rio

— for my secret harem.

[usergambit]

WILSON BETHEL as BENJAMIN POINDEXTER AKA BULLSEYE DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN S02E04 - 'Gloves Off'

[aquaticmercy]

Just a Girl!

Summary : You tell Dex he needs to earn the right to kiss you. His efforts are… interesting.

Pairing : DDBA! Benjamin Poindexter x Vigilante! reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags : Romcom/dark comedy, Dex and reader being equally insane, canon-typical violence, stolen clothing, suggestive (sex implied), obsessive behaviour, you have a roommate called Mia. (let me know if I missed anything!) Set in DDBA S2!

Word Count : 5.6k

Requested by : Ko-fi request <3

Notes : This is so insane! A ko-fi request for a sequel that was originally a ko-fi request. Enjoy!

This could be read as a one shot, but was intended to be direct sequel to Little Monster

The second you told Dex he would have to earn the right to kiss you, his attention tunnel visioned onto the task.

You said it on your first date, if you counted sharing one terrible beer, killing Task Force agents together, and being walked home across rooftops as a first date.

Dex definitely did.

He walked you back to your fire escape afterwards, his shirt still hanging off your body beneath your jacket. You still had blood beneath your nails, and he still had your silver paint smudged beneath one eye.

At your window, he stopped.

Dex looked at your mouth, and for one brief second, he thought maybe this was it. Maybe walking you home like a gentleman would have been enough to earn you. Maybe you were finally going to lose that cruel smile and give him the only thing he had been thinking about since you kissed him through his own mask.

Instead, after handing the mask back, you placed one hand against his chest and kissed his cheek. “Goodnight, Dex.”

Then you climbed through your window and shut it behind you.

Dex stayed on the roof of your building for almost five full minutes, staring at nothing.

What was enough, then?

When he got home, he didn’t sleep.

Dex sat at his kitchen table until five in the morning with a notebook open in front of him, trying to work out how to earn you like it was a mission and a mathematical problem all at once.

He had never had this before, at least not romantically or properly.

He had wanted people before, sure. He had fixated and watched and needed. But he had never met someone he wanted to impress. This was different because it was you.

So Dex pulled up a notebook and started to brainstorm.

At the top of the page, in painfully neat handwriting, he wrote:

What can I do to earn it?

He stared at the sentence for a long time.

Then, because he had no idea what normal people did, he wrote the first thing that came to mind.

Jewellery?

He paused, but it seemed right. Women liked jewellery. He had seen his colleagues back at the FBI buy silver and gold for anniversaries, engagements, and apologies. He had seen men do it in restaurants, in movies, and in department-store advertisements with stupidly saccharine music every February.

Still, Dex knew you wouldn’t want something bought. That felt too ordinary, too impersonal. Anyone with money could buy a necklace, anyone could stand at a glass counter and let a bored sales assistant choose whatever they thought  looked pretty.

That was not earning. To Dex, that was outsourcing.

Dex tapped the pen against the paper, before modifying it.

Stolen jewellery?

Better.

He underlined it once.

You liked flair, and a heist had flair. A heist required planning, timing, and risk assessment. It had alarms to silence, guards to drop, and glass to break.

Then he wrote:Necklace with red stones.

He paused, then kept brainstorming.

Clean first. Get a box.

He underlined clean first twice.

You would probably appreciate that he had been forced to kill his way through a collection of financiers, traffickers, and Task Force donors to get it. But you would appreciate the necklace even more if he cleaned every trace of their blood from it before he gave it to you.

See? He was learning.

—

A week later, you woke up to the report of a jewellery heist.

The story was already playing on the television in the kitchen by the time you wandered in, rubbing sleep from your eyes while the kettle hissed behind you. Blue police lights flashed across the screen, staining the marble frontage of some private gallery in a gray-ish intermittent colour. The windows had been shattered inward, glass glittered across the pavement like ice, and several black body bags were being wheeled past a row of reporters pressing microphones toward anyone wearing a badge.

Mia sat at the table with a bowl of cereal and the front page spread open beside her. She had placed an unloaded handgun across the article to keep it flat, which felt disrespectful to both journalism and breakfast but was hardly the strangest thing she had ever done in your kitchen.

You poured hot water over your coffee and leaned against the counter, only half listening as the reporter explained that the gallery had been used as a private showroom for a collection owned by three wealthy financiers. Between them, they had laundered money for traffickers, moved illegal weapons through shell companies, and funnelled anonymous donations into several Task Force operations.

Now they were dead.

The security team was dead too, although the report was careful to describe them as “private contractors,” which sounded much better than armed men paid to protect criminals and their stolen wealth. 

Apparently, only one item had been taken.

The reporter’s image changed to an old catalogue photograph of a necklace laid against black silk. It was beautifully dramatic, set in dark metal with deep red stones that looked almost black before the studio light flashed.

You paused with the mug halfway to your mouth. “Huh.”

Mia glanced up from her cereal, spoon hovering near her lips. “What?”

“It’s pretty.” You looked at the necklace again.”

And that was the full extent of your interest.

That morning, it didn’t occur to you that Dex had done it.

Dex was many things, but he was not a thief. He took weapons when he needed them, and sometimes files, keys, evidence, ammunition. Those were practical things with a means to an end. You couldn’t imagine him breaking into private galleries for jewels. He had never shown any interest in luxury, money, or expensive objects for their own sake.

You finished your coffee, watched another body bag disappear into an ambulance, and thought no more about it.

—

Dex tapped on your apartment window shortly after midnight.

The sound was small enough that Mia didn’t hear it from her bedroom, but it pulled you out of the book balanced across your knees. You stayed still for a moment, listening. 

Your hand went instinctively toward the knife tucked between the sofa cushions as you walked across the apartment. There was no shadow from the other side of the curtain, but when you saw Dex through the gap between the blinds you sighed.

Of course.

Dex stood on the other side, jacket zipped, his hair pushed back, and there was no visible blood on him anywhere. He held a small black velvet box between both hands with such care that, for a second, you wondered whether it might contain an explosive.

“Shhh,” you pulled a finger to your lips, and Dex only tilted his head.

You pulled back the window, his eyes found your face immediately, then flicked down toward your mouth before returning upward. 

“What are you doing here?” You tried not to smile as you stepped into the fire escape and pulled the window back down behind you before Mia could wake up and discover Bullseye standing outside with what looked alarmingly like a romantic gift. 

The metal steps were cold beneath your bare feet, and the night air smelled of rain, rust, and old brick. Traffic moved several storeys below, tyres whispering across wet roads while the glow from nearby windows softened the edges of Dex’s face.

For all you knew about him, he looked almost nervous.

The box remained cupped in his palms. When he finally offered it to you, his fingers lingered against the velvet for half a second before releasing it.

You looked at him, then down at the box, Dex watching your face like he was waiting for a verdict.

You opened it.

For several seconds, you didn’t understand what you were looking at. The stones were darker in person, a deep garnet red that seemed to hold light inside them. The metal had been polished until every curve gleamed. It was old, heavy, and far too beautiful to have belonged to any of the men who had kept it locked inside that gallery.

Then the television footage came back to you.

You lifted your eyes slowly.Dex didn’t look away.

“You did the heist,” you whispered, eyes wide now.

It was not really a question, but he nodded anyway, enough so that  the cold air touched the back of your teeth while your thoughts rearranged themselves around the fact that Benjamin Poindexter had robbed a jewellery vault.

He had never been a thief before. Apparently, you had turned him into one.

The realisation hit you, so unexpectedly absurd that a tiny bit of laughter escaped before you could stop it. You lowered your head, one hand tightening around the box as the sound spilled into the alley below.

Dex’s face changed immediately. His shoulders drew in slightly, and for one second, he looked as if he thought you were laughing at him rather than the situation he had created. He had killed his way through a private gallery, stolen one necklace from an entire collection, cleaned it until it reflected fucking lasers, found a box, and knocked politely on your window.

All because you had told him to earn a kiss.

You pressed your lips together, trying to stop giggling long enough to speak.

“Dex,” you whispered, grabbing his arm, “I genuinely didn’t know this was you.”

His brow furrowed. “You didn’t?”

“You don’t steal jewellery.”

“I do now.”

That nearly started you laughing again.

You looked back down at the necklace instead. Up close, you could see the tiny details in the metalwork, dark vines curling around the stones like thorns. There was not a smear, fingerprint, or trace of blood anywhere on it. Dex must have cleaned it meticulously, working over every setting until nothing remained of the people who had guarded it.

You lifted the necklace carefully from the box. The chain slid over your fingers with a cool, satisfying weight. “It’s beautiful."

He was relieved all at once, you could tell when his jaw loosened and his shoulders dropped. 

You turned the necklace over in your hands.

Of course he chose this one out of everything in the gallery.

His gaze drifted toward your throat, lingering there just long enough to answer the question you hadn’t asked: he had chosen it because he had imagined it on you in more ways than one, you were willing to bet.

You gathered your hair away from your neck and fastened the clasp yourself. The stones settled against your skin with a cold shock before gradually warming to your body. They rested directly over your collarbone, against your throat.

Dex’s eyes followed the necklace downward, tracing the chain and the red stones before returning to your face. His hands stayed still at his sides, but there was tension in every finger, as though not touching you required the same concentration as hitting an impossible target.

You had thought the gift was simply a gift, but then you saw the way he kept looking at your mouth.

Oh. 

Oh.

How sweet.

You bit your lip. “This… was about the kiss.”

Dex’s face went still, and you could almost see him deciding whether denying it would help. He didn't bother.

“Did I earn it?”

There was something so painfully sincere in the question that your chest tightened. Dex hadn’t treated your teasing like flirtation. He had treated it like a task, or a standard he could meet.

You stepped closer.

The fire escape shifted faintly beneath your weight, metal creaking as you tried your hardest to still not make noise. You simply couldn’t bear to hear Mia fucking talk your ear off about manners anymore. 

You touched the front of his jacket. His body went rigid beneath your palm.

For a second, you let him believe it.

You tilted your face toward his, close enough to feel the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your mouth, his lips parted slightly, and every single part of his consciousness seemed to narrow onto the tiny distance remaining between you.

Then you turned your head and kissed his cheek.

Again.

This time, you let it linger as your mouth rested against the scar on his cheekbone while the red stones he had stolen for you pressed coldly against your throat. Dex closed his eyes, his breath leaving him in a wounded exhale.

When you drew back, he looked dazed.

You smiled and touched the necklace lightly. “It’s incredibly sweet.”

His gaze moved from the stones to your mouth. “But?”

“But not quite.”

The disappointment flashed across his face before he could hide it. It lasted only a second, and he quickly replaced it with a familiar, frightening focus. Then, very quietly, he said, “I’ll do better next time.”

You probably should have been worried. Instead, you smiled.

“I can’t wait.”

—

The second attempt involved your cutting off your ex-boyfriend’s pinky finger.

Dex hadn't gone looking for him. At least, that was what he told himself. He had simply seen the man leaving a bar one evening while he was on his way back home. Unfortunately for your ex, he'd made the mistake of bragging about his ex being a dangerous and wanted vigilante, loudly enough for Dex to hear.

"I used to have her wrapped around my little finger,” He laughed loudly, as if that would impress the girl he was currently talking to. 

Ugh.

The package appeared on your fire escape the following morning, wrapped in brown paper and tied neatly with butcher’s string, with anote that said : Though he shouldn’t have this anymore.

It was small enough to fit in your palm, though the dark stain beginning to spread through one corner gave away that it was definitely not jewellery this time. 

You found Dex that evening on the opposite rooftop, watching your apartment with anticipation, waiting to hear whether a gift had been received. You should have been horrified. Instead, you kept thinking about the specificity of it. He had not killed the man, because apparently Dex had decided death would be too impersonal. He had taken the exact part of him that he had mentioned and removed it with surgical attention, leaving your ex alive to understand why.

When you met him on the roof, Dex straightened. Hope appeared on his face almost immediately, fragile beneath all that lethal stillness. You stepped into his space, rested your hand against his chest, and kissed his cheek in the same place as before.

Dex watched you leave with his fingers pressed against the place you had kissed, already reconsidering the scale of the gesture.

The third attempt happened during one of your outings together.

Calling it an outing was generous. You had spent most of the evening following a Task Force accountant through Hell’s Kitchen while Dex moved along the rooftops above you, appearing occasionally in dark windows and reflective surfaces like an omen. The job ended early, leaving the two of you walking without urgency through streets still wet from rain. You stopped for food from a cart, shared greasy hotdogs beneath the awning of a closed shop, and let yourself pretend for several minutes that this was what normal situationships did.

The man who ruined it came out of a bar angry. His shoulder struck yours hard enough to spill the drink in your hand, and instead of apologising, he grabbed your wrist when you turned toward him. His fingers tightened. He called you a bitch.

Dex knew you could more than take care of yourself, but instead of letting you deal with it, his head thought ding, ding, ding! This is your chance to earn it!

Without waiting to see what you would do, Dex killed him with his hands because the offence had been physical, and a primitive part of him apparently believed the answer should be too. By the time you reacted to them, the man’s face had already gone slack beneath the dirty wash of the streetlights. Dex remained crouched over him, breathing evenly, blood along his knuckles and the cuff of his sleeve.

He looked up at you without remorse, as if the man’s hand created a simple problem and Dex had solved it in the most direct way available.

You… looked disappointed, almost sad that you weren’t given the choice to end him yourself.

You should have scolded him. Instead, you crouched and wiped a thin streak of blood from beneath his eye. 

His eyes dropped to your mouth before you had even begun leaning closer, and for a brief second, the hope on his face made you consider giving him what he wanted.

You kissed his cheek again.

This time, your mouth landed nearer the corner of his lips, close enough that Dex inhaled and turned his face by instinct, chasing an act you had already withdrawn. You smiled, tracing your thumb once over his bloodied cheekbone before leaving him kneeling beside the body with his restraint hanging by a thread.

His fourth attempt was less impulsive and considerably more elaborate.

Someone had begun watching your building. You noticed the same dark sedan twice in one week, though it always disappeared before you could approach it. Mia found a listening device beneath the kitchen windowsill, hidden so badly it was frankly insulting. T

Three nights later, an entire surveillance crew disappeared.

Their operation had been housed in a rented office two streets from your apartment. Dex dismantled it room by room. The people inside had worked for a private intelligence firm funded by Task Force donors, and Dex killed the ones who had apparently fucking photographed your bedroom, even if he had done the same himself. He left the technician who had installed the device alive with both hands broken and every hard drive stacked beside him.

Then Dex brought you the files.

He arranged them across your kitchen table while you slept, pages separated into neat categories: From the names of the donors, their addresses, their routines, and the amounts they had paid to look into your life.

You found him later that night when you stepped onto the fire escape, crouched between his knees, and held his face in both hands. This time, your kiss landed at the edge of his cheek, close enough to his mouth that the corner of your lips brushed his for less than a second.

He went rigid.

The contact on his lips had been so slight it might have been accidental, but both of you knew it wasn't. Dex followed when you pulled away, stopping himself only after his mouth had moved an inch toward yours. His eyes had gone unfocused, his breathing suddenly uneven as he stared at the tiny distance you had created.

You thanked him for the files, and told him not quite.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

—-

Dex ran out of ideas three days later.

The almost-kiss had destroyed what remained of his ability to think rationally. He could still feel the exact place you had pressed your lips to his skin, which he thought about often enough to become embarrassing.

You had been so close. Closer than ever before.

That would have meant he was improving, right?

Instead, he sat at his kitchen table until nearly dawn, staring at the same notebook he had used after your first date.

The original page looked almost childish now. Jewellery? was written in black ink, followed by notes about red stones, boxes, and cleaning off the blood. That had seemed like such a strong idea at the time. He had been proud of it. He had planned the heist meticulously, selected the necklace from an entire private collection, and polished every link of the chain himself.

You had loved it.

Still. It was not enough.

Everything he had tried afterwards filled the next several pages. Names, addresses, little reminders of things that bothered you and people who no longer had the opportunity to do so. Some of the ideas had been crossed out because they were too excessive, although Dex’s definition of excessive remained alarmingly generous. Others had been completed and marked with neat dates in the margin.

Beside each attempt, he had recorded the result.

Cheek.

Cheek again. Slightly longer.

Corner of mouth. Almost.

Pathetic. It really was fucking pathetic.

Dex stared at that final entry until the words began to blur.

He could do more, obviously. There were always more people to kill, more enemies to drag to your feet like a sad cat. 

But Dex had begun to suspect that scale was not the problem.

He picked up his pen and wrote: bigger jewellery heist?

Then he crossed it out.

He wrote: kill Task Force Leader?

That one remained on the page for several minutes before he reluctantly crossed it out too. Powell definitely deserved it, but you had never mentioned him specifically. Killing someone you hadn’t complained about felt like guessing, and Dex was starting to understand that guessing wrong could push him farther away instead of bringing him closer.

He considered returning your ex’s other pinky finger.

No, he thought, too repetitive.

He considered finding every man who had ever frightened you and arranging them alphabetically in a warehouse.

Impractical, he thought. That idea had flair, but he could not work out what you would do with one.

By six in the morning, the notebook contained several increasingly desperate fragments and one entire page where Dex had written WHAT DOES SHE WANT? hard enough to leave the words embossed through the paper beneath it.

The answer didn’t appear.

For the first time since you had told him to earn the kiss, Benjamin Poindexter had no plan.

—

Mia discovered him outside your kitchen window at two in the morning.

She had come in for water wearing an oversized pyjama set, her hair twisted into a loose knot that had mostly collapsed. The apartment was dark except for the light above the stove, and she nearly walked past him before she noticed the shape crouched on the fire escape.

Dex tapped once against the glass.

Mia flinched hard enough to spill water over her hand. “What the…”

Within seconds, she had a pistol aimed directly between his eyes.

Dex had expected that.

Mia stared at him through the window, exhausted because she had repeatedly asked you to stop contributing to her life becoming stranger and had been consistently ignored. Her eyes moved from his face to his empty hands, checking for blood, weapons, packages, or severed pieces of anyone she recognised.

There was nothing, and that seemed to concern her more.

She unlocked the window but only raised it several inches, leaving enough space to talk without giving him room to climb through. 

“She’s asleep,” Mia said quietly.

“I know.”

Her eyes narrowed. Of course he did.

Dex looked past her toward your bedroom door on the side, which was closed. He could picture you behind it, curled beneath the blankets, breathing into your pillow. He forced his attention back to Mia before the thought became distracting. “I need help.”

Mia’s grip shifted on the pistol.

For several seconds, she seemed unsure whether she had heard him correctly. Dex understood that he didn’t ask people for help. Help created debt and uncertainty, and it was usually more efficient to solve the problem himself.

Unfortunately, he had tried that.

Mia raised the window another few inches, though the gun remained.

Dex took the notebook from inside his jacket and passed it through the gap.

Mia didn;t lower the pistol as she took it. She placed the notebook on the counter, flipped it open with one hand, and began reading. Her expression changed as she moved through the pages: Confusion, followed by disbelief, then amusement.

Dex watched her read the record of his attempts, and when Mia reached the page headed POSSIBLE NEXT ATTEMPTS, she stopped.

The list beneath it included stealing a deed to a building, acquiring a tiger, and locating the person responsible for cancelling the brand of hot chocolate you liked three years ago.

Mia looked up. “A tiger?”

“She likes cats,” Dex shrugged.

Mia sighed. “That doesn't mean she wants a tiger.”

“I crossed it out.”

She looked at the notes again. “It says here you researched three private zoos.”

“I needed to know whether it was feasible.”

Mia shut the notebook and pressed her fingertips against her forehead. The gun was still in her other hand, but it had lowered toward the floor, apparently because exasperation had temporarily overtaken self-preservation.

Dex waited for her to provide an answer.

Instead, she looked at him through the narrow opening and began to laugh, and it was not the same laughter you gave him. Yours eventually made his chest warm. Mia’s laughter made him feel as though he had failed the test at every hurdle.

He thought about hurting Mia for making him feel humiliated, but then decided against it because you’d probably hate him for it.

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the problem,” Mia managed, keeping her voice down so she wouldn’t wake you. “You are thinking about this like you’re trying to overthrow a government.”

Dex didn’t see how that was relevant. Overthrowing a government required less guesswork.

Mia opened the notebook again and flicked through the pages, staring at each carefully planned act of violence. The laughter eventually faded, leaving behind a reluctant sympathy that Dex disliked even more.

“You’re thinking too much,” she told him.

The statement felt insulting. Thinking was how he avoided mistakes. “She told me to earn it.”

“I know. She told me everything.”

Dex’s attention sharpened. “Everything?”

Mia ignored the question. “You keep acting like there’s a secret combination of murder and theft that unlocks her mouth.”

He reached under the window for the notebook, but Mia pulled it back before he could take it. “She’s just a girl, Dex.”

He stared at her, because she wasn’t making sense.

You were not just anything. How fucking dare she insinuate that?

Mia seemed to read the objection on his face.

“I know she’s a fucking lunatic,” she continued. “I live with her. I’ve helped her sink bodies. Just… stop trying to earn the kiss by making her owe you.”

Eventually, she released the notebook back to his custody.

That had never been his intention. He didn’t want you indebted to him. He wanted you to be impressed, delighted. But perhaps those things were not as different as he had believed.

Perhaps the gesture had the undertone of the same question:

Was that enough? Do I get it now?

Mia had seen it. You probably had too.

Dex looked down at the notebook in his hands and the pages felt heavier than before.

Mia started lowering the window, apparently done with his bullshit for the night. She paused with only a narrow gap remaining. “Again,” She started, “She’s just a girl. Don’t overthink it.”

Easier said than done. 

—

For once, Dex listened.

The next time he came to see you, nobody had died.

There was no breaking-news report waiting for you that morning, no stolen artefact displayed across the front page, no mysteriously vanished Task Force officials, and no parcel on the fire escape leaking through its paper wrapping. The day passed so uneventfully that by evening, you had started to suspect Dex was planning something truly catastrophic.

You checked the news twice. Nothing.

You glanced toward the window whenever a shadow shifted outside, but the fire escape remained empty. It was nearly eight when someone knocked on the apartment door.

You looked up from the sofa.

Mia looked up from the weapon catalogue spread across her lap. She was in her bedroom with the door ajar. “You expecting someone?”

“No.”

Mia turned another page. “Weird.”

There was no urgency in the knock, no coded pattern, and no scraping sound suggesting someone was trying to slide a body across the hallway carpet.

When you opened the door, Dex was standing beneath the weak yellow light with a bunch of flowers in his hands.

For a moment, you only stared.

They were not arranged professionally. The paper around them had been folded precisely in some places and crushed in others, as though Dex had spent far too long trying to hold them without damaging anything. There were no red stones, no bloodstains, and no expensive velvet box. Just a slightly unruly collection of pale flowers and greenery, fresh enough that tiny droplets of water still clung to the petals.

Dex looked almost painfully uncertain.

He had faced rooms full of armed men with less visible tension. His shoulders were held too squarely, his fingers carefully positioned around the stems, and his eyes kept moving between your face and the flowers as though he expected one of them to tell him what to do next.

Oh. this was new.

“You… brought me flowers.”

“I uh…” Dex nodded, “yeah.”

Your eyes narrowed with suspicion as you accepted them. The paper rustled beneath your fingers, damp where the stems had been wrapped. “Did you steal them?”

“No.”

“Threaten the florist?”

He had another pause, just long enough to become concerning. “No.”

“Dex.”

“I paid.”

You looked up properly at that.

His eyes looked… defensive, as if buying flowers had required more courage than stealing a priceless necklace from a fortified vault. Maybe it had. Violence gave him a shield to hide behind. This was only Dex standing outside your door with a simple gift and no proof of obsession beyond the fact that he had remembered you might like flowers in your favourite colours.

You looked down at the flowers again.

They smelled green somehow, faintly sweet but not overwhelming. A little piece of leaf had caught against the paper near your thumb. One stem was slightly bent, probably from Dex gripping the bouquet too tightly on the journey over and then attempting to straighten it before knocking.

The imperfection made it strangely charming.

There was no note demanding that you understand what he had done for you, though you had at least expected it. There was no list of names or severed pieces of someone who had wronged you. He hadn’t even brought them as evidence that he could protect you, avenge you, or remove inconvenience from your life.

He had brought you flowers because Mia had told him you were just a girl.

And sometimes girls liked flowers their will-they-won’t-they situationship brought for them.

Finally, after all his increasingly elaborate attempts, he had tried doing something… simple.

“They’re beautiful,” you smiled,watching relief pass over his face so openly you nearly melted.

Dex’s eyes flickered toward your mouth out of habit, but he stopped himself almost immediately. He didn’t ask whether he had earned it, he didn’t even step closer or look expectant. He only stood there in the hallway, hands empty now, waiting to see whether you wanted to invite him inside.

Oh, Dex.

You stepped into the hallway and placed the flowers carefully on the console table beside the door. Dex watched you do it, cautiously hopeful, but he still didn’t move.

Without any warning, you grabbed the front of his jacket and pulled him down, pressing your lips to his.

His mouth was warm beneath yours, parted slightly with surprise, and for one suspended moment he did absolutely nothing. 

Apparently, he had failed to consider that flowers might work.

Eventually, though, he kissed you back carefully at first, as if the kiss might disappear if he wanted it too much. His hand lifted toward your waist but stopped just short of touching, every part of him still suspended between hope and disbelief.

You pulled away.

Dex followed without meaning to, his mouth chasing yours by an inch before he caught himself. His eyes opened completely dazed, and the devastation on his face made your stomach twist.

At that moment, he seemed to think that was all he was getting.

Then you smiled, tightened your fist in his jacket, and pulled him back.

The second kiss was deeper, and Dex made a soft, wrecked sound against your mouth as his hands finally settled around your waist. The restraint he had been pushed down for weeks cracked beneath your fingers. He kissed you like he had memorised every near miss: every cheek, every corner, every cruel fraction of an inch you had left between you.

Behind you, Mia peeked out her bedroom door.

Mia took one look at Dex leaning down on you in the doorway, your hands gripping his jacket and the flowers abandoned beside the door, then silently reached around the frame and pulled the door shut again.

You laughed into the kiss, breathless against his mouth.

Dex felt it in his bones, not quite believing the  fact that you were finally kissing him back without a tally to settle or another task waiting. When you eventually pulled back, he followed helplessly until his forehead rested against yours. His breathing had gone uneven, and his eyes kept dropping to your lips as if he still expected you to change your mind and put unbearable distance between you again.

“D’you wanna come in?” you asked.

Dex nodded far too quickly. “Mhm.”

It came out so pathetic and eager that you smiled, caught his hand, and pulled him through the doorway. The flowers stayed forgotten on the little table while you dragged him toward your bedroom, kissing him again before you had even made it down the hall.

Mia’s door was still shut, and Dex briefly considered knocking to offer her headphones.

Then your hands found his belt loops in his waist, your mouth moving hungrily against his, and he decided she could survive one noisy night after advising him on how to win your physical affection.

After all, she had been right.

You were just a girl, and all Dex had ever needed to do was bring you flowers.

—end.

NOTE : I genuinely love seeing all your requests in my asks, but I do get a lot and I physically can’t write every single one. I usually write the ones that catch my eye, and it’s probably every 1 in 5. 

That’s why I have Ko-fi! If you request there, it’s pretty much guaranteed I’ll write it within a month of responding as a token of appreciation (keep this post in mind for July and August 2026). If I’m uncomfortable with the request or don’t think I can do it justice, I’ll let you know and we can brainstorm something else.

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Dex taglist part 1:

@itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh @ugh-whytho @noonenuts @akiyhara @genya1617 @itzrachel04 @avidreader73 @quicksilver21 @lmg-stilinski24 @magnificentlymoltenpatron @s-u-t @smiithys

[aquaticmercy]

What Makes a Good Man? + Connected Stories Masterlist

Summary : This is a series of one-shots that revolve around Dex, you, and your son Leo.

Pairing : Husband! Dex x Wife! reader (she/her) | Leo Poindexter (OC)

Note : These stories starts two years before DD season 3, and spans almost a decade to DDBA era. Reader is also mentioned to be a librarian.

Let me know if you want to be tagged in the longer fics! Send in ideas as well if you’d like ❤️

Fics (2k+ words)

What Makes a Good Man?

Benjamin Poindexter finds his North Star in a sweet librarian who probably should’ve run. Still, she wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Be Brave

Dex is finally home, but his son doesn’t understand why his very scary daddy is so clingy with mommy.

Good Eyes!

You and Dex find out your son has powers.

Sleepover

Dex loves being a father, but one child-free weekend is all it takes to remind you he’s always going to be your embarrassingly needy husband first.

Aim High

Dex realizes his son is trying to copy his aim.

The Lesser Disaster

Matt discovers Dex has a son.

Short Stories (under 2k words)

Your Best Friend Finds Out that You’re Harboring Your Fugitive Husband

Your Best Friend is Not Blind

Dex’s Very Own Three-Body Problem

Dex’s Son Has a Favourite Superhero. It’s Daredevil.

You and Dex Have a Pregnancy Scare

Dex Deals With His Son’s Tantrums

Finding the Perfect House with Dex

(this will be updated as I add more to the story! Short stories won't have a taglist attached, only 2k+ words fics)

[aquaticmercy]

Anatomy of a Smile

Summary : After breaking out of prison, you find out that Dex thinks you never broke up. 

Pairing : Benjamin Poindexter x reader (she/her)

Warnings/tags hurt/comfort, fluff at first, hostage situation, guns, violence, blood, injury, death of a civilian, murder, moral corruption, grief, stalking, breaking and entering, obsessive behaviour, food, non-graphic sexual content. FBI Hostage Negotiator! reader. Starts three years before DD S3 and ends sometime after DDBA S1. (let me know if I missed anything!)

Word Count : 18.3k

Notes : A little canon divergence note, guys! Julie doesn’t exist in this universe. Dex’s season 3 spiral happens because you and him were on a break. Enjoy!

FBI was called in twenty-three minutes after the first 911 call. By then, the second shot had already been fired. 

It was not fired at anyone, thank fuck. It was fired into the ceiling, according to the first responding officers who had backed off fast enough to keep the situation from turning into a massacre. What started as a robbery at a midtown bank had become a hostage situation in under twelve minutes. 

There were three suspects and at least seven civilians were visible through the front windows before the blinds came down. One security guard was injured but moving. One suspect was pacing near the teller counter with a handgun.

Three squad cars were angled badly out front because patrol had arrived first. Now there were barricades, news vans sniffing at the edges, uniforms pushing civilians back, radios talking over each other, and a command post being built out of wobbly folding tables. 

Usually, this was the part where everyone got grim. People knew that one bad word, one twitch, one wrong movement could turn a lobby full of frightened people into a massacre.

And then you arrived carrying two coffees and three boxes of pastries.

“Okay,” you said, stepping under the tape and handing two boxes to the nearest tech like you had just walked into an inconvenient staff meeting, “I brought croissants! If this goes horribly, at least we’d all have had a decent last meal.”

Three people turned and nobody laughed.

You looked around at the armoured vehicles, the blocked street, the negotiator phone being unpacked, the SWAT team moving into position across the road, and sighed. “Tough crowd.”

Your supervisor shot you a look. “Agent.”

“I know, I know.” You tucked the pastry bag under your arm and started shrugging into your vest. “Hostages, firearms, massive public safety issue. I’m taking it very seriously. I’m also saying you all probably haven’t eaten since six.”

“That’s not relevant.”

“It will be when I start making decisions with low blood sugar.”

That got half a smile out of one of the younger agents.

Good.

That was why you did it.

You weren’t careless. You understood what was happening behind those doors. You knew there were women and children inside lying on marble, trying not to cry. You knew someone had a gun in their hand.

But panic did not need more panic, and fear did not calm fear.

“Where’s my line?” you asked, clipping your radio into place.

The commander pointed toward the opposite building. “Fifth floor. SWAT sniper position has the best view into the front lobby. You can set up with them if you need eyes while you’re on the phone.”

“I do need eyes,” you said, nodding at him.

“Suspect one’s name is Eddie Marlow. Twenty-nine with prior for armed robbery. No confirmed fatalities today, but a guard took a round to the shoulder, still moving as of two minutes ago.”

You nodded, taking that in as you looked back at the bank.

“Right,” you said, almost too calmly. “So, normal Thursday.”

“Agent.”

“What?” You took a sip of coffee. “It’s Thursday.”

You took one last look at the bank, grabbed the phone, then crossed the street with two tactical agents shadowing you toward the building opposite.

—

Dex was stationed across the street on the fifth floor of an empty office building, flat behind his rifle with the blinds cut just enough for a sightline.That was where he belonged: above from the noise, above the mess. His scope was steady, breathing steady.

He could hear command in his ear. Entry team holding. Negotiation line was being established. Sniper one in position?

Dex didn’t answer until he needed to. “In position.”

The room behind him was dim and mostly empty, littered with grey carpet, abandoned desks, and a tactical gear set. His spotter murmured updates into comms as someone on the ground, a junior agent probably, dropped something metal. Sirens pulsed red and blue against the ceiling.

Then the door opened.

Dex didn’t look away from the scope at first.

People came in and out all the time during operations. Sometimes it was commanders, other times it was spotters or techs with updates, maybe agents carrying folders. Dex ignored them, usually.

That’s when you said,  “Oh. Hi.”

He knew that voice. His eyes lifted from the scope.

You stood in the doorway with a vest half-zipped over your blouse, a negotiator phone tucked under one arm, and a pastry box balanced against your hip like you had wandered into the wrong brunch and decided to make the best of it.

Your eyes brightened. “Special Agent Poindexter.”

His spotter glanced over. In that moment, Dex forgot how to be normal about his own name. “You know me?” 

Your smile widened.  The New York office was big, but not that big. “Your reputation precedes you.”

His spotter looked down at his clipboard as if it became very interesting all of a sudden.

Dex knew you, too, though not personally.  But he had seen you around the office forever. In elevators, at the coffee machine, walking through glass-walled conference rooms with files against your chest. You were always moving, always talking, always being pulled into conversations because people liked you.

Agents smiled when you passed and techs forgave you for stealing pens. Your supervisors pretended to be annoyed but really, they loved you. Even Ray Nadeem had spoken highly of you, said that his wife liked having you over for tea and that his kid liked you because you brought sweets to brunch. Dex had wanted to talk to you after that. So many people admired you, he just needed to see for himself, right?

He had stood in the same hallway as you, watching you laugh with a clerk from crisis response and thinking that he could say something. Anything. Nice work with the Port thing. Ray mentioned you. Are you training the new HRT recruits?

But there had never really been a clear reason to talk to you. And without a reason, there was no script. Without a script, there was only the blank space where courage was supposed to go. So Dex had never said anything.

“Is this the best view?” you asked.

Dex nodded. “Yes.”

“Can I?”

He shifted, even though there was barely enough space for two, which meant when you lowered yourself beside him, your knee pressed against his thigh and your shoulder brushed his arm. 

“Sorry,” you murmured.

Dex looked at the place your knee touched his, then at you. “It’s fine.”

You leaned toward the cut in the blinds, careful not to touch the rifle. Your cheek came close to his shoulder, close enough that he caught a whiff of fragrant coffee on your breath, sugar on your fingers, and city air clinging to your uniform. Dex decided not to think too much about that.

“Talk me through it,” you said.

He looked back into the scope. “Suspect one in the green jacket is Eddie Marlow. Right hand dominant, pacing near the teller counter.”

“Is he scared?”

“Agitated,” Dex corrected.

“Mm.”

Dex glanced at you. “Suspect two,” he continued, “with the red cap. He had a shotgun and had been sitting behind the manager’s desk.”

Your face changed, only slightly. “And suspect three?”

“Not visible. He was last seen by the west wall with hostages.”

You leaned in closer, trying to see through the narrow slice of the lobby. Your shoulder pressed more firmly into his arm as hip bumped his side. “Sorry,” you said again, absentmindedly.

“You’re not,” he said.

“No,” you admitted. “But I keep doing it cause’ it sounds right.”

His spotter made a tiny laugh, and Dex ignored him.

Finally, you opened the pastry box. The smell of butter and sugar swirled into the dusty room, absurd and warm. You pulled out a croissant like there were not three armed men across the street. 

His spotter stared. “Are you eating?”

You took a bite as the pastry cracked softly between your teeth. “I’m preparing.”

A few crumbs fell onto your vest. One landed on his sleeve. Both of you looked down at it. “Oh,” you said.

Before he could move, you reached over and brushed it away with your thumb. It was a tiny touch, almost nothing but your knuckle grazing the inside of his wrist.

Still, Dex’s fingers tightened once against the rifle.

Your gaze dropped to his hand, then rose back to his face. Your smile changed, smaller now. 

“Sorry,” you said, quieter. This time, it almost sounded sincere.

Dex didn’t know why, but his mouth had gone dry. “It’s fine.”

You held the pastry box toward him. “Croissant?”

“No.”

“You sure? You look like a plain pastry kind of guy.”

Dex tilted his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Instead of answering, you only shrugged and took another bite. Dex noticed your vest was crooked because you had clearly zipped it in while walking. You looked entirely too kind for a sniper’s nest.

You settled closer again, eyes returning to the bank. “Eddie looks reasonable.”

“They’re criminals,” Dex scoffed, unimpressed. “When are they ever reasonable?” It was really just a line he repeated from his coworkers.

“Hey,” you joke-scolded, nudging his arm lightly with your shoulder. “We’re all people here.”

Dex didn’t look convinced. 

Downstairs, command crackled in your ears. “Negotiation line almost ready. Stand by.”

You exhaled once and set the half-eaten croissant carefully beside his gear bag like it belonged there. Then you wiped your fingers on a napkin and stood up, reached for the phone on the table in the middle of the room.

Before lifting the phone, you glanced at him. “ Poindexter?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to need your eyes.”

For one second, he understood why people liked you. You made people feel wanted, needed. Then, briefly, he thought about telling you he already knew your voice. He already heard your laugh. He knew he had wanted to speak to you for months and never managed it because wanting was not the same as knowing how. 

Instead, he lowered himself back to the scope. “You have them.”

You smiled at him one last time as you picked up the phone and the line clicked alive. 

Pressed the receiver to your ear, one hand braced on the table, you said, “Hi, Eddie, I’m Special Agent—”

“I’m not talking to feds!” The shout cracked down the line loud enough that even the spotter looked up.

You didn’t flinch. You didn’t pull the phone away from your ear. You didn’t take offense to being screamed at by a man with a gun and a room full of innocent civilians.

You only nodded, like Eddie could see you.

“Okay,” you said. “That’s okay.”

“I said I’m not talking to you!”

“I heard you.”

“Then shut up!”

Dex’s jaw tightened.

Across the street, through the scope, Eddie Marlow was pacing so hard he almost tripped over his own foot. He could take him out so easily, Dex thought, but that wasn’t why he was here. 

Because if he did, the other two suspects would probably open fire. There would probably be a bloodbath. That was why you were holding the phone, not him. 

You leaned against the table like this was a normal phone call. 

“You sound really upset,” you said thoughtfully.

“No shit!”

“Yeah,” you chuckled. “Fair.”

Dex blinked. His spotter stared at you for half a second, then remembered his job and murmured into comms, “Negotiator has contact. Suspect one highly agitated, still engaged.”

Eddie was breathing hard into the phone and you let him. 

You were… patient. It was tender. You were letting this man be loud and terrified, and you weren’t punishing him for it. Dex had never understood that kind of kindness.

“Eddie,” you said, after the worst of his breathing settled, “what did you have for breakfast?”

Dex looked up from the scope. The spotter mouthed, What?

On the phone, Eddie went silent. “What?” he finally snapped.

“What did you have for breakfast?”

“What the fuck does that matter?”

“It might not,” you said. “I’m just trying to figure out if you’ve eaten today.”

“I’m in the middle of a fucking robbery.”

“I know. But you’re also a person with a body, and bodies make stupid decisions when they’re hungry.”

Dex’s mouth parted slightly. Oh, you were charming.

He understood what you were doing with that stupid, sweet little question, that was really a thread to his humanity. Just to calm him down, get him to think about something else other than the crime he was committing. 

“I had coffee,” Eddie muttered.

“Okay. Just coffee?”

“Yeah.”

“No food?”

“I don’t know. A cigarette.”

You winced faintly. “Eddie.”

“What?”

“That is a terrible breakfast.”

For one bizarre second, Dex’s spotter made a strangled noise into his fist. Even Eddie went quiet, confused out of his panic. “You judging me right now?” He asked.

“A little,” you admitted.

Dex almost smiled.

Then Eddie’s voice cracked back into anger. “You think this is funny? You think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

“You think I’m some junkie idiot with a gun?”

“No, Eddie.”

“You don’t know me!”

“You’re right,” you said. “I don’t.”

That stopped him again. Then, you lowered your voice. “But I know you don’t really want to kill anyone, do you now?”

Through the scope, Dex saw that Eddie’s pacing has slowed down. It… worked.  “You don’t know what I want,” Eddie said, smaller this time.

“No,” you said. “But you fired into the ceiling.”

“It was a warning.”

“I know.”

“I had to.”

“Okay.”

“I had to make them listen.”

“I hear you.”

Dex’s throat tightened. I hear you.

It was such a simple thing, and yet it sounded so easy coming out of your mouth. It was as if you were giving him a blanket, as if you were lowering yourself beside him on the floor instead of standing over them with a clipboard and a gun.

He wondered, suddenly, what it would be like to have your voice turned on him like that. And not your jokes or bright comments you tossed across rooms full of coworkers. This voice. 

Dex wanted it so badly it almost made him angry.

The thought hit him hard enough that his finger twitched beside the rifle. He forced his eye back to the scope.

Eddie had stopped near the teller counter. His gun hung at his side now, loose in his hand.

“Green jacket has stopped pacing,” Dex said, “Weapon still in hand.”

The spotter relayed it immediately. “Suspect one stationary. Weapon lowered. Negotiator has him slowing down.”

You glanced at Dex and he held onto it like an idiot.

“Eddie,” you said, “the guard needs medical attention.”

“He’s fine.”

“Is he?”

“He’s moving.”

“That’s good,” you said. “Moving is good. But he’s bleeding, right?”

No answer.

“Eddie?”

“I didn’t shoot him.”

Your face changed into a compassionate frown. Dex hated how beautiful it looked on you.

“I know,” you said.

“He went for his gun. Rob panicked.”

The spotter’s head snapped down to his notes. “Second suspect possibly Rob. Pass to command.”

You didn’t react to the name. You didn’t make Eddie feel like he had made a mistake, or make him feel like he was snitching on his friends. You only said, “That must have scared you.”

Eddie laughed, but it came out ruined. “Scared me?”

“Yeah.”

All you got back was silence, longer his time. Dex watched Eddie through the scope and saw the second the your words got under his skin. His shoulders moved, head dipping. The gun lowered another inch.

You kept going, careful as hands over broken glass. “People make worse choices when they’re scared. That doesn’t mean you have to keep making them.”

“You don’t get it.”

“Then tell me.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Okay,” you said. “Then breathe with me for a second.”

Eddie scoffed. “Fuck you, lady.”

“C’mon, man,” you said mildly. “Just… breathe.”

Dex’s eyes flicked to your mouth before he could stop himself.

You smiled faintly, not because it was funny, exactly, but because you were giving Eddie somewhere to put the panic, somewhere that was not a trigger. “Breathe in,” you said.

“I’m not doing that.”

“That’s okay. I’m doing it anyway.”

Then you did. Slow inhale. Slow exhale. Once. Twice.

On the other end of the line, Eddie cursed under his breath. But after a few seconds, his breathing started following yours. Dex heard it. Without realising it, Dex started to follow it too.

There was something hypnotic about your calm. The whole room had frozen around it. Even the radios seemed quieter, like the world was leaning into your warmth. Then, through the phone, you heard someone crying out inside the bank.

Eddie snapped away from the phone. “Shut up! Shut the fuck up!”

Dex was back in the scope immediately. “Weapon coming up,” he said.

The spotter relayed fast. “Weapon rising. Suspect one agitated. Hold positions.”

Your hand lifted slightly, saying Wait.

Dex saw it and went still.

The shot was clean. Eddie was turned three-quarters away from the hostages, arm visible, head exposed. Dex knew exactly where the bullet would go. He knew what it would do. But your hand was up, so he waited.

“Eddie,” you said, firmer now.

No answer.

“Eddie, come back to me.”

The shouting on the other end cut off. 

Come back to me. Dex gripped the rifle harder.

“Eddie,” you repeated, softer. “Come back to me. Don’t follow the noise. Follow my voice.”

He heard ragged breath. Then Eddie, frustrated now, said, “She won’t stop crying.”

“They’re scared.”

“I didn’t want this.”

“I believe you.”

“I didn’t want it like this.”

“I know.”

And somehow, you made it sound true, even though you weren’t forgiving him. You were not excusing him. You were simply giving him one human corner to stand in before the whole day swallowed him.

Dex had seen people beg. He had seen people lie. He had seen people pray. He had never seen someone be talked back into themselves.

“Eddie,” you said, “I think you can still keep this from getting worse.”

“It’s already worse.”

“It is,” you said. “But worse has levels. We don’t have to go lower.”

Eddie breathed hard.

“The guard,” you continued. “If he dies in there, this gets so much harder for everyone.” You paused. “You included.”

Eddie made a sound that was almost a sob, except he swallowed it too fast. “I’m fucked anyway,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” you said, so gently it hurt. “But not as fucked as you could be.”

Dex’s spotter blinked at you, but you kept your eyes on the bank.

“You can make one good decision,” you said. “Just one. I’m not asking you to become a different person in the next thirty seconds. I’m asking you to help the guard.”

“If I open that door, they’ll shoot me.”

“No.”

“They will.”

“They won’t unless there’s an immediate threat.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not going to lie to you, Eddie. There are guns outside.”

Dex’s teeth tightened again.

“There are snipers,” you said, glancing at the nest.

Dex blinked. What the hell were you doing?

“But they are there because people need to live,” you continued. “Not because anyone is excited to kill you.”

Eddie said nothing. You looked at Dex, knowing he wouldn’t hesitate to kill him if you gave the command. 

“So,” you said, “put the gun down. Tell Rob to stay back and let the guard out slowly. You help me keep everyone calm, and I promise no one shoots unless there is an immediate threat.”

“You promise?”

Dex heard it, and Eddie almost sounded like a child.

“I promise,” you said. “But you have to help me keep that promise true.”

Across the street, Eddie turned toward the guard.

“He’s looking at the guard,” Dex said.

The spotter relayed, “Suspect one looking toward injured guard. Possible compliance. Medical team stage.”

“That’s it,” you whispered. “That’s good, Eddie. Stay with me.”

“I don’t want to die.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to die!”

“You’re not going to die, this isn’t The Town,” you said, gentle and absurd, “It’s real life, not a Ben Affleck movie.”

Eddie let out a broken little laugh.

Dex closed his eyes for half a second. Jesus Christ. You were going to ruin him.

“Okay,” Eddie said shakily.

Your hand tightened around the phone. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll send him out.”

The spotter straightened his posture. “Possible hostage release. Guard extraction. All units hold.”

Dex went fully still behind the rifle.

“Calm,” you told Eddie. “Nice and calm.”

Through the scope, Eddie moved like his bones had turned to water. He bent toward the guard, said something Dex couldn’t make out, then flinched when the guard recoiled from him.

“He’s helping the guard stand,” Dex said. “Left hand on guard’s arm. No immediate threat.” The spotter repeated every word.

You nodded as if Eddie could see you. “You’re doing good.”

The door opened. Every rifle outside seemed to hold their breath. Dex tracked Eddie’s face in the crack of the doorway. He was pale, wet-eyed, terrified. A criminal, yes. But for the first time that day, he was not beyond reach, be you had put your hand into all that fear and pulled until what was left of his humanity surfaced.

“Send him out,” you whispered. “Then step back.”

The guard stumbled forward and medical moved in.

“Guard is clear,” Dex said, though his own voice sounded distant to him. “Medical has him.”

The spotter echoed, “Guard clear. No shots fired.”

You exhaled, and it was so small nobody else would have noticed. But Dex did.

“Eddie?” you said into the phone.

He let out a shaking breath. “Yeah?”

“You did the right thing.”

“I’m still going to prison.”

“Probably,” you said.

Eddie gave another broken laugh, almost crying now.

“But not for murder,” you said. “Not today.”

Dex looked at you then, like he couldn’t help it. You were standing in a dusty room, and down an armed man like kindness was not weakness, And Dex wanted to be spoken to that way.

He wanted your patience, your belief that there was something worth saving even in people who had done unforgivable things. Especially in people who had done unforgivable things.

Then you breathed in and kept going. “Okay,” you said. “Now I’m going to want some of the people out too.”

Eddie went quiet.

You gentled your voice even more. “Women and children first, okay?”

“I can’t just—”

“I know.”

“Rob’s going to lose his shit.”

“I know, Eddie.”

“And David, he’s—” Eddie stopped abruptly, like he had realised he had given you another name, before continuing, “I have to talk to them.”

“That’s okay,” you said, looking at the spotter to relay the third suspect’s name. “Talk to Rob. Talk to David.

“They think I’m folding.”

“You’re not folding,” you said. “You’re thinking. You’re making sure everybody, including them, makes it out of there alive”

Dex watched Eddie through the scope. The man had backed away from the doors, one hand over his mouth, gun at his thigh. He looked less like a criminal now and more like a man finally realising the size of the hole he had dug.

You leaned closer to the phone. “I’m going to let you go for five minutes,” you said. “Okay?”

Eddie’s breathing hitched, as if you were his one and only life support right now. “You’re hanging up?”

“Just for five minutes. You need to talk to them, and I need to talk to my people.”

“What if—”

“I’ll call back,” you said. “And you’re going to pick up.”

Eddie said nothing.

“Eddie.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re going to pick up.” It wasn’t even a question anymore. 

After a while, you heard a small and frightened, “Okay.”

“Good,” you whispered. “We’re counting on you.”

Dex felt it like a hand around his throat. We’re counting on you.

You gave that trust to Eddie like a burden and a gift at the same time.

On the other end of the line, Eddie exhaled shakily. “Five minutes,” he said.

“Five minutes,” you promised.

Then the line clicked dead. Then, you glanced at Dex over the phone, and he felt the look land directly under his skin.

“You still with me, Agent Poindexter?” you asked, sighing. 

Oh, so this did take a toll on you, however much you try to hide it.

Dex lowered his eye back to the scope because looking at you was becoming a distraction.

“Yeah,” he said, voice rougher than he meant it to be. Then, because he couldn’t help it, he repeated your tone, “I’m with you.”

—

Afterward, everyone kept calling it a success.

The guard had gotten out. Three hostages followed twenty minutes later, two women and a little boy with one shoe missing, shaking so hard the paramedics had to guide them by the elbows. Eddie had picked up every time you called. He had argued with Rob, shouted at David, disappeared from the phone twice and come back both times breathing like he had run through a wildfire.

But he came back. By the fourth call, his voice had started to sound empty. By the sixth, he was crying and pretending he wasn’t. By the end, the remaining hostages came out with their hands over their heads, Eddie was the one who told Rob to put the shotgun down.

It wasn’t perfect, but it ended without another shot fired. So people congratulated you.

Your supervisor clapped a hand on your shoulder. The commander called it “excellent work.” Someone from crisis response said, “That was textbook,” even though it hadn’t felt textbook. It felt like pressing your palm to a cracked dam and smiling while water pushed through your fingers. You smiled anyway.

You accepted the praise and filled in the early notes. You let people tell you how good you were, how calm you were, how you had saved lives.

And for a while, you let yourself believe them, because the only injured person— the guard— had been alive when they loaded him into the ambulance.

He had been breathing. So it counted. It had to count.

Four hours later, you heard a knock on your office door.

You were halfway through typing your report when your supervisor stepped in with sweat beading on her forehead.

Your hands went still over the keyboard. “No,” you said.

She didn’t answer fast enough then, and that’s how you knew the guard had died at the hospital.

Not from the bullet, exactly. That was what she told you, as if the distinction mattered. It was a mix of vascular complication and too much blood loss, which in your head translated to: too much damage already done by the time you had convinced Eddie to open the door.

Still, you nodded like a professional. 

“Okay,” you said.

Your supervisor watched you carefully. “Agent.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to be.”

But you smiled anyway, because if you didn’t smile, you were going to cry, and a full grown woman was not supposed to cry for doing her job well. “I’m fine,” you repeated.

She didn’t believe you, but she left anyway.

For a while, you just sat there. The HRT floor was quieter at night, reduced to the hum of printers, distant phones, the occasional murmur from junior agents walking past with a folder tucked under one arm. Your office smelled faintly like cold coffee.

Your report blinked on the screen, trying to finish it up: Guard extracted at approximately…

You stared at the sentence until it blurred. You pressed the heels of your hands against them hard, like you could shove the tears back where they belonged. Like grief was just a reflex you could discipline out of yourself.

What a fucking joke. You didn’t even know the guy!

Then, a knock came at the door.

You inhaled quickly, wiped under one eye with the side of your thumb, and sat up in your chair. “Come in.”

To your surprise, Dex opened the door.

He was out of the tactical gear now, in his dark quarter zip with his badge clipped at his belt, hair slightly mussed like he had dragged his hand through it too many times. He stood in the doorway awkwardly, too tall for a room this small.

“Special Agent Poindexter,” you said, and your voice came out almost normal.

“I wanted to check on you,” he said. It was a lie. Or not a lie exactly. This was just an excuse to hear your voice again.

In truth, he had rehearsed the sentence and hated every version of it. He had walked past your office twice before gathering enough nerve to knock.

You tried to smile and it almost worked. “Oh,” you said. “I’m okay.”

Dex looked at you, seeing your smile trembled at the corner.

His eyes dropped to your hands, clenched too tightly together on top of your desk. He knew the anatomy of a smile. Yours was not real. 

“You’re not,” he said.

Your smile stayed on because it had nowhere else to go. “I…” you started. Fuck. What was the point in lying? He had been there. He had seen the injury. He deserved to know, too, if he didn’t already. “The guard didn’t make it.”

Dex froze. “Oh.”

You nodded once, a bit too quickly. “Complications or something, I don’t know. They said a lot of words and I retained absolutely none of them.”

Your laugh came out wrong. Dex hated it immediately. He hated the way you were trying to make the room easier for him. Even now, with your eyes threatening to spill with tears and your mouth trying not to shake, you were still smoothing your own hurt down so he else would not have to feel awkward around it.

You looked exactly like you had on the phone with Eddie towards the end of the call. 

Dex stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He was in the room with you, mission accomplished. What was he supposed to do now? “You got him out alive.”

You nodded. “And it still didn’t matter.”

Dex only looked down, unsure of what to say.

You shook your head, smiling harder now, which was worse than crying. “I know. We saved the hostages. We de-escalated the situation.” Your voice thinned. “All things considered, it was a good outcome”

Dex didn’t know what to do with his hands. He wanted to touch you, though he didn’t know if that was the right call.  Maybe he should put a hand on your shoulder. But he didn’t know if that would help. He didn’t know if he was allowed. He didn’t know how to comfort you without making it strange.

So he stood there uselessly, watching you try not to fall apart.

“Poindexter, I…,” you said, quieter, “I talked to him for hours.”

Dex swallowed. “Dex.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“My name.” His voice came out rough. “Call me Dex.”

For some reason, that was the thing that broke your smile, just enough for the tears to gather properly.

“Dex,” you repeated.

His name in your voice was catastrophic. He had wanted you to say it all day. He had it in that warm, coaxing tone you had given Eddie through the phone. Now you said it like you were standing at the edge of crying. And he would have given anything to fix it.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted.

That surprised you, maybe because people usually tried to fill grief with more grief. But Dex only stood there, honest and stiff and visibly uncomfortable with his own helplessness.

“I don’t either,” you whispered, and your face fell for half a second. You turned it away immediately, pressing your fingers under your eyes. Your smile was still trying. Dex had never seen anything braver or more painful in his life.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Smile.”

For a second, you forgot you were an agent in her office, staring at a report waiting on the screen. There was only you, too full of grief to keep pretending it was professionalism.

The first tear slipped before you could stop it. You looked furious with yourself, so Dex did the only thing he could think of.

He pulled the chair from the corner of your office, sat down across from you, and stayed.

You looked down, laughing under your breath as another tear fell. “You’re accidentally very nice, Dex.”

He swallowed. It was probably the nicest thing anyone had ever said to him. “I’m not trying to be accidental.”

You laughed again, and this time, it sounded a little less ruined as Dex sat there, listening to your voice tremble and come back to itself, pretending he had only come to check on you. Pretending he hadn’t come because he wanted to hear you again.

That night, after he walked you to your car, Dex didn’t go home right away.

He wandered back into the building instead, into your supervisor’s office. Dex knew where the recordings were kept. He knew the system, he knew the labels, he knew exactly how to make it look like nothing had been touched. The hostage negotiation tape was logged under case number, time, location.  His hand hovered over it for one second, before he copied it into his private drive.

At home, he sat on the edge of his bed with his headphones on in the dark and listened to your voice, steady and impossibly kind.

“Eddie,” your recording voice said, gentle as a hand against a fevered forehead. “Come back to me.”

Dex closed his eyes, jaw tightening. His hands curled over his knees. He knew it was wrong. He knew normal people didn’t steal recordings just to hear a woman speak kindly before bed. But then your voice came again. “Come back to me, Eddie.”

And in the dark, with his breathing gone shallow, Dex let himself change it in his mind: Come back to me, Dex.

For the first time in days, he slept well.

—

Dex kept finding reasons to talk to you. 

At first, they were almost believable: A clarification for the report. A detail about Marlow’s prosecution. A question about the hostage order, even though he had heard every word of it through comms and then, later, through the stolen tape in his apartment.

Then the excuses got worse. Apparently, he found one of your pens near the fifth-floor sniper position and returned it. He asked whether you wanted a copy of the incident timeline, then stood awkwardly in your doorway while you told him you already had three. He brought you a file that belonged to someone else entirely.

You looked at the name on the tab, then up at him. “Dex,” you said carefully. “This is for Agent Alvarez.”

He tried to look confused, which failed. “Right.”

“Different floor,” you smiled. He hated how much he liked that you were kind enough to pretend not to notice.

For two weeks, he learned the sound of your laugh. He learned that you clicked your pen when you were thinking. He learned that you always forgot your coffee until it went cold, then drank it anyway. He told himself it was harmless. It was most definitely not. 

Then one morning, he showed up at your office holding a paper bag.

You looked up from your desk tiredly, hair a little loose around your face. “Morning.”

Dex stepped inside and the bag crinkled in his hand. “I got you breakfast.”

You blinked. “Oh.”

He placed the bag on your desk like it might explode. “A croissant,” he said.

Your mouth into a small smile. “You remembered.”

Of course he remembered the crumbs on your sleeves and the sugar on your thumb. He remembered everything about that day. “Yeah,” he said.

You opened the bag and looked inside, then back at him. “Thank you, Dex.”

He nodded too quickly. “You’re welcome.”

He should have left. This was the normal time to leave. Instead, he stood there in the doorway, hands empty now, heartbeat hard in his throat.

You tilted your head. “Was there something else?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

He paused, then turned back“Yes.”

Your eyebrows lifted, and Dex looked briefly furious with himself.

Then he said, all at once, “Do you want to have dinner with me?”

You went very still. He immediately wanted to die.

“Not professionally,” he added.

Your lips parted. Did he… make it worse?

“I mean, it can be professional if that makes it less—” he stopped himself now, sighing to himself, “No. I don’t want it to be professional. I’m asking you on a date.”

You stared at him. Dex stared back, rigid and  catastrophically earnest.

Then you looked down at the croissant, before looking back up at him. “Did you bring me a pastry as a bribe, Special Agent Poindexter?”

His face fell slightly, and you chuckled a little. “Dex,” you corrected gently.

His breath caught in itself.

You smiled properly then, almost merciful. “I’m just teasing.”

“I know that.”

“You don’t look like you know that.”

“I’m… processing.”

A sweetlaugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. There it was, the sound he had been trying to earn for two weeks. Dex’s shoulders loosened by a fraction.

You leaned back in your chair, still smiling, when you looked up at him through your lashes and said, “Okay.”

His face went blank. “Okay?”

“Yes, Dex. I’ll have dinner with you.”

For one second, he looked almost boyish and stunned. Little did you know, he had prepared for rejection, confusion, pity, maybe even HR involvement, but not you saying yes.

“Oh,” he said.

You bit back a smile. “That’s usually the desired outcome when you ask someone on a date.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

“I think so.”

You laughed again and reached for the croissant.

“Tonight?” he asked, a little too fast.

You raised an eyebrow.

He swallowed. “Or another night.”

“Tonight is good.”

He nodded once, then turned like he was going to leave before either of you could ruin it.

“Dex?”

He stopped immediately.

You held up the croissant. “Thank you for breakfast.”

His eyes lowered, barely. “You’re welcome.” Then he left your office with his heartbeat still pounding.

Behind him, you took one bite of the croissant and smiled into your coffee. Absolutely terrible at flirting. Very good pastry, though.

—

The date was cute, even though it had every right to be awkward. You were both still in work clothes, making it feel less like a date at first and more like two agents walking down the street after a long day, badges tucked away.

When you sat down at the restaurant, you noticed that Dex looked… nervous. “You look like you’re about to be interrogated,” you chuckled.

“I’m not.”

“Dex.”

“Am I?” He looked concerned for a second, because he knew you handled interrogations sometimes.

That made you laugh, and his shoulders loosened slightly, like he had survived the first round of af a boxing match.

When the waiter came, you ordered first. Dex closed his menu immediately. “I’ll have that too.”

You blinked at him. “You don’t even know what I ordered.”

“I heard.”

“You can order something else.”

“I want what you’re having.”

You looked at him for a second, then smiled into your water glass, thinking that’s either very sweet or very concerning.

And then, it got easier. It didn’t go smooth, exactly. Dex answered questions like he was afraid there was a correct version and he had missed the briefing. But he listened like every word out of your mouth belonged carved in a stone tablet.

You told him about terrible tea on the HRT floor. He told you about a sniper qualification day where a rookie threw up behind a barricade. You laughed so hard you had to press your napkin to your mouth, and Dex looked at you like he had just learned a new way to breathe.

By the time the food came, the candle between you had burned golden. You took one bite, hummed happily, and pointed your fork at him. “Okay. Can I tell you a secret?”

Dex stilled, a little more alert. “…Yes.”

You leaned forward over the table. “I went to Quantico a year after you.”

His eyebrows drew together. “You did?”

“Mhm,” you grinned. “Our shooting instructor mentioned you all the time.”

Dex froze.

You sat back, delighted. “Oh my God. You didn’t know how much he loved you?”

“No.”

“Dex.” You put your fork down. “You made my life a living hell.”

“I wasn’t there.”

“You were spiritually there”

His lips parted slightly, offended and confused. “How?”

You dropped your voice into a gruff instructor impression. “‘Poindexter could do this with his eyes closed.’ ‘Poindexter cleared this drill ten seconds faster.’ ‘Poindexter didn’t need three tries.’ Poindexter this, Poindexter that.” You pointed at him. “Fuck, man.”

Dex stared at you before  the corner of his mouth lifted. “You were bad at shooting?”

You gasped. Was that… a joke? “I was not bad at shooting.”

“Sounds like you were.”

“I was excellent,” you swallowed your food, “I was just not you.”

His smile got worse, almost smug.

“Our instructor once said, and I quote, ‘Poindexter could hit this target in a blackout with a concussion.’”

Dex looked down at his plate, but you saw the smile pull at his mouth anyway.

“He was exaggerating,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow, unconvinced, before laughing. And there it was again — that look on his face. He didn’t know how to hide his adoration fast enough.

“You made my target practice time a living hell,” you admitted. “Agent Benjamin Poindexter. Destroyer of confidence. Patron saint of aiming at moving targets, apparently.”

The restaurant noise blurred around the two of you. The cutlery, conversation, music from the speakers, all of it bled into the background.

“But then I saw you in New York,” you continued. “and thought, oh. That’s him.”

Dex’s throat moved. “And?”

“And,” you said, gentler now, “I thought you looked lonely.”

Dex glanced down at the table, fingers curling once near his glass. For a second, you worried you had gone too far, too honest.

Then he said, very quietly, “I noticed you too.”

You lowered your eyes a little, suddenly shy in a way you had not expected to be. “Yeah?”

Dex nodded once. “Yeah,” he said. “Ray talked about you a lot after that Wall Street blackmail corruption case you both worked on together.”

Your face softened at the mention of him. “Ray’s lovely.”

Dex nodded.

“I get along with his wife better, actually,” you added, glancing back up. “Seema gave me a really good chole recipe and now we’re bonded forever.”

Dex looked faintly confused by that detail, but he listened anyway, like he was storing it somewhere important.

“She said I was doing the spices wrong,” you continued, your smile widening. “Which, to be fair, I was. That, and I handled the chickpea wrong, apparently.”

That got a small laugh out of him, eyes flicked from your mouth back to your eyes.

“I’ve… wanted to talk to you for a while,” he admitted.

Your smile faded into a furrow of your brows. “You have?”

Dex looked down at the table, at his untouched water glass, at the candle between you, anywhere that wasn’t your face. “I just never had reason.”

The words sat there, painfully honest. He didn’t even try to be charming in the way guys usually tried to be with you. Still, it was sincere enough that it made your heart ache.

The candle flickered between you, gold light catching along the sharp line of his cheekbone. For a second, Dex looked almost panicked by the silence, like he had accidentally handed you a confession and had no idea what you were going to do with it. So you reached across the table and touched your fingers lightly to his wrist.

“Well,” you said softly, “good thing you finally brought me a croissant.”

Dex looked at your fingers, then back at you. And this time, when he smiled, it was not an imitation of anything or anyone. 

—

You agreed to a second date. That was the easy part. The hard part was actually having one.

The next week turned into a mess before either of you could do anything about it. HRT got pulled into a fugitive barricade situation in Queens. Dex got sent out on a protection detail that lasted two days longer than expected. Your supervisor dumped three active threat assessments on your desk.

So the second date kept moving. Tuesday became Thursday. Thursday became Saturday. Saturday became, “I’m so sorry, Dex, I might actually die under this paperwork.”

Dex, who had appeared in your office doorway with his jacket still on, only looked at the files stacked across your desk and said, “That would be inconvenient.”

You stared at him before laughing so hard you dropped your pen.

After that, you started finding time to take your lunch together.  The first time, Dex showed up with two coffees and a paper bag from the place down the street.

“I was passing by,” he said.

“On the HRT floor?”

“Yes.”

You let him in, obviously. Then it kept happening.

Sometimes you ate in your office with the blinds half-closed and your shoes kicked off under the desk. Sometimes you found him in the break room already sitting at the corner table, pretending not to wait for you while leaving the chair beside him empty. Sometimes he brought you pizza because you had forgotten to eat again. Sometimes you brought him coffee because he drank his like punishment and you had made it your mission to introduce him to flavour.

So the second date never officially happened, but he knew your lunch order. Still, Dex kept appearing during your break, and you kept pulling the extra chair closer to your desk until eventually he was sitting beside you instead of across from you, both of you hunched over paper bags and plastic containers and case files like this was a normal blossoming relationship.

One afternoon, you were both sitting so close your chairs were practically conspiring. Dex had brought sandwiches and one pain au chocolate “in case,” which made you stare at him until his ears went faintly pink.

“You really know how to treat a girl, Dex.”

Dex looked down at his pastry. “I’m being practical.”

You laughed and bumped your shoulder into his.

He looked at you then, and the whole office seemed to shrink. You were close enough to see the little shift in his breathing, close enough to notice his pupils  drop to your mouth and shoot back up like he had been caught committing a federal offence.

“Oh,” you said, grinning. “That’s what’s happening.”

Dex went very still. “What?”

“You’re trying not to kiss me.”

“I’m not.”

“Dex.”

“I…” he trailed off. What was the point in lying anymore. “I’m trying not to do a lot of things.”

That startled a laugh out of you so badly you had to cover your mouth. And then he smiled.

You leaned closer, still laughing a little. “You can, you know.”

His face changed. All the awkwardness turned… stunned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned in like he was afraid you might disappear if he did it too quickly. One hand came up, careful against your cheek, and then his mouth was on yours, almost polite at first. It lasted maybe three seconds before you smiled into it, grabbed lightly at the front of his shirt, and kissed him properly.

Dex made a tiny sigh against your mouth.

The kiss went from sweet to a little desperate all at once, like both of you had been starving for weeks and then remembered you both kinda fell too much too quickly. His hand slid from your cheek to the side of your neck. Your chair squeaked as you shifted closer. His knee pressed between yours and you laughed into his mouth because the whole thing was ridiculous, hot, and happening in your office beside a half-eaten sandwich.

Dex pulled back just enough to breathe.

You both stared at each other, “Hi.”

He looked utterly ruined. “Hi.”

You laughed again, breathless, and his forehead dropped lightly against yours.

“This is not lunch,” he said.

“No,” you agreed, still holding his shirt. “It's not.”

—

The second date happened two months after the first.

By then, calling it a second date felt ridiculous. You had eaten lunch together a dozen times. He had kissed you in your office, in the stairwell, once against your car with his hand braced on the roof.

Dinner was a little awkward, still, because Dex would probably be a little awkward until the end of time, but sweet. He listened to you talk about your week like it was testimony under oath. He remembered tiny things you had said offhandedly weeks ago. So, when he took you home that night, it didn’t feel sudden.

He was sweet about it at first. His hands hovered before they touched, his mouth kept coming back to yours like he was checking he was still allowed, and every time, you sighed.

Then he got braver and messier.  His shirt was half-open, your hands were in his hair, and he had you pressed back against his pillows when he suddenly leaned close to your ear, voice serious, and said, “You like that, sweetheart? Tell me you’re mine. Tell me nobody else gets to make you feel this good.”

It might have been fine if it hadn’t come out of nowhere, weird and aggressive, zero to a hundred with absolutely no warning. Hell, your trousers weren’t even off yet. So what the fuck?

You went still. Dex went still too. There was a little pause before you slowly turned your head to look at him. “Dex.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“What was that?”

His face fell. “Was it bad?”

“It was…” You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “It was very committed.”

“Was it bad?” He insisted.

“I just…” you held back a chuckle, “Where did you learn that?”

Dex looked like he didn’t want to answer. He eventually did, though. “I… researched.”

You stared at him. He stared back, very embarrassed, and very clearly hoping the word researched would be enough of an explanation.

“You researched sex?”

“Yes.”

“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Dex.”

“I wanted to be prepared.”

“That sounded like it came from a man named Stepbrother Number Four.”

His ears actually went red. You covered your mouth, but the laugh escaped anyway.

Dex looked wounded, almost confused. “I thought it was appropriate.”

“It was… something.”

“It worked in the video.”

You stopped laughing and raised your eyebrows. “Video?”

His teeth locked. He had said too much.

Little did you know, a week earlier, Dex had gone through your phone in the office while you were in the bathroom.  He had found your browser history, your saved tabs, your filthy little private collection. He sent them to himself and deleted all evidence of it, of course. He wasn’t an amateur.

And then he had watched six hours of porn, studying it like a psychopath. It was not pleasure or fun. It was Dex in the dark, dead serious, analysing the links you saved, what you watched, even if some of them might have been an accidental click. He was taking notes in his head, trying to become a sex symbol you would want.

Now he was above you, flushed and mortified, realising that pornography was apparently not a good idea to imitate.

“Dex,” you said carefully. “Is this your first time?”

His whole body went tense under your finger. “Yes,” he admitted, barely a breath.

Your heart folded in on itself. “Oh, baby.”

His face tightened like your kindness hurt. “I should have told you.”

“Yeah,” you whispered. “You should’ve.”

“I didn’t want you to change your mind.”

You reached up and cupped his cheek. “C’mere.”

He hesitated, so you said it softer. “Come here, Dex.”

He came down to you, like your voice had hooked into his ribs and pulled. You kissed him again, slower this time. Your hands smoothed over his shoulders until he stopped waiting to be corrected.

“No more lines,” you murmured against his mouth.

As you wished, he stopped performing. He stopped trying to be the man from whatever awful tab he had studied too seriously. He touched you like himself instead: careful, intense, a little overwhelmed, listening to every sound you made as if it mattered more than anything. And fuck, that was better.

His mouth against your skin, your fingers in his hair, his name leaving you in sighed until he started to understand that was what you liked.

Afterward, he lay beside you in the dark, warm one arm tucked carefully around your waist like he was still asking permission to exist in your vicinity.

You brushed your thumb over his wrist. “Good job, pornstar,” you teased.

Dex groaned into your shoulder, but struggled to hide his smile at the praise. “Please don’t.”

“You were so brave.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He went silent, arm tightened just a little. “No,” he admitted with his lips against your skin. “I could never.”

It was quite the opposite, actually. 

He would tell you that for years after. Sometimes with his words, sometimes with his hands, sometimes with the way he looked at you like you were the only fixed point in a world constantly trying to move away from him.

But you were a federal agent who argued and calmed down very bad men for a living. Of all people, you should have known better. You should have known good things rarely ever lasted.

—

Ten Years Later...

You came home with blood on the heel of one shoe and a headache lodged so deep behind your eye it felt like someone had driven a nail into your skull.

You weren’t a federal agent anymore. You hadn't been one for a very long time. There were still people who talked about what happened ten years ago like it had just been one bad year. One scandal, one chapter the Bureau could close with a press conference and a few resignations.

If you closed your eyes, you could see everything clearly. 

It happened three years after your started dating. Wilson Fisk in a white suit. FBI agents on his payroll. Dex told you, in confidence, that he had killed the remaining Albanians on the motorcade. You told him that you needed to go on a break because of that. You put in your annual leave to visit family because your boyfriend had just confessed to using lethal force after the enemy surrendered. Apparently, that’s why and when his spiral started, because when you came back, Ray Nadeem had a bullet in his head. Daredevil was framed and hunted while your boyfriend wore the suit. The Bulletin. The church. Father Lantom, who you didn’t know of but learned of later.

After that, faith in anything became difficult. Faith in institutions, faith in badges, faith in men who said they were protecting people while selling their souls behind closed doors.

So you left and built your own private security company from spite, savings, and sheer exhaustion.

You did everything from executive protection to crisis negotiation. Threat assessment, asset recovery, and corporate extraction. All very nice words for work that often felt like pulling teeth. And the thing about running your own company was that the job didn’t stop when you clocked out. 

You still had payroll to approve and contracts to review. Clients to placate, insurance renewals, background checks, three missed calls from your operations manager, and junior associate who had accidentally offended la Russian client’s nephew. Just yesterday, you had a driver who quit over text as you received invoice from an arms consultant that made you genuinely consider crime in a more administrative capacity.

Sure, sometimes less-than-ethical people hired you. Triads, Russians, Italians, Irish. But at least, unlike the bureau, they never pretended to be saints. Monsters, you had learned, were never the real danger. It was hypocrites.

Tonight, you had spent fourteen hours in the back room of a private club, brokering a deal between a triad member and a client too rich to be as stupid as he was. Everyone had been polite. Everyone had been armed. You had spent the whole night dragging grown men away from their own worst impulses one careful sentence at a time.

No one died, and the client paid double. By your current standards, that was almost a success.

Still, by the time you got home, you were so tired your body felt like it was running on borrowed time. Your blouse clung damply to your back and your feet were screaming. Your phone had not stopped buzzing once, and you had started fantasising about throwing it into the river.

You unlocked your front door in the dark.

You stepped inside your apartment, dropped your keys into the ceramic bowl by the door, and kicked it shut behind you with one exhausted foot.

You stood barefoot in your own hallway and sighed. 

You had listened to the radio the whole way home, a force of habit, really. Its just today, you found out that your ex-boyfriend had broken out of prison and tried to shoot Fisk at some gala.

Wow. Shocker.

Honestly, you would rather shut all of it out and go to bed. Thinking about him, about the man you had loved more than anything in the world, would only break your heart all over again.

Then you saw the paper bag on the kitchen table with your favourite bakery’s logo stamped neatly on the front. Your favourite croissant was inside.

For one long second, you only stared at it and a Post-it stuck to the paper bag, written in a familiar, careful handwriting: You haven’t eaten today.

You stared at the croissant for a long time, long enough for your phone to buzz itself toward death inside your bag.

You didn’t touch the paper bag, and not because you thought it was poisoned. Dex didn’t need poison. If Dex wanted you dead, which he almost certainly did not, you would already have a knife in your throat. 

You were thinking more about how Dex had been inside your apartment. It wasn’t surprising, unfortunately. You exhaled, using the name you reserved only when you were mad at him. “Jesus Christ, Benjamin.”

You moved through your own home like you were clearing a client’s building. First the hall closet. Then the bathroom, bedroom, ensuite, guest room, and kitchen. You checked under the bed because you weren’t stupid, behind the shower curtain just in case, and the balcony because Dex had always been incapable of using a normal door when being unhinged would do.

Nothing. 

Still, you found the kitchen window open three inches. You stood in front of it for a second, staring at the gap before you shut it and locked it. Then, you checked the lock twice.

Then, because you were tired and petty, you went around the apartment and did every other lock too. You even checked the little latch on the tiny laundry room window that no full-grown man should have been able to fit through, although Dex had a history of doing things no full-grown man should be able to do anyway. 

Eventually, you took the croissant out of the bag, held it for one long second, then put it back.

“No,” you told the empty kitchen. “I have standards.”

You made it exactly five minutes before you came back, tore off one angry bite, and ate it standing over the sink because he had been right. You haven’t had a proper meal today.

What were you going to do now? Call the cops? And say what? Hello, officer, my ex-boyfriend broke out of prison, tried to kill the mayor, apparently swung by my apartment, broke in, and left me a croissant because he noticed I skipped dinner. Yes, that Benjamin Poindexter. No, I am not currently being held hostage. Yes, I own a private security company. No, I don’t need medical attention. Yes, this is going to jeopardise my brand and I’ll probably never get a client ever again. 

Ha!

You threw the Post-it into the kitchen drawer then you went to bed.

You slept badly. Once, half-asleep, you thought you heard your name in the hallway, and your hand slid under the pillow before you remembered you had put the knife in the bedside drawer because apparently some part of you still believed in “healthy boundaries.”

By morning, you were still exhausted. Your alarm went off at six-thirty. You slapped it silent, lay there for ten seconds, then dragged yourself upright with the suffering of a woman who had payroll, a prison break, and a quarterly review of her employees all waiting for her before breakfast.

The city outside your window was grey and wet. New York rain hit the glass in thin lines. Your head still hurt. Your phone had nine missed calls, four news alerts, and one message from Seema that simply said: Please tell me you’re alive.

You typed back: Unfortunately.

Then came the three firm knocks on your door and you froze in the middle of tying your robe.

You moved to the door, silent on the wood floor, and checked the peephole to see an empty hallway.

You undid the locks one by one, slow enough to make a point to nobody, and opened the door with the chain still on.

There was no one there. Only a coffee cup sitting neatly on your doorstep. Beside it, a burner phone.

You stared. The coffee was from your favourite place. Extra shot with, because you had once mentioned a decade ago that nutmeg tasted like dust and cinnamon was better.

On the cup, in careful black marker, were three words: Can we talk?

You stared at it for so long the neighbour’s door opened at the end of the hall.

Mrs. Banerjee from 4B peered out, hair wrapped in a scarf, eyes immediately dropping to the coffee, then to the burner phone, then back to you.

“Morning, love,” she said.

“Morning.”

She looked at the cup again. “Secret admirer?”

You looked down at the burner phone. The screen lit up to one message.

Unknown Number: Please.

You closed your eyes and Mrs. Banerjee made a small, interested noise. You picked up the coffee and the phone. “Ex-boyfriend.”. 

—

You really did think about turning in the burner phone. Or maybe you should call your lawyer. You could call your operations manager, who was a former private investigator. You could walk it straight to 15th precinct, drop it on Brett’s desk, and say, congratulations, you have one prison escapee’s attempt at courtship. You even considered crushing it under your heel and leaving the pieces in the hallway like a very clear, very mature message: Get the fucking hint.

But because you were an idiot, because apparently ten years of therapy, firearms training, and owning a private security company had not cured you of Benjamin Poindexter, you did not crush it.

You brought it inside and locked the door.

Then you sat at your kitchen table, took the back off the phone, and found the tracker chip in under twelve seconds. Of fucking course the burner phone he left like some pathetic little peace offering was also a locator. Of course Dex could not simply say can we talk without also making sure he knew where you were when you ignored him. You should have expected nothing less of him. 

You held the tiny chip between your fingers, looked at it under the kitchen light, and felt both rage and nostalgia twist behind your ribs. “Romance really is dead,” you muttered.

When you dropped the chip into a glass of water, the phone buzzed in your hand almost immediately.

Dex: Did you take it out?

You stared and sent nothing back, shoving it into your bedside junk drawer beneath batteries, old keys, a tape measure, and three expired pepper sprays.Over the next week, Dex kept finding ways to leave things for you.

On Monday, you found a paper bag with your favourite chocolate bar between an invoice and a threateningly glossy real estate flyer. You stared down at it in the lobby while Mr. Kowalski from 2A walked past with his pug. “Breakfast?” he asked.

“I think so,” you said.

On Tuesday, there was a carton of chocolate milk waiting on your window sill. Outside. Four floors up.

You opened the curtains and nearly had a stroke.The carton was balanced there neatly, like New York wind, gravity, and basic human decency didn’t exist. 

You opened the window, grabbed it, and looked down at the street and found no sign of a psychopath in a tactical black suit making eye contact from across traffic like this was a part of the healing process. You drank it anyway, because you were angry, not wasteful.

On Wednesday, you found a book on your balcony.

That one actually pissed you off, and not because it was on your balcony. You had accepted, against your will, that Dex was apparently treating your apartment like a very emotional obstacle course. It pissed you off because it was a first edition of the stupid out-of-print novel you had complained about not being able to find for years. You had mentioned it once, maybe twice, back when you were still together, curled into the corner of his couch with your feet under his thigh and your hair wet from his shower.

There was a note tucked inside the front cover: I saw it and thought of you.

You looked at the note. Then at the sky. Then back at the note. “Are you kidding me?”

You brought the book inside. You didn’t read it. You put it on the kitchen counter, facedown.

On Thursday, there was a pastry box on your office desk.

Your actual locked private security office with cameras, keycards, a receptionist, two former Marines on the morning shift, and a very expensive alarm system you had installed.

You walked in at eight-fifteen, stopped dead in the doorway, and stared at the little white box sitting beside your keyboard.

Your assistant, who had followed you in talking about insurance renewals, went quiet. “Is that yours?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do we need to evacuate?”

You opened the box. Inside was one pain au chocolat and a folded napkin. You unfolded it: You forgot lunch yesterday.

You sighed, “no.”

You spent the next hour reviewing security footage and getting progressively more furious because, of course, there was nothing useful. There was nothing more than a camera flicker and a ten-second blind spot. The side door alarm that had been disabled and re-enabled so quickly it looked like a system error.

By Friday, you were in a mood so bad people started physically moving out of your way when you walked down the hall.

You went home late, half hoping there would be nothing and you were right. For once, your hallway was empty. Your mailbox was empty. Your windowsills were empty. Your balcony was empty. You checked all of them twice anyway, because apparently this was your life now. Nothing.

You made actual dinner out of spite: rice, protein, vegetables. You ate it standing in your kitchen because sitting down felt too intimate. Then you showered, changed into sleep shorts and an old quantico T-shirt, and tried not to think about the fact that you were kind of disappointed by the lack of gifts.  Which was humiliating.

You were a grown woman. You ran extractions for millionaires and negotiated with armed mob bosses before breakfast. You were not going to have feelings because your escaped-convict ex-boyfriend skipped one day of stalking.

Then, at eleven at night, you heard tapping against your window.

No one was there when you opened it, but there was an envelope stuck to the outside of the glass.

You stared at it, then walked over, opened the window, and peeled it off. Inside was a note: Why are you mad at me?

You blinked and read it again.

For a second, you genuinely thought you were hallucinating. Then you looked down to your fire escape below your window to see a bouquet of daisies, the ones he used to buy from the deli down the street because you said you always like them.

“Oh my God,” you whispered to the empty apartment. “He actually thinks I’m playing hard to get.”

You picked up the flowers. And, because you were a very reasonable person, you leaned out the window into the damp New York night and shouted, “DEX!”

Somewhere below, in the dark, a car alarm chirped. A dog barked. Someone yelled, “People are sleeping, lady!”

You ignored them. You held up the flowers like evidence at trial. “‘WHY AM I MAD AT YOU?’ IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE?!”

Nothing, for a moment. Then your burner phone buzzed from the drawer. You stormed over, yanked it open so hard the batteries rattled, and dug the phone out from under three dead pens.

Dex: Are they the wrong flowers?

You stared and slowly  sat down on the kitchen floor, because if you didn’t, you were going to throw the phone through a wall.

Because surely, surely, you had misread that. Surely the man you once had thought of as the love of your life, had not just asked if you were mad after he killed your mutual friend seven years ago.

The phone buzzed again.

Dex: I can get different ones.

You closed your eyes. For a moment, you thought you could feel your soul physically leave your body, look down at the situation, and decide it wanted no part in this, because he kept acting as if the issue was floral. As if this whole thing could be solved by a better bouquet and not, for example, an apology, a therapist, a complete understanding of privacy, and maybe not breaking into your apartment.

“Fuck,” you muttered. 

Whatever, you thought. I don’t give two shits

You very much gave two shits. You gave several shits. You gave a whole municipal waste facility’s worth of shits. 

In truth, you cared so much it made you furious. You had spent seven years telling yourself Benjamin Poindexter was not your problem anymore. Seven years building a life from the ruins he left behind. And now he was back in your life!

The phone buzzed again 

Dex: Please talk to me.

You stared at the screen before you stood up. “No,” you said aloud.

You were not doing this through a burner phone. You were not typing out a long, literate paragraph about boundaries to a man who had apparently decided stalking was a valid love language. You were not texting your fugitive ex-boyfriend the basics of human decency. If he wanted to talk, he could talk face to face.

And because you knew Dex better than anyone should know a man like Dex, you knew exactly how to make that happen without sending a single message.

You went to your bedroom and changed, pulling on jeans, boots, a warm coat, and the black scarf with hidden pockets because practicality was important, even during emotional breakdowns. You hid a knife in your sleeve and a compact pistol at your back.

You walked back into the kitchen and looked at the burner phone on the floor.

Dex: Are you there?

You picked it up, turned it over once in your hand, then dropped it into the fruit bowl like it deserved to be punished among the bananas.

“I’m going for a walk,” you said to your empty apartment, before grabbing your keys and left.

—

Central Park at midnight was, objectively, a stupid place to go. You knew that. You literally charged people money to know that.

You had written entire security briefs for clients with more cash than survival instinct, and half the advice boiled down to: do not go into isolated places at night to meet emotionally unstable violent criminals.

Still, there you were, walking through the park under a wet black sky, boots clicking against the pavement, the city humming behind the trees like it was pretending not to watch.

Every instinct you had spent the last seven years wanted to look back: look at the tree line, benches, shadows. Check reflection in puddles and windows across the street. But you didn’t look, because looking meant admitting you cared whether he was there.

The path curved ahead of you, slick with rain and scattered leaves. A few lamps burned gold through the mist. The park was not empty, exactly, but it felt emptied out. You could hear footsteps and cyclists passing too fast. You kept walking. Past the fountain. Past the little bridge, until you reached the bench.

It had the same black metal arms, same damp wooden slats, same stupid plaque dedicated to someone’s grandfather who had loved chess and spring mornings.

You and Dex had found this bench years ago after a date went wrong because work interrupted dinner. He had been stiff beside you, still in his work shirt, tie loosened. You had shared cold fries out of a paper bag. You stole one from his carton and he let you.

After that, the bench became yours in the stupid unofficial way things became yours when you were in love. After late shifts and bad days, arguments you both pretended were not arguments. You kissed here stolen under orange lamplight, hand hovering near your lower back before finally touching. 

You sat down anyway. The bench was wet. “Perfect,” you muttered. 

You crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, looking straight ahead.

For one minute, nothing happened. Then two. Then three.

You almost laughed. Maybe this was it. Maybe you had finally overestimated him. Maybe Dex had left the flowers, sent the texts, and vanished into the night.

Maybe you had dragged yourself into Central Park at midnight for nothing. Maybe you were the unwell one.

Then, a sound came from the trees behind you, barely anything at all.

You didn’t turn around. 

From the darkness behind the nearest tree, Benjamin Poindexter stepped out of the shadows. He looked older, bigger, still beautiful in that awful, inconvenient way that made you want to throw something at the sky.

Dex stopped a few feet away from the bench. For once, he didn’t come closer.

The mist clung to his shoulders. The lamplight caught the scar on his cheekbone. Then, he said, “Hi.”

Your mouth felt dry. “Hi,” you said back. Stupid. Pathetic. Human.

Dex looked at the empty space beside you, then at your face. “Can I sit?”

You almost laughed. Now he wanted permission? “Sure,” you said, voice flat. “Why start respecting boundaries now?”

He flinched like you’d rub salt in a wound. He sat anyway, carefully, as if the bench belonged to you now and he was only borrowing the edge of it. His thigh was too close to yours, so scooted away.

Dex noticed. His eyes dropped to the wet space you’d put between you, then lifted again.

For a while, neither of you said anything. The park filled the silence: dew ticking through leaves, traffic muttering.

Dex’s hands rested between his knees, visible, like he knew you were checking and armed.

“How are you?” he asked.

Of all the things he could have asked. Of all the impossible, cruel, stupid things.

How dare he ask like  this was a coffee run. Like seven years had not happened. Like he had not crawled back into your life through windows and burner phones and pastry boxes, leaving little proofs of memory everywhere, every single one saying, I still know you, I still know you, I still know you.

You smiled and it was fake, Dex could tell. 

“Oh,” you said brightly. “Great. Coping. The last seven years have been very normal and relaxing for me.”

Dex looked down.

You kept going because if you stopped, worse thingswould come out.

“I built a company. Paid taxes. I learned how to read insurance contracts without wanting to walk into traffic. Got eight hours of sleep, never. Oh, and I developed a fun little stress headache that lives behind my right eye.” You looked back at the path. “You know. Girl stuff.”

“That must have been hard,” he said quietly.

Your eyes closed. Fuck off. That one repetition you knew Dr. Mercer gave him that you told him was cute once. You opened your eyes and rolled them instead. “Don’t sound sad on my behalf.”

“I am sad.”

“That’s the fucking bare minimum. Catch up”

He took that, and you almost wished he wouldn’t. You almost wished he would snap back like you had always expected him to. 

But seven years had changed parts of him. Dex, whose anger had been manipulated, had sat down on the prison floor and trained himself not to succumb again. Then he said, “I saw your apartment.”

You looked at him. “What about it?”

He hesitated, and you could see him trying to choose the right words, which was almost funny, considering he had broken into your home without needing words at all.

“It’s.. modest,” he said.

For a second, your brain refused to process it. Then you turned toward him fully. “I’m sorry?”

Dex’s eyes flickered. “That came out wrong.”

“You’re insulting my apartment?”

““I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Oh, please.” You laughed once. “Go on, Bullseye. Tell me what the fugitive home inspector thinks.”

His face changed at the moniker. “I meant,” he said carefully, “you always talked about more.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

Dex looked past you toward the path, like maybe the memory was sitting there too.

“You said you wanted a house in the suburbs,” he said. “You said you wanted no less than five bedrooms and big windows. A kitchen with the blue tiles you liked. A bathroom with a copper bathtub that would’ve been hard to clean.”

You had been half-asleep when you told him that. Years ago, your legs in his lap, his thumb moving over your ankle bone, the TV murmuring some terrible late-night movie neither of you were watching. You had been talking nonsense because you were tired and happy and safe. 

You swallowed the memory down hard. “I can’t afford more,” you said.

Dex frowned. “You can.” You owned a private security firm. You should be able to. Dex had seen the numbers you were bringing in. 

“You don’t know anything about my life anymore,” you said, and your voice cracked just enough to make you furious. 

His eyes stayed on you.

“I can’t because I… I pay two mortgages,” you said, words coming out quieter than you meant them to.

Dex’s brow furrowed.

“One for my apartment.” Your hand curled against your knee. “One for Seema.”

He stopped breathing for half a second.

You kept your eyes on the wet path because if you looked at him, you would see exactly when he understood, and you didn’t want him to see that. 

“And I…I’m putting Sami through college, too,” you added, proud of the boy he had become. “He’s going to be a structural engineer.”

You thought of visiting Seema once in a while. You folded bills into drawers and pretended it was nothing. Seema pretending she didn’t notice. You were just two women building something survivable out of the wreckage men left behind.

Dex stared at his hands. “Oh.” 

You smiled without looking at him. It hurt. “Yeah,” you whispered.

He looked smaller, though not physically. Dex still took up too much space. But he was folding inwards, like he had finally stepped on a loose floorboard and realised there was a whole room underneath the house.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“No.”

“I would have—”

You turned to him then, anger saving you from the softer thing trying to crawl up your throat. “Don’t tell me what you would have done,” you said. “Don’t sit here and offer me imaginary help from prison like that does anything for anybody.”

Dex wanted to say the right things so desperately, you could tell. 

You held up a hand before he could speak, “Stop.”

He knew that voice, that tone. He had stolen it from evidence and slept to it in the dark.

You saw the moment it hit him, so you hardened again. “Why are you here?” you said. 

Dex looked at you for too long. “I wanted to see you.”

“Cut the shit,” You leaned closer, not because you wanted to be near him, you told yourself, but because you needed him to hear you. “Why are you here, Dex?”

Barely above a whisper, he said, “I wanted to see my girlfriend.”

For one second, you couldn't move. Girlfriend? 

You stared. “I’m not your girlfriend anymore.”

Dex looked genuinely confused, not pretending or  manipulating.

“We never broke up,” he said.

Your stomach turned. “Oh, fuck.”

“We didn’t.”

“We were on a break when you got arrested! I never visited you in prison, either, Dex!” you snapped. “Take the fucking hint.”

His face went sout first. Then his eyes changed, helplessness flashing there, quickly buried, but not quick enough. He was hurt, almost boyish in its disbelief, like it had never occurred to him that your absence was a hint at all.

“No, no,” he insisted, and you could almost see the story he made up in his head. “You didn’t visit because it wasn’t safe,” he said.

Your mouth opened slightly.

He kept going, voice gaining force desperately. “Because of the Bureau and your firm. Because if anyone saw you with me—”

“No.”

“I know why you didn’t visit,” he said “You had to protect yourself. I understood that.”

“No, Dex.”

“You needed time.”

You scoffed. “I needed more than time.”

“You were angry.”

“I was grieving.”

“You loved me.”

“Yes!” you snapped, and the word tore out of you so violently both of you went silent. It was the ugly, irredeemable truth. You swallowed, but it did nothing.

“Yes,” you repeated, smaller. “I loved you. I loved you so much I almost ruined my life because of it.”

His face broke open for half a second and You couldn’t look at him

“I sat outside that prison once, after you killed Nelson,” you said.

Dex let out a deep breath. 

You laughed under your breath, but it came out nearly ruined. “I drove there after work. I parked across the street. I was in my car for forty minutes like an insane person.”

“You came?” he whispered.

“I didn’t go in.” you said, finally looking at him. Your eyes burned so badly it made the lamps blur. “Because I knew if I walked inside, I was done. I knew if I saw you, if you looked at me, if you said my name in that voice, I would forgive things I had no business forgiving.”

Dex was breathing shallowly now.

Oh. 

He reached for you, too quickly, when he realized he was losing your attention. His fingers closed around your wrist and pulled, hard enough to hurt.

“Don’t,” he said.

For half a breath, you froze. Seven years ago, you might have let him. Seven years ago, you might have let him pull you close because he was hurting and Dex hurting had always made you stupid. You might have said his name. Might have touched his face. Might have coaxed him back to you gently, patiently, like he was one of your frightened men with a gun and a locked room full of hostages.

But you were not that girl anymore.  Your wrist turned, thumb pressing to a weak point. You twisted down, stepped in, and pivoted, making him release you.

His eyes flashed, more surprised than hurt. 

You caught his arm, moved behind his shoulder, and slid the knife from your sleeve with one clean motion, pressing the blade on the curve of his neck .

Dex went still, some part of him, some sick part of him, had been waiting seven years to be close enough for you to hurt him, if that was all you would ever give to him. 

Your mouth was near his ear. “Don’t,” you said, “grab me like that again.”

Dex swallowed. You felt it against the blade. His eyes were fixed forward, dark in the lamplight.

Even now, you could feel yourself trying to regulate the room. Keep him calm. Keep yourself calm. No sudden moves. Name the feeling. Give him a choice. Bring him back to his own.

You almost laughed. Once a hostage negotiator, always a hostage negotiator. Even when you were brokering arms deals most of the time now.

“I left you alone,” you said. “For seven years, I left you alone. That was the kindest thing I could do for both of us.”

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

Your hand tightened around the knife. For a second, you couldn’t speak, because you knew what he meant. You had not given him closure. You had not given yourself closure either. You had simply walked out of the burning building and refused to look back in case he was still inside screaming.

He said your name, like he still had the right to use it. “You don’t want to kill me,” Dex said.

Your eyes burned so badly it made the park blur at the edges. You laughed once, but it came out broken. “Don’t be so sure.”

Dex didn’t flinch. He looked at the knife in your hand, then back at you, and his voice dropped.“If you wanted me dead,” he said, “I would already be dead.”

Fuck. Fuck.

Your heart broke again, and this time you almost heard it.

“Leave me alone,” you whispered. You stepped closer, teeth clenched, tears hot on your face. “Leave me alone, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Then you flipped the knife in your hand, turned the butt of it toward him, and struck him hard under the temple to knock him out.

You stood over him for one second too long, breathing like an animal, waiting for yourself to regret it. You did, but you left anyway.

When Dex woke up, you were gone.

—

For the next couple of months, Dex actually left you alone. Which was good, right? You had to remind yourself that you did tell him to leave you alone or you’d kill him. It was a very clear instruction, a very reasonable boundary. It was very mature of him to respect it.

So why did it make you feel insane? 

You told yourself this was healthy. You told yourself that, actually, most women would be thrilled if their escaped-convict ex-boyfriend respected a boundary after years of moral devastation. But apparently, you were not most women. Apparently, you were a fucking idiot.

At work, people started noticing. One of your freelancer caught you staring at a blank wall for too long and said, carefully, “You okay, boss?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve been holding that folder upside down for five minutes.”

You looked down. Ah.

Seema called twice asking you to come over for dinner. Both times, you said no. “It’s not safe,” you told her.

Then Seema sighed, and that hurt worse than yelling. “You always say that when you are punishing yourself.”

You hung up after promising to call again. You didn’t call, even though you kept the checks going.

Then one morning, every phone in your office buzzed at once. That was never good. Apparently, many of your clients wanted extra protection against an “unknown threat.

You wondered why until your assistant handed you a newspaper with the headline: THREE ANTI-VIGILANTE TASK FORCE AGENTS FOUND DEAD IN BROOKLYN.

Your whole body went cold.

You read the article, and that was all the confirmation you needed. You knew what Dex’s violence looked like. You knew he did this. 

Your assistant said your name again. You looked up, and whatever was on your face made her stop talking.

“Cancel my morning calls,” you said as you phone buzzed.

Brett Mahoney: Do not get involved.

You almost laughed.

You knew then, that he had not left you alone because he stopped loving you. He had left you alone because he was trying to be good. And something, or someone, had just reminded him he wasn’t.

—

You started following Dex on his little crusade. It didn’t take you long to find him, really. You had once loved him too thoroughly to be normal about him now.

You knew which rooftops he would choose because they gave him height and had three clean exits. You knew he hated wet alleys unless they led to fire escapes. You knew he would never use the obvious door. You knew the little rituals he had during work. 

So yes. Fine. You started stalking Benjamin Poindexter.

Fuck. How pathetic. You were a grown woman. You ran a firm. And now, apparently, you had a new hobby: following your fugitive ex through New York like a ghost with a concealed carry permit.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

You told yourself it was professional. AVTF had been leaning on your clients hard, forcing them into hiding, turning protection details into extraction jobs, calling it public safety while they raided apartments without warrants and threatened families in parking garages. They were dickheads, so yeah, you had no sympathy for them.

You followed the bodies, the rumours, the gaps in camera footage, the silence in neighbourhoods that had been loud twenty minutes before. And the more you followed him, the more you felt him following you back. 

You noticed a shadow on a rooftop opposite your office, a reflection in the window of a closed deli. The certainty that when you walked home at night, something in the dark was following you.

You knew Dex had clocked you the first night and, instead of losing you, instead of warning you off, the sick bastard started letting you get closer, though not enough that you could grab him, never enough that you could put a bullet in him if you finally developed common sense. But enough.

Apparently, even when you kept saying you wanted him gone, your body didn’t get the memos 

And Dex… Dex wasn’t any better.

Dex was worse. Dex was leaving you openings like love notes. He would stop too long on rooftops. He let you see the edge of his shoulder before he vanished. He let a camera catch half his face, just enough for you to know he was thinking of you.

Once, you found a dead AVTF agent slumped in an abandoned office with a heart shot into the wall beside him. 

Fuck. 

Eventually, you stalked his home. Well. Home was generous.

Dex didn’t have a home so much as he had a room to return to when the city stopped needing him bloody for five consecutive minutes.

It was a third-floor walk-up in Hell’s Kitchen, rented under a name so fake it was almost insulting. Tony? Where did he get that, huh? 

He had no doormats or plants. He had no personal mail.   You found it in four days. You told yourself that was because you were good at your job.

You watched the building from across the street with coffee going cold in your hand. Like a creep, like him. 

The first night, he didn’t come home until 3:12 a.m.You saw him slip through the alley, hood up, shoulders tense, blood dark on one sleeve. He paused before unlocking the side entrance.

Dex knew you were there and the bastard still turned his head slightly, just enough for the streetlamp to catch the side of his cheek, the bruising near his mouth. Then he went inside.

You sat there with your hands curled around the steering wheel and hated him for being alive.

After that, you came back, but every night. You had clients to protect and employees to encourage into filling out paperwork properly. 

Obviously. 

—

One night, you followed him to the docks.

You told yourself it was reconnaissance. You told yourself it was work. You told yourself a lot of very reasonable, very professional things while walking into a half-rotted maintenance building with a pistol at your back and your heart trying to climb out of your throat.

But by then, you had stopped pretending you weren’t actively choosing him.

The building sat by the water like a body left to die, with rusted metal, wet concrete, and black windows. Task Force had picked it because they thought isolation made them clever.

It didn’t. Instead, it made them predictable.

You slipped through the side entrance and knew immediately something was wrong when you smelled blood, oil, and gunpowder in excess.

Your stomach turned. Not him, a terrified part of you thought before you could stop it. Please, not him.

When you were fully in, he had already been through the first two. One agent was at the bottom of the stairs. Another near the service corridor. A third was dragging himself across the floor, one hand pressed to his side, the other reaching for his radio.

He saw you, a stranger, and desperately rasped, “Help me.”

You looked at the badge on his vest; AVTF.

Then you looked toward the room ahead, where another gunshot went off so loud the whole building seemed to echo around it.

Your blood went cold. Dex.

You stepped over the agent, who was begging for you to save his life. “No.”

You ran instead, because you knew, somewhere in that building, Dex could be hurt. Dex could be cornered. Dex could die.

And the thought was so unbearable it stripped every lie out of you.

No. No. No. Not him. Not after a decade of caring about him. Not after you spent all that time hating him just to realise that hate was probably just you punishing yourself.

You reached the room and saw him. Dex was backed near the far wall, one hand braced against a pipe, blood at his mouth, shoulders heaving. His eyes were dark and wild, and still, somehow, he found you the second you entered.

For half a second, nothing stopped.

The agents. The prison. The motorcade killing of surrendering men. Ray. Fisk. The suit. None of that mattered anymore. Not really. 

Then you saw the agent next to him, lifting his gun, Finger tightening to the trigger.

Dex didn’t see. He was distracted. He was watching you. Dex was watching you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

But you saw the gun, the angle. You saw the split second before the world took him from you.

No.

There was a sawn-off shotgun on the floor beside a dead man’s hand.

You picked it up before morality could catch up. The blast tore the room open.

The agent dropped. Your hands moved on instinct efficiently. You loaded in another shotshell. Another shot. The second agent went down before he could turn his weapon. Then the third.

Then nothing but smoke and ringing silence and your own breath coming out broken and a little too loudly.

Dex turned toward you slowly with blood on his cheek, mouth parted, his eyes locked on yours.

You had saved him, yes. You had crossed a line for him, yes. But Dex didn’t look surprised, not even a little.

He looked at you like he had always known, like he was waiting for you to come out of the dark and choose him. Like he had loved every version of you: the woman with pastries in a federal sniper nest, the woman with a knife under his jaw in Central Park, and now this woman, holding a shotgun because the idea of him dying had made her forget every boundary she had ever built.

Your throat closed. You wanted to scream at him. You wanted to kiss the blood off his mouth. You wanted to hit him for making you care this much. You wanted to fall apart against him and have him hold you like no time had passed at all.

You hated him. Or maybe you loved him so badly it felt like a heart attack.

Dex’s eyes dropped to the shotgun in your hands, then rose back to your face, so in love with you it was almost frightening.

You swallowed hard. “I don’t actually want you dead,” you admitted. 

Oh. Oh, fuck.

Then the shotgun slipped from your hands. It hit the floor with a dull clatter, and it made you flinch for the first time in years. 

Dex said your name, but you didn’t answer.

Your knees gave out before you decided to kneel. One moment you were standing there with smoke in your lungs and blood ringing in your ears, and the next you were on the concrete, palms braced against the floor.

Fuck. Fuck! What did you do? What the fuck did you do?

The agents were dead because you had killed them. You didn't even try negotiating or de-escalating. You didn’t even try buying time.

You had picked up a gun and blown three men apart because he had been about to shoot Dex.

“Oh my god,” you whispered, sounding thin and very much unlike the person you had convinced yourself to be. 

Your eyes dropped to the shotgun on the floor, then up to your bare hands. Your… fingerprints were on it. Shit! 

Your DNA and your hair maybe, your shoe prints in the blood and river grime. You had stupidly dragged your goddamn life into this room because you had followed a man you swore you hated into a trap and saved him as if he was still yours to save.

You had jeopardised everyone; your employees, the contracts and the clients. Seema and Sami and their mortgage payments and tuition fees.  If you went down, they went down with you.

Your breath hitched so hard it hurt. “No,” you said, but it came out like a sob. “No, no, no.”

Dex moved toward you, boots scraping concrete, his body dropping down beside yours. You jerked back on instinct. “Don’t,” you choked out, though you didn’t know what you were telling him not to do.

Dex stopped for half a second, but he reached for you anyway, carefully this time.

His arms came around you from the side, one hand sitting between your shoulder blades, the other wrapping around your back like he could hold your life together by force if you just asked him to.

“It’s okay,” he said, even though it was the wrong thing to say. Nothing was okay, but in the end it was still Dex’s voice.

“It’s okay,” he said again. “I’ve got you.”

You made a sound, and you would have been embarrassed by it if you had any semblance of self preservation. 

“Dex,” you gasped.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t- my fingerprints, I touched it, I touched the gun, I…. ” Your words tripped over each other, useless and frantic. “They’ll find me. They’ll know. My firm finished. Seema won’t… I-I—Sami’s tuition, Dex, I pay his tuition, I can’t— fuck! M-my employees, they’ll lose their jobs, I,… everything is tied to me, everything…”

“I know,” he said.

“You clearly fucking don’t!”

“Listen to me,” he said again, hand pressed against your back. 

You shook your head, because listening meant being in the room. Listening meant admitting this had happened. It was basically a fucking confession. 

Dex moved ever closer, until his chest was against your shoulder, his lips by your temple. “Nobody has to know,” he said.

Your breathing stopped abruptly, looking at him through the blur of your own tears.

His face was bruised, blood at the corner of his mouth, eyes so focused on you that it made you want to collapse all over again.

“Nobody has to know,” he repeated. “I’m going to help.”

You were terrified. You were relieved. 

Dex knew what to do. Dex knew what to do with bodies, right? He can make this all go away, right? Right?

You needed him. Needed.

You turned into his chest, hands grabbing at the front of his jacket, fists twisting in the fabric, clinging to him with a desperation you had not shown to anyone in years. Your forehead hit his chest and then, before you knew it, you were letting out full-bodies sobs into his tactical suit. 

Dex’s arms tightened around you immediately. “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

You buried your face harder against him, shaking so badly you swore your teeth were gonna fall off. “I need you,” you said into his chest, barely audible.

Dex froze for a second, his hand sliding up to the back of your head, holding you there. “I know,” he whispered.

You clutched him harder. “I need you.”

—

Your body had been buzzing with too much adrenaline, your vision swam in and out of existence, and you barely remembered what happened. When you came back to yourself, you were in Dex’s bed.

His studio was small, nothing but one dim lamp in the corner, one chair, and one table. It should have felt temporary, but the sheets smelled like him,and that alone made you feel comfortable enough to ignore everything he had done in the past decade. 

You were wearing his old FBI shirt, fabric hanging too loose on your shoulders, logo cracked from years of washing, like a cruel relic from a life neither of you got to keep. Your own clothes were gone: coat, jeans, scarf, and everything that had touched that you, or that warehouse. 

The shotgun was gone, too, and you were willing to bet the same for the bodies. All of it had been taken care of by the one man you had spent seven years trying not to need.

Maybe he burned the clothes and sunk the agents. Maybe he sunk the shotgun, too. There was horror, but you felt sick, shameful relief all the same.

He stood near the sink with his shoulders slightly hunched, blood still drying near his mouth. He had washed his hands too many times; you could tell from the red and raw skin around his knuckles, as if even he could not scrub tonight off completely. When he turned the tap off, the apartment went quiet again.

You stared at him, and he stared back, and suddenly seven years were in the room with you. Seven years of pretending he was just another ex. Seven years of saying you hated him because hating him was easier than admitting that some nights you still reached across the bed in your sleep and woke up furious that he was not there to hold you. 

You started shaking again. What the fuck were you doing here?

Your whole body felt like it was stuck on vibrate, teeth clenching, hands curled uselessly in the hem of his shirt. You hated yourself, because even after the hard-earned distance you tried to keep, you tried to earn, piece by piece, it was Dex’s room you fell apart in.

Dex walked toward you carefully, as if he had learned the hard way what not to do.  He wasn’t going to let himself be taken over by sudden movement, so he just sat on the edge of the mattress, waiting for your next move.

You should have told him to stay away. You should have said thank you and left. You should have put your feet on the floor, gone home, burned his shirt and called this what it was: A mistake, or a relapse. It was just a catastrophic, near career-ending lapse in judgement.

Instead, a little sob came out of you. And that was all it took for his arms to come around your body.

You were so angry at how badly you needed that touch that you grabbed him, by way of both hands in the front of his shirt, fists twisting in the fabric, dragging him close like you were drowning and he was the only source of oxygen left in the world. 

You cried into him. It was a heartbroken chest-breaking sob that you couldn’t swallow down. You cried because you had killed three men that hadn’t even been looking at you. You cried because you had wanted Dex to live so badly you have compromised the safety of everyone else in your life.

He held you tighter, hand finding the back of your head like muscle memory, fingers sinking into your hair with a familiarity that hurt so much you might as well have been stabbed.

“Come back to me,” he whispered.

You hated him for saying your line, but you hated more that it fucking helped. So you pressed your face deeper into the crook of his neck, breathing him in like a pathetic kitten that had been abandoned on the side of the road starving for years. 

You missed your Dex, and not the one you had made into a monster, and not Bullseye. You missed this one.

“You shouldn’t have helped me,” you said, but it barely came out as a cohesive.

His mouth planted a kiss on your hair.

“I-I shouldn’t have needed you.”

Dex said your name so kindly it didn’t even sound like him.

You pulled back enough to look at his red-rimmed eyes. You had seen men beg before. You had heard confessions, threats, and prayers. You had talked far more dangerous killers into handcuffs and frightened boys away from ledges.  But nobody had ever looked at you the way Dex looked at you now.

“But I did,” you whispered, then kept going because you had already bled too much to pretend you were fine.

“I needed you to make it go away. I needed you to know what to do. I needed you to hold me, and I hate that after everything, I still knew you would.”

Dex didn’t look away. “We have always needed each other,” he said.

You wanted to slap him for that, because he was right. Even when you stayed away from the prison,some shameful, locked-up part of you had always known that if the world suddenly wanted to swallow you whole, it was Dex you would look for in the belly of the beast.

Because he was yours. And love, real love, did not follow reason. It didn’t care what made sense or what was deserved. It barely had to read case files or prison records or moral philosophy. It just… endured.

You touched his face with shaking fingers. His eyes closed instantly. You brushed the dried blood away with your thumb.

You leaned in first. Maybe you meant only to press your forehead to his, or you had only meant to sync his breath to his.

But when you felt his breath on yours, you couldn’t help but kiss him.

Dex made a surprised little sound, caught off-guard. 

Soon enough, his hand tightened in your hair and he kissed you back. It was desperate and clumsy with relief, his mouth opening against yours as he couldn’t believe you were letting him have you like this again. 

You grabbed at him harder, morals be damned.

He shifted closer immediately, angling his body toward yours with one knee pressing into the mattress. His hand slid to your waist through the old shirt. 

He was careful, even when you could tell he was losing control. Fuuuuck.

Dex, who had broken into your apartment, tracked you, killed for you, covered up a triple homicide for you, still needed to know that you wanted him as much as he wanted you. 

At this point, his lips were split. You tasted blood and yet didn’t pull away. You kissed him until the room blurred into a void.  And when you pulled back, you only did it because you had to breathe. Still you didn’t pull back far.

“I… I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whispered.

He had no answer to that. 

You were doing this against your better judgement, against every red flag that had been waved to warn you. But in the end, you were doing it anyway. 

“You’re a fucking criminal,” you said, as if thinking out loud. Dex saw it exactly for what it was: you, trying to talk yourself out of this, and failing miserably. Still, you continued, “you were the one who told me once that they’re never reasonable.”

In that moment, you saw the memory pass through him.  He remembered it as vividly as you: that first proper meeting on the fifth floor of an abandoned building. You were both much younger then, much more naive in what the world would eventually offer to the two of you. 

His hand slid up to the side of your neck, finding your artery and pressing his palms there. 

“We’re all people here,” he said.

Oh. 

You were just a person. You were just human.

You could not be reduced to a principle or a badge anymore, not when you were willingly staying in the bed of the horrible man you loved, wearing his shirt, unable to regret what you had done to keep him alive. And maybe because you were human, it wasn’t your fault that you could not resist him. 

So, this time, when you kissed him again, you kissed him with a genuine smile.

—end. 

Note: these are the five songs I listened to over and over again while writing this!

Dex taglist: @itsdynotdaddy @diabolicallydownbad @doesanyonereadthis @meicore @pixie2k5 @bibiishin @starlitflora @pearlstiare @glorybeat @stardustworlds @castawaybarnes @supervampireflame @not-the-teen-witch @billybonesxx @ultimatewolverine @treetrees-world-of-imagiation @bitch-spaghetti-o @lostinthes4uce @cotton-eee @weallhaveadestiny @awesome-badass-cafeteria-sauce @moonbug333 @yujyujj @mattdexx @lostfallenangelsblog @bloomsberryfairy @flimsysquid @abbotfan @leonetta2014 @ficcharsimpsblog @odairtrqsh @ugh-whytho @noonenuts @akiyhara @genya1617 @itzrachel04 @avidreader73 @quicksilver21 @lmg-stilinski24 @magnificentlymoltenpatron @natalia42069 @eaumyth @hxdxs @cemeterystardust @alligatortears87 @outpostsworld @scarlet48 @lunarbandwidth @star-yawnznn @smorgasbrods

Please send in an ask or message if you want to be added to the dex general / series specific taglist! Comments get lost sometimes! Let me know if I missed anyone!

[two-white-butterflies]

──── ᝰ. one step at time

Description: A seemingly doomed five-year love affair told in a few words. REQUESTED

Pairing: harvey specter/businesswoman!reader

Warning/s: brief at smut, harvey topping from the bottom. 2013-2017 timeline.

The first time that you laid eyes on Harvey Specter was at home.

It was 2013—your father's company was suing a board member for embezzlement or something like that. You can't exactly recall the specifics. Only that the person had stolen an inconsequential amount of money; they had stolen a drop out of the ocean. Your father wouldn't have blinked if it hadn't been such a blow to his ego.

No one dares steal from a L/N!

The case was the reason for your encounter with Harvey.

"Mr. Specter will be our lawyer against Cortesi," your father introduced.

Your eyebrows merged.

You were expecting an old man wearing spectacles to defend the company, and the bachelor was a pleasant surprise. Up close, his shoulders were broader than those of most European men you were used to, and he had a hawk-like nose that meshed beautifully with his other features. He had a firm gaze that made you want to take your panties off, but for decorum's sake, you kept your legs closed.

Harvey exuded pure sexual energy; no wonder people commit crimes when men as handsome as Harvey come to defend them.

"Sit down," your father says, clearing his throat.

You blinked, shaking your thoughts away from Mr. Specter.

You walked down the steps leading to your sunken dining room. Awkwardly reaching for the white-padded dining chair and sitting.

"I've read a lot of great things about you—you defended Hastings, right?" You asked, trying to mask your obvious attraction to the man.

Now that you were sitting opposite him, it was hard not to stare. There was an air of confidence around him, yes, but not arrogance.

"Yes. I will do my best to defend your company," He affirmed. You've been in three meetings with different lawyers, all promising the same thing, yet they do not uphold their side of the bargain. The case keeps ending on a technicality. Your father's patience is running thin.

"All we want is for Mr. Cortesi to live behind bars," You emphasized. "—not paying a fine or getting suspended, but going to jail." You added.

"And I will do my best." He asserted, but he did not promise.

You were about to open your mouth to speak, but your phone rings.

You could see your father glaring at you from your periphery.

"A moment," you gave a thin-lipped smile.

It was a call from the London Office. The company has been having problems with cybersecurity these past six months, and you know that answering this call means getting summoned to another flight. There goes my chance with Specter, you mentally groaned.

You glanced at him for the last time before standing up—of course, this happens when you've been talking to him for 30 seconds.

You didn't want to attend Jessica's birthday in Boracay, but thank God that you did.

Harvey was leaning on a balcony rail overlooking the beautiful shores of Boracay, Aklan. He was sipping a piña colada—thanking his lucky stars that he didn't follow the dress code.

He stares off to the side, and this time, he notices you first.

You were wearing a beige dress, paired with pink flip-flops. You were also sipping a piña colada. He takes one good look at you, and he knows that you're the only one who will make sense to him tonight.

The crowd around you was all too eager to get to know each other, mostly talking to people they deemed important. You didn't mind the momentary peace. It's relaxing to be ignored.

Harvey's gaze lingered.

"Ms. L/N?" He greeted with a smile.

"Specter," a wave of familiarity washes over you.

"You remember me?" He places his drink down, putting his full attention on you.

"Same question," your lips cracked into a smile.

He looked more dashing up close. He was wearing a navy blue suit that highlighted his baby-blue eyes.

"I remember my case with your father very well," he lies—he mostly remembers the case because he spent half a month building a solid attack, expecting you to attend at least one hearing, but you didn't. Instead, he had to deal with your father who parroted every move.

"Thank you for helping us win the case, by the way." You thanked.

He was paid handsomely.

"It's nothing." He shakes his head.

You walked to his side, leaning on the balcony rails beside him. Your gaze was painted on the crowd in front of you. They were all in their little bubbles, completely uncaring of your presence.

Harvey was silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry for my little Houdini act back then. I was looking forward to seeing you in action, but business called me elsewhere." You explained.

"So, that's why you weren't there?" He asks rhetorically.

"It didn't matter anyway; nobody was keeping count." You avoided his gaze while adjusting the straps of your dress. You felt out of place wearing such a simple dress while the other guests were dressed to the nines. "I did," he turns his head—for a moment, your eyes meet.

"What's that supposed to mean?" You teased.

Harvey only flashes you a smile.

"You look beautiful," he compliments for the last time, as he's whisked away by a partner.

Classic Louis Litt, for the first time, Harvey thanks the man (mentally).

The next time that Harvey saw you was during dinner.

You were seated beside Jessica as a guest of honor. You were talking to a few of the Senior Partners of the firm. They were interested in asking about the recent merger that your company was doing—or in other terms, they're interested in having another client.

Harvey's eyes meet yours. You flash him a smile.

How is it that you become more beautiful every time he sees you?

This time, you were wearing a plum gown and a pair of purple earrings. There was no trace of makeup on your face, except for clear gloss. Harvey swears that you're the most beautiful thing he's seen tonight.

The collar of his suit suddenly feels tighter.

Your interactions with Harvey were limited during the last part of the night. You were too equipped with talking to Jessica and her friends that you almost forgot about Harvey—almost.

For there was nothing in this world that could shake your thoughts away from him, being around him felt electrical for lack of better words.

Luckily, your feelings weren't one sided.

Harvey couldn't get his mind off you the entire night.

"Good morning," Harvey says.

"Hey—sit here," a faint smile ghosts your face as you point at the empty breakfast table beside you.

It was only 6:30AM.

The birds were beginning their morning chirp. The guests of the resort were still sleeping. "Why're you up so early?" You poured some stevia into your coffee before mixing it with a teaspoon.

"My alarm," he responded vaguely, thanking the server who placed a plate of pancakes in front of him. The aroma lingered in the air, tempting you for another round of breakfast.

"You have the appetite of a kid," you joked.

"And you have the appetite of a Frenchie, all that's missing is a cigarette." He teases in return while cutting through his soft pancakes. He's rarely able to eat breakfast at home. Cooking was much to difficult of a task for him that he'd rather buy bagels from a truck.

"Well, you spend enough time with them..." You chuckled.

You reached for the clementine that was sitting in a fruit bowl. He reaches the fruit before you—and he begins peeling them.

"I wasn't able to talk to you last night," he brings up.

"I'm sorry. I could hardly get a word in; the partners of your firm were such delightful company." You politely explained. Despite the halo effect he had on you, there was no reason to trust him.

Your eyes followed his fingers as he peeled the fruit.

"Sure, they are," he responds sarcastically. The senior partners could be major assholes at times; they only cared about rich people, rarely took pro bono. "I mean it," you insisted.

He places the peeled fruit on the empty plate in front of you.

Your heart almost skips a beat at the domesticity of it all.

You avoided his gaze for a while, your eyes trailing across the interior of the breakfast hall. The designs reminded you of Capri with its over-the-top fabrics and off-white walls. The ambiance was almost romantic. Again with the almost, you stared off to the side.

"Jessica wouldn't have invited them if they weren't nice," you added, earning a laugh.

"It's beautiful here," you observed. Your eyes glittered at the sight of the tapestries on the wall. You reached for a petal of the clementine, bringing it to your mouth and chewing.

If you had been able to choose your own profession, you would've chosen to be a pilot—or a flight attendant. Whichever would allow you to roam freely around the world. Instead, you're trapped typing away on some office on the 99th floor, making money you don't need.

"The beaches are out this world," Harvey agrees.

He's been on a plane more times than he can count—but they had always been for professional endeavors. Hell, he'd even argue that the purpose of this trip to Boracay is professional.

"Have you ever tried to swim in there?" You pointed at the beach not far from where you're sitting. You could hear the waves lapping against the shore. The scent of salt air intermingled with the scent of Harvey's pancakes.

"Not really," he admits.

"Do you want to?" You proposed.

.

.

.

The beach was much more dazzling up close. The sun was hitting the ocean in the most magnificent way; it almost looked like there were stars hidden behind those beautiful cerulean waves. "I bet they don't have beaches like these in the US," you squinted.

"You've never been to an American beach?" He asks as both of you made your way down the white stairs leading down to the main beach. You could see beach beds and their matching sunshades.

Harvey trailed after you, carrying a few of your things. He was a gentleman through and through.

"I'm only there to work, mostly." You answered, landing on the sandy beach. You could feel the sun press soft kisses against your bare shoulders. It was a good idea to swim at this time. From experience, you remember Philippine afternoons as unforgiving.

"Nothing much to miss if we're talking about beaches," Harvey agrees.

The sand ain't too warm, you could feel it on your toes.

The sea looked calm from this distance.

"Not a proud American?" You teased.

"I just know my country's strengths," Harvey retorted with a smile.

Your heart skips a beat at the sight of his smile.

You wasted no time in removing your hotel robes to show your black swimsuit, completely oblivious to Harvey's gaze (or rather his horrible attempt at trying to look away). He clenched his fists, willing himself to look away from your figure.

Goddamit, he thought.

"You coming?" You glanced at him from over your shoulder.

"Yep, just memorizing where we're leaving our things." He stares directly into your eyes before turning around to fix your discarded towel and robes.

You could feel the cold water against your warm body.

You've always enjoyed being at the beach. When you were younger, you used to beg your parents to buy a house near the beach. The feeling of water running against your body felt zen, peaceful, as opposed to the chaotic and competitive private school that you were enrolled in. When you were at the beach, you were allowed to forget.

"Are you a good swimmer?" You inquired as you trekked the waters. You weren't swimming too deep. You could still reach the ground if you tiptoed, clearly not drowning waters.

"Good enough to save you." He comforts with a smile.

You could feel the seaweed tickling your knees.

"I'm not gonna drown," you rolled your eyes. Plus, you've spent more than half of your life swimming—you were more concerned about the Mr. Lawyer swimming beside you.

"People can drown in shallow waters," he says matter-of -factly.

"Wow, you know your stats?" You giggled while swimming around.

"Please, you're the master of numbers." He points out as he walks effortlessly through the waters. Your toes could barely reach the floor, and he was walking effortlessly. Show off.

"Are you trying to butter me up?" You accused.

"I would never," he places a hand on his chest.

You roll your eyes and flick water in the direction of his face.

.

.

.

You don't know when or how this happened. One minute you were flirting, then another—you could only feel his hands around your body.

You nuzzled your cheek on the crook of his neck, inhaling the remnants of his bergamot perfume. Your hair was still dripping wet, no doubt, soaking the sheets with the scent of the sea.

"Just like that," he hummed, his hands landing on your hips.

You were straddling him from this position. Your tits pressed against his naked chest. His hands trailed down to the curves of your butt—a move that only heightened your arousal.

The tip of his cock pressed against your entrance—is this what heaven feels like? You mused as a sob of pleasure escaped your lips as he moved up and down. The digital clock beside you flashed 1pm. You don't know what's bringing you pleasure, sex or the fact that you're doing it with him?

"Specter," you grinded against him, earning a muffled moan.

He silences you with a kiss.

A kiss that seems to carry weight, not lust, not fondness.

Weight.

He reached for your hips, using them as leverage to thrust. Your damn hair moved side to side with every movement from his body. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, leaving brief marks as you both surrendered to the pleasures of the flesh.

He pushed himself further inside, taking the breath out of your lungs.

The sheer size of him stalled all thoughts in your brain.

He could feel the tightness of you pressing against him. You felt so warm. He couldn't help but stare at the microfeatures you made with every thrust—the curve of your eyebrows, your grip on his shoulder, and the opening of your lips as you dealt with the waves of pleasure.

It was so hot.

So erotic that he might die.

You came before him, and he followed after.

His cock was twitching inside of you as he scooped you higher.

You locked eyes with him once more, your gaze holding uncertainty.

He presses your lips together—savoring the taste of you, for what felt like the last time in eternity.

After your beach sexcapade with Harvey, memories of him faded in the background. Yes, he did send you a text message inviting you to dinner at some flashy steakhouse, but by then, you were far too busy running a company and talking to investors. He got whisked away, or left behind? What's the difference?

It was the summer of 2015.

You were on top of the world after being named creative director of your father's corporation. What does a creative director do? That's for you to know and everybody to find the fuck out.

There was nothing in the world that was out of reach; you only had to stare at something for a second, and one of your staffers would already have it waiting in your hotel room.

"What's the holdup?" someone from behind you asks.

The staff handling the tickets looked nervous. You know what nervous looks like since you're the one who used to interview the interns, and this guy was more nervous than em.

"It's just that the opera house overbooked seats. I'm afraid no one'll be able to get in." The boy stuttered. He couldn't be older than 16.

Poor guy, you thought.

You were looking forward to watching Massenet's Manon. It's your first day off in months. There's always a reason for everything, you justified. It could be the 'burnt toast' theory that your sister couldn't stop blabbing about.

You were about to turn to leave but a familiar face steps forward from behind the red barricades.

"Ms. L/N," Harvey greets and your eyebrows merged.

"Specter," you replied.

It was like fate itself designed your next meeting with Harvey.

"What the hell are you doing here?" You questioned.

"You're not the only one who appreciates the arts," he shrugs.

The truth is, Harvey, is an avid supporter of the arts. His apartment is littered with paintings of up-and-coming artists striving to make a living. He has a keen eye for the arts—and apparently typos in contracts.

"Uh, I'd love to chat, but apparently the house is overbooked." You tilted your head, hinting that you had to go home.

Damn my luck, you cursed. And damn Harvey, you added, aware of how he looked at you—like you were some friend and not the lady he had wonderful, wonderful sex with.

"I have an extra ticket," he announces.

"Did your date stand you up?" You teased—though you wanted nothing more than to have an answer. Was he dating someone? Did you mean anything to him for even a second?

"No, Donna gave me these tickets, told me to find a date." He rolls his eyes. Who the hell is Donna? You wanted to ask, but didn't.

"You couldn't find anyone?" You pressed.

"They weren't what I was looking for," he answered truthfully.

He lifts the red cloth barricade and urges you to get inside.

You walk in his direction, leaning down and entering the closed-off section. The 16-year-old staffer was about to stop you, but Harvey silenced him with a glare. Luckily, the boy knew better.

"Thank you for the free tickets," you winked.

"Consider it a date," he helped you in.

.

.

.

"Are you settled?" Harvey raised an eyebrow as he sat beside you.

"Uh-huh. I'm cozy," you hummed. The seat in front of you was basically pressing against your knees, but you didn't mind. Matter of fact, you were thankful that all the seats were so close to each other that you could feel his elbow brushing against yours.

There was a moment of silence between you, a comfortable silence.

You've exchanged thousands of text messages since Boracay, but the fact that he's sitting beside you felt surreal. 3 years ago, you didn't even entertain the notion of dating, since all your ex-boyfriends felt emasculated by your corporate standing, but here you are now.

You're having a date with a man who's capable of carrying his own weight. A man who's only spoken high praises about you. A man who shares cringy Instagram reels and replies to your messages after a minute of sending them. Here you are, with a man you actually want.

You have no idea what to fucking say.

"You know we haven't really talked about what happened in..." You broke the silence with an uneasy stare.

Stop making yourself vulnerable. It was a one-night stand.

"Yes, I'm sorry. I wanted to talk about that in person," he begins. You haven't really given him the chance to meet you in person after that fateful afternoon in Boracay. You've been so busy. "You're amazing. I have no idea why you're looking in my direction," he whispers, not wanting people to hear about the details of your conversation.

"You're funny, smart, and so damn beautiful. The more that I talk to you, even on the phone—it just—I just can't imagine a life without you." He continues.

"I want you in my life." You blurted out loud.

His eyebrows merged in surprise.

"I know, I'm sorry, you were getting there." You apologize and he laughs.

He's been practicing that speech in the mirror for the next time that he sees you, and you end up exceeding his expectations. "When you say that you want me in your life, what does that mean?" He asks. It's basically part of his nature as a lawyer to learn about the provisions of a contract, regardless of whether or not they're verbal.

"I want you. I want to know you more." You professed.

I love you, you wanted to add but that'd be too much on the noose.

"Me too," he reads between the lines.

He reaches for your hand and entwines your fingers together. The lights began to dim. As always, Harvey gets the last word.

.

.

.

The more time that you spent around Harvey—the more you found yourself helplessly falling in love with him. Soon, you found yourself moving into his apartment, lounging on his couch while watching Die Hard. Yes, not exactly the most romantic movie.

"You're like a stern Jake Peralta," you combed through his blonde locks.

"The only thing we have in common is our love for Die Hard," he pulled you closer to his chest until you could hear his heart breathing.

"Hm, yeah, sure." You mumbled sarcastically, feeling sleep threaten you with every word that escaped your mouth.

He presses a kiss to your temple.

"How long have we been together, honey?" He asks. He knows the exact day and hours, but he wants to hear it from you.

"Six months," you buried your face in his chest.

"—and three days." He adds. It's always about precision with him.

"and three days," you giggled.

Onwards to infinity!

Not all relationships are meant to stand the test of time. Sometimes, the branches are strong, but the roots crumble. Harvey's so afraid of losing you that he'd much rather leave you. What now?

You could feel the anger blossoming from the bottom of your chest. You didn't take Harvey as the type of man who'd do something stupid. He was calculative, manipulative at times but not stupid.

"I know he's a genius, that's not the point!" You raised your voice at him.

He took a deep breath. His head in his palms, unable to stare at you. He's afraid that once he lifts his gaze to meet your eyes, he'd see nothing but resentment—coming from you, it was a nightmare.

You were his sweet girlfriend, who was always so guarded when it came to other people, always so cold to her rivals. Yet always spoke warmly to him, always anticipated his every need, not because it was obligated of you—but because you loved him without asking for anything in return.

You seldom asked for anything but he's always given you the world.

"How could you be so...stupid?" You said the last word reluctantly.

You've never spoken that way to him—the most you'd say was silly, and you'd apologize quickly after. But, there were no words that could describe the situation at hand except stupid.

"I'm sorry," he apologized.

"No. I don't need your sorry, I need to understand why you did that." You tried to meet his gaze but he kept looking away.

Harvey Specter, in his core, has always been a dopamine-chasing idiot. Yes, he was impressed with Mike's sharp memory, but anyone with a rational brain should've never hired a guy with no law degree. Back then, Harvey was an asshole who liked taking risks and living life on the edge. He had nothing to lose. He liked the thrill. It was a game to him.

Why did he do it? Because he could.

He deeply regrets it now.

"You're making it about you," he deflects—like what he did to Scottie, because hurting the people he loves the most is easier than admitting the fact that he's got deep issues in his head. That he's unlovable.

"Goddamit Harvey, it is about me. It's about us. You could go to jail! There's something wrong with you!" Tears brimmed on the corners of your eyelids. You'd do everything in your power just to make sure that he wouldn't go to jail—you'd pay off the judge or buy a seat in the senate. Anything.

You just want an explanation.

Harvey takes a deep breath. He's going to regret what he says next.

"I'm sorry, we should break up." He lifts his gaze to meet your eyes. His heart cracks at the sight of those tears in your eyes. I don't deserve you, honey. You deserve better than a man who makes you cry. He thinks to himself.

"Fuck you," you wiped the tears from your eyes.

He knows that you don't truly mean those words.

"Fine." You took a step backwards, reaching for your coat on the stand.

"I'll get my things tomorrow, when you're not here." You enunciated.

He stands up to give you a hug, but you push him down.

"By the way Harvey..." You turned to look at him from over your shoulder. "I didn't even consider breaking up with you." You whispered, your voice breaking at the last syllable.

He watches you leave your shared apartment.

His heart dropping to the bottom of his stomach.

He knows what your words imply—there, he had a woman who was willing to move mountains and oceans for him and he let her go.

He let her go because he couldn't face the truth—because he was so afraid of being vulnerable that he'd much rather break the heart of the only person who cared about him. He'd much rather lose the love of his life than to fix himself. You're a genius, Harvey. He mocks himself.

The moment that the door closed, you reached for your phone, sending a quick text message to your estranged father—who controlled the world at his fingertips. Please let Harvey get away.

Harvey Specter has spent the past year trying to make himself better.

He tried to pry his thoughts away from you. He busied himself with Mike's case—surprised that he hadn't been dragged into the mess. He was so surprised that he willingly got himself sued. Yet no judge would send him to jail. He has no idea why.

When Mike's case got cleared, that's when he realized that his heart was beating faster than normal, that his lungs always tightened around his chest. Doctors told him that he was having a panic attack.

"I'm a lawyer, I thrive under high-stress conditions." He argued.

"Then, I don't know what to tell you." The older woman shrugged.

He was a mess. He struggled to go to work. His sleeping schedule got fried beyond repair and he'd eat at weird intervals.

The final straw came when he refused to represent a long-time client.

"Your name is on the goddamn wall. What is happening to you?" Donna tried to shake him to reality—although deep in her heart she knew that the cause of Harvey's agony had been you. Or rather, his poor treatment of you.

Strangely, it was Louis who was able to convince him to attend therapy.

Harvey lay on the stiff mattress of the therapist's office. He's tried this a couple of times when he was a teenager. They were mostly court-mandated by social services because he was a troubled teen. He grew up in a good neighborhood and had married parents. It was a mystery.

He stares at the warm yellow lights and the rusty ceiling fan.

He turned to look at his therapist.

He was an older man; he seemed to be in his 50s. His therapist had curly hair and spectacles that reminded Harvey of Harry Potter.

His therapist looked like a kind grandpa.

For the first time in a few months, Harvey felt safe.

His therapist had the same voice as David Attenborough.

"You sound like David Attenborough," Harvey observes.

"You like watching documentaries?" The man raised an eyebrow.

"No, I don't have the attention for it. My girl—ex liked watching it before going to sleep. She's the type who knows everything about every topic under the sun. She's very smart, that girl." Harvey's eyes twinkled. This was the first time that his therapist got more than a few words out of him.

"Why did you break up, if you don't mind me asking?" The man asks.

Harvey takes a deep breath.

"It's a long story," and it indeed is.

"Let's just say that I was a horrible man to a wonderful girl," he sighs.

"Well, I am not the authority to decide that. But Harvey, you don't act like a horrible person." The man comforts. "A horrible person wouldn't think that they are, for starters, and the fact that you're able to realize your mistake means that you have the opportunity to own up to it."

"It's too late. She gave me everything that she could, and I was a damn coward who couldn't measure up." Harvey thinks out loud.

You've said a couple of things that you regret (he's listened to all three of your voicemails after the breakup), and he's only replied with silence. He knows how much you hate silence.

"You said it yourself, you have nothing left to lose." The man hints at a conversation that happened a few minutes before.

"You know I'm not supposed to talk much about my private life, but to hell with that, I'm about to retire." The man shifts his weight as he adjusts the purple cushions.

Judging from the floral patterns, it was probably designed by his wife.

"When I was younger, I was so scared of losing my wife that I broke up with her in the middle of prom. She was so mad, so angry. In my mind, I was doing the right thing because I could never measure up to the daughter of the richest man in our town—look at us now. Happily married and I'm not afraid of anything." He shares.

"I find that when the human mind is afraid of losing something, they leave it behind. What the brain doesn't comprehend is that very thing could be the most integral part of your being." He adds.

"Of course, it's still up to you if you want to get her back. Can you make peace with seeing her married to someone else?"

His therapist's words stuck with him for a while. It was after the 5th session that he realized that he was only talking about you in all of em—that after six months, he still couldn't forget about you.

It's easy to let go when the relationship doesn't serve you right, but your relationship with him fits so perfectly in all the cracks in his heart that the absence of you leaves him heaving. Your absence reminds him that he is truly alone—possibly unlovable.

It was November when Jessica invited you to a charity gala.

His worst fear had come true.

"I'm sorry, Harvey." Louis glanced at him.

You were standing with a man to your right, his arms settled around your back—pulling you close against him. You were practically cuddling in front of all the uppity guests and none of them blinked an eye.

Harvey recognizes the man to be Stefano, a designer for Chanel or Dior. He can't remember the specifics. He only remembers seeing you on FaceTime with the man as you twirled around in your brand new dress. He got jealous that one time, and you merely rolled your eyes at him. 'You're the blindest man alive.' You teased and Stefano cackled.

He's always been wary around Stefano. The man had perfect olive-tanned skin and Italian curls. It doesn't help with the fact that the man is always traveling when he calls you, from Paris to London to Milan.

Where the hell is Donna when you need her? He takes a deep breath.

Donna, almost like an older and younger sister mixed in one, would know what to do in this situation. She'd be able to tell him if he still had a chance judging from the angle of your elbows.

"You should talk to her," Jessica's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Is that her boyfriend?" Harvey asked, aware that you kept in touch with the older woman.

"Are you serious?" Jessica rolls her eyes before getting whisked away by a client. Does that mean yes? Harvey grits his teeth.

He's normally the sharpest tool in the shed, but when it comes to women and their subtle clues he's absolutely clueless.

He places his champagne glass on one of the tall tables. He looks at you once more—delighted that Stefano was nowhere near you. The handsome man was talking to one of the servers, ignoring the lustful gazes that some of the older women were sending him.

Why would Stefano look anywhere else when you're with him?

He looks back at you but suddenly you're in the other side of the room.

You meet his gaze, your eyebrows merging together as a wave of pain washes over your features. She's avoiding me. He states the obvious. Take the risk or lose the chance. He reminds himself.

.

.

.

"I don't want to talk to you." There was a smile on your face for the crowd, but the tone in your voice brought shivers down his spine. He's been dreaming about this specific moment for a while now. He's been writing drafts on all the words that he wanted to say the next time that he sees you, but seeing you standing in front of him blows him out.

"I'm sorry." He apologized.

"I hurt you, and I was so damn horrible when all you wanted to do was help." He reached for your wrist as you turned to leave.

"Honey," he pleads.

"Yeah, like it even matters now." There was venom dripping from your voice, but the tears that were brimming on the sides of your eyes told him that you were only masking your emotions. That hating him had been easier than admitting the fact that you were deeply hurt. "—I waited for you to call me." You added with a tilt of the brow.

Nine months and you waited for his number to call your phone.

"I had to get my life together," he explains.

"I wanted to help you get your life together." You argued.

"—All you had to do was stay, and we wouldn't even be having this conversation." You pressed further. The answer to all of your problems would've been waiting for the storm to pass, but Harvey decided to kick you off the damn ship before it sailed. Did he think you so weak?

Your gaze softened.

No matter how deeply he tries to bruise you, you're still soft for him.

"I sent you three voicemails. I waited for you to text back." You pouted.

"I went to therapy for panic attacks, the therapist said that your absence could've caused it—that my heart couldn't deal with life without you, and I-I wanted to get myself better because I didn't want you to see me weak. I wanted to reach out, I was scared that you'd turn me away." He speaks the truth for the first time in a while.

Six months together. Nine months thinking about each other.

"You were right when you said that there was something wrong with me." He nods his head. "No," you were quick to interrupt.

"I'm sorry for saying that—I was so angry that I wanted to hurt you. I was horrible to you; nothing excuses the bad things I said." You apologized. "Mike got sent to jail because of me. I deserved everything you said." He chuckles bitterly.

He stares off to the side, aware of Stefano's gaze on him.

"I still love you, honey. I always will. I'm sorry for what I did—I hope that you're happy with your life now. I hope that Stefano treats you better." Harvey breathes.

Of course, he gets better when it's too late.

If he could give advice right now, he'd tell the next man to be better, or someone else will be the better man for their Honey.

He was just about to leave, but he heard you laughing.

"Stefano doesn't like me. He's married." You said through stifled laughter. Like that has ever stopped anyone. "—to a man." You added.

You're the blindest man alive.

Are you serious?

"Goddamit," he breathes.

He sees the smile on your face, and he knows that not all hope is lost.

"We've got issues. We've hurt each other in the past, and I'm scared that I'll hurt you again, but if you're still serious about us, we can always try again." You relented, despite the unease on your shoulder.

If he's really changed, then it's worth the second chance, right?

"One step at a time,"

A/N: girl this is the first time im writing smut in three years, i honestly didn't wanna write it but it was kinda integral to the plot.

I only used this format cuz it's boring having to write the years.

I have no idea what a therapist can or cannot say.

not all relationships are perfect, sometimes they're toxic at first but the best part is ya'll try to get better together #unconditionallove

@hellofromthe-other-side @bussy6666 @whosmev

[tacobacoyeet]

thinking about harvey specter x f!law student!reader...

a bit of smut, 18+

there's some sort of thrill to sneaking around. sure, it's hard sometimes, especially considering the whole reason you have to sneak around is because your credibility would be called into question if you were found out, but it's kind of sexy.

he'll never admit it, but there's nothing he loves more than when you come back to his apartment exhausted after classes and flop across the couch, and he gets to rub your feet until you let out that soft little sigh, your shoulders easing down a bit, the stress of the day oozing out with every touch he gives you.

it's not often that this can happen, so he does his best to not take those moments for granted. harvard is an easy 4-hour drive from new york, but the second you agree, he's sending a car or booking you on the next flight to him (well, donna is. but he's paying). even an hour-and-a-half on a plane is too long for him to wait to get his hands on you, but he'd wait a decade if it meant even 10 minutes with you.

on the topic of flights and cars, harvey pays for everything. he knows that you feel bad sometimes, but in his eyes, you're going through the most stressful part of your life thus far—law school isn't easy. he already doesn't feel great about not seeing you every single day, so the least he can do is send you money and pay for things.

your passion ignites his. your academic passion... and other kinds. seeing you so bright-eyed, so enthusiastic, so driven toward success is the strongest aphrodisiac there is, to him.

he'll never forget the day that you called him after you got an 'a' on one of professor gerard's exams, the triumph on your voice leaving you a little breathless as you excitedly recounted the experience to him. he was out of the office by 5—unheard of for him, but he'd deal with the questions tomorrow—and sitting back on the couch in your apartment by 7:15, his mouth lavishing attention on your breasts, murmuring praise against your skin as you rode him. the glint of power in your eyes; the pride in your movements—he'd jerked off just thinking of that night many times after it had happened.

on that topic, harvey is such a generous lover. between the distance and the clandestinity of your relationship, every second he gets to spend with you is sacred. whenever he's given the opportunity, he doesn't hesitate to spend hours between your legs, tongue laving at your needy pussy until your thighs are squeezing around his head, your fingers are tugging at his hair, and all he can hear from you are cries of his name. he finds power in making you feel good. he absolutely, without a doubt, has to make you come before he lets you do anything for him. he wants nothing but the best for his hard-working girl: the best law school, the best coffee, the best liquor, the best lingerie, and of course, the best orgasms. he always insists on working you to one before he even bothers thinking of himself. it's his way of making up for the time and the distance between you. of course, it isn't his fault, but some part of him is convinced that you deserve more than him; than this situation. it's his tiny way of convincing himself that he has control over all of this and that you won't leave him for someone closer, younger, someone who can proudly show you off. he'd give almost anything to be able to do that, but he values your future and his reputation. he loves you enough to know not to mess that up.

that's why, pretty often, you're receiving care packages from him in the mail. flower deliveries, your favorite alcohol, new jewelry, new clothes, sweet treats, and, more often than not, a small, nondescript box with a new lacy set and new toys for you to experiment with. there's always a sweet note, almost certainly ending with him encouraging you to try everything out and send him a video, if you feel so inclined. your friends are beyond envious of you, desperate to know more about this mysterious man of yours, but you won't tell. you will, however, light a few candles, try on the new set, garnish it with the new diamonds that came with it, and set your phone up so that he can see you work that new vibrator in and out of yourself, one hand clawing at the sheets beneath you as you moan about how much you wish he was there with you; how much you need him. he needs you too, he'll grunt to himself as he watches the video for the third time, coming into his fist.

the two of you are as good as married. you've discussed it many times before, curled up against his chest during a break from school, dinner plates forgotten in the sink as you envision your future together, in the open. he knows that you're it for him. he'd marry you tomorrow, truly, but you both decided it just wasn't right yet. he wants you to finish school first—adding the stress of a wedding on top of harvard was a ridiculous idea. besides, he wants to do it right. he wants to get down on one knee and give a long speech about how you're the only thing in his life that he's sure of. he wants to stand at the altar with you, see you in a white gown that you got to pick out without a rush, exchange vows that he wrote himself about how no matter what happens, he promises that he will always be there. he promises that he won't let anyone or anything get in the way of the two of you. he promises to never be apart from you again (seriously, the distance is killing him). he promises to love you openly, publicly, loudly, until he takes his final breath. he hopes that his last words are a declaration of all of the love he has for you.

he's so fucking scared that you'll leave him. he never says it to you, on account of him not wanting to seem weak, but you know. you have the same fear; you don't want him to leave you. neither of you have to tell each other for y'all to know. you show it, rather, in the way you tenderly kiss down his body, in the way your lips melt into his, in the way you allow yourself to become one with him. neither of you has to verbally vulnerable if you can't muster it, because the physicality of your relationship bares it all. every touch, every breath, every kiss is a reminder. neither of you are going anywhere. no matter how long it takes for everything to fall into place, you are his and he is yours. without a doubt. that's the thought that helps him to sleep every night.

brief a/n (at the bottom again! how crazy): i've missed harvey so bad and i've missed you guys even more. i hope you guys enjoy and i hope this gives me the inspiration to start writing for him (and in general) again!!!! also my babies this is NAWT proofread! it never will be i am so sorry! okay mmm harvey specter allow me to slob on your knob please!

suits taglist: @glennussy @artstennisracket @blastzachilles @jordiemeow @deeninadream @writtenbyhollywood @wintersoldierenthusiast @bluestrd @scariffs @yoongiminnie444 @thewiselionessss @professionalmaldaptivedreamer @hotgirlsshareaccounts @billiexz @emmswcn

join here!

[writingdose]

one of the best feelings tbh

[dontpulloutman]

hello! so sorry for being inactive (med school is killing me) i'll have this weekend free-ish and i'm curious to see what you guys want to read hehe

THOUGHTS?

lewis pullman smau

joe keery smau

super secret third option (never before posted)

Voting ended onMar 18

[ponyosmom35]

Dr. Micheal 'Robby' Robinavitch

Dr. Robby x fem nurse reader

Synopsis: Robby falls in love with a young nurse and fights it every step of the way. But when you know, you know.

Warnings: eventual smut, smut, 18+, MDNI, angst, fighting, slow burn, co-workers to enemies, enemies to friends, friends to lovers, blood, gore, medical inaccuracies, pittfest, panic attacks, mentions of suicide, mentions of drug OD, mentions of abuse, violence against medical staff.

🦋 - fluff

🌧️ - angst

🔥 - smut

Pre season one:

one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight | nine | ten | eleven | twelve | thirteen | fourteen | fifteen | sixteen

season one:

7 am | 8 am | 9 am | 10 am | 11 am | 12 pm | 1 pm | 2 pm | 3 pm | 4 pm | 5 pm | 6 pm | 7 pm | 8 pm | 9 pm

Blurbs:

During the ten months between season one and two (can be read as a standalone)

I love you (18+) 🔥🦋

whats going on in that head of yours? (18+) 🔥🦋

Intimacy (18+) 🔥🦋

nobody can touch you the way that I do (18+) 🔥🦋

dreams (18+) 🔥🦋

date Night 🦋

baths (18+) 🔥🦋🌧️

he gets assaulted (18+) 🔥🦋🌧️

Exposure 🦋🌧️ :

one | two | three

More blurbs:

the roof 🌧️

season two:

7 am | 8 am | 9 am |

[dontpulloutman]

nobody call or text.... i will be busy

[burgundysnow]

Let Me Love You

This is a special I made with love just for my editor. Word count: 5.5k warnings: insecurities, age gap, (reader is late 20s Robby is 50) semi public sex, pussy eating, oral fem!receiving, fingering, use of little girl, voice kink, shower sex, masturbation. Summary: with the age gap between you and Robby, you’re struggling to not come off as clingy and childish. Which leads to being touch starved.

Robby is busy. For all of his fifty years alive, he’s been busy and stressed. What he doesn’t need, is a little young thing like you stressing him out even more. 

You love him. Every calculated word he speaks and every action he does you love. He spends long days at work, but never fails to come and wrap his arms around you as soon as he sees you for the first time in weeks. 

The relationship is still fairly new. Six months in, and you’ve been over to his house and he’s been over to your apartment both more than once. So many times in fact— you’ve given each other keys to one another’s homes and a personal message to come over whenever feels right. 

You’ve went on dates, you’ve held hands, Robby’s met your siblings and talked to your parents and while iffy at first, they swoon over him just about as much as you do. 

You’ve had sex on practically every surface of both of your homes. It’s great, and it’s amazing. Mind numbing with soft showers after. He never forces you to do anything you don’t want to, and the way he speaks with so much authority but control has you blushing countless times. 

Your relationship is perfect— at least you think Robby thinks so. 

Truth is? You’re aching. When he’s at work you fight yourself not to call, having to busy yourself just to not press on his contact. 

When you do drop by the ER to give him his lunch or bring in files he’s forgotten, you have to force yourself to leave. Without any lingering touches or one too many kisses. 

You don’t want to be the “needy little thing.” Or “youngster’s don’t understand that we’re too busy for false love like that.” You do understand. You understand how he can’t be bothered and how if you want to stay in this grownup relationship with him, you’ll need to act like an adult. 

And being an adult means you can’t put yourself in silly little fairytales. You can’t ask him to come stay with you every weekend, you can’t ask if he can grab a coffee with you right before work, you can’t ask for sex— because you have to be mature.

Sometimes, it feels like you’re just there. Standing on a cloudy platform in the sky waiting for the wind to whisk you away. Other times. When you’re in Robby’s arms, and he’s holding you tight, you soak in as much affection as you can get. 

Because you can’t ask for it. 

But it’s happening again. Robby forgot to pick up his stethoscope and it’s your job to bring it to him on your break. He’s been forgetting things a lot. It might be old age, it might be stress, it might be because he misses you. But you don’t let your mind think too hard on the last one. 

When you park your car, you use the back entrance with all the ambulances near it. You learned a long time ago that you have to act confident and not clueless while walking into the ER. 

You side step some of the EMTs at the entrance and the doors open quickly. You see Dana at the desk sitting quietly and she smiles when she sees you enter. Waving you over. 

“Hey Sweetheart, what do you have this time?” 

“Just something Robby left at home, tell him I brought it by?” 

With a pretty smile you put the stethoscope on the counter. Dana is really nice, yet you still get a little scared to be on her bad side sometimes though. 

“Yeah you can tell him yourself, he should be around here somewhere.” 

“No— no. I know he’s busy, just make sure he gets this.” You’re already stepping back and going for the door hesitantly. 

“you don’t wanna see him? Something going on between you two?” 

“No! No, Robby’s great I just— have to get back to work.” 

You’re about to bolt in the nicest way you know how, if you catch a glimpse of Robby you might get down on your knees and beg to stay. It’s been three days since you saw him last, and late night phone calls and sporadic texts weren’t doing it for you anymore. 

But before you can properly take another step back, you hear his voice before you even see him jogging towards you. 

“Hey! There she is, just the person I wanted to see.” 

Something inside you literally cracks. Like a volcano full of lava spilling into your intestines and making them warm just at the sight of Robby.

There are crows feet near his eyes as he smiles at you, and the way he stands so close like he has no idea what kind of turmoil you’re going through has your knees wanting to buckle. 

“You brought it? Gah you’re an angel.” 

“I know.” 

You smile as he takes your hand. You relish at the simplest touch. It aches to think that at a moments notice, he can just as easily take the touch away. 

“Careful with that one Robby, she was gonna leave without saying hello.” 

If Dana wasn’t one of Robby’s closest coworkers, and the woman who constantly checked in with everyone, you would be silently cursing her for even pointing out such a thing. 

“What? No, you weren’t gonna leave without giving me a kiss right?” His voice is low and just slightly raspy.

Robby does this little thing where he stands up taller when he teases. Gives him a confidence boost just to see you squirm under his gaze just as his hands rub up your arms. 

“No.” You lie softly. It’s a punishment that you won’t get to hear his voice for the next hour, or the hour after that, or maybe even a day. 

You miss him so bad. 

You push up on your tiptoes to press a achingly soft kiss to his lips, one that would be far too easy to pull away from. 

But it’s like the universe has a grudge against you. Because Robby’s hands grab at your waist and pulls you closer against him, deepening the kiss ten fold and enough to where you want to melt like putty in his hands. 

And he doesn’t stop at one, his head tilts to the side and he presses another kiss to your lips. Stealing away all your oxygen till you can’t breathe. But that’s okay, because feeling Robby kiss you, feels just as good as air flow going to your lungs. 

“I need help in here!” 

A door abruptly opens, and just as abruptly as he kissed you, he’s pulling away. When his touch leaves, it feels like ice grows cold on your skin. 

“I’m sorry— I have to go, but thank you! Thank you for bringing the stethoscope over.” 

His hands come together and he bows slightly with a cheeky little smile, like he is your knight and you are the queen. 

“You’re welcome.” 

You know there are people dying around you. People in pain of all different kinds that need help. Robby’s help. No matter how much you want Robby. A broken heart isn’t as important as the entire emergency room. 

With one strong smile to Dana, you start to walk back to your car. Feeling soft, moldable, empty, and undeniably needy. But clingy is not one of the things you can be while dating Robby. 

Work helps, driving and paying attention to the road takes your mind off how much your skin feels lonely without touch. 

The day comes and goes and soon, it’s sunset. You unlock the door to your apartment and there’s a pile of dishes that you’re too tired to do. 

A bundle of blankets not folded from the last time you sat down to watch a movie. Now that you think of it— the vacuuming hasn’t been done in a few days either, and yet, you hit the showers. 

The hot water doesn’t help, instead it makes your mind wonder to when the last time you showered with Robby was. He suggested it. Because you couldn’t ever do something so childish as to ask to shower with him. Afraid you’d get a retort back like, “there’s barely any room in there for us. You tryin’ to break my back?”

But when Robby asks— it’s fine. It’s grown up. It’s domestic. There’s no room to tease, it’s a simple yes or no answer. 

You remember the way Robby’s big hands went down your chest. Water running down your body and it was slick with soap. Both hands mirroring each other while he touched at the curve of your breast. 

You remember exactly how you leaned back into him. How his kisses at your neck were itchy, but now that you don’t have them you’d take itchy kisses any day. 

You missed how his fingers would smooth up and down your cunts lips before thinking about circling your clit, or adding a finger. He added a newfound attention to places you didn’t even know you liked to be touched. There was a lot of soft teasing, but in the end it was worth it. It was always worth it with Robby. 

You turn the shower to as cold as you can stand it for the time being. You shouldn’t be thinking about him in that way. He is your boyfriend, you can think about him however you want but— even the term boyfriend sounded stupid. Like that’s all you were. Just dating. No biggy. Like you might get caught up into some of that drama nonsense on tv if you didn’t just talk to each other. 

You finish the shower quickly after that, picking out your clothes and drying your hair. Leggings were a good choice along with a big shirt. Some kind of national park resort text that’s fading away. You fall onto the bed, and grab at your phone. It’s a good distraction in retrospect. Everything you can possibly imagine is on the internet, you have the whole wide web to look up anything. 

Yet every post you see, every news you hear, every destination you wish you could go to. All you want is to do it with Robby. 

You look at the clock. It’s getting late and he will just be getting out of work now, it’s not a smart choice to reach out. To bother him. It’s foolish to think you could just text “hey! Just thinking about you in the shower and I admire how you touch me and I wish you would come over now so that I could return the favor, please.” 

That’s nonsense. You were always warned that love isn’t like that. That it will be rough and nothing like how you expect it. With Robby it’s easy. At least when he touches you first, and he calls you first, and sends you long voice messages. 

You want to text him so bad there’s a rock sized hole in your heart just uncomfortable enough to feel. You go into the message app anyways, pulling up Robby’s contact. But instead of texting him. You skim over the past week of texts. 

He’s not even your ex and you’re acting like he’s moved to a different state. As long as he didn’t know you were longing for him, you wouldn’t be considered needy. 

There are copious amounts of “I love you’s,” and then there’s random comments about your day and his. Late into the night— if you’re lucky enough— Robby will send a voice message and you’ll send one back. 

For the sake of it, you press on one. Just to hear his voice because it wasn’t enough today when you went to see him. You turn the volume up high and as soon as the raspiness comes out over your speakers, you’re smiling. 

“I know you’re sleeping,” there’s a groan and shifting of blankets like he’s just getting out of bed. “And I don’t expect you to hear this until after I’ve already starting my shift.” 

You remember waking up on the weekend, sleeping in but wishing you hadn’t as soon as you saw the notification for this message. 

“But… I dunno. Just dreaming about you, thought I’d swing by later to see your pretty face. Even if it’s late.” 

He keeps talking and the entire time it feels like your bones are relaxing while your heart gets wound up. You wish for the familiar feeling of him beside you, to touch you just how you like without being asked. You almost wish you could ask. 

You chide yourself for it when he groans again you feel your clit pulse. The shower must have really worked you up because you didn’t realize how needy you really were. And what’s worse is you’re alone. Under your blankets with your legs already spread. 

Blood flowing downward to that little sensitive nub. Now that you think of it— it’s been a while since Robby touched you in this way. He does it so thorough too, his touch is precise in every way you want it. His thumb rubbing over the tight skin of your clit. You ache for him to be touching you. You can’t even remember the last time you initiated sex with him. 

Your hand slides down your body, first just over your clothes. Clit so needy you catch the bud quickly between your fingers. You hear Robby’s voice ring out mindless words, but you like it. You never want him to stop talking. 

You rub over your pussy a few times. The touch shocks you softly and you don’t know if it’s relaxing or tensing yet. 

The message ends with a soft “okay, love you.” From Robby. You huff in annoyance and fumble for your phone with one hand playing the message back that wasn’t even remotely sexy, yet you’re still rubbing off to it. 

You take a deep breath, in and out. Feeling that unmistakable desire in your core that just needs attention, just a little bit. It’s not like anyone is gonna murder you for playing with your pussy for a little while. Some might even argue you need this, just to tie you over until the next time you hang out with Robby. 

Two fingers rub over your clit, with the barrier of the stretchy fabric between your aching clit and your skilled hand making a dull pleasure. There’s only a slight doubt that you shouldn’t be doing this when your hand moves down into your leggings. 

The fabric that’s trying to bounce back— practically pushing your fingers onto that clit— is like forcing you to just give in to this one little fantasy. 

You gather wetness between the two fingers and pull it up to your clit. A soft sigh and a relaxed feeling spreads through your body as soon as you start rubbing at a comfortable pace. 

Now that the ache between your legs is being taken care of rapidly, you can focus on Robby’s voice. Deeper than usual and raspy, it’s like it’s morning and he’s rambling. You think about his neck, how lucky you are to bite hickeys onto his skin. 

His voice has the satisfaction of biting into an apple, it itches that one part of your brain that makes your fingers circle clumsily around your clit. 

You wanna kiss his lips. Thinking about how he grabbed you earlier in the day. Hands on your hips and just pushed softly against him, what if he pushed you against a wall? Could you feel his dick in those scrubs of his?

Your breath hitches when he groans again on the voice message. It’s so close to when you actually have sex, that you pick up your phone and rewind the recording. 

You rub harder, listening to that groan over and over and over. You’re determined to cum at how he groans in the recording. It feels gross at how you’re jerking off to just a regular old voice message. Something that used to be sweet, and now you’re perverting it. 

But it doesn’t matter. Because you’re close, close to getting a high you haven’t had in how long by just your fingers. You’re about to stick them into your neglected pussy, when there’s a sudden door opening.

“Woah— hey—”

To your mortification, Robby walks through the door. He turns his face so he can’t see for only a minute before he must have remembered that your his girlfriend. He’s seen it all already. 

You turn your phone off before anything, hitting that big button on the side so that he doesn’t hear his own voice getting you through an orgasm. After that, then you get your hand out of your leggings and close your legs in a hurry. Orgasm completely shattered and fading away. 

But it doesn’t matter how fast you turned the phone off. The messages keeps going for at least another three seconds. There’s no way he didn’t hear it. 

“Robby—” you breathe, frightened. This is your worst nightmare coming true. You got caught playing with yourself. That’s— the most teenager thing that could happen to you. So much for trying to be an adult. “I can explain.” 

“Oh you can?” 

Your heart drops as you see a smile on his face. You almost want to run for the hills and stick a knife in your heart just for the embarrassment to go away. 

Robby drops his bag by the bedroom door. He’s stepping closer to your bed, and he has his hands in his hoodie pockets. The amusement never fading.

“Then go ahead, tell me.” 

“I...”

It doesn’t matter. anything you say feels like it could be used against you for evil. There’s no way to explain this without giving away your biggest insecurity. 

“No no, I get it. Someone was feeling needy, right?” 

The way he says it a little mockingly doesn’t let you know if that makes you feel any better or worse. 

You swallow hard when he comes to sit down right next to you. Wanting to curl up in his lap like a baby and rub your hips around his thigh at the same time.

“Old man hasn’t been taking care of his girl, huh?” 

“No… that… that’s not it.” A lie. 

You sit up a little on the bed. He raises an eyebrow as if for you to continue but you can’t, there’s a blockage in your throat that won’t let any words pour through. 

When he sees your hesitation he nods. Does a once over your room before his eyes turn back to you, trying to find anything that could help understand why you’re so hesitant. 

“May I?” 

He points to your phone. You have an embarrassing suspicion that he already knows what’s on it, but you nod anyway. He gets close to you as he grabs at it. You can smell the hospital scents that linger on his jacket, but the smell of his sweat mixes in with the hospital scents. 

He unlocks your phone with ease. You trust him enough to share passwords but that doesn’t mean whatever he finds on there is any less embarrassing. 

He squints as he reads over the messages. Wrinkles under his eyes that you wouldn’t mind kissing at the moment until he plays the voice message and his own words ring out through the room. 

“You were listening to me while masturbating?” 

“I know! I know it’s gross I just—” 

You see his chest expand as he laughs. There’s a rush of blood that comes up to your cheeks as he shakes his head in amusement. 

“You didn’t want to call?” 

“I… I didn’t know if that was an option…” 

“You didn’t think you could call your boyfriend to tell him you wanted to have sex?” 

The way he says it, makes you sound silly. Like there wasn’t a whole other layer to unfold from that sentence. 

“You wanna tell me what’s going on here?”

You don’t. You really don’t. But at the same time you’ve been holding in all your needs and desires for him for six months, something has got to give. 

“I… I feel like I can’t ask for things with you because…” you lick at your lower lip, avoiding eye contact at all cost. “You’re so just so much older and more mature, and I don’t want to come off as some childish, young, needy girlfriend.” 

You hear Robby let out a scoffed laugh. You know it’s not meant to be mocking, but it kinda feels that way. 

“You’re crazy, you know that?” His voice is high pitched and it almost makes you want to smile. “I mean— you think you gotta change to act like some woman in her forties while I’m over here getting turned on like a teenage boy.” 

Your breath hitches. “You are?” You look up to meet his gaze, and it feels like cold water running down your throat when you’re parched, satisfied and smiling. 

“Yeah. It feels like I’m going stir crazy over here wondering why my girlfriend never asks for anything. I thought I was laying the love on you too much.” 

“No—” you swallow. “It could never be enough.” 

“Good.” Robby’s hand lays down on your thigh and he gives it a little squeeze, you don’t know if it’s meant to be sexual or not, but it sure feels that way with how he looks like he wants to devour you. 

“The same goes for me. You know you can ask for things. Affection, love, sex. We all need it.” 

“I know.” 

“You know big girls ask for things.” 

That lingering heat on your cheeks that started to feel like it might go away, comes back ten fold. Especially when he leans in closer, like he’s whispering in your ear and telling a secret. 

“Little girls keep things to themselves. You’re not a little girl, are you?” 

“No…” you shake your head softly, and reality comes crashing onto you. It feels like a wet dream coming true. 

“So how about you be a big girl, and tell me what you want right now.” 

His hand slides farther up your thigh and his thumb is reaching close to where your underwear lay under your leggings. You think maybe you know what he wants too. 

“I…” 

“Yeah…?” 

Robby moves closer to you, his hands moving to your sides to slowly pull your leggings down. He’s smiling like this is some inside joke between you two. 

“I want…” 

“Come on. Not that hard to speak, baby.” 

The leggings come off almost all the way, and you flick them off your feet. Robby moves down onto the floor and pulls your hips over the edge of the bed. 

“I want you.” 

You finally breathe. It’s like an elephant has sprouted wings and flown off of your chest. You spoke the three words you’ve been meaning to say for months that you just want him. 

“What part of me, baby? Gotta be more specific. I can’t read minds.” 

You’re pretty sure he can with the way he’s eyeing your clothed core. His hands are making soft patterns up and down the flesh of your thighs, sending rushed tingles to the heat of your belly. 

His touch is mesmerizing, distracting even.  You’re waiting for when he shoves his tongue down onto the fabric of your panties. Wanting your back to arch with every touch, but he seems too patient for that now. 

“Okay so,” his thumb hooks on the outside of your panties and you help by lifting your hip. “I’m gonna voice my opinion on what I wanna do right now.” 

The panties slide down your legs, and then he’s slotting himself between your knees, one thigh over his broad shoulder while he makes heart eyes at your pussy. 

“I really want to eat this fuckin’ cunt. Does that sound childish to you?” 

You shake your head. In fact it sounds sexy when he voices his desires like that, for a moment you think what has he been missing out on with no voicemails first thing in the morning.

“Good, Now be a big girl and say it back.” 

“Robby—”

“No, nuh-uh. Say it back. Come on you know how to take orders, right?” 

With a soft breath out, and an aching wet cunt, you don’t want him to be disappointed by not saying anything. So quick to get embarrassment over you mumbling. 

“I want you to eat me out—”

Before the sentence is even finished, he pulls your panties off and his tongue is drooping into your hole. The sudden intrusion makes your breath hitch, and there’s a warmth quickly flowing over your whole body. 

He sucks at one lip and then the other. It aches a little bit, but not before he starts licking at your clit. His hand comes up your body right above your pussy and he pulls the skin back, getting under the hood of your clit to lick at those sensitive nerves. 

It almost hurts, like fire racing up your legs every time his rough tongue licks at that spot. Your hand automatically comes down and into his hair. There’s not enough to grab onto tightly, so it more of a comfort than a guide. 

“s’what you wanted?” He mumbled while he dives back down into you. Gathering slick that had accumulated while listening to his voice earlier and bringing it up, and sucks softly at your sensitive bud, then goes back to pay attention to your hole. 

“Don’t stop— please.”

You’re breathless. Special attention like this just from him is exactly what you’ve wanted since you met him. It’s not like he hasn’t come to the choice of eating your cunt by himself. But it’s different in a way. Asking for it. Feeling in control. 

Robby’s nose curves down just a little. You don’t know how he breathes, but when your hips twitch, your clit catches on him and it’s a nice place to gain a little extra pleasure. 

Your head falls back and Robby’s other hand is urging the other thigh up on his shoulder. You’re practically suffocating him, but when you look down and his eyes are pinned on your pretty face, it seems he doesn’t care if he’s suffocating or not. 

Robby’s arm extends out and up under your shirt. Touching at your chest, he finds your tit quickly, his thumb gently brushes over your nipple. Pleasure courses through you and it’s like imagining a line connecting your nipple to your cunt with how the pleasure blooms down and throughout your body. 

The way Robby’s so near, or how he’s holding you. Every move he makes, it’s like it’s intended just for you. You feel the heat of your previous orgasm approaching. Low in your pelvis, small whimpers slipping from out your lips. 

“Robby—” you whine. 

He grunts, and it’s like even your ears find it pleasing with the way your pussy clenched softly at his hum. 

“Robby, I’m close...” 

His lips wrap around your clit while the hand that’s not touching your breast comes down under him. Two fingers gather at your hole, but instead of putting them in, he teases at the entrance, gliding up and down your puffy lips. His beard itching just the inside of your thigh making delicious friction. 

“You wanna cum?”

It’s not necessarily dirty talk. He’s just asking a question. But a dirty question none the less. That gets you even more excitedly embarrassed. 

“Yes— please...” 

“You gotta ask for it.”

His two fingers just gently prodding the inside of your hole is turning your brain into mush to which you can hardly speak. Trying to focus more on prolonging your orgasm that’s right there and ready to burst. 

“I… please make me cum. I want to. So bad, need you to make me cum—”

Your hips writhe under his touch, just a little more— just a little more with his warm tongue brushing over your taut bud and his nails exploring just the lips of your pussy, slick like velvet. 

With one harsh suck from his lips, your pussy convulses over the tips of his fingers. It empties your brain like a dam with a flood, head feeling cloudy, pleasure taking over you and blinding your vision as the orgasm you’ve been aching for all day washes over you. 

Robby soothes you as he plays and massages your cunt until you can’t possibly take it anymore. Overstimulated and tense as you try to relax your muscles.

“Feel like a big girl yet? Getting your cunt sucked?” 

The front of Robby’s shirt is drenched as he pulls back, which is slightly humiliating. But he’s taking off his jacket and his scrubs and throwing them on the ground, looking ready for a round two. 

“Yeah.” 

“Good.” He nods. 

You watch in awe as Robby takes off the shirt underneath his scrubs. Hairy chest out on display and his tummy sticking out just slightly over the waist of his pants. You want to nestle into his chest if you didn’t feel another ache in your core when you look down and see the tent in his pants. 

Cock hard and straining against the black of his scrubs, you know he’s needy, but so are you. 

“Robby…?” 

You ask softly. You see he’s about to slide off the scrub pants with his fingers hooked at the band, but he hesitates to look up at you. 

“Yup?”

“Can you… do that again?” 

The right side of his mouth tugs up in an amused smirk. 

“Little girl has found her voice and is using it for evil huh?” 

“Just once more, quick.” 

You climb up further on the bed, back hitting the headboard. Fingers coming down to play with the mess between your legs. 

You know as soon as Robby gets inside you he won’t last one— maybe two rounds. And you want more than that. So asking, talking, communicating that you wanted more before hand isn’t selfish, right?

“I’mmm… not complaining.” 

Robby climbs up onto the bed back between your legs. You watch as he shoves a hand down between his body and the bed before he dives with his tongue into you again.

The next day you really don’t know if it’s an accident or not when Robby leaves his jacket at your place. Right before work you make sure to drive by the hospital thirty minutes early, just feeling a little energetic today. 

You got your fill of Robby last night (literally). He hugged you till you were sweating and it didn’t feel like a crime anymore for you to start kissing fights first. 

In fact, you could get used to this feeling of not being shamed for wanting to be too loving with someone. Giving a smile, you walk past the EMTs at the front door. 

Dana is at the front desk again, hair perfectly up and you almost wonder why Robby doesn’t flirt with her more. 

“What did he forget this time, sweetheart?” 

“Just a jacket.” 

You place the neatly folded fabric on the counter before realizing how misleading that could seem. His jacket at your house meaning he took it off durning some time spent together. And while it doesn’t need to be sexual, that smile Dana has seems to mean she’s guessing the worst option. 

And she would be right. 

“Ah… I see. No wonder Robby’s in a good mood today.” 

“He’s not that moody all the time. Cut him some slack. His testosterone levels are coming down with age.” 

“Ha. That means you two done fighting?” 

“We weren’t—” 

Just when you were about to explain how you two weren’t fighting— it wasn’t even his fault. Just your insecurities whisked away in the wind now. You feel big hands squeeze on your hips. 

Turning quickly, you smile when you see Robby’s face. Those wrinkles on his forehead prominent with confusion.

“What about low testosterone?” 

“Nothing— hi.” 

You smile all pretty and innocent. Placing a hand on his chest, and you can see he likes it by how he relaxes under your touch. It’s almost the first time you’ve willingly touched him first. 

“You’re not racing to leave today.” 

“No I…” you shrug, looking around the ER before returning to his pretty eyes. “I thought I’d stick around for a while. I have thirty minutes before I have to get to work. I’ll Just wait until you have a break.” 

“Sorry in advance. That’s very rare—”

Robby side steps you to get his jacket, but his hand doesn’t leave your hip. For the first time you realize his hairy arms are on display. The soft muscles bulging just enough for you to remember how it felt to scrape lines down them last night. 

You look around. Everyone is entirely too busy doing their own job, which is a little overwhelming. But when you look back at Robby, everything around you calms. 

“No one’s calling you for your immediate attention right now…” 

Robby hears that slight lewd suggestion in your voice. His eyes narrow and he takes his jacket, forgoing putting it on with your suggestion. He knows what you’re hinting at with those bedroom eyes you’re giving him.

“Here? Now?” 

The way he says it has you doubting yourself, maybe this whole new asking thing has you coming off too strong. Showing your neediness too fast.

“No— well I mean— only if you want to.” 

“Uh huh…” 

Robby has the prettiest smile. Big and bright, his cheeks go up so high making crinkles around his eyes. It has butterflies building in your stomach as he takes your hand with his and leads you away.

“I think I can find an empty room.”

[drfruitcake]

Too Busy Being Yours

Dr. Robby x F!Reader

Your jealousy of Noelle Hastings has made it difficult to concentrate at work. But Robby's jealousy of your friendship with Langdon makes it difficult to keep his hands off you.

Rating: MDNI/18+ Words: ~8,500 Tags: mdni, reader insert, female reader, doctor reader, no use of y/n, no beta, smut, explicit sexual content, consensual sex, profanity, age gap, power gap, jealous Robby, soft dom Robby, p in v, oral sex (both m and f receiving), unprotected sex, squirting, creampie, cumshot

Read on AO3 or below the cut.

Envy claws its way through your chest cavity. It’s searing and suffocating – a slow, arduous death march. It leaves a bitter taste in your mouth and a twitch in your eye.

You’re lucky it doesn’t leave a sneer across your lips, too.

Mostly because you’re presently seated at the central desk inside the emergency department, mid-shift, while you watch Noelle Hastings chat with Dr. Robby.

Nurse Noelle. The embodiment of everything you aspire to be. Not professionally-speaking – you’re a senior resident and the rising hot-shot of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, on pace to become another doctor naive enough to believe she can save the world. But your career feels like it’s all you have. 

Noelle is pretty and poised, soft yet sharp. People notice her presence and miss her absence. She carries confidence the same way she commands respect. People like her; she’s never too much yet always more than enough. 

But the main reason you envy Noelle is the most frivolous and embarrassing of all – simply put, she has what you want. At least, according to the latest round of rumors to sweep through the cyclic halls of the hospital. Whisper, rinse, repeat.

“Do you think she’ll make it past the seven-week threshold?” Perlah murmurs quietly as she watches Robby and Noelle. Princess snorts from her seat next to you. 

“Not a chance,” she muses. “No one’s made it that long. Not since Jake’s mom, and we all know how bad that turned out.”

Perlah clucks her tongue. 

“Besides,” Princess continues. “Are we even sure they’re actually together?”

“Define ‘together,’” Perlah quips back, inciting a quiet chuckle between them. Your eyes stay glued to your computer screen, the text of your current patient chart blurring into fuzzy black lines. If you look away, if you look at the pair standing outside C9, you’ll tear up. 

But you can still hear them. Noelle murmurs something, probably flirtatious and demure, and Robby laughs. It’s that genuine belly laugh rarely heard from him. You look for it in every encounter. It’s your favorite sound.

You exhale slowly through your nose in an attempt to collect yourself. You shouldn’t care. You have no business being bothered by two people who pay no attention to you. Robby and Noelle should be none of your concern. 

When Noelle first began lingering around the emergency department, you clocked her intentions immediately. You saw the way she snuck glances at Dr. Robby, the way she’d conjure reasons to stay, the way she’d smile to herself after every interaction with him. 

You noticed because you do the same.

The difference was Robby noticed Noelle in return. He went out of his way to speak to her, brought her coffee, let her believe she had a fighting shot at keeping him around for more than a fleeting few weeks.

It wasn’t your business to speculate if she did. At least she was given a chance. You were lucky if Robby gave you five minutes to discuss patient cases.

Noelle is a wanted and welcome intrusion inside the ER. You’re merely another body passing through – tolerated, assimilated. People like and respect you just enough to keep you around; they couldn’t care less about your coffee order.

You rise and pace toward C12, refusing to glance at Robby and Noelle as you pass. The soles of your sneakers are quiet, like you – unassuming, unremarkable and unfailing. Always moving forward, one step at a time, instead of taking any risk of getting dirty.

—

You don’t like to make a habit of drinking after work. You especially don’t like to make a habit of drinking with your coworkers. Sure, you join Mohan, Whitaker and Santos for the occasional happy hour. You’ll stop by the park every now and then for post-shift beers with the day crew. But you always approach those instances with laid-back frivolity. They’re fun and innocent; light when your days are heavy.

This day is heavy, but you choose to meet it with more weight. It manifests in the form of a wine glass – dark, red, acidic – much like your mood.

Your friendship with Frank Langdon is just as bizarre as one might think. Sure, you’re close in age and he helped you transition into your role as senior resident. You didn’t judge him or speak to him with pity when he returned from rehab. But single women and married men rarely strike up new solo friendships, though you know Frank is barely married at this point. His nuptials are hanging by a thread these days, which is why he ends up next to you on a weathered old bar stool at Gene’s after your shift.

Once he finishes telling you about a particularly fucked up meningitis case he saw that day, he downs the remainder of his soda water and swivels to face you. He bangs the empty glass down on the bar top for dramatic effect, causing you to jump in surprise.

“So, you going to tell me why you’ve looked like you want to fling yourself into oncoming traffic all day?” he asks.

“No.” 

“Real charmer, you are.”

“I’m the spitting image of charisma.”

“It blows my mind that you manage to have the highest patient satisfaction scores in the department,” he muses. “Why can’t your barstool manner be the same as your bedside manner?”

“Because you aren’t sick or dying. At least not anymore.”

Langdon offers a dry laugh. You smirk into your wine glass. 

“Really though, what’s going on with you? You’ve been tense,” he presses gently. 

“Been tense? Langdon, I was born this way.”

“I don’t think that’s what Lady Gaga meant.”

“What’s your point?” you sigh.

“My point is, despite being the darling of the ED, you’re human,” Langdon explains. “And you’re allowed to be distracted and bothered like the rest of us. You don’t have to be perfect all the time.”

“Thank you for the permission,” you say dryly. 

Langdon stares at you in that unsettling manner you’ve come to hate from him. You know he means well. He cares about you. The two of you have developed one of those big brother-little sister workplace relationships that can only stem from years of seeing fucked up shit and trauma together.

It’s purely platonic. Langdon’s not your type and you aren’t much for homewrecking anyway. It’s more of a mutual fondness built on biting remarks and inside jokes; appreciation wrapped in the form of insult. You indulge his dry humor and love for banter, and in return, he’s learned to read you and notice when you seem off. Then he watches you with quiet contemplation, his cobalt eyes waiting patiently for you to fold.

This time, you fold quicker than usual.

“It’s stupid,” you mutter into your glass. “Like, it’s actually so embarrassing, I’ll have to kill myself if I tell you.”

“It can’t be more embarrassing than the time you fell over the gurney and grabbed Dr. Abbot’s crotch.”

“Oh, it’s way worse.”

“Does it have anything to do with Robby?”

You suck your top row of teeth. Bastard.

“What about Robby?” you try.

“So that would be a yes,” Langdon notes. He picked up on your use of performantive ignorance as a masking mechanism ages ago. 

“Don’t worry about it,” you insist. “I’ve got it handled.”

“Clearly you don’t.”

“Clearly inviting you here was a horrible idea.”

“It’s because of Noelle Hastings, isn’t it?”

“Dr. Langdon,” you warn with an edge to your voice.

“You know it’s not anything serious, right?” he continues. “They’re probably just sleeping together.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” You realize you’ve just admitted your feelings for Robby, but Langdon doesn’t even flinch. He’s known all along. 

“It should,” Langdon offers. “It’s just what Robby does. Everyone knows he doesn’t stick around long enough to get serious with anyone. So there’s nothing to worry about. He’ll move on from Noelle soon enough.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better,” you note. “It’s not like I’m rooting for Robby to be alone forever. I shouldn’t even be rooting for him and Noelle to fail. He deserves to be happy. Maybe she makes him happy.”

“Maybe,” Langdon shrugs. “Or maybe he’s waiting on a certain person to complete their residency.”

You shoot him a pointed stare. “That never stopped him before,” you note. “He dated Dr. Collins.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” Langdon notes.

“Robby doesn’t see me like that,” you say decisively. “Hell, I’m lucky if I can get him to check in on me.”

“Has it ever occurred to you that he doesn’t need to check in on you? You don’t need a babysitter.”

“I know, but I barely get attention from him, period.”

“Oh, come on,” Langdon groans. “Everyone knows you’re the golden child.”

“Yeah, only because you fumbled that crown.”

“So you agree,” Langdon muses, choosing to ignore your snide remark. “You do acknowledge you’re Robby’s favorite.”

“I’m his favorite because I’m competent,” you say. “Not because he wants in my pants. And I’d prefer to keep it that way. When all this is said and done, the only opinion of Robby’s that matters to me is his professional opinion. I need him to write recommendations based on my skills, not my tits.”

Langdon shakes his head as if he’s giving up. You can’t help but offer him an apologetic grimace. You understand he’s just trying to help. It’s in his nature. But you also view any romantic future with Robby as a lost cause. There’s no use discussing it, and there’s no use making the day any worse by continuing to do so.

“Just do me a favor,” Langdon says. “Try not to let yourself get too jealous, alright? It’s not a good look on you.”

“Wow, rude,” you say as you huff a laugh. “And I am not jealous, I’m just…” Langdon lifts an eyebrow at you. “Okay fine, maybe I am jealous, but can you blame me?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Noelle’s just so… pretty,” you say. You realize you sound childish and hate yourself for it, but at least you’re being honest, you think. “I mean, she’s fucking stunning. And she’s good at her job. And she’s a much better match for Robby. Closer in age to him, established in her career. She has her shit together. Of course he’s into her.”

“The only reason she’s a better match for Robby is because she’s not his direct report. That’s it,” Langdon says matter-of-factly as he leans in to peer at you with serious eyes. “I like Noelle, she’s great, but you’re selling yourself short if you think she’s got anything over you.”

“She has Robby.”

“For now.” 

“Better than never, which is all I’ll ever have.”

You don’t want to sound so melancholy. Melodrama really isn’t your style. But the sight of Robby and Noelle lingers in your mind in spite of your pride.

“You can do better than him anyway. I say that as a friend to you both.”

Langdon looks at you with sincere sadness. It spikes your guilt and makes you feel silly for whining over an asinine crush on your senior attending. You’re spewing jealousy over another woman while Langdon’s marriage circles the drain, yet he’s reserved this space for you and your woes. 

You pick at the skin of your cuticles. 

Langdon’s posture shifts while you down the rest of your wine glass. You frown at him and he grimaces. “Speak of the devil… devils.”

You swivel to look over your shoulder and wish you hadn’t. In walks Robby and Noelle. You wonder if you can make a run for it. Or you could dive behind the bar and hide. Maybe a sinkhole will open beneath your barstool and you can descend to the depths of Hell where you’d feel much better. 

“Fuck,” you mutter under your breath. Langdon heaves a sigh. 

It doesn’t take long for Robby and Noelle to spot you. But while your eyes are determinedly on Langdon, you fail to notice the twitch in Robby’s jaw. 

He’s the first to approach, Noelle following close behind. 

“Dr. Langdon,” he greets, following with a flicker of his eyes toward you. His voice is clipped. He doesn’t say your name; merely nods at you with a smile that feels forced. It makes you feel small. So much for being the golden child.

“Dr. Robby, Noelle,” Langdon says. You offer them a thin smile. You know it probably looks bad, as if you swallowed battery acid. You couldn’t correct it if you tried. 

Of course, Noelle looks flawless. Not a lash out of place. You wonder about her skin care routine. You wish you had a skin care routine. 

“You two alright?” Robby asks. “I didn’t know the day shift was getting together after work.”

“Oh, just us,” Langdon says casually. “Just some post-shift commiseration."

“That bad of a day?” Noelle chimes in. She’s smiling kindly, her eyes resting on you with sympathy. It spikes a nerve. You don’t want this woman feeling sorry for you. 

You want to smash her face into the bar top.

“Nah, just another day in paradise,” you say, forcing a toothy smile that doesn’t suit you one bit. 

Robby’s eyes meet yours and your breath hitches. You can’t read him, but you’re certain you can detect something there; aggravation, perhaps? 

You begin recalling the day’s patients in your mind, wondering if you spent too much time with one or missed something important. Those are the typical culprits when Robby’s irked at you. It’s rare, but something is clearly askew. 

Or maybe he was simply hoping he and Noelle would be alone, free from the curious eyes of any colleagues. 

You hold your breath for as long as you hold Robby’s gaze. It feels like minutes. Finally, he looks away.  

“Ah, well, don’t let us rain on your little paradise,” he says with a brief nod. 

He strides toward a high-top table across the room while Noelle flashes you and Langdon a quick smile before trailing after him. 

A mere beat passes before you’re signaling the bartender for another glass of wine. Langdon sighs. 

“He’s jealous, you know,” he says quietly. “I can tell.” You snort. 

“Langdon, no disrespect, because you are an objectively handsome and good guy, but Robby is not jealous of you right now,” you declare. 

“Thank you, I think,” Langdon says slowly, his brow furrowed in confusion. “But you know what I mean. It doesn’t matter if I’m sitting on this barstool next to you, or if it’s Mateo or Jessie or Dr. Abbot. It’s the mere notion that any man is sitting here while Robby has to sit over there and watch you from a distance.”

“Actually, maybe I should make a pass at Abbot,” you muse thoughtfully. 

“Do you want to force Robby into another mental breakdown?”

“I mean, kinda. Abbot’s a good-looking guy.”

Langdon shakes his head. “Making him even more jealous isn’t going to help. It’s just going to get Abbot killed.”

“Abbot loves me. He’d die for me.”

“You’re hopeless.”

“Exactly. Which is why we should talk about literally anything else.”

“Fair enough,” Langdon sighs. “You watch last week’s Severance yet?”

“No, and if you spoil it, I’ll castrate you immediately.”

“Noted.”

You both laugh and slip into chatter about Langdon’s dog. You should probably go home, you think, but the elephant in the room is still there in the form of a 6’1” senior attending with the most mesmerizing brown eyes you’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting. 

What you don’t realize is those brown eyes are presently locked on you; not just staring — they’re feeling. Feeling you out, desperately trying to read your thoughts and emotions, sizing you up as if he can diagnose the reasons for your rendezvous with Langdon. 

Robby watches as you chat with Langdon with soft eyes; the kind he’s seen you offer to your patients. He sees the way your eyes widen while Langdon tells the story of how Tanner fell off the back deck. He notices the kind smile you flash the bartender when you order another glass of wine. And he reads your posture – the way your spine stiffens when Langdon says something that annoys you, and the way your shoulders slacken when you laugh at his jokes.

Robby wants all those emotions to himself. He knows it’s greedy, unreasonable, worthy of a slap across the face. He’s never tried to tell you how he feels. He knows better. You’re still young and hopeful. You still look at life as something worthwhile, full of prospect and potential. You’re too good to know better, he thinks.

And there’s also the other woman sitting across from him. He likes Noelle. She’s smart, savvy, beautiful. And she does know better – knows not to ask Robby what exactly it is that they’re doing; knows there’s no fixing a man like him. She knows she deserves better, but chooses to prolong her time on the Michael Robinavitch ride. You’d pity her if you didn’t envy her.

But Robby looks at Noelle like the other women who have darted in and out of his life. He doesn’t want to. He wants to look at her – or anyone else – with a chest full of flammables. But you’re the only spark Robby feels. It’s why he dances around you with caution, close enough to spike his pulse but distant enough to avoid your live wires.

He’s held steadfast for four years without incident. You’ve never caught him staring, never questioned how he can tell it’s you who has entered a room by the sound of your footsteps. You didn’t ask how he remembered your birthday, when he ordered pizza from your favorite spot with the exact toppings you prefer. Perhaps you should have. 

But Robby’s resolve is crumbling. He knows you’re young and sociable. Desired. He’s not delusional enough to think men don’t get to touch you. But the sight of his own protege, his right-hand man, seated next to you while you’re laughing and chatting like he’s the most interesting man in the room, has Robby’s blood igniting from a simmer to a rapid, rolling boil.

He sees the lock of hair that’s fallen from your up-do, framing your face like it’s meant to be there. He seethes at Langdon for not seizing the opportunity to tuck it behind your ear. Nevermind the fact he’d kill Langdon for touching you.

Langdon isn’t good enough for you, Robby thinks. Not because of their past. Not because Robby had to dig deep and forgive Langdon for stealing patient drugs under his watch. Not because Robby secretly blames himself for failing to notice. Robby’s managed to move past all that.

But he doesn’t forget. And now he thinks he’s going to be plagued by the memory of you and Langdon cozied up at that bar. 

The distance between you and Robby is mere feet. Robby envisions himself reaching across the room to strangle Langdon. It’s unfair, he knows, but it’s impossible to remain reasonable when you and Langdon are enjoying each other’s company so casually, yet so cruel for all the sorry losers who merely get to watch from the sidelines.

Robby slams the remainder of his beer and pretends to give a shit about Noelle’s upcoming trip to New York. 

You’re none the wiser to the brooding man behind you. You think he’s immune to you, oblivious to your quiet desperation to be noticed by him. You assume he’s enthralled by the woman across from him; that he’ll take her home tonight and tell her all the things she deserves to hear. 

You think Robby sees you the same way he sees patients — fleeting, momentary characters who serve a brief role in the timeline of his life. You know he appreciates you, respects you even, but you don’t dare believe he actually enjoys your presence. 

And right now, he’s not enjoying your presence. Not because he dislikes you. Not because he doesn’t want to see or talk to you. It’s because he doesn’t get to be the sole reason for your presence in that bar. Or so he thinks. He doesn’t know you see his face at the bottom of every wine glass. 

A sudden eruption of laughter steals Robby’s attention. You and Langdon are both doubled over in shared joy. Robby feels like he’s intruding on an intimate moment. It makes his eye twitch. 

He excuses himself to the bathroom. 

When you do the same, you spot Robby’s empty chair and immediately regret the decision. Noelle catches your eye and smiles. You nod politely; nevermind the visions of tossing your wine glass on her designer dress clouding your thoughts. 

You sigh and head toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms at the back of the bar, silently praying you don’t cross paths with Robby. 

You think you’re safe. But you’re three steps from the women’s door when the men’s swings open and you’re left face-to-face with those cursed brown eyes. Your breath hitches and you wonder what kinds of atrocities you committed in a past life to deserve this. 

“Enjoying your evening?” Robby asks. You notice his terse tone and consider darting into the women’s room to hide. 

“Sure am,” you hear yourself reply. “You?”

“Not really.”

“Oh,” you start in surprise, unsure how to respond to such a blunt answer. 

“Langdon?” Robby continues. “I mean, really?”

“Wha-”

“He’s still married, you know.”

You blink at Robby, unsure how to interpret his words. “I know,” you answer slowly. “He and I are friends.”

“Friends,” Robby repeats blankly. “Does his wife know he spends his evenings alone at dive bars with other women?”

“It’s not like that,” you say, your pulse spiking. “And why the hell do you care?”

“Because I have to sit here and watch one of my attendings flirt with one of my senior residents.”

You force a hollow laugh. “You’re joking,” you hiss. “Langdon and I don’t flirt. Like I said, we’re friends. Some of us can maintain platonic relationships at work. I know it’s hard for you to fathom.”

You’ve struck a nerve. You can see it in the way Robby’s face flushes crimson and his jaw ticks. Your eyes dart down the hallway toward the bar, searching for passerby. You wonder how long you have until Langdon and Noelle notice both their companions have disappeared. You also wonder how long you have until Robby fires you for talking back.

“That’s none of your business,” Robby snaps. 

“Oh, but it’s your business when it involves me?”

“Yes,” Robby rasps. The blunt, short reply catches you off guard and draws a frown. “That’s the entire point,” Robby continues. 

“That’s awfully hypocritical,” you bite back. “Why the fuck do you care about my business, Dr. Robinavitch?”

“Because I care about everything you do.”

You try to compute. You’re desperate to understand. Your mouth fills with cotton and a ringing surges in your ears. 

Robby drags a hand over his face. You can’t tell if he wants to strangle you or kiss you. The answer becomes clear when he looks you in the eye again. 

Pupils blown out. Tired, yet restless. Something to prove and nothing to lose.

“Robby, I-”

He doesn’t give you a chance to fill the space between you with words. Words won’t help you here. He closes the gap and pins you against the wall, your eyes widening before they close with the kiss.

It’s chaos — messy, rushed, unrefined. But it’s anything but amateur. It feels layered and complex; art in its rawest, most vulnerable form. A Jackson Pollock personified.

Robby’s hand is knotted in your hair and his hips are flush with yours. He’s the object of your most clandestine thoughts brought to life. You’re certain your soul has left your body. 

But then he rasps your name and gravity returns you to reality. He rests both hands against the wall on either side of your head as he gazes at you, caging you in. It’s exactly where you wish to be. The air crackles with anxious heat.

He stares at you with enough intensity to make your palms sweat, and you’re certain he can hear your thoughts. 

“Are you ready to get out of here?” he asks. He studies you with boundless bedroom eyes, impossible to tear your own eyes from. This has to be the part where you’ll wake up, you think.

You swallow thickly while Robby waits patiently. 

“I- we… what about the others?” you finally manage, terrified you’ll kill the mood.

“For once in your life, stop thinking about everyone else,” Robby advises. “Think about what you want.”

A fly on the wall would surely laugh at the cliche dramatics of it all, but Robby’s right. Langdon would forgive you for an Irish exit, and to hell with Noelle. 

But still, you can’t simply leave without acknowledging them as you walk past them. And for as envious as you are of Noelle, your moral compass — which you consider to be excruciatingly inconvenient — won’t allow you to do so. 

“Robby, we can’t just leave them. We have to say something.”

Robby blinks, as if he’s just regained consciousness or snapped from an out-of-body experience. The charge in the air around you deflates. 

“Right,” he sighs as he drops one of the hands flanking your head. “Sorry. This was a stupid idea.”

He pulls away and you immediately miss the contact. 

“Sorry,” he says again, averting his eyes as if he’s ashamed. 

“Wait, I didn’t mean-” The ringing in your ears surges with panic. But Robby is already walking away, back to Noelle. Back to the person you wanted to steal from. You’re giving him back to her when he’s been the only thing you’ve wanted. 

You want to drop to your knees, scream, kick, punch the air until someone hauls you away for a psych hold. Instead, you remain against the wall in stunned silence until Langdon comes looking for you. 

You don’t tell him what happened. 

—

The door to your apartment creaks shut, leaving you to fend for yourself in the dark. Your hand fumbles along the wall for the light switch, but you can’t help but regret it when you locate it. The light snaps on with a sharp burst, reminding you how quiet and empty your apartment is. 

You sigh and shoot Langdon a text to confirm you made it home. He responds with a thumbs up, leaving you without any more human interaction for the evening. It’s probably for the best, you decide. Your previous interactions this evening turned disastrous.

The simple task of moving to your couch feels impossible. You linger in place, the kiss with Robby looping on repeat in your head like low-budget cinema. You squeeze your eyes shut in disbelief. 

You blew your chance with the one person you wanted and thought you couldn’t have. Even worse, you regretted your decision the moment it was made for you, yet you still sat in silence as you watched Robby and Noelle walk out of that bar together. 

You only have yourself to blame.

The clock on your kitchen wall ticks. Footsteps creak overhead. Sirens wail in the distance. The world is moving on, but you fear you’re going to be rooted to this momentous fumble for years to come.

You take a shower and tell yourself all the little cliches meant to make yourself feel better; that you’re washing the day away, that you can cleanse yourself of the stupid decisions, that the steam will cloud your intrusive thoughts.

It’s futile.

Robby’s words echo in your skull, which you’re certain is empty given how stupid you’ve been.

For once in your life, stop thinking about everyone else. Think about what you want.

It’s not the first time someone has given you such advice. You’ve spent most of your life toeing the careful tightrope of what you want and what’s expected of you – the overachieving honor student, the pacifist, the fixer. 

Just once, you want to be the breaker. You want to be the person who wedges the divide between Robby and Noelle. You want to be the waves that crash and destroy rather than be the calm undertow that carries people to safety.

You want to do what you want, rather than what’s expected of you. And you want to stop letting others take what you want.

You towel off and heave a sigh as you pick up your phone to text Dr. Abbot.

You: Hey, what’s Dr. Robby’s address?

Abbot: Do I want to know why you’re asking?

You: Honestly? Probably not.

Abbot: You aren’t doing anything illegal, are you? I can’t be liable for any crimes.

You: Illegal? No. Immoral? Perhaps.

Abbot: You aren’t making a very good case for yourself.

You: I’d promise to explain later, but I’m not sure you want an explanation.

Abbot: You’re lucky I trust you. I don’t, however, trust Robby in these kinds of situations. So please be smart, kid.

You send him the saluting emoji and he sends the address. You search it on Google Maps and sigh in disbelief over what you’re about to do. But you know if you stay silent, if you do nothing, if you let Noelle have him, regret will cling to you for life.

You get dressed and grab your car keys.

Robby’s house isn’t what you expect, not that you knew what to expect. It’s a nice, single-family craftsman at the end of a tree-lined street. It feels domesticated. Stable. Safe. 

Not necessarily how you envision Robby.

You park in the street and sit in your car, contemplating your life choices. But you don’t want to give yourself too much time to change your mind, so you inhale deeply before making the trek to Robby’s front door. The clock on your car glows with the midnight hour.

Robby answers the door quicker than you’d anticipated. You also didn’t expect him to be shirtless, wearing only a pair of sweatpants. He’s clearly surprised to see you.

Your eyes drift past him, searching the room behind him for any sign of Noelle.

“Um, hey,” you manage. “Am I interrupting anything?”

“Uh, no,” Robby replies. “I was just watching TV.”

“Can we talk?”

Robby studies you for a beat. His gaze makes you feel unsteady and vulnerable. He reads you with ease. “Yeah, come in,” he finally says as he steps aside.

His kitchen is cool and dark, only a dim light on above the sink. You walk carefully and quietly until you’re leaning with your back to the island counter. Robby stands three feet opposite you with curious eyes.

“Where’s Noelle?” you ask.

“She, uh, didn’t feel like coming over,” Robby answers with a sigh. “Said I was acting too distracted and got annoyed with me.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

You can hear the quiet murmur of a TV somewhere down the hallway to your right. It fills the silence until you gather the courage to speak.

“About earlier-” you start.

“Don’t worry about it,” Robby interjects gently. “Really. It’s alright.”

“But-”

“Seriously,” he says with the signature serious gaze that makes you feel like you’re about to present a patient case to him. “I’ve been rejected before, it’s not a big deal.”

“I wasn’t rejecting you. Robby, I wanted to go home with you. I just… I mean, you were with Noelle.”

“And you were with Langdon.”

“I’m not with Langdon,” you insist, the heat in your tone rising. “Langdon is married. He has no interest in me. I have no interest in him. We’re friends.”

“So are Noelle and I.”

“Oh?” you muse. “You sleep with all your friends?”

“You ever sleep with Langdon?”

“No,” you answer firmly. “And even if I had, it’d be none of your business.”

“Okay, so you’re not with Langdon.”

“And you’re using Noelle.”

“I’m not using her,” Robby insists. “She knows there’s nothing serious between us. We talked about it before I took my sabbatical earlier this year.”

Oh. You hadn’t realized they’d been seeing each other that long.

“She likes you,” you continue.

“She likes to think she can fix me.”

“Do you need fixing?”

“Don’t we all?”

“Right,” you sigh in an attempt to deescalate the tension.

“Look,” Robby continues. “Yes, I’ve been sleeping with Noelle for a while. But it doesn’t mean anything.”

“So where does that leave me?”

“You’re too good for me,” Robby answers bluntly, drawing a snort from you. 

“Too good? Or too young?”

“Do you think you’re too young?”

“No.”

“Then like I said, too good.”

“Bullshit. That’s a cop out.”

Robby drags a hand through his hair. “Look,” he says again, his voice sounding tired. “If it were up to me, you would have left that bar with me, and right now, I’d be showing you the time of your life. Hell, I would’ve done it in that bathroom if you’d asked for it. But the fact that you were still taking Langdon and Noelle into consideration just reaffirms my belief that you’re too good for me.”

“No I’m not,” you insist. “I hate Noelle.” Robby can’t conceal an amused smirk. “I’ve hated her since I heard the rumors you two were… involved.”

“So you only hate her because you’re jealous of her.”

“...Yes.”

“You have nothing to be jealous of,” Robby notes. “Noelle’s brilliant but you’re… well, you. If I had you, I wouldn’t even glance her way again.”

“Oh, please. Robby, everyone knows you don’t stick around for anyone beyond a few weeks.”

“Not true. I’ve been sleeping with Noelle for months.”

“Congratulations.”

“I mean it. I look at you differently. It’s fucking terrifying, but it’s true. Why else do you think I’ve kept my distance all these years? Every time I look at you, I want you,” Robby reveals.

You swallow thickly at his revelation. It’s far more than you bargained for. You expected to come to Robby’s house tonight, fuck him and leave. You figured it would happen this one time before the two of you would spend your days dodging each other in the ER, every interaction clipped, brief, cautious. You thought you’d have your one night in paradise with Robby before life would force you to move on from your silly crush.

It never occurred to you that your mere presence has been a point of madness for your senior attending since the day you met. You don’t know how many times he’s had to bite his tongue as patients flirt with you, watch colleagues ask you out, and listen to passerby make remarks about your appearance. No one told you how furious Robby was that time a patient elbowed you in the face and drew blood. You were ignorant to the way his eyes always sought you out first in every room. You’re clueless to the number of times Robby’s thought about you on nights like this, filled with illicit visions of how it’d feel to touch you. It’s been agony and ecstasy all at once.

You scramble to gather your own thoughts so you can craft a response. But the only thoughts wafting through your brain involve you launching yourself at Robby and climbing him like a tree. The hum of the refrigerator fills the silence with a whir.

“So what is this that we’re doing, then?” you ask, arms folded across your chest in an effort to appear nonchalant. 

“The ball’s in your court,” Robby replies. “Whatever you want it to be.”

“I don’t want this to be a one night stand,” you admit. “I mean, I came here with that in mind. I was fully prepared for it. But it’s not what I actually want.”

“It’s not what I want either,” Robby says. 

“You can understand why I find that hard to believe, right?” 

“Yes, I can,” Robby admits. “And I can’t predict where this’ll go, but I can promise you I want to try, and I promise I’ll try my hardest.”

It’s enough for you. You weren’t asking for a marriage proposal, or even a vow of exclusivity. You just want to know you’re worth an effort. Maybe that means you have shitty self-esteem or low standards. But that’s an issue for your therapist to unpack.

“Fine,” you say simply. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

Robby studies you with quiet contemplation, as if he’s confirming your certainty. You gaze back at him with confident eyes. It’s enough for him, too.

“So what now?” he asks. You blink at him like the answer is scribbled across your forehead.

“Now I’d like to continue where we left off in the bar.”

Robby moves swiftly, efficiently. Fluid and intentional, much like his movements during an incoming trauma. He cups your face once he closes the distance between you and kisses you, this time with more tact.

You moan against his mouth immediately, a white flag you were willing to wave in submission. You can feel Robby smirk against your lips.

He tangles a hand in your hair, much the same as he did at the bar. But this time, the kiss is slower, deeper, more deliberate. You feel his other hand roam the curve of your waistline until it rests on your hip, one thumb tracing gentle circles against the skin beneath your t-shirt. 

The counter digs into the small of your back and you jut your hips forward. Robby understands. He unfists your hair and uses both hands to hoist you onto the counter without a word. Your surprised gasp is caught off by another long kiss. 

Robby stands between your thighs. One hand rests on the counter beside you, the other presses into the small of your back. He breaks the kiss to meet your eyes. You stare back, your chest rising and falling in sync with his as you catch your breaths. He dips his head to kiss your neck.

Your eyes fall shut as you memorize how it feels to have his lips on your hot skin. Though each kiss is gentle, you wish he’d leave marks.

“Can I take this off?” he murmurs against your neck as he gently tugs at the hem of your shirt. You nod in quiet consent before Robby’s slipping your shirt over your head. He steals another kiss from your lips before you feel a hand unsnap your bra. You let it fall to the floor, your feet gently swaying from the counter’s ledge while Robby eyes your bare chest. “You are so fucking beautiful,” he rasps before pressing a kiss to your collarbone. 

You can feel a hand inching up your thigh, making you regret wearing the track pants you threw on in haste to get to Robby’s house. He hates them too – he proves it when you feel him tugging at your pantlegs until they’re a heap on the floor. The cool quartz counter sends a chill up the backs of your thighs. It’s a stark contrast to the scalding heat between them.

Robby turns his attention to your breasts, cupping one while he takes the other in his mouth. You inhale sharply as his tongue flattens and flicks across your nipple. It’s enough to distract you from Robby’s hand roaming between your thighs, until two fingers drag across the fabric of your thong. You hadn’t realized how wet you were, but Robby groans as he touches the soaked cotton.

He rubs two fingers over your clothed clit, his mouth still sucking gently against your breast. Your core clenches around nothing.

“Fuck,” Robby groans as his fingers inch inside your thong to caress your folds. He strokes them gently, one finger on either side until they’re both coated with your arousal. When he presses his thumb to your clit, you whimper.

It’s enough to make Robby fold – literally. He hooks his arms through your legs and tugs you to the edge of the counter while he bends at the waist to bury his face between your thighs. Your legs are tossed over his shoulders as he pulls your thong to the side to lap at your clit. Your thigh muscles tense instantly.

“Fuck, Robby,” you hiss as his tongue becomes acquainted with your body. He hums in approval at the taste and his tongue rolls and flattens against your clit in rhythmic patterns. You grip the edge of the counter with one hand while the other tangles itself in Robby’s hair. Your knuckles match the white countertop as if it’s the only thing anchoring you to Earth.

“Knew you’d taste so good,” he grunts against your flesh before he dives back in, his tongue prodding past your folds. 

He takes his time. His tongue is fast, then far too slow, frenzied yet deliberate. Even here, Robby thrives for controlled chaos. And even here, he loves being the one in control.

You feel a familiar ache mounting within your lower belly. It tightens at first, making you clench your walls in desperation for a release. 

“Robby,” you moan. You don’t know if it’s a warning or plea. Robby knows it’s both. He sucks on your clit, lips pulling against the pink flesh until he can feel the muscles tensing in your thighs. “Robby, I’m gonna-”

His tongue flattens and holds firm against your clit, triggering your release. You cry out as it folds you in half, one hand fisting his hair tightly as your body pulses. Your release seeps heavily from your core until it trickles onto the countertop. Robby’s tongue darts inside you to savor the aftermath.

Your body slackens into dead weight once your orgasm subsides. You sit back on your elbows, gazing downward at Robby through half-lidded eyes while he straights up, his beard slick and his sweatpants bulging.

Your head is clouded with juxtaposition – satisfied and exhausted from such a searing orgasm, yet hungry and excited for more. The latter emotions surge to the forefront as you slide from the counter to your feet, though you don’t stand for long.

You smirk at Robby as you drop to your knees, tugging his sweatpants downward in the process. He’s wearing nothing beneath them, which makes him even more appealing. But the real surprise is the size of his hard cock. Thoughts of how you’re going to take so much hover in the back of your mind, but you suppress them for the task at hand.

Robby groans as you take him slowly in your mouth. Your tongue glides against his shaft to accommodate as much of him as possible, until you’re gurgling around him. 

“Fuck, sweetheart, you are so fucking good,” he mumbles. His head tips backward and his eyes fall shut. He, too, wants to memorize the feeling of your mouth assaulting his flesh.

Your head bobs as the back of your throat envelops the tip of his cock. You hold it there until your eyes begin to water and your nails leave crescent divots in the backs of Robby’s thighs. His head tilts forward again to gaze at you fondly. 

You hold his gaze and begin to suck, your eyes soft and your cheeks hollowed. Robby balls your hair in his fist into a makeshift ponytail and stares back. You’re nearly jarred by the look in them. You expected to see full-blown pupils in maxed out bedroom eyes. Instead, he’s looking at you like he’s seeing a woman for the first time; you’re enlightenment in the form of femme fatal. It hits you with the realization that here, you’re not merely his subordinate senior resident. Here, you’re the muse this man has looked to for four years. 

You take him all the way in again, lips wrapped around every inch possible, before you release him with a vulgar pop. Spit clings to your lips, keeping you connected to the tip of his cock. You’re the vision of sin Robby hopes to see in the final moment before he dies.

“Come here,” he growls with his fingers wrapped around your wrist. He tugs you to your feet and pulls you into a searing kiss. 

He steps backward to guide you toward the hallway, arms locked around your waist. You make it about 10 feet before Robby’s kissing you even harder, his cock jammed against your stomach in eager agony.

When it’s clear you’re both too impatient to make it to the bedroom, Robby redirects you toward the dining table, which is about three feet away. After he hoists you onto the table, your legs lock around him in a shameless, silent plea.

He kisses your neck as he guides you gently until you’re flat on your back. Before you can vocalize your desperation, Robby is standing over you, the tip of his cock nudging your entrance.

You hold your breath as he slips inside you. Your arousal has made you slick and pliable, but the stretch is still intense. Robby lets out a low hiss once he bottoms out. He holds his cock still as his gaze grazes over your frame, splayed out submissively below him.

“Jesus Christ, you’re fucking perfect,” he growls. You clench your walls in response.

He inhales sharply at the squeeze and juts his hips forward. You moan at the pressure that blooms through your core. Robby infers your response as encouragement and sets a steady pace, guiding his cock through your walls with a rhythm that makes you praise every higher power you don’t believe in.

You’ve got one hand gripping the edge of the table, the other swiping lazily over your clit. Robby knocks your hand away to do it himself, his thumb moving with precision to propel your orgasm. 

“Let me do that,” he orders. 

His eyes are everywhere – taking in the sacred sight of your breasts bouncing with every thrust, to your erotic point of union, where he watches your swollen cunt swallow his thick cock. Your moans fills the house while Robby chimes in with an occasional groan, still in disbelief over the compression of your tight heat.

“Robby, you feel so good,” you whine. Those words alone are damn near enough to make him come. Instead, he grits his teeth and pulls his cock from you, using the tip to slap your clit. It draws a cry from you that makes him smirk in satisfaction.

“Good girl,” he praises. “Taking my cock so fucking well.”

He sinks back inside you and notes the immediate hug of your greedy walls. He studies your expression – teeth gnawing at your lower lip, eyes half-lidded and glassy – and knows you’re teetering on the edge. 

He braces himself, hands clutching your hips firmly as his own snap harder with vulgar smacks. It knocks the wind from your lungs and leaves you whimpering breathlessly. His cock drives upward into your front wall, pushing you closer to the release you’re certain you’ll die without. 

When he returns a thumb to your clit, it triggers your reward. Your back arches off the table and you cry out as your walls throb around Robby’s cock. He grunts at the vision of you falling apart beneath him, your face contorted in focus while your hands clutch your breasts. It’s a masterpiece crafted only for him, a memory he’ll relive every time he sees you. He can only hope to recreate it in the future.

When your orgasm subsides, Robby stops pumping his cock inside you to pause, leaning forward to kiss you. The table beneath you is slick now.

“God, you look so fucking pretty when you come,” Robby murmurs in your ear. “Think you can give me one more?”

You don’t know how to respond. It’s far more than you bargained for, and far better than you even dreamed. You make a mental note to buy Dr. Abbot a round of beers in gratitude for sending you the address you’ll come to frequent in the future.

“I said, think you can give me one more?” Robby rasps, pulling you from your post-orgasm haze. You nod in response, your walls already threatening to pulse again. “Good,” Robby says as he straightens up. 

He resumes his thrusts with quiet focus. You gaze up at him while you have the chance – before his cock inevitably sends you into another searing spasm, incapable of coherent thought. His eyes meet yours but they don’t react. Instead, they seem to make a silent vow to give you whatever it is that you need – now, and in the future.

But in this moment, Robby’s more intent on making your eyes roll back into your head. He tests your waters by placing a gentle hand over your throat while he fucks you harder. You moan in approval.

“Good girl. Like you were made for me,” Robby rasps as he squeezes more pressure.

The table scrapes the hardwood beneath you as the scorching coil returns to your core. It stretches and pulls taut until your toes are curling and your nails are digging into the tabletop. Robby licks his lips and watches you approach your grand finale. 

“Fuck, Robby,” you beg. You’re shouting now, drowning out the obscene sounds of your soaked cunt welcoming Robby’s pistoning cock. He chews the inside of his cheek to ground himself. He’s close but knows you’re closer.

Finally, your walls begin to flutter and you unleash a sharp wail at the deep spasms coursing through you. They draw more slickness from your cunt until you’re breathless and boneless, a fucked-out spectacle that Robby can’t help but worship.

It ignites his own ending and he swears loudly as his cock twitches. He begins to spill inside you before he jerks his cock from your raw cunt to shower your body with the remainder. You moan at the hot ropes of his release clinging to your flushed skin.

Robby slumps over you instantly, exhausted and in awe of the high note on which his night has ended. You both catch your breath before Robby helps you get cleaned up and offers you a glass of water.

The kitchen returns to its previous state. He watches quietly as you stand at the sink and sip from the glass, welcoming its cool relief. A chill peppers your skin with goosebumps. 

When the water’s gone, you set the glass in the sink and turn to look at him. He’s still studying you. You can’t decide if it’s rousing or unsettling.

“I should get going-” you start, but Robby shakes his head, much to your relief. The last thing you want is to be anywhere but here, with the man who has reminded you you’re deserving of something more.

“Stay,” he says. His tone isn’t forceful, isn’t desperate. It’s not an order, nor is it a plea. It’s merely a declaration that Robby wants you by his side, too.

“Okay,” you whisper with the same surety. Robby smiles gently. The fridge stops humming.

Somewhere down the hall, his phone buzzes with a string of texts from Noelle that go unanswered. 

[themaladaptiveauthor]

Silent Spiral - Jack Abbot 

A single overheard phrase sends a newly dating nurse spiralling back into old betrayal, and she does everything she can to hide it. Jack Abbot follows her anyway, into the quiet, into the truth, and makes it clear she was never temporary. 4.5k

This was an ask, I love getting asks, the force me to think out of the box a little and I absolutely love it!! But this one was requested by someone anonymous, ohhhh mysterious, but honestly if you are reading this thank you so much for sending in an ask and thank you for you support in my pieces! I hope I did this one justice, enjoy! xxx

As always please go into this knowing that these stories are mostly built from my maladaptive daydreams, knowing that most points that aren't described in detail are indications I didn’t fascinate on it enough and others over explained because I hyper fixated on that certain point, but most importantly please know I do use AI as my unpaid employee to fix things and act as my co reader. Enjoy!

The ambulance bay doors slam open hard enough to make the whole ER flinch.

“Gunshot!”

The word slices straight through the background noise, monitors chirping, phones ringing, Dana’s clipboard tapping against the desk. Everyone’s heads turn at once, like the building itself has a reflex.

You’re already moving before you realise you’ve moved.

Trauma Two is prepped on instinct, muscle memory, routine. Gloves. Suction. A tray opened with hands that don’t shake, at least, not yet. You catch sight of the stretcher rolling in fast, paramedics pushing from the foot, and then your stomach tightens because Jack is right there beside it.

Not running. Jack never runs. He moves with purpose, long strides, shoulders square, voice low and steady as he speaks to the man on the gurney like he’s anchoring him with sound.

“Your gonna be fine my man,” Jack says, and the tone is different than the one he uses on most patients. It’s not the calm authority he wears for the department. It’s something else. Familiar. Protective. Personal.

The patient is in tactical gear, vest half cut away, blood soaking dark across his lower ribs. SWAT patch visible. The same tactical gear Jack was currently dressed in. One of Jack’s guys.

Your eyes flick to Jack automatically, searching for… what, you don’t know. Confirmation. A read. Anything. His face is composed, but you can see the set of his jaw, the way his focus locks in hard.

“Trauma Two,” Dana calls, and people scatter into their places.

Then you see it, a smear of blood along Jack’s sleeve near his shoulder.

It’s small. Barely anything. It could be from the patient, could be from the chaos of whatever the hell he was connected with before he came in, could be anything. Your brain supplies a soothing explanation before panic can get in.

Not his.

Not his.

You step in beside him anyway.

“Jack—” you start.

“I’m fine—Gauze,” he cuts in without looking at you, and it’s so immediate, so practiced, that it almost makes you laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s Jack. Because he’s always fine, even when everyone else is falling apart.

You swallow the rest of whatever you were going to say.

Work first. Always.

The trauma bay fills. Mohan appears opposite Jack, calm and focused. The SWAT officer groans as the stretcher locks.

“What happened?” Mohan asks.

“Crossfire,” Jack answers, already gloving. “Caught one low. Looks through-and-through.”

The officer clenches his jaw like he’s trying not to show pain. Jack leans closer, voice dropping again into that intimate register.

“You’re alright,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Your chest does something small and stupid at the sound of it. You push it down immediately. This is not the time. This is never the time.

You move like you’ve rehearsed this with him a hundred times. You hand him gauze before he asks again. You angle the light before he reaches. You already have suction ready because you know the moment he’ll want it. Working with Jack is rhythm. It’s predictability inside a place that offers none. You don’t have to think around him. You just… are.

And that’s part of what makes this so dangerous.

Because three days ago, only three, you were standing in the ambulance bay after shift, the sky paling with morning, and your voice had come out too honest.

“So what are we doing?”

He’d studied you for a long moment, expression unreadable, as if he was weighing something heavy with care. Jack doesn’t do impulsive. Jack doesn’t do reckless. Jack doesn’t do anything unless he means it.

“I’m trying,” he’d said quietly. “If you are.”

“I am,” you’d managed.

He’d stepped closer then, close enough you could feel his warmth, close enough you could smell coffee and antiseptic on his skin.

“Good,” he’d said, like the decision was already made.

And then he’d reached up, slowly, deliberately, and cupped your face as if you were something precious he didn’t want to spook. His thumb had brushed your cheekbone, eyes fixed on yours like he was taking you in, memorising you.

You’d wanted him to kiss you so badly it felt like your ribs might crack.

He didn’t.

He just held your face and looked at you like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

At the time, you’d told yourself it was restraint. That it was maturity. That it was him being careful because the age gap mattered more to him than it did to you.

But it also fed the hungry, insecure part of you that lived in the dark corners of your head.

Maybe he’s not sure.

Maybe he’s pacing himself because he’s not committed.

Maybe you’re temporary.

Maybe you’re—

You shove the thought away as the officer’s blood pressure dips and the whole room snaps tighter.

“Pressure’s dropping,” someone says.

“Blood,” Jack says immediately. His voice is calm. Controlled. But you see his eyes, harder now. Protective. This is his friend.

You move faster. Line. Fluids. Your fingers don’t fumble. You are excellent in a crisis because being excellent has always been safer than being seen.

The officer stabilises. The bleeding slows. Mohan begins stitching, and the adrenaline in the room finally starts to drain.

You step back, breathing carefully through your nose like you’ve learned to do when you’re trying not to show anything.

Jack peels off his gloves at the counter, and the smear of blood on his sleeve catches the light again. Your eyes snag on it.

He notices.

Of course he does.

You look away quickly, like you weren’t staring, like you weren’t thinking.

Not his. Not his.

He shifts, and for half a second his sleeve pulls enough that you glimpse skin, his wrist, under the fabric, just a flash. A thin line of red. A graze. Tiny, but sharp enough to look painful. Your focus shifts from the blood on his shoulder. 

Your stomach flips.

Jack’s hand moves automatically to tug the fabric back down.

He thinks you didn’t see.

You pretend you didn’t.

Because you’re careful at work. You have always been careful. Even before the two of you were together, you were careful not to stand too close, not to look too long, not to give anyone a reason to clock what you refused to admit to yourself, that you’d been dancing around him for months.

Robby knows, though. Of course he does.

Robby knows everything.

And Robby, sweet, terrifyingly perceptive Robby, had looked at you last week like he was reading a chart you didn’t realise you’d written.

“You good?” he’d asked casually while you were both sanitising your hands. Grabbing a new chart. 

You’d nodded too fast. “Yeah.”

He’d hummed, unconvinced. “You got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re trying real hard to convince yourself you don’t want something.”

You’d nearly dropped the chart.

Robby had smiled, soft and knowing. “You’re allowed to want him, you know.”

You’d forced a laugh. “He doesn’t—”

Robby had cut you off gently. “He does. I’ve known him a long time.”

You’d swallowed hard.

Robby had leaned in and lowered his voice. “Jack doesn’t attach to people. Not easily. If he’s looking at you the way he’s looking at you… he’s in.”

The word had made your heart race.

In.

You didn’t feel like you deserved that.

Not at twenty three. Not after what your ex did. Not after months of telling yourself Jack would eventually realise the flirting you two shared were a phase.

The SWAT officer is wheeled upstairs, stable now, and the ER’s chaos shifts to something more routine. You sanitised your hands. You chart. You move through your tasks like a ghost with purpose.

The smear of blood on Jack’s sleeve disappears beneath his jacket, and you force yourself to stop thinking about it.

You have patients. You have meds. You have a job.

You can’t afford to be emotional in the Pitt. Not on nights like this.

Time passes. The board fills and clears. A drunk guy in bed nine tries to flirt with a nurse and gets shut down brutally. A kid with an asthma attack finally starts breathing easier after a neb. A woman sobs quietly in triage, asking if she’s dying, and you hold her hand longer than you should because you remember what it feels like to be terrified and alone.

You work. You breathe. You function.

Then you walk past South eight.

The door is open. The room is quieter. Jack and Mohan are inside near the counter, talking in low voices. You aren’t trying to listen. You’re tired. You’re thinking about your next task, the next vitals, the next chart. But Jack is shirtless. 

But then you catch a snippet of conversation through the doorway.

Jack’s voice soothes out the door, low and calm. You’re unsure of what he said. 

Your steps slow, almost without permission.

Then Mohan laughs softly.

“Our little secret.”

Your feet stop.

The hallway narrows.

The fluorescent light seems suddenly harsher, brighter, like it’s cutting into your eyes.

Our little secret.

The phrase lands in your chest like a bullet.

It shouldn’t. It’s just words. It’s just a sentence. It’s nothing.

But you have a history with those words.

Your ex used to say it with a smile.

Our little secret.

When he’d come home late and you asked where he was and he’d kiss your forehead and tell you to stop being dramatic.

Our little secret.

When you saw a message on his phone and your stomach dropped and he laughed and said you were crazy.

Our little secret.

When you cried and he held your face and told you that if you trusted him you wouldn’t ask, and you apologised through tears for making him feel accused.

Our little secret.

When everyone else already knew.

When you were the last one to find out and it felt like the entire world had been laughing behind your back.

Your throat tightens so quickly you almost choke.

You keep walking.

You have to keep walking.

Because if you stay in front of that door you’ll hear more, and hearing more will make it real, and you can’t handle real right now.

You round the corner and press your hand to the counter, pretending you’re looking for something in the chart rack. Your fingers tremble faintly. You hide them by gripping harder.

No.

No, no, no.

Jack isn’t him.

Jack wouldn’t.

But the dark part of your brain, the part that learned survival through suspicion, whispers anyway.

You’ve been his girlfriend for three days.

You don’t know what he does when you’re not around.

You don’t know what he hides.

You don’t know—

You swallow hard and force your breathing to stay even.

You don’t cry at work.

You do not cry at work.

You were humiliated once. You won’t be humiliated again.

Across the ER, Jack steps out of the trauma room, and the first thing he does is look for you.

He always does.

He doesn’t even think about it. It’s automatic. He scans the station, the hall, the charting computers, looking for the familiar set of your shoulders, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re focused, the way you always stand slightly angled like you’re ready to move.

He finds you across the station.

But you don’t look up.

Jack’s brow furrows.

That’s odd.

You always look up.

He walks toward you quietly.

“Hey,” he says.

Your stomach flips.

Don’t look. Don’t—

You glance up fast.

“Hey,” you manage.

Your voice sounds normal. Thank God. You cling to that like it’s proof you’re okay.

Jack studies your face.

“Everything alright?” he asks.

It’s quiet. Concerned. The tone he uses when he’s trying not to push too hard.

Your ex used to ask the same thing.

Everything alright?

Like you were always the problem. Like your feelings were always an inconvenience. Like you were crazy for even questioning.

You force a smile that feels too tight.

“Yeah. Busy.”

Jack’s gaze doesn’t move. He looks at you like he’s trying to find something under your words.

Then, because he’s Jack and he’s careful, he nods.

“Okay.”

He walks away.

And you feel immediately sick with guilt.

Because he did nothing wrong—did he?

You don’t know.

That’s the point.

Your ex trained you to doubt yourself until even your instincts felt unreliable.

And now you’re standing in an ER, surrounded by fluorescent light and blood and the man you’ve wanted for months, and one phrase has turned your stomach into a knot.

You spend the next few hours avoiding him with surgical precision.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. You’re still doing your job. You’re still charting, still checking vitals, still moving.

But every time Jack drifts toward you, you drift away.

If he comes to the station, you go to the supply closet. If he turns down your hallway, you step into a room. If you catch sight of him approaching, you pick up a chart and walk in the opposite direction like you suddenly remembered something urgent.

Your heart keeps racing in small spikes.

Your hands keep trembling.

You keep your eyes down.

You keep your voice low.

You do not let anyone see.

Robby sees anyway.

Because Robby is relentless in his kindness.

He catches you at the medication cart, your fingers fumbling with a drawer you’ve opened a hundred times.

“You’re shaking,” he says quietly.

“I’m not,” you lie.

Robby’s eyes soften.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s not going to fight you on it. Like he knows fighting you will make you bolt. “You’re my nurse for today.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

Robby smiles faintly. “Congratulations. You’ve been promoted.”

“Robby—”

He holds up a hand. “I’m serious. You’re with me. We’re running cases together. I want you where I can see you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Why?”

Robby’s gaze flicks briefly, subtly, toward Jack across the station. Then back to you.

“Because something’s off,” he says gently. “And I’m not letting you drown quietly in the middle of my ER.”

The tenderness in his voice nearly undoes you.

You nod once, fast, before you can think too much about it.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Robby keeps you busy on purpose. He pulls you into cases, asks for your help, makes you move. It’s distraction disguised as work. It’s protection disguised as clinical need.

And it helps. A little.

But it doesn’t stop Jack from noticing.

Jack watches you avoid him like a patient with a symptom you refuse to admit. The pattern is too consistent to be coincidence. The distance is too intentional.

He tries again.

He catches you near the nurses’ station and says your name softly.

You pretend you didn’t hear and step away.

He tries in the hallway.

You duck into a room.

He tries once more, and you smile too quickly and tell him you’re fine.

Fine.

The word tastes like ash.

The shift drags toward morning, the ER slowly settling. Jack’s patience thins, not into anger, but into concern. Into that quiet desperation that happens when you want to fix something and you don’t know where it broke.

Finally, you slip toward the stairwell.

It’s instinct.

The stairwell is quiet. The stairwell is away from eyes. The stairwell is where you can breathe without the ER watching.

You push the door open, and the air changes immediately, cooler, echoing faintly, the hum of the hospital muffled behind concrete.

You take three steps down and press your back to the wall, exhaling shakily.

Your eyes burn.

No.

Not here.

Not now.

You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand, furious at yourself.

You don’t cry at work.

You don’t—

The stairwell door opens above you with a soft click.

Footsteps.

Slow.

Controlled.

You know them.

Your whole body tenses.

Jack steps into view, his silhouette framed in the harsh light from the hallway. He closes the door behind him gently, like he doesn’t want to startle you.

He takes a few steps down and stops, keeping distance at first.

“You’re running from me,” he says quietly.

You swallow hard.

“I’m not.”

Jack’s eyes stay on your face. “Don’t lie to me.”

Your throat closes.

You turn your face away, trying to hide the wetness you can’t stop now. Your shoulders shake once, betrayed by your body.

“Hey,” Jack says, and his voice shifts, softens. “Hey, look at me.”

You shake your head, staring at the concrete.

“Please,” he murmurs. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Your breath breaks.

You can’t do this.

You can’t be the girl crying in the stairwell over a misunderstanding. You can’t be the insecure twenty three year old with a history of being humiliated. You can’t—

Jack moves closer.

Not fast.

Not forcing.

But deliberate.

He reaches for you, and you flinch before you can stop yourself, not away from him, but away from the vulnerability.

Jack’s hands settle on your shoulders anyway, firm but gentle, turning you toward him.

You try to cover your face.

Jack catches your wrists softly and pulls them down.

And then his arms wrap around you, pulling you into him before you can decide to resist.

“Tell me what’s wrong, baby,” he says quietly into your hair.

The word baby cracks something inside you.

Because it’s not clinical.

It’s not professional.

It’s Jack.

It’s him choosing you in a way you can’t pretend is just teamwork.

Your throat tightens and the tears spill.

You try to hold them back, and fail.

You hate yourself for it.

Jack holds you tighter.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you. Just tell me.”

You sniff, shaking in his arms.

“I heard…” Your voice breaks. You swallow hard. “I heard Mohan.”

Jack goes still.

“What did you hear?”

You can barely say it.

“Our little secret.”

The phrase comes out small and ruined.

Jack’s entire body tenses, like he’s been punched.

He pulls back just enough to see your face.

You keep your eyes down.

“I—I don’t know what it was about,” you whisper. “I just… I heard it. And you came in with your SWAT guy and—”

Jack blinks, then swears under his breath, soft and furious. “God. Baby, no, not like that,”

The guilt hits his expression instantly, so sharp and honest it makes your stomach twist again.

“You think—” He stops. Re starts. “You think I was hiding something from you.”

You wipe your cheeks fast, ashamed.

“I know it’s stupid,” you whisper.

“It’s not,” Jack says immediately.

His hands move to your face, thumbs brushing tears away with a tenderness that hurts. He holds you still, forcing you to meet his eyes.

“You didn’t hear the whole conversation,” he says carefully. “You heard one line and your brain filled in the rest.”

Your lip trembles.

Jack’s jaw tightens. “I should’ve known. I should’ve realised you would have seen it that—”

He stops, breathes, then asks gently, “Why didn’t you walk in?”

You swallow. Your voice comes out shaking.

“My ex used to say that,” you whisper.

Jack goes still.

You force the words out anyway because you’re already bleeding emotionally, and there’s no point pretending.

“When he cheated on me,” you say, voice cracking. “More than once. Everyone knew. I didn’t. And every time I asked him, he—he told me if I trusted him I wouldn’t ask. He told me I was crazy. He told me I was paranoid. My crazy ideas of him being unfaithful was our little secret.”

Jack’s eyes darken, not with anger at you, anger at the memory. At the man. At the way you were treated.

You laugh once, broken. “So when I heard that, I just—” You shake your head, tears spilling again. “I felt stupid. Like I was back there again.”

Jack exhales shakily.

“No,” he says firmly. “No. You’re not back there.”

He draws you closer again, forehead nearly touching yours.

“I’m not him,” Jack says, each word slow, deliberate. “I’m not doing that to you.”

You nod, but your body is still trembling with the aftershock.

Jack closes his eyes for a second, and when he opens them, there’s regret written across his face.

“I didn’t chart my own wound,” he says quietly, “because if I do, it becomes a report. Cops. Statements. Questions. And my friend”—his voice tightens—“my guy, my family, was on that bed tonight. I didn’t want to deal with anything except getting him upstairs breathing. Mohan was helping where I couldn’t see.”

Your stomach drops.

“Your graze?” you whisper.

Jack hesitates, then gently pulls back the fabric at his shoulder.

The scrape is small, round, but angry-red. The kind of wound that stings every time you move. The kind of pain you can ignore only because you’ve trained yourself to ignore worse.

Your chest tightens.

“You’re hurt,” you whisper.

Jack huffs a humourless laugh. “I’m fine.”

You look at him sharply.

He softens immediately, like he hears himself.

“Okay,” he corrects. “It hurts. It’s not serious.”

You stare at it, then at him.

“And you didn’t tell me.”

“I didn’t want you worrying,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens again.

Because that’s the thing, he thinks he’s protecting you by withholding. By slowing down. By keeping distance. By not making this messy.

And you’ve been reading it as doubt. As hesitation. As you being temporary.

“I’m younger,” you whisper suddenly, the confession slipping out before you can stop it. “I know I am. I know you could have anyone. Anyone older, more… stable. More deserving. Someone stronger”

Jack’s expression goes stunned.

“What?”

You laugh shakily, wiping your cheeks again. “You’re Jack Abbot. You could have—anyone. And I’m just… me. Twenty three. Barely—” You swallow hard. “I keep thinking you’re taking it slow because you’re not sure.”

Jack’s eyes soften so much it almost hurts to look at him.

He cups your face again, thumbs brushing the last of your tears away with reverence.

“I’m taking it slow,” he says quietly, “because you told me what your ex, rushed you. Because I do not want to scare you away. Because I’m not going to be another man who takes from you when you’re still learning how to feel safe.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m taking it slow because I want you to trust me,” he continues, voice low and steady. “Not because I’m not sure. Because I am sure.”

Your throat tightens.

Jack leans in closer, his forehead hovering near yours.

“You’re not temporary,” he murmurs. “You’re not a placeholder. You’re not—anything less.”

You shake your head weakly. “But—”

Jack cuts you off, gentle but firm. “No.”

His thumb strokes your cheekbone.

“I’ve wanted you for months,” he admits quietly. “I’ve watched you walk through my ER like you belong here. I’ve watched you pretend you’re not scared of anything. I’ve watched you take care of everyone else and never ask anyone to take care of you.”

Your chest aches.

“And then you stood in the ambulance bay and asked me what we were doing,” he says, voice roughening slightly, “and you looked so damn brave I couldn’t breathe for a second.”

You let out a shaky laugh that turns into a sob.

Jack smiles faintly, soft, rare.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he says. “Not to your ex. Not to your head. Not to one stupid line Mohan said.”

He exhales, then adds quietly, “I want to kick my own ass for saying it where you could hear it. Misunderstand it.”

You swallow.

“Jack—”

He leans in before you can finish, and this time he doesn’t stop.

His hand stays at your jaw, fingers warm and sure, and his mouth presses to yours with a gentleness that feels like permission.

The kiss is slow.

Careful.

Not hungry.

It’s the kind of kiss that says, I’m here. I mean it. You’re safe.

Your hands grip his shirt as if you’re anchoring yourself to something real.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours.

“Okay?” he whispers.

You nod, breath shaky. “Okay.”

Jack’s thumb wipes a final tear from your cheek.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s go so you can look at this.”

He guides you up the steps, hand at your back like he refuses to let you drift away again. The ER noise swells as he opens the stairwell door, but it doesn’t feel as sharp now. Not with him beside you.

He leads you to an empty treatment room and sits on the edge of the bed while you pull across the curtain like you’ve done a thousand times for everyone else.

Your gloved hands circle the scrape gently.

Jack hisses once, involuntary.

You glance up. “You’re fine?”

Jack’s mouth twitches. “I’m fine.”

You give him a look.

He exhales. “It stings.”

“Good,” you mutter, and it comes out more affectionate than sharp.

Jack watches you with a softness that makes your chest warm.

“You’re shaking less,” he notes quietly.

You swallow. “Yeah.”

Jack’s hand lifts, hesitates, then settles over your wrist, steadying it.

“You can ask me,” he says. “If something feels wrong, you can ask.”

You nod.

“I won’t make you feel crazy,” he adds, voice low. “Ever.”

Your throat tightens again.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

Jack shakes his head.

“No. Don’t apologise for being scared.”

Your satisfied that the wound has been taken care of properly, that he isn’t in too much pain. You finish re-bandaging him, then step back.

Jack stands, adjusting his shirt, and for a second he just looks at you like he’s taking you in again, like he did in the ambulance bay.

Then he reaches for you, fingers brushing your cheek.

“You’re not temporary,” he repeats softly.

And the words settle somewhere deep in you, heavy and warm.

For the first time, in these three days, you believe him.

Because he didn’t get defensive.

He didn’t turn it on you.

He didn’t make you feel crazy.

He came after you. He held you. He asked. He listened. He chose you.

And when the ER doors swing open again and the next wave of chaos threatens to swallow the world whole, Jack’s hand stays at your back like a quiet promise.

With him.

You’re not alone in it anymore.

[pucksandpower]

That’s Amore

⟡ Part I

Macklin Celebrini x ice dancer!Reader

Summary: you’re an ice dancer who’s spent your entire life focused on one thing: winning. Romance? Distractions? Hard pass. Then a hockey player sees you across the Olympic Village and completely malfunctions. Like, stops-walking-gets-shoved-by-teammates-becomes-a-viral-TikTok kind of malfunctions. Your well-meaning coach and his well-meaning captain decide the solution is obvious: lock you both in a room with false promises of puppies and Mario Kart. Turns out, sometimes the best things happen when you stop trying to control everything. Sometimes love is just as terrifying as a triple twizzle. And maybe worth the risk.

Divided into two parts because this is long and tumblr hates me: read part II here ❤️

The Olympic Village in Milan smells like ambition and dry ice and somebody’s forgotten protein shake, and you have decided, firmly and finally, that you are going to ignore all of it.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of your room, legs stretched into a straddle so wide it would make a non-skater wince, rolling a tennis ball under your left hip flexor and staring at the footage on your laptop like it owes you something. The free dance. Third rotation of the midline step sequence. Your left edge keeps betraying you in the exact same spot, a tiny hesitation, barely visible unless you know what you’re looking for.

You know what you’re looking for.

Tristan Lamothe, your partner, your best friend, the person who has seen you cry over everything from a doubled twizzle to a broken nail to that one devastating episode of Heated Rivalry, is currently spread across your twin bed like he owns it. His skate bag is on the floor. His water bottle is on your nightstand. His phone is balanced on his chest, and he’s scrolling with the particular energy of someone who has absolutely nothing to do and plans to keep doing it indefinitely.

“You should download Hinge,” he says.

You don’t look up from your laptop.

“No.”

“I’m just saying-”

“Tristan.”

“It’s been redesigned. The interface is actually good now.”

“The answer was no in October, it was no in November, it was no when you made me sit through that entire TED Talk about modern dating, and it is no right now, in Milan, at the Olympics, where I am trying to work.”

He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on one hand, and gives you the look. You can feel it without seeing it. Ten years of partnership means you have memorized every single one of his expressions, including Look Number Seven, which is the one that says I love you but you are being genuinely unhinged about this.

“You’re watching practice footage,” he says.

“Yes.”

“We practiced four hours ago.”

“I’m aware.”

“Y/N.” He says your name like it has two extra syllables. A gift he has always had. “We are in Italy. We are at the Olympics. We are surrounded by, and I cannot stress this enough, some of the most genetically blessed athletes on the planet Earth, and you are watching your own twizzle on a laptop screen.”

“It’s not my twizzle, it’s my edge-”

“You are,” he continues, ignoring you completely, “determined to remain celibate for the rest of your natural life. Even my grandma is getting more action than you right now.”

You turn and look at him then. You can’t help it.

“Your grandma,” you say flatly, “is in a nursing home.”

He smirks. It is immediate and devastating and extremely annoying.

“She’s very popular with the male residents.”

You grab your pillow and scream into it.

The sound comes out muffled and long and deeply, genuinely cathartic, and when you lift your head, Tristan is grinning at the ceiling with the satisfaction of a man who has accomplished something meaningful.

“Feel better?”

“Marginally.”

“Good.” He sits up, crossing his legs, facing you properly now. This is his serious face, which means it’s even worse than the smirk. “Can I say the actual thing?”

“You’re going to regardless.”

“After the opening ceremony,” he begins.

“Tristan-”

“There was a Swedish snowboarder-”

“Tristan-”

“Making full bedroom eyes at you.” He holds up a hand to stop your protest. “Not ambiguous eyes. Not friendly eyes. Not ‘I appreciate you as a fellow Olympian’ eyes. Bedroom eyes. The man was basically building IKEA furniture with his stare.”

You close the laptop. Not because you’re giving in, but because this conversation has officially required your full attention and your edge correction can wait twenty minutes.

“I didn’t notice,” you say.

“That’s the problem.”

“That’s not a problem, that’s called being focused.”

“It’s called being willfully oblivious.” He tilts his head. “When’s the last time you went on a date?”

You open your mouth.

“And training dinners with me don’t count,” he adds.

You close your mouth.

He raises both eyebrows.

“Okay,” you say, pointing at him, “first of all, I’ve been busy-”

“You’ve been busy,” he repeats, in the voice he uses when he’s quoting you back to yourself in a way designed to make you feel foolish.

“We’ve been busy. The Grand Prix season, Nationals, Four Continents, and now this — Tristan, we’ve been on the ice six days a week since September, Scott has us on a training schedule that would make a Navy SEAL cry, and you want me to be downloading dating apps in the middle of all that?”

“I downloaded three dating apps during Grand Prix season.”

“And how did that go?”

“Incredibly well, actually, I’m still talking to the guy from Skate Canada-”

“That’s different.”

“How is it different?”

“Because you’re-” you gesture vaguely, “-you. You’re good at that. You’re charming and you know what you want and you just talk to people like it’s easy.”

Something shifts in his expression. He gets quieter, which for Tristan is significant, because Tristan’s baseline volume is set somewhere around theatrical.

“It’s easy for you too,” he says. “When you let it be.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you look at the closed laptop.

The thing about Tristan — the thing that nobody in the skating world quite understands when they look at your partnership from the outside, when they write their little articles and post their little edits set to whatever song is trending with the caption sorry but they’re OBVIOUSLY in love — is that he has known you longer and better than almost anyone alive. You have been on the ice together since you were nine years old, since you were two kids at the Gadbois Centre in Montreal being shuffled into ice dance because you were too chaotic for singles and too small for pairs, and somewhere in that first year you looked at each other across a spin and decided, wordlessly and permanently, to become the most important person in each other’s lives.

He’s been there for every edge. Every fall. Every silver medal that should have been gold. Every competition where the nerves ate you alive from the inside and you threw up in the bathroom at 5 AM and he sat on the floor next to you and didn’t say anything, just handed you a paper towel and a Werther’s Original from his jacket pocket, which is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for you and it came from your gay best friend.

That is the state of your romantic life.

“I just,” you start.

“You just what?”

You rub the back of your neck. “I want the gold medal, Trist. That’s the thing I want. Tessa and Scott won it in 2018 and now Scott coaches us, and I think about that all the time. I think about what it would mean to bring that home. For Canada. For him. For us.” You glance up. “I don’t want to be distracted.”

Tristan is quiet for a beat.

“When Tessa and Scott won the gold medal in 2018, she was fully living her best life-”

“You don’t know that-”

“I’m choosing to believe it.”

“Tristan!”

“I’m just saying!” He holds his hands up. “Love and sport don’t have to be enemies. That’s a false binary that you’ve constructed to protect yourself and I think your therapist would agree with me.”

“My therapist would tell me that’s a projection.”

“Your therapist says everything is a projection.”

“She’s usually right!”

You’re both laughing now, the way you always end up laughing, the laughter arriving before you even fully understand why and dissolving whatever tension had been building. It’s the best thing about him. The most unfair thing about him too — it’s very hard to maintain a righteous position when Tristan Lamothe is in the room.

He flops back against your pillow, dramatically, like he’s been shot.

“Okay,” he says, to the ceiling. “I won’t make you download Hinge.”

“Thank you.”

“I am, however, going to need you to acknowledge that the Swedish snowboarder was real and that he was looking at you.”

“I acknowledge nothing.”

“His name is Erik. I found his Instagram.”

“Tristan, oh my God-”

“Ninety thousand followers, very consistent aesthetic-”

“I don’t care about his Instagram!”

“You should-”

“I’m closing my eyes and counting to ten,” you announce, and you do, pressing your palms over your face, and Tristan, behind your eyelids, makes the specific sound he makes when he’s trying not to laugh and losing badly.

When you open your eyes, he’s sitting up again, and he’s got the softer look now. The real one. The one that doesn’t have a number because you’ve never needed to categorize it — you just know it means I see you and I’m on your side even when I’m annoying you.

“You know I just want you to be happy, right?” He says.

“I know.”

“And you know that being happy and winning are not mutually exclusive things.”

“I know.” You lean back against the wall. “I just think I want to win first. And then be happy.”

He considers this for a long moment.

“That’s extremely backwards,” he says finally.

“I know that too.”

He nods. Accepts it. Lets it be.

That’s the other thing about Tristan — he pushes, but he never forces. He’s been that way since you were nine, when you fell on your first outside edge and cried and he crouched down on the ice next to you and said, with great seriousness, do you wanna try again or do you want to sit here for a minute, and you said sit here, and he sat there with you on the cold ice without complaint until you were ready to stand.

He’s still doing that.

“Scott wants us in by nine tomorrow,” he says, shifting back to logistics the way you both always do, the skating filling back in like water. “He sent a voice memo. He sounded intense.”

“He always sounds intense.”

“He sounded specifically intense. He said something about the Italians fixing the ice and it being slower and he wants to adjust the timing on the step sequence entry.”

You straighten up. “Which step sequence?”

“The midline.”

Your eyes go immediately to the closed laptop.

Tristan gives you a look.

“I’m not going to say it,” he says.

“You were going to say ‘I told you so.’”

“I was absolutely going to say that, yes.” He stands, stretching, reaching his arms above his head until his spine cracks in three separate places, which is a sound you have made peace with after ten years. He grabs his water bottle off your nightstand. “Get some sleep. Ice time’s early.”

“I know.”

He pauses at the door, hand on the frame, glancing back at you with the kind of casual over-the-shoulder look that would send the ice dance fandom into complete cardiac arrest if they could see it.

“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I think we’re going to win.”

Something in your chest goes quiet and warm.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He’s fully serious now, all the theatre dropped. Just Tristan. Your Tristan, who has been your partner through every fall and every spin for a decade, who knows your skating better than he knows his own because he’s that kind of person. “I think we’re the best team here. I think Scott knows it, I think the judges have known it all season, and I think you know it too even when you’re too scared to say it out loud.”

You don’t say anything.

“And,” he adds, the grin coming back as he knocks twice on the doorframe, “I think the Swedish snowboarder thinks so too, but that’s not relevant right now.”

“Tristan-”

“Goodnight!” He’s already gone, the door clicking shut behind him, and his laugh travels down the hallway and disappears.

The room is quiet.

You sit there on the floor for a moment, tennis ball in your hand, the laptop dark, the sounds of the Village muffled through the window — music from somewhere, voices in languages you can pick apart one by one, the particular busy hum of four thousand athletes living in compressed, temporary, electric proximity.

You think about 2018. Tessa and Scott, the ice in Pyeongchang, the gold they brought home. You think about Scott in the rink in Montreal, his voice carrying across the ice, the way he talks about that medal sometimes when he’s really trying to make a point — not like it was the end of something, but like it was the proof of something. That patience was possible. That the work paid off. That you could want a thing for a very long time and still have it arrive.

You think about the midline step sequence. Your left edge. Third rotation.

You open the laptop.

Just for five more minutes.

***

Macklin has been awake for approximately twenty-seven hours, and he is beginning to suspect that his eyeballs are going to fall out of his head.

San Jose to New York was seven hours. New York to Milan was another eight. Add in the time spent in JFK waiting for the rest of Team Canada to assemble — NHL players filtering in from their respective cities, the coaching staff doing headcounts like they’re on a middle school field trip, the equipment managers performing some kind of logistical miracle to get everyone’s gear onto the charter — and Macklin has officially crossed the threshold from “tired” into “possibly no longer a corporeal being.”

He’s wearing the Team Canada-issued Lululemon tracksuit, which is objectively very nice and also makes him feel like a walking advertisement. Red and white, the maple leaf embroidered over his heart, the fabric somehow both technical and cozy in a way that makes him want to sleep standing up. Which he might actually do. It’s hard to say at this point.

“You good, Celly?” Seth Jarvis asks, bumping Macklin’s shoulder as they file through the Olympic Village check-in process.

“Yeah,” Macklin says, which is a lie.

“You look like you’re gonna pass out.”

“I’m not gonna pass out.”

“You look like a baby giraffe.”

“I don’t-” Macklin starts, and then he catches his reflection in one of the glass doors and realizes Seth is not entirely wrong. His legs feel vaguely theoretical. His spine is a suggestion.

Behind them, Brad Marchand is arguing with one of the volunteer organizers about room assignments, Tom Wilson is taking a selfie with the Olympic rings statue like it’s 2014, and Sidney Crosby is reading through some kind of informational packet with the focus of a man studying game film. The whole scene is deeply surreal, the kind of thing Macklin imagined a thousand times growing up and is now experiencing in real-time while his brain runs on fumes and airplane peanuts.

“They’re gonna put us in rooms soon,” Seth says, scrolling on his phone. “You gonna make it?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re swaying.”

“I’m not-”

“You are definitely swaying.”

Macklin plants his feet more firmly on the ground, which helps for approximately four seconds before his knees remember they’re tired too.

The check-in process is taking forever. There are clipboards. There are lanyards. There are about forty-seven different people in bright blue volunteer jackets saying things in Italian and English and occasionally French, all of which is blending together into a linguistic smoothie that Macklin’s brain is too exhausted to parse.

And then the doors open.

And you walk out.

The thing is, Macklin is genuinely not sure if you’re real.

You’re in a Team Canada jacket — the nice one, the puffer with the red and white colorblocking that all the athletes got — and black leggings and sneakers, your hair pulled back, a gym bag slung over your shoulder. You’re mid-conversation with the guy next to you, laughing at something he just said, your whole face bright with it, and Macklin’s brain, running on zero sleep and sheer force of will, does something it has never done before.

It just … stops.

Full system shutdown.

You’re the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his entire life, and he has been to galas and award shows and played hockey in front of sold-out arenas, and none of that prepared him for whatever is happening to his central nervous system right now.

You’re walking across the courtyard with the guy — tall, athletic, also in Team Canada gear, talking with his hands in that way people do when they’re telling a story they think is very funny. The two of you are completely at ease, the kind of comfortable body language that makes Macklin’s stomach do something complicated and unhappy, because of course you’re with someone, of course you are, why wouldn’t you be-

“Holy shit,” Seth says, very quietly, next to him.

Macklin doesn’t respond. He’s not sure he’s breathing.

Seth reaches over, puts one hand under Macklin’s jaw, and physically closes his mouth.

“You’re drooling,” Seth says.

“I’m not-”

“Definitely drooling.” Seth follows Macklin’s line of sight across the courtyard, to where you and the guy are now stopped near one of the bike racks, still talking. Seth lets out a low whistle. “Okay. I can’t even blame you for that one.”

“What’s happening?” Tom Wilson has appeared, because of course he has, because Macklin’s humiliation needs witnesses.

“Baby Celebrini’s having a moment,” Seth says.

“I’m not-”

“He’s very much having a moment.”

Tom looks. Tom grins. Tom has the specific energy of a man who has just discovered entertainment.

“Oh, this is good,” Tom says.

“It’s not-” Macklin tries.

“That’s a solid choice, kid,” Brad Marchand adds, materializing on Macklin’s other side like a chirping-based teleportation device. “Way out of your league, but solid.”

“I wasn’t-”

“You were absolutely-”

“Can everyone please-”

“Celly’s got a crush!” Tom announces, to approximately no one and everyone.

“I don’t-” Macklin’s face is on fire. His face is absolutely on fire, he can feel it, the red creeping up his neck and into his cheeks, and he’s going to murder his teammates, he’s going to actually commit a crime. “I just—she’s—I’m jet-lagged.”

“Uh-huh,” Seth says.

“I am! I’m hallucinating.”

“You think you’re hallucinating a whole person?”

“It’s possible!”

“It’s not possible,” Brad says. “She’s very real. And very much with that guy, looks like.”

Macklin’s stomach does the complicated thing again.

Across the courtyard, you’ve said something that makes the guy double over laughing, and you shove his shoulder, grinning, and the two of you start walking again, toward one of the other Canadian buildings.

“Yeah,” Macklin says, trying to sound normal and casual and like his entire life hasn’t just been upended by a thirty-second glimpse of a stranger. “Yeah, no, I figured.”

“Macklin.”

It’s Sidney Crosby.

Everyone shuts up immediately, which is what happens when Sidney Crosby says your name, because Sidney Crosby is Sidney Crosby and also the team captain and also possibly the best hockey player alive, and Macklin has spent the last two days trying very hard not to weird him out by staring.

Sid steps into the little circle they’ve formed, hands in the pockets of his Team Canada jacket, expression calm.

“We’re here to win,” Sid says.

“Yes sir,” Macklin says immediately.

“But that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy the experience.”

Macklin blinks.

Sid nods toward you, across the courtyard, where you’re now stopped again, the guy gesturing animatedly about something.

“You should go introduce yourself,” Sid says.

Macklin’s brain short-circuits for the second time in three minutes.

“I—what?”

“Just go say hi.”

“I can’t-”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s-” Macklin gestures helplessly in your direction. “She’s clearly with that guy.”

There is a pause.

And then, very unfortunately, several of Macklin’s teammates start laughing.

Not all of them. Sid’s not laughing. But Seth is. Tom is. Mitch Marner is actively wheezing. Even some of the guys who’d been focused on check-in have tuned into the conversation and are now grinning in a way that makes Macklin want to sink directly into the Italian pavement.

“What?” Macklin says.

“Oh buddy,” Seth says, clapping him on the shoulder.

“What?”

Tom is actually wiping his eyes. “You’re serious right now.”

“About what?”

“Mack,” Mitch says, trying to pull himself together and failing. “That guy is very gay.”

Macklin looks back across the courtyard.

You and the guy are walking again, his arm looped through yours now in a way that Macklin had interpreted as romantic approximately ninety seconds ago and is now realizing might be something else entirely.

“How do you-” Macklin starts.

“The vibes, kid,” Tom says.

“The vibes?”

“Trust us on this one,” Seth says. “That is not her boyfriend.”

“You don’t know that-”

“I would bet actual money on it.”

“Me too,” Mitch says.

“Me three,” Tom adds.

Macklin looks at Sid, who shrugs.

“They’re probably right,” Sid says.

“You can’t just-” Macklin runs a hand through his hair, which is definitely doing something unhinged right now after twenty-seven hours of travel and zero showers. “You can’t just assume someone’s gay because of vibes.”

“You can when the vibes are that strong,” Tom says.

“Okay but even if-” Macklin takes a breath. Tries to locate a coherent thought. Fails. “Even if he’s not her boyfriend, I can’t just walk over there.”

“Why not?” Sid asks.

“Because I look like-” Macklin gestures at himself. “I’ve been awake for a full day, I’m wearing a tracksuit, I probably smell like airplane-”

“You definitely smell like airplane,” Seth confirms.

“Not helping.”

“Just being honest.”

“And also,” Macklin continues, “I don’t even know who she is. I can’t just walk up to a random person and—what, introduce myself? That’s insane.”

“That’s literally what people do,” Brad says.

“At normal places! Not at the Olympics!”

“Especially at the Olympics,” Tom says. “Do you know how many Olympic Village hookups happen?”

“I don’t want to-” Macklin stops. Regroups. “I’m not trying to hook up with anyone, I’m trying to win a gold medal.”

“You can do both,” Tom says cheerfully.

“I really don’t think-”

“Mack.” Sid again, cutting through the noise with the kind of calm authority that makes Macklin’s spine straighten automatically. “You’re overthinking it.”

“I’m really not-”

“You are.” Sid’s almost smiling now, which is deeply unfair. “It’s the Olympics. Everyone’s nervous. Everyone’s excited. Just go say hi. Worst case, she’s not interested. Best case …” He shrugs. “You make a friend.”

“A friend,” Macklin repeats.

“Or more than a friend,” Seth adds.

“Seth-”

“I’m just saying!”

Macklin looks back across the courtyard, but you’re gone. You and the guy — the maybe-gay guy, according to the vibes council — have disappeared into one of the buildings, and the moment has passed, and Macklin feels a strange combination of relief and disappointment that he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

“She’s gone,” he says.

“She’s in the Village,” Brad points out. “You’ll see her again.”

“Maybe.”

“Definitely,” Tom says. “It’s not that big. And you’re both Team Canada. You’ll run into each other.”

“And when you do,” Seth says, grinning, “you’re going to actually talk to her like a normal human person.”

“I talk like a normal human person.”

“You talk like a guy who’s had too much media training.”

“I’ve had no media training-”

“Explains a lot actually,” Brad mutters.

One of the organizers calls for the Canadian hockey team, and the group starts moving toward the check-in desks, the conversation dissolving into the general noise of athletes and luggage and people trying to figure out where they’re supposed to be.

Macklin follows, his brain still approximately three steps behind his body.

He’s not sure what just happened. He saw a girl. A beautiful girl. A girl who made his entire cardiovascular system forget how to function. And now he’s being actively encouraged by Sidney Crosby to introduce himself, which feels like some kind of alternate universe situation that he hasn’t fully processed.

“You good?” Sid asks, falling into step next to him.

“Yeah,” Macklin says. “Just tired.”

“Get some sleep,” Sid says. “We’ve got practice tomorrow morning. And try not to stress about the girl.”

“I’m not-”

Sid gives him a look.

“Okay,” Macklin admits. “Maybe a little.”

“It’s the Olympics,” Sid says. “Everyone’s a little stressed about something.” He pauses. “But for what it’s worth? You really should talk to her. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes Macklin think Sid is speaking from experience, but before he can ask, they’re at the check-in desk and someone’s handing Macklin a folder with his room assignment and a map of the Village and approximately twelve different informational packets about things he’s too tired to read.

***

His room is small and clean and has two twin beds, which means he has a roommate, which turns out to be Seth because the universe has a sense of humor.

“Don’t worry,” Seth says, dropping his bag on the bed by the window. “I won’t tell the whole team you’re in love.”

“I’m not in love-”

“You’re in something.”

“I saw her for thirty seconds.”

“Powerful thirty seconds.”

Macklin sits down on his bed and puts his head in his hands.

“I’m so tired,” he says.

“Then sleep.”

“I can’t. My brain won’t stop.”

“Thinking about the girl?”

“No. Maybe. I don’t know.” He looks up. “Do you actually think that guy was gay?”

Seth considers this. “Yeah, honestly. The arm-loop thing? The energy? I’d put money on it.”

“That doesn’t mean she’s single.”

“It doesn’t mean she’s not.”

Macklin flops backward onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.

The ceiling is white. The ceiling is boring. The ceiling is not a beautiful girl in a Team Canada jacket who smiled like sunlight.

“This is stupid,” he says.

“It’s not stupid.”

“I don’t even know her name.”

“So find out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know, ask literally any other Canadian athlete? It’s not a covert operation, Mack. She’s on the team. Someone knows who she is.”

Macklin turns his head to look at Seth, who’s now unpacking his toiletries with the efficiency of someone who has traveled to approximately one million hockey tournaments.

“You think I should actually do this,” Macklin says.

“I think you’d be dumb not to.” Seth tosses a travel-sized shampoo bottle into his bag. “Look, I get it. You’re focused on hockey. That’s good. That’s what you’re supposed to do. But dude, you’re nineteen years old at the Olympics. You’re allowed to talk to a pretty girl.”

“What if she thinks I’m weird?”

“Then she thinks you’re weird. You survive. You move on.”

“What if I completely embarrass myself?”

“Then you completely embarrass yourself. Again — you survive, you move on.”

“You’re very calm about this.”

“I’m very realistic about this.” Seth sits down on his own bed, facing Macklin. “You know what you’re gonna regret? Not trying. You know what you’re not gonna regret? Introducing yourself to someone and it not working out. That’s just data. That’s just life.”

Macklin stares at him.

“When did you become wise?” He asks.

“I’ve always been wise. You’ve just been too busy being a first-overall pick to notice.”

“That’s fair.”

They’re quiet for a moment. Outside, the sounds of the Olympic Village filter through the window — voices in half a dozen languages, someone’s music playing, the particular buzz of a few thousand people living in temporary, concentrated proximity.

“Get some sleep,” Seth says finally. “Practice is early. And if we run into her tomorrow, you’re saying hi.”

“We’re not gonna run into her-”

“It’s the Olympic Village. It’s like a small town. We’re absolutely gonna run into her.”

Macklin closes his eyes.

He’s not sure if Seth is right. But he’s also not sure if Seth is wrong.

And somewhere in the space between those two uncertainties, with the weight of twenty-seven hours of travel pressing down on him and the strange electric possibility of the Olympics humming just outside his window, Macklin falls asleep still wearing his Team Canada tracksuit, and dreams of a girl whose name he doesn’t know.

***

Your favorite program ever was Tessa and Scott’s Moulin Rouge free dance from the 2018 Olympics.

You were eleven years old, sitting cross-legged on the carpet in your parents’ living room in Montreal at some ungodly hour of the morning because of the time difference, and you watched them skate and you cried. Just openly cried, tears running down your face, because it was the most beautiful thing you had ever seen. The passion, the storytelling, the way they moved like one person split into two bodies. Your mom came downstairs and found you still sitting there after it was over, the TV on the post-skate commentary, your face wet.

“That,” you said, pointing at the screen, “is what I want to do.”

Your mom smiled. “Then you’ll do it.”

Eight years later, you’re standing at the boards of the Milano Ice Skating Arena, thirty minutes before the free dance event begins, and you think you might throw up.

“You’re not going to throw up,” Tristan says, reading your mind with the precision of someone who has known you for a decade.

“I might.”

“You’re not.”

“I really, genuinely might.”

He reaches over and squeezes your hand. His fingers are cold. Yours are colder.

“We’ve done this a thousand times,” he says quietly.

“Not at the Olympics.”

“Same ice. Same program. Same us.”

You look at him. He’s in his costume already — black pants, a white shirt that will get progressively more torn-looking as the program goes on, the design deliberately distressed. Orpheus, climbing out of the underworld. The poet who looked back.

You’re in black too. A dress that looks simple until you move, and then it catches the light in fragments. Eurydice. The girl who loved him. The girl who died.

The program is Wait for Me from Hadestown, the musical, a cover version that your choreographer found on someone’s YouTube channel and that you immediately knew was perfect. It’s heartbreaking. It doesn’t have a happy ending. Orpheus looks back and Eurydice is lost and the whole thing is devastating and beautiful and when you and Tristan skated it for Scott for the first time, full-out, at the Ice Academy back in September, he cried.

Actually cried.

You’d never seen Scott Moir cry before.

“That’s the one,” he said, wiping his eyes, not embarrassed at all. “That’s your Olympic program.”

And now it’s time to skate it.

“Fournier Beaudry and Cizeron skated clean,” you say, because your brain is spiraling and it needs something to hold onto, even if that something is anxiety. The French team went right before you, and they were good. They’re always good. They also happen to be sexual assault apologists, so fuck them, but they were technically very good.

“We’re better,” Tristan says.

“Are we?”

“Yes.” He turns you to face him, both hands on your shoulders, his expression serious in the way it only gets when he’s about to say something true. “We are better. We’ve been better all season. You know it. I know it. Scott knows it.” He pauses. “And more importantly, this program is ours. It’s not theirs. They can’t skate this story. Only we can.”

You take a breath.

The arena is packed. You can hear the crowd, the particular sound of thousands of people in an enclosed space, the hum of anticipation. There are Canadian flags everywhere. You saw your parents in the stands during warmup, your dad with the flag painted on his face, your mom crying already and you haven’t even skated yet.

Scott is at the boards, headset on, talking to the tech team. He catches your eye and nods once. It’s enough.

“Okay,” you say.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

Tristan grins. “Let’s go break some hearts.”

***

The thing about ice dance is that it’s not just skating.

It’s storytelling. It’s acting. It’s taking four minutes of music and turning it into something that makes people feel things, something that stays with them long after you’ve left the ice.

And this program is everything.

The opening notes are quiet. Almost hesitant. You’re standing at center ice, Tristan behind you, his hand on your shoulder. Eurydice and Orpheus, before everything went wrong.

The music builds.

You move.

The first lift is a rotational, Tristan holding you as you spiral above him, and you can feel the ice underneath, the edges sharp and certain, the muscle memory of a thousand practice runs taking over. You land and the twizzles start — synchronized, fast, the kind of technical element that the judges love and that looks effortless but requires every ounce of focus you have.

The step sequence comes at the two-minute mark. The midline sequence, the one you’ve been obsessing over, the one where your left edge kept betraying you in practice. But not now. Now it’s perfect. Now you and Tristan are moving as one, the music swelling, the story unfolding.

Orpheus is leading Eurydice out of the underworld.

He’s not supposed to look back.

The second lift is a straight-line, Tristan carrying you across the ice, and you can see the judges in your peripheral vision, their faces focused, their pens moving. You land and immediately go into the circular step sequence, the hardest one, the one where you’re moving in opposite directions and have to maintain exact spacing and timing and twizzles.

You hit every beat.

The music shifts.

This is the part where it breaks.

Orpheus looks back.

The choreography here is devastating. Tristan reaches for you and you’re just out of reach. You reach back and he’s moving away. It’s a chase that can’t be won, a love that can’t be saved, and you’re skating it like your life depends on it because in this moment, it does.

The final lift is a reverse rotational. You’re above Tristan, spinning, and then you’re sliding down, your hand reaching for his face, and the music is fading and you’re on your knees on the ice and he’s standing above you and the last note ends and- 

Silence.

For one heartbeat, the arena is completely silent.

And then it erupts.

You’re crying before you even stand up.

Tristan pulls you to your feet and you’re both shaking, holding onto each other, and the crowd is on their feet and the noise is deafening and you can see Scott at the boards and he’s crying again, openly, his hands pressed to his face.

“Holy shit,” Tristan says into your ear.

“Did we-”

“We just won the Olympics.”

“We don’t know that-”

“We just won the fucking Olympics.”

You’re still crying. The crowd is still screaming. Someone throws a stuffed animal onto the ice — a beaver wearing a tiny Canadian flag — and Tristan skates over to pick it up, holding it above his head like a trophy.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“I told you,” Tristan says, and he’s crying now too, both of you just standing there sobbing in your costumes while the arena loses its mind around you.

Proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

***

The actual medal ceremony happens later, but the aftermath is immediate and overwhelming.

The mixed zone is chaos. Every Canadian reporter wants a comment. Someone from CBC is crying. The Olympic Broadcasting Service wants you to describe the program and you can barely speak. Tristan does most of the talking, which is good, because Tristan is good at talking and you are currently a non-verbal puddle of emotions.

“It’s a story about love and loss,” Tristan is saying into a microphone, your hand still gripped in his. “About how sometimes loving someone isn’t enough. And I think that’s something everyone can relate to, whether you’ve been in that situation or not. We wanted to tell that story honestly.”

“And skating it at the Olympics?” The reporter asks.

“It’s unreal,” you manage, finding your voice. “This is everything we’ve worked for. Everything we’ve dreamed about since we were nine years old. To do it here, with this program, with my best friend-” Your voice breaks. “Sorry. I’m going to cry again.”

“Don’t apologize,” the reporter says, and she’s smiling. “Congratulations. Canada is so proud of you both.”

***

By the time you get back to the Village, it’s late afternoon and your phone has approximately six thousand notifications.

You’re still in your Team Canada tracksuit, medal around your neck because you haven’t taken it off, and you’re walking through the Village with Tristan and Scott, who insisted on escorting you back like you might evaporate if he lets you out of his sight.

“I need you both to eat something,” Scott says. It’s possibly the fifteenth time he’s said this in the last hour.

“We will,” Tristan promises.

“Actual food. With protein and vegetables. Not just whatever pizza they’re giving out at the dining hall.”

“The dining hall has actual food-”

“Tristan.”

“Okay, yes, we will eat real food.”

Your phone buzzes. Again. You glance at it.

The program has gone viral.

Not just viral in a skating-fan way. Viral in a everyone on the internet is losing their minds way.

There are clips everywhere. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. People are editing it to different angles. People are crying in quote tweets. Someone made a version with the original Hadestown cast recording overlaid and it has four million views.

“This is insane,” you say, scrolling.

“Don’t read the comments,” Scott warns.

“I’m reading the comments.”

“Don’t-”

“Someone said they’ve watched it twenty times and they’re still crying.”

“Okay, that one you can read.”

Tristan leans over your shoulder, reading. “Oh my god, someone made a comparison video with the Moulin Rouge program.”

You stop walking.

“What?”

“Look.” He takes your phone, taps on the link.

It’s a split-screen video. Tessa and Scott on one side, you and Tristan on the other. The caption reads the evolution of Canadian ice dance excellence.

You watch for thirty seconds before you have to stop because you’re crying again.

“They’re comparing us to you,” you say.

“There’s no need to compare,” Scott says quietly. “You’re the next generation. And we’re so proud.”

He’s probably right. Tessa sent you a voice note earlier that you haven’t been able to listen to yet because you know you’ll completely fall apart.

“Come on,” Scott says, steering you both toward your building. “Food. Rest. The media tour continues and I need you both functional.”

***

Three buildings away, Macklin is lying on his bed in his Olympic Village room, scrolling through his phone, when the video appears on his timeline.

He’s supposed to be resting. Canada plays their first preliminary game tomorrow, and Coach wants everyone at 100%, which means naps and hydration and definitely not doom-scrolling social media. But Macklin is nineteen and his brain doesn’t turn off just because someone tells it to, so here he is.

The video autoplays.

Canadian ice dancers win GOLD with heartbreaking Hadestown program.

Macklin almost scrolls past it. He’s never been particularly into figure skating — he respects it, obviously, it’s incredibly athletic, but it’s not something he actively follows.

But then he sees the thumbnail.

It’s you.

Mid-performance, mid-lift, your head thrown back, your partner holding you above him, and even in a frozen frame you look devastating.

Macklin taps on the video.

The program starts.

For four minutes and three seconds, Macklin forgets to breathe.

It’s not just that you’re beautiful, although you are, even more so than you were in the courtyard yesterday. It’s not just that you’re an incredible skater, although that’s obvious within the first ten seconds.

It’s the story.

He’s never seen someone act on ice like that. He’s never seen two people move together with that kind of precision and emotion and trust. The lifts are insane — the technical difficulty is something even he, a non-figure-skater, can recognize — but it’s the way you and your partner tell the story that completely destroys him.

The reaching. The almost-touching. The moment at the end where you’re on your knees and your partner is standing above you and you reach up for his face and the music ends and-

“Fuck,” Macklin says, out loud, to his empty room.

He watches it again.

And then again.

By the fourth watch-through, Seth walks in.

“You good?” Seth asks, dropping his gym bag on the floor.

“Yeah,” Macklin says, not looking up.

“You’ve been watching that video for fifteen minutes.”

“No I haven’t.”

“Sure, and I’m Wayne Gretzky.”

Macklin finally looks up. Seth is grinning.

“That’s her, isn’t it?” Seth says. “The girl from yesterday.”

“I don’t-”

“That’s definitely her.”

Macklin closes his phone. Opens it. Looks at the screen again. Your face, frozen mid-performance, is devastating even in stillness.

“She just won a gold medal,” Macklin says.

“I’m aware.”

“In ice dance.”

“Also aware.”

“She’s-” Macklin struggles for words. “Did you watch it?”

“Not yet.”

“Watch it.”

Seth raises an eyebrow but takes his phone out, pulling up the video. Macklin watches Seth’s face as he watches the program. Watches him go from casually interested to genuinely absorbed.

When it’s over, Seth looks up.

“Okay,” Seth says. “That was fucking incredible.”

“Right?”

“Like, genuinely one of the most impressive things I’ve ever seen.”

“Right?”

“And you’re in love with her.”

“I’m not-” Macklin stops. Regroups. “I don’t know her.”

“You want to know her.”

“That’s different.”

“Not really.” Seth sits on his bed, facing Macklin. “So what are you gonna do about it?”

“Nothing.”

“Wrong answer.”

“She just won an Olympic gold medal. I can’t just—what, walk up to her and introduce myself? That’s insane.”

“Why is that insane?”

“Because she’s-” Macklin gestures at his phone, where the video is still paused. “She’s that. And I’m just some hockey player.”

“You’re literally on Team Canada at the Olympics.”

“So are twenty-two other guys.”

“Yeah, but you’re also nineteen, single, and actively losing your mind over her, so I feel like that gives you a unique position.”

Macklin flops backward on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t even know her name,” he says.

“So find out.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. Google? Instagram? Ask literally any other Canadian athlete?” Seth pauses. “Or you could just, I don’t know, talk to her when you see her.”

“I’m not gonna see her.”

“You saw her yesterday.”

“That was a coincidence.”

“And coincidences can happen twice.”

Seth disappears into the bathroom, and Macklin is left alone with his phone and the video and the steadily growing certainty that his life is about to get very complicated in a way he’s not remotely prepared for.

He watches the program one more time.

At the end, when you’re on your knees and the music fades and the crowd erupts, the camera catches your face for just a second. You’re crying. You’re devastated. You’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I’m so fucked,” Macklin says, to no one.

His phone doesn’t respond, but the video autoplays again, and he lets it.

***

The thing about winning an Olympic gold medal is that no one tells you about the media obligations.

You’d think someone would mention it. You’d think, at some point during the ten years of training and competing and slowly climbing the international ranks, someone would sit you down and say, “Hey, if you win, you’re going to spend the next eighteen hours talking to every single media outlet in Canada and also several from countries you’ve never even been to.”

But no one does.

So you spend the entire day after your free dance doing interviews.

CBC wants you for an hour. TSN wants you for forty-five minutes. The Olympic Broadcasting Service wants a sit-down with both you and Tristan. Someone from Radio-Canada needs a quote. The Toronto Star wants a phone interview. Instagram wants you to film a Reel. TikTok wants you to do a trend. Your agent calls and says that three separate brands want to talk about endorsement deals and can you please just send her a list of times you’re available in the next week, and you very politely tell her that you’re at the Olympics and you’ll get back to her when you’re not actively living in a temporary village in Italy.

By Friday afternoon, you’re exhausted.

You’re also still wearing your gold medal.

You’ve basically only taken it off to shower, and even then you hung it on the bathroom door hook so you could see it the entire time. Tristan has been doing the same thing. You ran into him in the hallway this morning and he was in a bathrobe and slides and his medal, and neither of you acknowledged how insane that was because it didn’t feel insane. It felt correct.

“Okay,” Tristan says, appearing in your doorway at 4 PM with the specific energy of someone who has A Plan. “We’re going to the hockey game.”

You look up from your laptop, where you’ve been attempting to answer emails and mostly just staring at photos of yourself on the podium.

“What hockey game?”

“Canada versus Switzerland. Men’s prelims. Starts at three.”

You blink. “We have tickets?”

“We have credentials. We’re Olympic athletes.” He says this like it’s obvious, which, fair. “We’re Canadians. With a gold medal. We can go wherever we want.”

“That’s not how it works-”

“That’s totally how it works.” He grins. “Come on. When’s the next time we’re going to get to watch Crosby and McDavid and MacKinnon all play together? On the same team? For Canada?”

He has a point.

You’re from London, Ontario, which means you’re a Maple Leafs fan by birth and by curse, which means that most of the players on Team Canada are people you spend the regular season actively rooting against. McDavid’s an Oiler. MacKinnon’s an Av. Crosby’s a Penguin. You love them as Canadian hockey players, but during the season they’re the enemy.

But right now?

Right now they’re all wearing the same maple leaf you are.

“Okay,” you say, closing your laptop. “Let’s go watch some hockey.”

***

The arena is smaller than you expected, which somehow makes it better.

You and Tristan get there early, credentials around your necks, and find seats in the Canadian section about fifteen rows up from the ice. The place is already filling in — a mix of Canadian fans in red and white, Swiss fans in their jerseys, and a general population of Olympics attendees who just want to watch good hockey.

Someone three rows behind you screams when they see you.

“OH MY GOD, YOU’RE THE ICE DANCERS!”

You turn around. It’s a woman, maybe mid-thirties, in a Canada jersey and a toque that says EH in large letters.

“Hi,” you say, smiling.

“Can I get a photo?” She’s already pulling out her phone. “My daughter is eight and she wants to be an ice dancer because of you two. She’s been watching your program on repeat for two days.”

Your chest does something warm and complicated.

“Of course,” Tristan says, and you both lean back so she can get the angle, and she takes about fifteen photos and thanks you profusely and tells you you’re an inspiration and you’re going to cry again, you can feel it building.

“Don’t cry at the hockey game,” Tristan mutters as you sit back down.

“I’m not crying.”

“You’re about to cry.”

“I’m not-”

The woman’s daughter is going to be an ice dancer because of you.

Okay, you’re crying a little.

Tristan hands you a tissue from his jacket pocket without comment, and you love him for approximately the nine-thousandth time.

The teams come out for warmups.

The crowd gets loud.

You watch as Team Canada files onto the ice  —  Crosby, McDavid, MacKinnon, Makar, all of them, the entire ridiculous collection of generational talent that somehow ended up on one roster. It’s absurd. It’s beautiful. It’s the kind of thing that hasn’t happened since 2014 and feels like a miracle.

“This is so cool,” you say.

“Right?” Tristan is grinning, his phone out, taking a video. “I’m sending this to my dad. He’s gonna lose his mind.”

You watch the players warm up. Watch them take shots on the goalie, skate lazy circles, the ease of professional athletes who have done this ten thousand times and somehow make it look effortless.

And then you see him.

Number 17.

Macklin Celebrini.

You know who he is, obviously. You’re a hockey fan. You watched him get drafted first overall to the Sharks. You’ve seen his highlights. You know he’s supposed to be the Next Big Thing, the future of the franchise, all of that.

But knowing who someone is and seeing them in person are two very different things.

He’s young. That’s the first thing you notice. He’s your age, or close to it, and he moves on the ice with the kind of confidence that comes from being very, very good at something from a very young age. He takes a shot. It goes bar-down. He grins at whoever’s in net — you can’t see the number from here — and skates back to the line.

“He’s good,” Tristan says, following your gaze.

“He’s nineteen.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not playing Olympic hockey at nineteen.”

“You just won an Olympic gold medal in ice dance at nineteen, so I’d say it’s a fair trade.”

***

Canada dominates.

It’s not even close.

By the end of the first period it’s 2-1 thanks to McDavid and Harley, who are playing like men possessed. The Swiss are good — they’re Olympic-level athletes, they’re all good — but they’re not this.

You’re on your feet more than you’re sitting.

Tristan keeps elbowing you every time you scream, which is often, because you’ve discovered that watching hockey when you’re allowed to cheer for all the players instead of agonizing over your Leafs’ defensive breakdowns is significantly more fun.

“This is amazing!” You yell over the crowd noise after Canada gets a powerplay a minute into the second period.

“You’re insane!” Tristan yells back, but he’s grinning.

“I’M PATRIOTIC!”

“YOU’RE UNHINGED!”

Less than three minutes later, just after the powerplay ends, MacKinnon sets up the most beautiful breakout pass you’ve ever seen, and it ends up on Celebrini’s stick at the blue line. He cuts inside, dekes around a Swiss defender like the guy isn’t even there, and slides it five-hole on the goalie.

The goal horn sounds.

The crowd erupts.

You scream so loud your throat hurts.

“THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE!” You’re yelling, to no one and everyone. “THAT’S A GOAL! THAT’S A FUCKING GOAL!”

Tristan is laughing so hard he’s doubled over.

“You need to calm down,” he wheezes.

“I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! DID YOU SEE THAT DEKE?”

“Everyone in Milan saw that deke-”

“THAT’S WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU’RE FIRST OVERALL!”

On the ice, Celebrini is being mobbed by his teammates. He’s grinning, the kind of pure joy that comes from scoring at the Olympics, and even from fifteen rows up you can see how young he looks. How genuinely thrilled.

It’s a good goal.

It’s a great goal.

Canada goes into the third period up 3-1, and you’re hoarse from screaming.

The final score is 5-1.

Canada was never in danger. Switzerland played hard, but this Canadian team is something else — the kind of collection of talent that makes you remember why you love hockey, why you grew up watching it, why you spent your childhood skating on frozen ponds in Ontario and dreaming about moments exactly like this.

The final horn sounds.

The Canadian players celebrate on the ice, the easy confidence of a team that knows they’re going through to the next round and isn’t worried about it.

You’re still standing, cheering, your voice basically gone.

“That was so fun,” you say, or try to say. It comes out as a croak.

“You’ve lost your voice,” Tristan observes.

“Worth it.”

“You screamed for two and a half hours straight.”

“WORTH IT.”

He shakes his head, grinning. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you lose your vocal cords entirely.”

But the crowd is slow-moving, everyone standing and talking and taking photos, and you’re in no rush. You’ve got nowhere to be. Your part of the Olympics is done. You won. You can stand in an arena in Milan and bask in the fact that you’re an Olympic gold medalist watching your country play hockey.

On the ice, the players are starting to leave, skating toward the tunnel that leads to the locker rooms.

The tunnel isn’t directly connected to the rink, which means they have to skate along the boards and then walk up a slight incline, past the first few rows of seats. A bunch of young fans — kids, mostly, in Canadian jerseys — have pressed up against the railing, and the players are slowing down to high-five them as they pass.

It’s sweet.

Crosby stops to sign something. McDavid ruffles a kid’s hair through the glass. Makar tosses a puck, and a girl who can’t be older than seven catches it and immediately bursts into tears.

You’re watching all of this with the specific warmth of someone who loves sports and loves watching athletes be good to fans, when you notice that one of the players has stopped moving entirely.

Number 17.

Celebrini.

He’s just … standing there.

Staring directly at you.

It takes you a second to realize he’s looking at you specifically.

At first you think maybe he’s looking past you, at someone in the rows behind, but no. His eyes are locked on yours, and he’s not moving, and it’s honestly kind of creepy? But also kind of flattering? But mostly creepy?

You do the only thing you can think to do.

You wave.

Slowly.

Awkwardly.

A little half-wave that you immediately regret because what are you, twelve?

Macklin blinks.

It’s the first time he’s blinked in what feels like a full minute, and the movement seems to reset something in his brain, because his mouth opens like he’s about to say something-

And then one of his teammates — you think it’s Seth Jarvis, based on the number — physically pushes him from behind.

“MOVE, CELLY!” Jarvis yells, loud enough that you can hear it from fifteen rows up.

Macklin stumbles forward, still looking back at you, and nearly trips over his own skates. Another teammate — definitely Crosby, you’d recognize that stride anywhere — grabs his shoulder and steers him toward the tunnel, and the entire group disappears into the corridor.

You’re left standing there, hand still half-raised in a wave, your brain trying to process what just happened.

“What,” Tristan says slowly, “was that?”

“I have no idea.”

“Did he just … stare at you?”

“I think so?”

“For like a full minute?”

“At least.”

“That was-”

“Creepy?”

“I was going to say intense, but sure, creepy works.”

You lower your hand, which is still frozen in mid-wave like you’re a malfunctioning robot.

In front of you, an elderly woman in a Swiss jersey who you hadn’t particularly noticed before turns around in her seat.

She’s got white hair and glasses and the kind of face that makes you think of grandmothers and warm cookies, and she’s smiling at you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Excuse me, dear,” she says. Her accent is Swiss-German, her English careful and precise.

“Yes?” You manage.

“That boy,” she says, nodding toward the tunnel where the Canadian team disappeared. “The one who was staring at you.”

“Um. Yes?”

“That’s how my husband looked at me the first time he saw me.” She’s still smiling, and there’s something deeply knowing in her expression. “We’ve been married for sixty-two years.”

You stare at her.

Your brain has officially short-circuited.

“I—what—I don’t-” you stammer.

“Just thought you should know,” the woman says pleasantly, and then she turns back around like she hasn’t just dropped a conversational bomb directly into your lap.

You look at Tristan.

Tristan looks at you.

“Did that just happen?” You ask.

“That absolutely just happened.”

“A Swiss grandmother just told me that a hockey player I’ve never spoken to looked at me the way her husband looked at her.”

“Yep.”

“And they’ve been married for sixty-two years.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What do I do with that information?”

“I genuinely have no idea.”

You sit down.

Stand up.

Sit down again.

“Okay,” you say. “Okay. That was—he was probably just—maybe he recognized us? From the ice dance? Maybe he was just, I don’t know, trying to place where he knew us from?”

“Y/N.”

“And the staring was just him thinking, like, ‘oh, those are the ice dancers,’ and he got distracted-”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

Tristan gives you a look. “That man was not thinking about ice dance.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I absolutely know that. That was not a ‘oh, I recognize you from the skating’ stare. That was a ‘I have lost all higher brain function’ stare.”

“That’s-” you start, and then you stop, because you don’t actually have a counterargument.

Because Tristan’s right.

That wasn’t a casual recognition stare.

That was something else entirely.

“This is insane,” you say.

“This is amazing,” Tristan corrects. “This is a romantic comedy happening in real time.”

“This is me having a panic attack in an Olympic hockey arena.”

“Why not both?”

“Tristan!”

He’s grinning now, full-force, the kind of grin that means he’s about to say something that will make your life significantly more complicated.

“Don’t,” you warn.

“I’m just saying-”

“Whatever you’re about to say, don’t say it.”

“He’s very cute.”

“TRISTAN.”

“He is! Objectively! And he just stared at you like you hung the moon!”

“He stared at me like a creep!”

“Potato, potahto.”

You put your face in your hands.

The crowd around you is thinning out, people filing toward the exits, but you’re still sitting there having a crisis while Tristan enjoys himself immensely.

“Okay,” you say finally, looking up. “Okay. Nothing happened. A hockey player looked at me weird. That’s it. That’s the whole story. We’re going to go back to the Village, eat some pasta, sleep for twelve hours, and forget this ever happened.”

“Sure,” Tristan says, in the tone of voice that means he absolutely does not believe you.

“I’m serious.”

“I know you are. That’s what makes it so funny.”

“I hate you.”

“You love me.” He stands, stretching. “Come on. Let’s get out of here before you spiral any harder.”

You follow him out of the arena, past the crowds and the vendors and the general chaos of a post-game Olympic venue, and the entire time you’re trying very hard not to think about the way Macklin Celebrini looked at you.

Like you were the only person in the arena.

Like he’d forgotten how to blink.

Like — and this is the part that’s really messing with you — like the Swiss grandmother was right.

“This is fine,” you mutter as you walk.

“Totally fine,” Tristan agrees, not even trying to hide his smile.

“Nothing is going to come of this.”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“I’m an Olympic gold medalist. I’m focused. I’m professional.”

“You’re in denial.”

“I’m realistic.”

Tristan doesn’t respond, just links his arm through yours as you walk back toward the Village, and you let him, because he’s your best friend and he’s put up with ten years of your nonsense and if he wants to think a random hockey player’s weird staring means something, you can let him have that.

Even if you’re absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent not thinking about it.

At all.

Not even a little bit.

Your phone buzzes.

It’s a text from your mom. Watched the hockey game! Canada looked great! Also someone filmed you in the stands and it’s going viral. You’re very enthusiastic. Love you!

Below it is a link to a TikTok.

You click on it.

It’s you. Screaming at the top of your lungs when Celebrini scored, your gold medal swinging around your neck, your face pure joy.

The caption reads Ice dance gold medalist Y/N Y/L/N is all of us watching Team Canada.

It has 250,000 likes.

“Oh no,” you say.

“What?” Tristan leans over to look.

He sees the video.

He starts laughing so hard he has to stop walking.

“I’m going to kill you,” you tell him.

“Worth it,” he wheezes.

Your phone buzzes again.

Another notification.

This one from Instagram.

You don’t want to look.

You look anyway.

It’s a video from someone in the arena. A different angle.

This one shows Macklin Celebrini stopping in his tracks and staring directly at where you’re sitting in the stands. Why did Celebrini just FREEZE???

The comments are already speculating.

“I’m deleting my social media,” you announce.

“You’re absolutely not,” Tristan says, still laughing.

“I’m moving to a remote cabin in the woods.”

“You hate bugs.”

“I’ll learn to love them.”

Your phone buzzes a third time.

You ignore it.

You’re going to ignore everything for the next twelve hours.

You’re going to go back to the Village, eat pasta, sleep, and when you wake up, this will all have blown over and you’ll be back to being a normal Olympic gold medalist whose biggest concern is whether or not to do a post-Olympic tour.

That’s the plan.

It’s a good plan.

It’s definitely going to work.

Right?

***

Sidney Crosby has won three Stanley Cups, two Olympic gold medals, and approximately every individual hockey award that exists.

He is widely considered one of the greatest players of all time.

He is a leader, a professional, a person who takes his responsibilities seriously and conducts himself with dignity both on and off the ice.

Which is why, when he physically pulls Mitch Marner into a storage closet in the Olympic Village at 9 PM on a Friday night, Mitch is understandably confused.

“Uh,” Mitch says, as Sid closes the door behind them. “Sid? What’s-”

“I need you to do something for me,” Sid says.

The closet is small. There are mops. There’s a bucket. There’s a very strong smell of industrial cleaner. Mitch is pressed up against a shelf of paper towels, and Sid is blocking the door, and this is, objectively, insane.

“Okay,” Mitch says slowly. “Could we do this thing not in a closet?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s sensitive.”

“What’s sensitive?”

“Celebrini.”

Mitch blinks. “What about Celebrini?”

“He saw a girl.”

There is a long pause.

“I’m sorry,” Mitch says. “You pulled me into a closet to tell me that a nineteen-year-old saw a girl?”

“Not just any girl.” Sid is very serious. Too serious. The kind of serious that Mitch usually associates with game seven overtime situations, not whatever this is. “The ice dancer. The one who won gold. Y/N Y/L/N.”

“Okay?”

“He’s in love with her.”

“He doesn’t know her.”

“Irrelevant.”

“Sid-”

“Mitch.” Sid puts both hands on Mitch’s shoulders, which is somehow more alarming than the closet situation. “I watched this kid see her at the hockey game tonight, and he stopped walking. Just completely shut down. Jarvis had to physically push him to get him moving again.”

“So he thinks she’s pretty-”

“It was more than that.” Sid’s eyes are intense. “I’ve been in this sport for twenty years. I know what it looks like when someone gets hit by something they’re not ready for. And that kid got hit.”

Mitch stares at him.

“Are you,” Mitch says carefully, “having a midlife crisis?”

“I’m thirty-eight.”

“That’s literally midlife-”

“I’m trying to help a teammate.”

“By pulling me into a closet.”

“Yes.”

“To talk about his crush.”

“Yes.”

Mitch takes a deep breath. “Okay. Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say Mack is, I don’t know, experiencing some kind of Olympic Village rom-com situation. What does that have to do with me?”

“You played for the Leafs.”

“I’m aware.”

“Morgan Rielly is still on the Leafs.”

“Also aware.”

“Morgan Rielly is married to Tessa Virtue.”

“Yes, and-” Mitch stops. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

“Sid, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“You want me to call Morgan so that Morgan can get Tessa to—what, play matchmaker?”

“Not Tessa. Scott.”

“Scott?”

“Scott Moir. He coaches Y/N and her partner. If anyone can get her in a room with Mack, it’s him.”

Mitch stares at Sid for a long moment.

“This is the most insane thing you’ve ever asked me to do,” Mitch says.

“Is it?”

“Yes! We’re Olympic athletes! We’re supposed to be focused on hockey!”

“We won 5-1. We have a day before our next game. We can multitask.”

“This isn’t multitasking, this is-” Mitch stops. Runs a hand through his hair. “Does Mack even know you’re doing this?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Does he want help?”

“He’s nineteen and terrified. Of course he wants help. He just doesn’t know he wants help.”

“That’s not how consent works-”

“Mitch.” Sid’s voice goes softer. “I’m not asking you to force anything. I’m asking you to create an opportunity. That’s it. If they meet and nothing happens, fine. But if they meet and something does happen …” He shrugs. “Don’t you think they deserve that chance?”

Mitch looks at Sid.

Sid looks back, completely earnest.

“You’re genuinely invested in this,” Mitch says.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because-” Sid pauses, and for a second he looks almost vulnerable, which is deeply weird on Sidney Crosby. “Because we spend our whole lives focused on hockey. On winning. On being the best. And that’s important. That’s what we’re here for. But sometimes-” He stops. Starts again. “Sometimes you meet someone and it matters. And you should at least get the chance to see if it could be something.”

There’s a weight to the way he says it that makes Mitch think Sid is talking about more than just Macklin.

“Okay,” Mitch says finally. “Okay. I’ll call Morgan.”

Sid grins. “Thank you.”

“But if this blows up in our faces, I’m blaming you.”

“Fair.”

They emerge from the closet to find Tom Wilson leaning against the opposite wall, eating an apple.

“You two have a nice chat?” Tom asks innocently.

“Fuck off,” Mitch mutters.

Tom’s laugh follows them down the hallway.

❤️ Part II

[aleskie]

FIGHTER | Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

SUMMARY: Quinn doesn't get into fights. Except for tonight.

WORD COUNT: 940 WARNINGS: Gross comments directed at reader, but protective quinn is there for you! Also, one mention of quinn being captain (i'm still stuck at the restaurant)

AUTHORS NOTE: Dug this out of the drafts to say good bye to captain quinn.

Quinn doesn’t get into fights. Not off the ice, not on the ice. He’s steady and composed. A clean guy, a clean player.

He doesn’t start fights, tries not to engage in them. If anything, people come for him first, never the other way around. He’s respectful and unfailingly kind. The type who would fight against those unfair penalties like his life depended on it.

He’s the captain. No matter what, especially when it matters, he’ll stand up without hesitation. For the love of the game. For the win. For his team. 

And that team includes you.

Most would doubt it. But you don’t. Not when you’ve seen it all. The way he positions you at the safer end of everything, a quiet barrier between you and any dangers. The way his hand always finds yours, grounding you, like he’s saying without words that you are part of the things he protects.

He doesn’t need to raise his voice or throw a punch, his presence alone is enough. And it reminds you every time that being his means never having to stand alone. 

Because he’s on your team. Always.

Tonight is different though. Tonight, he’s pissed off. Furious.

Yeah, the team’s getting crushed. But he can handle that. He always can. And sure, the ref’s calls don’t make sense, but that’s nothing new either. He’s been through worse. He can swallow that too.

What he can’t let slide—what’s really making his blood boil—are the comments this one player keeps throwing around. About you.

It started in the penalty box. Unfair, obviously, because he did nothing wrong. He swears it. Maybe he should’ve just started something right there, ended it before it even began. But at first, it just sounded like the usual chirping. The kind that rolls off the back of a player too young, too loud, too cocky for his own good.

“Yeah, well, I could go and get your girl!” the player—Quinn doesn’t even bother remembering his name—calls over the glass, all swagger and no sense.

“Go ahead and fucking try,” Quinn shoots back, the words sharp but his tone controlled, a small smirk tugging at his lips. Because there’s no universe where you’d ever fall for that. And there’s no version of him that would ever let you go.

By the time he’s out of the box and back on the ice for a few minutes, his head’s cleared slightly. There’s no need to worry about some kid. He can let it go. Really, he can. It’s the sportsmanly thing to do.

But then the player appears before him again, grinning like he’s already won something, and Quinn’s restraint begins to crack.

One hard shove against his shoulder. “Your girl watching?”

Quinn ignores it, keeps his eye on the puck, keeps his awareness of the rink clear as he spins and rushes toward the goal.

Another check to his side. “Bet she’d be a blast later tonight. I could show her a real good time if you’re willing to—”

By the time the refs blow the whistle, Quinn’s gloves are off, and he has the kid pinned against the boards, shoving him back with a force no one expects, eyes dark with a warning he’s never delivered to anyone before.

The arena erupts. Chaos spreads like wildfire as a fight breaks out between the teams.

It takes multiple people to pry him off. He’s trembling with a mix of adrenaline and fury, his voice cutting through the noise.

“Don’t you fucking talk about her like that!”

Because chirping in hockey is normal. But bringing family into it? That’s war.

The Canucks lose. The locker room is silent. Coach doesn’t yell. The guys get it. Some of them pat him on the back as Coach talks about weak spots and how to manage them during a game.

He pretends to listen, nodding at the words, but his mind drifts elsewhere. You aren’t a weak spot. You’re the reason he keeps going. And no one was allowed to talk about you like that.

The media spins it as they always do. Commentators call him reckless, say his actions show a lack in discipline.

“You don’t talk about family,” he says when asked during the post-game interview. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t defend himself further. He lets the silence speak for itself.

Later that night, he’s lying in bed, knuckles bruised and body sore, but finally home with you. And you’re safe.

“I don’t need you to start fights for me,” you murmur, tracing circles on his back, feeling the tension leave him little by little.

“He shouldn’t have said any of that,” he replies, turning toward you, wrapping you in his arms like he’s making up for every word said against you.

“I know,” you say softly, pressing a light kiss to his shoulder.

“Are you alright?” he asks, fingers gently playing with your hair.

“I hate knowing what he said,” you admit. “But I’m lucky you’re willing to start fights with rookies to defend my honor.” You joke, feeling the rumble of his chest as he chuckles. “Just don’t start too many fights, yeah? They might start calling you a fighter instead of a defenceman.”

“I’d wage war for you,” he says, half joking, half earnest, and you feel the weight of both the words and the promise behind it. 

I’m on your corner. I’ve got your back.

You hum against him, letting the words and the quiet settle around you. For the first time all night, the weight lifts, and everything feels right again.

Quinn doesn’t get into fights.

Except tonight.

Because it was you.

[dontpulloutman]

ahhhh fuck this shit is BUZZY

[osteoglosssidae]

I miss Mindhunter.

[trashshart]

betting pool

dr abbot x resident!reader

a drunken girls’ night out results in you being brought into the pitt. or, the pitt staff and their bets on what the hell is going on with their attending and resident.

cw: mdni 18+. will they/won’t they, are they/aren’t they? some outside povs. dubcon? for drunk sex & angry sex (it’s consensual but y’know). semipublic sex. unprotected piv, oral (f and m receiving), spit as lube. jack being mean. age gap (reader’s exact age mentioned once but you can ignore it). injuries and medical inaccuracies. a lil angst, a lil sap, a lil smut, a lotta nonsense. shout out to my jack girlies, dis one’s 4 u

wc: 5.5k

———

john shen was a good doctor—cool, calm, and collected in the face of chaos. he was a good guy—quick to stand up for someone, to be a shoulder to cry on, to offer an easy joke to lighten the mood. but the one thing john was above all else was curious—chismoso according to princess and perlah; a nosy bitch to parker.

so when john sees a frazzled whitaker rush into the ambulance bay doors just after 11pm and grab a wheelchair, it catches his attention.

the pitt was relatively q-word for a saturday night, just enough of a lull in the action to make his last hour smooth—mid shifts really are the best of both worlds.

stepping toward the ambulance bay, john was met by them whooshing open.

“dumbass vs bar! eta now!” a cackling santos announces. she was pushing you in the wheelchair whitaker had just taken, your left leg raised up in the footrest, ankle all purple and swollen. your mascara was running down your cheeks despite you cackling right along santos.

“wait, wait!” santos laughs, “drunk vs table top dancing!” that caused more cackling.

whitaker rushes back in then, two purses, two jackets, and one strappy heel in hand.

“and what do we have here?” john asks as he approaches the trio, whitaker frantically trying to get the girls to quiet.

“johnny boy!” you yell on his approach. “i fought gravity and lost!”

whitaker—seemingly deemed designated driver and therefore sober—clarifies nervously, “uh, 27 year old female presents with severe pain in left ankle after falling from…height—“

“i was dancing on the bar!”

“—ankle had rapid swelling and bruising in route. um, and she’s drunk.”

john looks back down at the r2 in the wheelchair—clearly either the adrenaline or your drunkenness has lessened the pain, you once again cackling with santos about some guy in a fedora you saw earlier.

“south 22 is open,” lena calls from the hub.

“alright, let’s get you guys back—“ john is cut off by two emts pushing in a gurney.

“who the hell parked their car in the bay!?” one shouts.

whitaker let’s out a quick shit! before shoving the items from his arms into john’s.

11:23pm and he now had the perfect case to leave abbot.

SHEN $50 THEY JUST FRICK NASTY

———

jack abbot first took real notice of you during your first stretch of night shifts as an ms4.

you were smart, easily keeping up with the intern you’d been assigned to. you were a team-player, willing to step in wherever needed, even if that led you to scut work or covered in bodily fluids. you were kind, volunteering to hold a toddler’s hand while they received stitches instead of clamoring to do them yourself.

and yeah, jack noticed that you were attractive, okay? objectively, clinically—not in any way he would ever entertain, let himself think twice about. that was until he caught a whiff of your perfume at a patient’s bedside.

it was barely there, like you’d put it on that morning hoping it’d wear off before shift. but it was enough. enough for him to catch the faint vanilla sweetness. enough to be familiar.

enough to remind him of the scent his wife used to wear.

———

bridget takes over wheeling you into the pitt, trinity stumbling in her own heeled boots behind you, now holding your bags and coats.

“so, you all havin’ a fun night?” bridget teases as you arrive.

“yeah! girls’ night out!” you reply, precariously hopping into the bed.

“wasn’t dr. whitaker with you two?”

trinity snorts plopping into the now empty wheelchair, “yeah. like she said, girls’ night out.” that sent you both back into your hysterics.

bridget just smiles with a shake of her head as she sets up for your iv, throwing a blanket over your legs for good measure. your short dress continues to inch up in your antics, no need to give the whole er a show—maybe just a certain doctor.

“just couldn’t stay away, could ya?” bridget asks, making quick work of your iv. a hushed ow, shit! escaping you.

before you could, trinity answers. “she wanted t’see her maaaans,” rolling foward.

that catches the nurse’s attention. “oh, her mans, huh?”

you answer with an exaggerated dreamy sigh, “yeah, hal ‘n i got somethin’ special.” hal, the 70 year old, part-time security guard stationed at the metal detectors. hal, who’s been married for 40 years…to a man.

that earns another snort from trinity, you following shortly. bridget wheels trinity out of the room with a heeey! from both drunken doctors.

BRIDGET $20 ACCIDENTAL PREGNANCY

———

trinity santos wasn’t nice. she was tough and sarcastic and brutally honest, quick with a witty response or teasing dig. trinity santos wasn’t nice, but, as much as she liked to deny it, trinity santos was kind.

she befriended you during her second year of residency.

charting at the hub toward the end of a night shift, trinity couldn’t help but notice your phone vibrating on the counter—again.

“you gonna get that?” trinity asked with raised brows.

not looking up from the computer, you replied, “it’s just my landlord. he’ll leave a message if it’s important.”

“your landlord calls you at 4 in the morning for unimportant things?”

after a beat, you rushed to answer your phone and began walking to the break room.

a while later you returned red eyed and jittery, but went back to your charting without a word. if you weren’t going to mention it, trinity wasn’t going to either.

as he came to return a tablet, dr. abbot also noticed your change in demeanor. “you good, kid?”

head jerking up, you plastered on an obviously forced smile, “yeah! just bad news from the landlord. i’ll be—“ your voice caught in your throat.

dr. abbot looked at you, head leaning forward as to tell you to continue.

letting out a shaky breath, you did, “my apartment building flooded and since i’m on the ground floor my unit is trashed and my landlord said there’s no way i can stay there after my shift and that he won’t know how long the repairs will take or if he’ll just break the lease while work is happening and my roommate said she’s gonna stay with her boyfriend but that there’s no extra room so now i’m just out on the curb and i’m freaking out a little—“

you continued to panic at the nurses station, dr. abbot patting at your shoulder as some form of comfort.

as trinity stood to check on a patient, she caught dennis’ eyes from across the hub.

trinity, we have a couch, they seemed to say.

no fucking way, huckleberry, i haven’t gotten rid of you yet, she willed her expression to reply.

c’mon, he gave with a disappointed tilt of his head.

rolling her eyes, trinity turned to you. “hey, huckleberry and i have a pull-out couch. you can crash with us.”

that’s how you became trinity’s second offering from the fourth year medical student distribution system, one she hoped wouldn’t become a foster-fail like the last.

you ended up staying for two months until you found a new place.

SANTOS $20 SHE MARRIES HIM FOR HIS VA BENEFITS THEN HE MYSTERIOUSLY CROAKS

———

jack abbot’s residents were smart. he made sure of it. only the best and brightest able to last under his tutaledge. his residents were smart, but god could they be idiots.

so seeing santos and whitaker after hours, one clearly drunk sitting in a wheelchair, both dressed like they were going out, he knew it couldn’t be good.

“what are you two doing here?” jack asks as he approaches the pair.

“just an little accident at—“ whitaker answers at the same time santos says, “bar fight,” rolling herself back and forth in the wheelchair.

jack looks between the two. neither look injured—one clearly intoxicated, but not injured.

as if reading his thoughts, santos clarifies. “we’re fine, dr. abbot,” a shit-eating grin slowly growing on her face, “can’t say the same for twinkle toes over there.” she nods her head toward south 22.

looking up at the board, jack sees your name: possible ankle break, iv fluids started.

letting out a huff, he calls over to the other r2 at the far end of the nurses station, “javadi, with me.”

———

the first time you fucked jack abbot was in a bar bathroom toward the end of your final year of medical school.

the day shift had gone out to celebrate dana’s birthday, joined by a few night shift friends not scheduled that evening—jack included. a night filled with drinking and stories and shots and celebration.

you sat at a table with dana, cassie, and jack, picking at some over-priced appetizer platter and listening to them recount stories of the birthday girl. you hadn’t expected to be invited out with your colleagues, but dana insisted that everyone was welcome, even wide-eyed ms4s.

and maybe you were edging a little past tipsy, maybe you were just deluding yourself, but you swore you could feel jack continue to lean closer to you, his focus shift more intently on you. maybe it was the fifth drink you’d seen him down that night, maybe it was the months of you following him around like a starstruck idiot, but you swore you saw his eyes flicker down to your mouth more than once.

trinity appeared then, hands full of unnaturally pink shots, squeezing next to you into the chair you already occupied. “for the birthday girl!” she cheered, raising a shot glass in one hand and handing dana another, “and co,” signaling for the table’s other occupants to take one as well.

coughing after shooting down what must have been strawberry scented nail polish remover, you looked to jack. his normally stoic face was twisted into a look of horror, causing you to burst out laughing. his gaze returned to you, the corners of his mouth twitching up—eyes once again darting to your mouth.

before thinking, you quickly stood and announced that you were running to the restroom, shooting jack a look over your shoulder as you walked away.

it took 27 seconds—you counted—for him to join you in the room, clicking the lock shut behind him.

it took another 14—again, you counted—before his mouth crashed into yours, all clacking teeth and bumping noses, desperate and drunk.

pushing you against the sink, jack moved sloppy kisses across your cheek, over your jaw, down your neck.

“y’changed your perfume,” he said nosing behind your ear. not a question, an observation.

as his mouth moved lower to your collarbone, you answered, “gotta couple diff’rent ones. you noticed?”

jack didn’t reply, just let out an mmm as he worked at the button of your pants, swiftly pulling them down, trapped at the ankle by your shoes.

kneeling in front of you, jack lifted your legs to rest over his shoulders before he dove into you. he was sloppy, uncoordinated, moving your panties to the side to lick into your cunt.

he added his fingers after only a moment, a strangled moan ripping from your mouth at the intrusion. he sucked at your clit as he scissored his thick fingers, attempting to prepare you for the stretch of him.

the mix of alcohol and blood rushing from your head had you dizzy, intoxicated in more ways than one.

satisfied with his work, jack stood between your legs, trapped ankles locking around his hips. you both fumbled at his belt, pulling his jeans down only low enough to free his cock—red and angry and leaking and thick.

you let out a shaky breath as jack spit into his hand, giving a few tugs at his length. he again pulled your panties to the side before bringing himself to your entrance.

the thick of his head breaching your walls ripped a loud moan from you, jack moving his free hand up to quickly cover your mouth.

“y’gotta stay quiet. can’t let ‘em know,” he grunted as he continued to slowly thrust into you.

nodding your head behind his hand, he released it, and you brought him in for another desperate kiss, hand fisted in his hair, tongue fighting for entrance to his mouth.

jack began thrusting into you in earnest then, the wet smack of skin on skin echoing in the small room. he moved his hand back to your swollen clit then, fingers moving expertly to bring you closer to your orgasm.

you trade moans and grunts into each other’s mouths, you keening loudly, too loudly, as you’re brought over the edge, walls spasming around his thick cock.

and he didn’t ask. and you didn’t remind him. so when jack’s orgasm hit him, he came buried deep inside your fluttering warmth, mouth pressed tight against your neck.

after a few moments, he pulled out of you, cum leaking from your cunt. slipping off your shoe to allow one leg to go free, jack stepped back to tuck himself back into his pants.

before he could move out of your reach, you grabbed at the hem of his shirt. mind suddenly devoid of everything you’d ever wanted to say to him, you just stared up at jack, willing him to read your thoughts, for him to say something first. instead, he stepped in and placed a lingering kiss to your forehead before exiting back into the bar.

returning to your seat at the table, you didn’t notice that jack had gone to sit at the bar with robby, downing two more drinks since he’d arrived. leaning your head against trinity’s shoulder, you didn’t notice the drunken smile on your lips—you didn’t notice the knowing expressions adorning cassie and dana’s faces. letting your eyes flutter shut, you didn’t notice jack’s cum dripping out of you.

DANA $10 THEY DANCE AROUND IT UNTIL IT’S TOO LATE :(

MCKAY $10 THEY HOOK UP 1.5 TIMES

———

sometimes victoria javadi still can’t believe she decided to match into emergency medicine. most days it’s great—interesting, thrilling, challenging. some days it’s terrible—tragic, depressing, stomach-turning. but every so often, it’s eye roll-inducing, scoff-worthy, second-hand embarrassing—tonight is one of those nights.

walking into south 22 with dr. abbot, she comes face to face with her fellow r2—though gone are the normal black scrubs and bare face, replaced with a tiny going-out dress and the remnants of eye makeup. you currently had the foot of your good leg in your lap, trying to undo the one strappy heel you still wore.

“vicky!” you exclaim with a smile seeing the doctors’ arrival. “help a comrade out?”

before victoria can, dr. abbot steps forward and makes quick work of the heel, setting it next to the discarded one on the chair next to your coat—weird.

tucking your good leg back under the blanket, dr. abbot asks—smiling? “you really did a number on yourself, huh?”

in lieu of a real answer, you grin and lift your injured leg into the air, letting out a ding!, the hospital blanket the only thing keeping you from flashing everyone—jesus, you must be drunk. that gets an actual laugh from dr. abbot—so weird.

you vaguely listen as victoria presents the case, going over the initial treatment plan—pain meds and x-rays—and future possibilities—ortho consult, surgery, resetting, casting—more interested in the other doctor in the room.

“hey there, handsome,” you say to dr. abbot after victoria finishes, drunken smile on your face.

victoria gasps, quickly whispering, “please don’t say that about our boss, oh my god.” she could not be a witness to your hr violation, couldn’t let yourself get fired.

“why not? jackie’s a catch!” you say looking from dr. abbot to victoria.

“yeah, i’m a catch,” dr. abbot mocks. “i get sweet discounts and get to park wherever i want.” he doesn’t seem upset by the comment, so victoria just excuses herself to call x-ray.

so weird.

JAVADI $5 NOTHING (HE’S OLD, YOU GUYS!)

———

michael robinavitch was a good friend, or least he tried to be. his therapist helping him learn to open up to his friends, and in turn, encouraging his friends to open up to him.

but when robby’s closest friend—his brother in arms, his partner in crime, the pain in his ass—drunk in the passenger seat of his truck on the way home from dana’s party, asked, “get ‘er a dose’a levonorgestrel in the mornin’ fer me, yeah?” robby didn’t know how good of a friend he wanted to be.

“what?” he asked, head snapping between jack and the road.

jack murmured out something that sounded a whole lot like your name, then, “the mornin’ af’er pill. getter a dose. ‘m sure she’ll get one, but jus’in case.”

robby was rendered speechless for the rest of the drive to jack’s.

as he fumbled to open the door with his keys, jack poked robby in the chest. “lev’norges’rel,” all he said before swiftly opening and closing the door in robby’s face.

the next morning, robby found you—his med student, for fuck’s sake—at your locker. pulling the brown pharmacy bag from his backpack, he sat it in the open door.

“what’s this?” you asked peering into the bag, the word levonorgestrel staring back at you.

you quickly crumple the bag closed, head whipping to robby, eyes wide. “what!?” you whisper shouted.

robby held his hands in front of him, palms open. “i’m just the messenger.”

“what did jack tell—“ you start, but are interrupted by robby waving his outstretched hands once, before placing them up to his ears as if to cover them if you try to speak.

“i don’t know anything. i don’t want to know anything,” he stated, turning on his heel to walk out of the hallway.

robby decided he was the greatest friend jack would ever know, and that he owed him big for this.

ROBBY $50 HE JUST PINES UNTIL HER RESIDENCY IS OVER

———

lena doesn’t love using the intercom to announce incoming traumas, not at night. with as many boarders in the pitt as there were anymore, the loud tone followed by a bodiless voice echoing the halls could be startling to those who’d actually manage to fall asleep. so when able, when she knew the current location of the attending, she would gladly walk to them to announce the incoming, giving even a moment of peace to the souls with them for the night.

typically when she found jack, he wasn’t hovering at the bedside of his pretty little resident.

jack has both hands on the bed’s side rail, leaning casually against the edge. he smirks down at you, face softer than lena had seen in a long time.

you were laying partially propped up in the bed, smiling up at jack with a big grin, speaking rapidly about something. the index finger of your hand closest to jack was fiddling with the draw string of his scrub pants—not sexual, not even flirtatious, but familiar, like maybe you didn’t even realize you were doing it.

what really did it for lena, though, was when you said something that caused jack to smile—an honest to god, open-mouthed, teeth-showing smile; that was the jack abbot equivalent of twirling his hair and giggling like a school girl.

lena couldn’t even bring herself to be mad she seemed to be out 15 bucks.

“they’re being weird, right?” dr. javadi says as she steps next to lena, tablet in hand. the young doctor looks legitimately concerned.

bumping her shoulder, lena just replies, “come on, kid.”

walking closer to the curtained room, jack notices the two approaching and quickly backs away, stoic expression returning. if he had noticed lena noticing them, he shows no indication.

“jack, we got a level 2 trauma incoming, 7 minutes out,” lena informs. “the v.i.p. will hafta make due with the resident.”

“yeah, v.i.p., learn your acronyms,” you mock as jack moves to leave, him shooting you a look as he does. you just grin big in return.

as dr. javadi makes work explaining your treatment—non-displaced ankle fracture, walking boot, no weight for a minimum of three weeks—lena adds, “dr. whitaker left to take dr. santos home. told him i’d tell you. said to call when you’re getting dispoed and he’d come back up.”

in reply, you give a small, “sounds good, queen,” the night finally catching up to you, sleep tugging at your eyes.

LENA $15 THEY GO ON ONE AWKWARD DATE

———

the second time you fucked jack abbot, it was on the hospital roof part way through your intern year.

ever since that night in the bar, things had changed between you and jack, grown tense. gone were the puppy dog eyes and good works, replaced by impatience and ever increasing criticisms.

“god! you are such a fucking prick, sometimes!” you screamed at him after reaching the roof. the pitt had grown too used to your spats with jack, but that night’s bout was especially hostile, shouldn’t be heard by hovering ears.

“and you’re a whiny fuckin’ brat when you don’t get your way!” he returned.

“i wasn’t whining, jack! i was advocating for my patient!”

the senior resident you’d been assigned to that shift hadn’t taken your proposed diagnosis seriously, said you were just a little intern hunting zebras. when his treatment plan led the patient to crash, you snapped. you seemed to release all the built-up frustration inside you, all the anger from months of being doubted by your attending. and yeah, maybe the resident shouldn’t have been on the receiving end of it, but your diagnosis was correct, and he did belittle you for it—your rage only pausing when jack stepped in with an enough! before leading you to the elevator.

“maybe so, but you’re sure as fuck are whining now,” jack said lowly, if not a little demeaning.

his tone snapped something deeper in you, giving a shove to his solid chest with a shout of “asshole!” you didn’t know why you did it, you were never a violent person. and though the push barely seemed to rock jack, it made his expression darken.

before you could open your mouth to apologize, jack pulled you in by the neck for a bruising kiss. pulling at each others hair and nipping at lips, he slammed your back against the brick wall of the roof, the hand cradling the back of your head the only softness from him.

“you’re such a mouthy fuckin’ brat,” he grunted into your mouth, tugging at his belt, “y’should put it to better use.”

it shouldn’t have turned you on, guys talking down to you like that usually didn’t, but god, something about it coming from jack made your thighs squeeze together.

dropping to your knees, you finish helping him out of his boxers, gripping the base of his leaking cock.

you placed sloppy open-mouthed kisses along his length as you stared back up at him, his brows furrowed and breaths coming harshly from his nose.

when your mouth finally wrapped around the tip, jack’s hand flew to your hair, grabbing it harshly. he set a steady rhythm with the grip on your hair, you hollowing your cheeks and letting him use your mouth to chase his pleasure.

one hand clawed into his firm asscheek, your other snaked down the front of your scrub pants, fingers attempting to give yourself some relief.

noticing the movements, jack yanked you off him forcefully, an involuntary whine leaving your throat.

hoisting you up, jack turned you to face into the brick wall, ripping your scrub bottoms down. he didn’t offer any prep that time, just glided his cock through your slick folds, gathering your wetness, before slamming into you.

you choked out a shout, or maybe a moan, back arching away from the man behind you, strong hands holding you in place.

pounding into you, jack let out only grunts, no words giving away whatever was going through his mind, what he was thinking.

your hands gripped desperately at the brick of the wall, searching for leverage, for something to hold. jack moved one hand from your hip to rest over the back of yours, fingers lacing together. another moment of softness, cut only by the bruising grip at your hip, the nipping at your neck, the slam of hips against yours.

resting your forehead against the back of his hand curled around yours, you once again reached the other between your legs, rubbing tight circles around your clit—this time, jack allows it.

moaning and panting and grunting, your paces quicken, grips tighten. you came with a sob, the head of jack’s cock hitting the perfect spot inside you, your fingers moving deftly between your thighs.

when jack pulled from you, he tugged at his length until he was coming against your ass, ropes of cum hot in the cool pennsylvania air.

his head dropped to your shoulder, your hand reaching to card through the hairs at the nape of his neck, each of you attempting to catch your breath.

for a moment it was peaceful—no shouting, no bickering, no digging critiques—just two people sharing pleasure.

jack pulled a wet wipe from one of his cargo pockets—a soldier’s always prepared, he used to joke—gently swiping it to clean his spend from you, before pulling your scrubs back up around your hips.

you wanted to say something again, as you did when this happened before, but jack just placed a large hand between your shoulder blades, fingers giving the slightest pressure to your skin, before turning and walking back into the hospital.

when the email came the next morning, stating your night shift rotation was ending early and you were to report back on days, you didn’t try to stop the tears from falling from your eyes.

———

it could have been minutes, but must have been hours, when you wake to jack shifting the hospital blanket further up your body.

“‘t time’s it?” you mumble, voice thick with sleep. “‘m i bein’ dispoed?”

“around 3, sweetheart,” he answers. “don’t worry about calling whitaker, robby’s heading in an hour early. i’ll drive you to yours to pack.”

“to pack?” you ask, only slightly more conscious.

“you live in a third story walk-up. if you’re plannin’ on leaving it for the next three weeks, you’ll have to stay somewhere else.”

“any ideas where?” you ask, eyes closing again.

jack just smoothes a hand down the top of your head and tells you to go back to sleep. for once, you listen.

———

the third time you fucked jack abbot is at the end of intern year.

after receiving the email all but banishing you to day shift months prior, you only caught glimpses of jack at turnover, all your future night shifts under shen as attending.

you looked for jack in the early hours of the day, hoping to catch him before he left, but he was always unavailable, preoccupied, gone.

he didn’t bicker or criticize anymore. he didn’t banter. he just ignored, he avoided. the silence that stretched between you two grew palpable, suffocating.

and finally you’d had enough.

it’d taken until then, that night, to work with jack again.

“why do you hate me?” you asked after cornering him in the staff parking lot after your shift, dawn settling over pittsburgh.

that gave jack pause. “excuse me?” he replied, looking at you with furrowed brows and squinted eyes, thick arms crossing over his chest.

the weight of jack’s stare was always heavy, intense, but this was nearly unbearable, drowning you in pools of hazel.

but you’d made the decision to confront him, needed to stand your ground. taking a shaky breath, mirroring his stance, you said again, “you heard me. why do you hate me?”

jack’s brow twitched minutely, a nearly imperceivable crack in his armor. he saw you mirror his stance, but your posture was vulnerable, your eyes sorrowful. it compelled him to start honestly, “i don’t hate you.”

that wasn’t what you were expecting—a dismissal, probably; a confirmation, maybe, but not that.

your stance shifted, weight rocking from one foot to the other, arms wrapping tighter around you. “then why—“ you started, looking away then seemingly forcing your gaze back to jack, steeling yourself.

speaking firmer, you continued, “we were fine until—until dana’s party and then things changed. you changed. not even oh-shit-i-screwed-my-med-student awkward changed—“

“lower your voice—“ jack said stepping forward. that wasn’t something he needed overheard.

“but you got…mean. cruel even. you criticized me harsher than everyone, like suddenly i lost all credibility—“

“that’s not—“

“—like i was suddenly an ms3 on her first day again, trying to impress everyone and feeling like an idiot every step of—“

“i was impressed by you as an ms3.”

“—the way and you’ve been so fucking—wait, what the fuck is that supposed mean?” you finally paused your rant, take aback by jack’s words, the intensity of his stare.

“you’ve always been impressive. and i’ve never hated you, that’s the problem. i let myself slip that night and—“ his hands moved to his hips, his head hanging to look at the ground instead of in your eyes, “and pushing you away with cruelty was easier than staying away in silence,” he finished, head moving to look off to the side.

“jack, what are you—“

his gaze shot back to yours, stepping closer, “but even with the cruelty you came closer, just as fiery, calling out my bullshit because you knew that’s exactly what it was. and that still didn’t fuckin’ stop my mind from slipping again.”

“jack—“

he pushed the heels of his palm into his eyes as he continued, “and now i’m all scrambled in my head and i can’t get myself to keep this up. i can’t fucking tell when i stopped chasing a ghost and started chasing you. i don’t know how to act around you anymore—“

“jack! what are you trying to say?” you had to interrupt him, had to, before your mind spun his words into something they weren’t, into something that lit a spark of hope in your chest.

“i lo—“ he blew out a breath, dropping his hands to his sides, “i like you. care about you. more than i should. not like an attending should a resident. not like a teacher should a student. like how a man cares for a woman, how—“

“have dinner with me.”

“what?”

now you took the step closer, eyes never leaving his. “have dinner with me. like a date.”

he tried turning away as he said, “honey, i’ve been so fucking bad to you—“ but you chased his gaze.

“then make it up to me. have dinner with me.”

and he did. and it goes great, how it should when a man cares for a woman.

he drove you home afterward. and he said yes when you invited him up, holding his hand, smile on your face. and he said yes when you asked him to come inside, fist in his hair, moan in your throat.

the first time jack abbot made love to you was after your first date.

———

six am comes quickly. a pain behind your eyes accompanies the pain in your ankle as you’re shuffled back into a wheelchair by bridget. jacket around your shoulders, booted ankle propped up in the footrest, you’re rolled through the ambulance bay doors once more.

the drive back to your apartment with jack is quiet, peaceful.

“you never answered my question, by the way,” you say, turning to look at him.

“you asked a whole lotta questions last night, baby. gonna have to be more specific,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice.

rolling your eyes and hitting his arm with the back of your hand, you answer, “the one where i asked where i was supposed to stay.”

glancing to you, he smirks, “you’re stayin’ with me ‘til you’re at least able to put weight on that ankle.”

“hmm, just ‘til then?” you ask playfully.

jack just looks back to the road, reaching to curl your hand in his and giving the back of it a kiss, fighting the smile tugging at his lips.

———

dennis whitaker was raised to believe that honesty was the best policy; that lies were sinful and would only lead to ruin, that truth would lead to blessings. but growing older, growing beyond his small nebraska town, dennis grew to know that a white lie to spare someone’s feelings was better than brutal honesty just for honesty’s sake.

maybe that’s why he kept the betting pool a secret from you for so long.

you may have thought it uncomfortable, inappropriate even, if you found out the way your coworkers had bet on whatever the hell was going on with you and dr. abbot. he thought maybe it was a kindness to spare you the theories and guesses regarding your personal life. and maybe he would have never mentioned it, had your attitude toward dr. abbot not again changed recently.

disagreements and debates had replaced curiosity and longing glances over year ago, but now, palpable tension and suppressed smiles where the norm between you too.

“there’s a betting pool, y’know?” dennis asked out of the blue one afternoon.

you turned from your charting, “there usually is. what’s this one on?”

dennis shook his head. “no, there’s a secret betting pool. on you…and dr. abbot,” he ended in a whisper, hoping no one heard him spill the beans.

your face lit up in amusement at that, “oh, is there now? what’re people saying?”

“i don’t think you wanna know.”

you huffed a laugh at his seriousness. “well, then what was your bet? maybe i could help ya win some money, denny.”

dennis just shook his head, “sorry, no influencing. it wouldn’t be fair.”

dennis whitaker was an honest guy. and maybe that honesty helped bless him a whole lot of money.

WHITAKER $20 THEY FALL IN LOVE

———

jack abbot wasn’t a religious man, not anymore. but he liked to think his wife was still out there, somewhere peaceful, watching out for him. maybe she had sent him a gift—someone new to love, and to love him in return. someone who held him accountable, called him on his bullshit. someone warm. someone sent wrapped in the scent of sweet vanilla.

———

if you caught it yes that was indeed a white chicks quote hehehe

[dontpulloutman]

What website/app do you use for your twitter posts on your social media AUs?

i use twinote !!