meet him, has never allowed him within two feet of you, even when he’s here at his son’s games. And you know why, you can respect that. But it doesn’t take away the anger and frustration you feel on your boyfriend’s behalf.
Especially when he’s like this.
32 must have said something to create this headspace, Garrett wouldn’t have allowed himself to dip this low otherwise.
You shift, standing between Garrett’s legs, gently untying his shoulder pads and sliding them off and onto the floor. Once you have access to his body, your hands fall, massaging the stiff muscles above his collarbones. You work your thumbs into his upper neck and trail your fingers to his back and then all over again—in a calming circle that eventually has his body relaxing, his shoulders unhooking from his ears, his jaw unclenching.
“I don’t know what 32 said,” You say after a moment, “And I don’t need to know. But whatever it was? He’s not worth it.”
Garrett swallows, “I’m sorry.”
“No,” Your voice is firm, reaching for his chin so that he’s looking at you when you add, “Don’t be sorry—I’m not upset. I was just worried about you. I care about you, so much. You know that, right?”
Garrett lets out a slow breath, his face pinching a little. His hands suddenly grip your sides, pulling you closer, his face pressing into your abdomen. You can feel that soft hitching of him trying to control himself, maybe trying not to cry. Your heart aches in your chest as you step closer, allowing him to clutch onto you, your hand soothing through his hair and down his back in slow, even circles.
After a few minutes, Garrett finally seems like he’s calmed down, or at the very least he’s not shaking anymore. When he pulls back, you run a hand through his curls, offering him a small smile. You lean down to kiss him but before your lips can map over his,
“I love you,” He says, “You know that, right?” He mirrors what you said, making your heart flip-flop in your chest.
You smile fully, nodding, before kissing him. It’s gentle and quick, but seemingly enough.
“I love you too,” You add, taking a step back. “C’mon, grab a shower before we head out. You stink.”
A laugh rumbles in his chest before he shakes his head, standing to his full height. “Yeah, yeah,” He mumbles, tugging off his long-sleeved thermal. He turns to make eye contact with you, pausing, as if—
“I’ll be here,” You promise, sitting down in front of his stall, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Garrett nods, leaning down to kiss you again, leaving you with a warm sensation that feels a lot like home as he heads off to the showers.
—
“Are they supposed to be like that?”
You purse your lips, turning your head as you take a long look at the muffins you made, cooling on the stovetop at Garrett’s place. You wouldn’t consider yourself a baker or…even a cook, at any rate, but literally how hard is it to follow directions and like, put something in the oven for a specific amount of time?
Apparently difficult.
“Uhm,” You poke one of them with a fork and…as suspected, they are rock solid. “Maybe?” Garrett chews on his lower lip and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh. You smack him in the chest. “Shut up.”
“I’m sorry,” A laugh escapes, “I’m pretty sure you could injure someone with one of these.”
You groan, your head tipping back as you set the fork down, “I don’t understand, I followed the recipe. Maybe they…taste better than they look?”
“Do you wanna chip a tooth?”
“Garrett.”
He laughs again, “Fuck, sorry. I’m just saying—think it might be a lost cause, babe. I say we toss them and let Tucker bake something when he gets home.”
There’s a pout on your lips, even as you untie your apron, “Maybe I could try one, just to see…” You slip the apron over your head, setting it aside. But the moment you reach for one of the muffins, Garrett crouches down and scoops you up into his arms, tossing you over his shoulder.
“Put me down!” You squawk, reaching down his back in an attempt to smack his ass, “Caveman.”
He carries you over to the couch, “Sorry,” He does not sound sorry at all. In one easy motion, he plops you onto the cushions. You land in a flourish, a soft oof leaving your lips. Garrett maps his body on top of yours, smiling against your lips, “Boyfriend code says I have to protect you from eating inedible muffins. Those are just the rules.”
A soft laugh rumbles in your chest, mixed with fluttering butterflies and your heart flip-flopping—all at the sound of boyfriend. Yeah, that never gets old.
“Oh,” You smile, “Well if those are the rules.” You wrap your fingers in his shirt, tugging him down into a kiss.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – a low blood sugar scare at beau’s frat house cuts the party short, but garrett handles it with juice and crackers.
warnings – diabetes, blood sugar drop, dizziness/lightheadedness, alcohol, frat party, food/juice as treatment.
notes from me – hi my babes!! as requested here, thank u so much!
word count – 0.8k
navigation – masterlist |
The first warning isn’t the Dexcom alert, because Beau’s speakers are trying to shake the plumbing loose and her phone is buried beneath three coats on the kitchen counter. The first warning is the hollow tilt of the room when she turns her head too quickly, the red cup in her hand suddenly heavier than a cup containing two melted ice cubes and one mouthful of vodka soda has any right to be.
She blinks at Blair, who’s halfway through a story and hasn’t noticed that the kitchen tiles have begun moving unpleasantly beneath her shoes. Heat gathers beneath the collar of her top. Her fingers feel distant Badly connected, like her hands have been assigned to somebody else for the evening.
“Are you listening?” Blair asks.
“Mhm.” It comes out soft enough that Blair’s face changes.
She sets the cup down before she drops it, which feels like excellent planning from a brain currently buffering, and looks toward the living room. Garrett’s beside the couch with Logan and Beau, laughing at something Dean’s performing with both hands and no dignity.
He looks unfairly solid from here. Grey Briar hoodie, one hand around a beer, feet planted like the floor has personally promised not to move for him.
She leaves Blair with, “One second,” and crosses carefully, brushing past warm bodies and somebody wearing enough cologne to qualify as chemical warfare.
Garrett sees her before she reaches him. His smile stays, but his attention leaves the conversation so completely Dean could probably set himself on fire without winning it back.
“Hey, baby.” Garrett’s hand finds her waist. “You good?”
She presses her fingers into his hoodie. “Don’t feel good.”
That’s all it takes. No panic, no loud questions, no Garrett Graham Medical Emergency Spectacular for Beau’s entire fraternity. He puts his beer into Logan’s hand and bends slightly, bringing his face closer. “Low?”
“Think so.” She rubs at her forehead. The music seems to be arriving from far away now, each beat landing late. “Feel weird.”
“Okay.” His thumb moves against her side. “Phone?”
“Kitchen. Coats.”
Blair’s already there, holding it and her bag. The Dexcom graph glows when Garrett checks it, his mouth flattening at the number and arrow.
“Alright,” he says, still maddeningly calm. “Couch first.”
“I can stand.”
“Thrilling. Sit anyway.”
She might argue if the couch weren’t suddenly beautiful. Garrett guides her over with his palm firm at her back, waits while Beau evicts two freshmen, then lowers her onto the cushions and crouches in front of her. His knees bracket her shoes while he searches her bag.
“You have juice?”
“Side pocket.”
He finds the little carton, stabs the straw through the foil with more aggression than the juice has earned, and passes it over. “Drink.”
She takes three pulls, then lets the straw fall from her mouth. “It’s warm.”
“Yeah, Beau’s frat house failed its Michelin inspection. Keep going.”
A laugh catches weakly in her throat. Garrett’s eyes lift to hers, steady, checking more than her number without making her feel inspected. She finishes it while he stays crouched there, thumb moving over the inside of her wrist where her pulse is quick beneath the skin.
By the time the room stops slipping sideways, tiredness has moved in behind it, thick and immediate. She sinks into the couch and presses her hand to her forehead. “I’m gonna go home.”
Garrett nods like she has suggested something ordinary. “I’ll take you, baby. We’ll go to mine, yeah? Get you something proper to eat.”
“I’m so tired, baby.”
“I know.” He sits beside her, tugging her gently into his side while they wait for the next reading. “Come on. We’ll go.”
She tips her face into his shoulder. He smells like detergent, beer he barely drank, and cold air caught in his hoodie. “I don’t wanna ruin your night.”
“You’re not ruining anything.” His mouth brushes her hair. “Dean was explaining cryptocurrency. You saved me.”
From behind them, Dean says, offended, “I was not.”
Garrett does not turn around. “See? Already feeling better.”
Her mouth twitches against his shoulder. When the number begins nudging upward, Garrett hands her crackers from her bag, then stands and pulls her carefully with him, taking her coat from Blair and slinging her bag over his own shoulder.
“I can walk,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
“I’m not dying.”
“Also know that.”
“You’re being bossy.”
He tucks her coat around her and kisses her temple, warm and absent-minded, as though caring for her isn’t an interruption but simply the next thing his hands were always going to do. “Yeah, baby. Terrible character flaw. Let’s go home.”
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pairing – garrett graham x briar media!reader
summary – garrett finally agrees to film a personal tiktok after three weeks of begging, one threat involving dean, and absolutely no concern about being climbed mid-story.
warnings – fluff, established relationship, suggestive ending, social media/tiktok trend, teasing, hockey house antics.
notes from me – as requested here, thank u babes!!
word count – 1.6k
navigation – masterlist |
The problem with dating Garrett Graham was that he had absolutely no respect for production timelines unless the production timeline involved hockey, which meant she could get twenty-one sweaty men to stand in formation for a Briar hockey media day carousel with less resistance than she could get her own boyfriend to sit still for one personal TikTok.
“It’s not even for the team account,” she said, folded sideways on the hockey house couch with her socked feet tucked beneath his thigh and her phone held in both hands. “It’s for me. My personal brand.”
Garrett, who had been lying there with one arm stretched behind her head and the other hand absently rubbing over her ankle like he’d forgotten he was doing it, looked away from the game playing on mute. “Your personal brand is bullying me with good lighting.”
“My personal brand is being adorable and underappreciated.”
“By who?”
“By you.”
He gave her the kind of look that would have been more effective if his thumb hadn’t moved automatically over the knob of her ankle again, warm and steady through the soft cotton of her sock. “Baby, I let you post a photo of me holding a latte with the caption ‘hockey boy enrichment activity.’”
“And the people loved you.”
“The people thought I was stupid.”
“The people were moved by your range.”
He snorted, turning back toward the television like the conversation had ended. It had not. The conversation had been going on, in some variation, for three weeks. She had brought it up in his car, at the rink, in his bed with his hand under her hoodie, once while he was eating cereal directly from the mixing bowl Tucker claimed was for shared use only.
Every time, Garrett had made the same face: amused, suspicious, too handsome to be allowed, and deeply aware that agreeing to anything involving her personal TikTok was how men ended up edited to Sabrina Carpenter and mocked in the group chat.
Fine. She had been patient. She had been respectful. She had been, by most accounts, a saint. She opened her mouth and said, “I’ll ask Dean.”
Garrett’s head turned so fast she heard his neck crack. There it was. “No.”
She blinked at him sweetly. “No?”
“No.”
“Dean likes content.”
“Dean likes attention. Different disease.”
“He’d do it.”
“That’s exactly why he’s not doing it.”
“He’d probably be really committed, actually.”
Garrett sat up properly, the couch shifting under the weight of him, broad shoulders rolling forward as he reached for her phone with the resigned aggression of a man accepting a prison sentence. “Set it up.”
Her smile spread before she could stop it.
“Don’t look that proud of yourself,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally glowing.”
“That’s my personal brand.”
He muttered something about social media ruining society, but he stayed where she put him: in the middle cushion, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, hair still a little damp from the shower he’d taken after practice, mouth curved like he was trying very hard not to let her see how much he liked being wanted for ridiculous things.
The living room around them was its usual hockey-house disaster, half-clean in the way men considered acceptable if the sticky things had been wiped and the visible socks had been kicked under furniture.
A controller sat abandoned on the coffee table beside two water bottles, a roll of athletic tape, and a bowl Logan had absolutely eaten ramen from hours ago and decided was now part of the architecture.
She propped her phone against a stack of textbooks Dean definitely wasn’t reading and checked the frame. Garrett watched her with the wary focus he usually reserved for penalty shots and any text from his father.
“So I just talk?” he asked once she slid back onto the couch beside him.
“Yeah, babe.”
“To who?”
“The camera.”
He looked into the lens, then back at her. “Right. Normal.”
She pressed record, settled beside him with one knee tucked under her, and nodded encouragingly.
Garrett cleared his throat. “Uh. Hi, TikTok.” His eyes cut to her immediately, already embarrassed. “I’m Garrett. This is my girlfriend.” He paused, brow creasing. “Wait– what am I doing, baby?”
She bit the inside of her cheek so she wouldn’t ruin it too early. “Just tell them the story of how we met.”
“Right. Okay. Um, well.” He leaned back a little, one hand landing on her thigh because he couldn’t narrate their relationship without touching proof of it. “She worked for Briar media, and I played hockey, obviously. I mean, I still play hockey. That made it sound like I retired at twenty-two, which would be embarrassing.” His mouth twitched when she laughed silently beside him. “Anyway, she used to come to practice with the camera and act like she wasn’t judging all of us, even though she was definitely judging all of us.”
She began shifting closer.
Garrett didn’t look down. “And I thought she was cute, but she was also, like, terrifyingly unimpressed by me.”
She slid one knee over his thigh.
“She once told me my ‘good side’ was whichever one was facing away from her deadline.”
She climbed fully into his lap.
“Which was rude,” he continued, one hand automatically moving to her waist like she had simply changed seating arrangements and not started crawling over him mid-sentence. “But, uh, accurate, because I was being annoying on purpose.”
She braced a hand on his shoulder and started climbing behind him, biting down on a grin so hard her cheeks hurt.
Garrett adjusted. That was it. No blink, no curse, no startled what the fuck for the camera. His arm hooked behind her knee before she could wobble, palm spreading firm over the outside of her thigh, and he kept talking like this was an entirely normal development in the story of their meet-cute.
“She kept asking me to redo this stupid intro clip because I wouldn’t answer the question normally.”
“It was not stupid,” she said from somewhere near his ear, hauling herself up with very little dignity.
“It was ‘what’s your pregame ritual’ and I said ‘winning.’”
“Because you’re annoying.”
“Because I’m honest.” He ducked slightly when her leg came over his shoulder, then straightened with her perched across the back of him, thighs bracketing him, his hands holding her calves like she weighed less than his hockey bag. “So, yeah, I had a crush on her for a while. Logan knew. Tucker knew. Dean knew because he’s nosy and unemployed.”
From the kitchen, Dean yelled, “I heard that.”
Garrett didn’t even turn. “Good.”
She had one hand planted in his hair now, the other gripping the couch for balance, laughter fizzing through her ribs, warm and bright and impossible to hold neatly in her chest.
The whole point was that he was meant to react. The whole point was that the boyfriend looked increasingly alarmed while the girlfriend climbed him like unsafe playground equipment.
Instead, Garrett was sitting there broad and steady beneath her, voice only slightly amused, like this was lower on the list of strange things she did than rearranging his kitchen cabinet for better morning light.
“So eventually,” he said, glancing up at her for half a second with that smug little curve of his mouth, “I asked her out. She pretended she had to think about it, which was bullshit.”
“I did think about it.”
“You texted yes in eleven seconds.”
“I think fast.”
“Sure.” His thumbs rubbed once over her shins, easy and unconscious. “And now she makes me do TikToks on my own couch under threat of Dean. There you go. That’s, uh… that’s how we met.” He looked up again, eyes warm and pleased with himself. “Was that okay, baby?”
She stared down at him. “Why didn’t you react to me climbing on your shoulders?”
Garrett blinked. “Was I supposed to?”
“Yes.”
“Oh.” He thought about it, then shrugged carefully beneath her. “You do a lot of weird shit, baby. Sorry. Didn’t really notice.”
She lasted one second before she broke, laughing so hard she folded over the top of his head. “Garrett.”
“What? You climbed into my laundry basket last week because you said you wanted to know if you could fit.”
“That was research.”
“That was weird.”
She slid down off him in a graceless heap, landing back on the couch with her legs over his lap and her hand still caught in the front of his hoodie. Garrett caught her before she could knock the coffee table, tugging her into his side with a grin pressed against her temple.
“Can we film another kind of video now?” he murmured, low enough that the phone probably wouldn’t catch it, but close enough that the warmth of it moved across her skin.
Her laugh changed shape in her throat. “You’re disgusting.”
“You threatened me with Dean. I’m healing.”
She grabbed her phone and ended the recording, watching the final frame freeze on Garrett looking stupidly handsome with her half-draped over him like a victorious cat.
From the kitchen, Dean called, “For the record, I’m available for content.”
Garrett stood, hauling her up with him by the hand before she could answer. “No, you’re not.”
She tucked the phone against her chest, smiling as he pulled her toward the stairs. “Where are we going?”
Garrett glanced back at her, all dark curls and smug mouth and trouble sitting easy in his shoulders. “Upstairs.”
She let him tug her along, already laughing. “For content?”
“For my personal brand,” he said.
And then he closed his bedroom door before Dean could offer notes.
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