[Jack Abbot x Female Reader] [Jack Abbot x You]
Doctor Jack Abbot had survived grief, war and the daily violence of the Pitt by learning how to keep himself separate from the things he wanted.
Then you transferred to nights with your careless hands and your impossible warmth, touching him like it meant nothing while looking at him like it might.
He told himself that a man like him had no business wanting someone like you.
But restraint is only useful until it breaks.
OR:
When Jack’s carefully held control slips, you know you’re in for a ride
Wordcount: 15,719
Warnings: 18+, fluff, yearning, romance, kissing, soft Jack , smut, dirty talk, flirting, oral sex, vaginal sex, love
A/N:And another old man to add to the collection. I may have or may not have binged The Pitt in my time off… (maybe also binged a shitton of Shawn Hatosy thrist traps)
But seriously, he is CRIMINALLY hot. I need peepaw in ways that are unimaginable.
I had… ridiculously much fun writing this and just really trying to paint Jack’s emotional state.
Anyway…I feel like Abbot would yearn for someone he shouldn’t have. So yeah this is that: a lot of yearning and fluff. And then smut. Ofc.
The Pitt never really slept; it only changed its shape.
It swelled and recoiled upon itself, though the hours of the day like some great wounded organ under electric light. At midnight, it was all sharp, almost hectic movements and shouted orders; at three in the morning, it gave way to some kind of delirium, low and airless, soaked in the bitter smell of antiseptic and cold coffee.
Three ambulances had rolled in within the last twenty minutes. Somewhere beyond the partition curtains, a man was screaming in great bursts while a monitor answered in shrill protest.
The waiting room had long since overflowed with bodies occupying every chair, every stretch of the wall. The air itself was stiff and stuffy, as if it had been handled too many times.
Doctor Jack Abbot, the attending physician of the night shift, stood in the middle of it all with drying blood beneath his fingernails and the blunt iron ache of exhaustion driving steadily beneath his left eye.
The overhead fluorescent lights caught the silver in his hair and turned the curls fallen across his forehead damp with sweat into something almost feverish-looking. His scrub top hung slightly crooked beneath the weight of the stethoscope. There was a hard line set to his mouth that had settled sometime around hour ten of the shift and probably wouldn’t leave until he got home.
“Abbot.”
He looked up at once.
You were crossing the department towards him with a patient chart tucked beneath one arm, weaving through motion with the unconscious certainty of someone long accustomed to catastrophe. A strand of your hair clung to your temple.
You stopped close, closer than most people ever came to Jack willingly anymore.
Without hesitation, you reached up and caught the folded edge of his scrub collar between your fingers, straightening it with a small, distracted frown as though the gesture belonged to habit.
“There,” you murmured with a smile. “You looked insane.”
Your knuckles brushed the side of his neck as your hand fell away.
It was hardly anything, almost only the barest contact. A passing warmth against skin still cold from over-air-conditioned hallways and way too many hours on feet.
And yet Jack felt it with almost embarrassing certainty.
The rough drag of your finger against the pulse in his neck. The faint pressure of your palm briefly brushing over his shoulder as you adjusted his collar. The clean, sharp smell of hospital soap clinging to your skin beneath the copper-rot scent of blood that saturated the entire department.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up. Every muscle in him tightened at once. His breath caught somewhere low and hard beneath his rips.
For one terrible instant, he became aware of himself with unbearable precision: exhaustion humming under his skin, sweat cooling at the base of his spine, the sudden, violent thud of his pulse against the place you had touched.
You were already moving away before he remembered how speaking worked, disappearing towards Trauma Two while calling something over your shoulder to Lena.
Jack just remained where he was. Neither moving nor speaking.
Simply staring after you with the stunned disorientation of a man struck unexpectedly across the mouth.
“You good?” Shen asked after a moment.
Jack blinked hard. Only then did he realise that the other physician had been watching him. He dragged his gaze away from the doorway.
“Fine,” he said roughly, but the lie sat heavily in his throat.
Meanwhile, trauma two had swallowed you at once as you slid into the room, bright and hot and appallingly alive beneath the white glare of the overhead lamps.
There was a man on the table with rainwater still darkening the shoulders of his jacket, one paramedic talking too quickly at your left, another trying to untangle a blood pressure cuff from the mess of tubes and blankets. Somewhere behind you, a monitor had begun its beeping.
Dr. Ellis was already there with one hip braced against the bed, listening and assessing.
“Motorcycle versus guardrail,” the paramedic was saying. “Helmeted at least. But brief loss of consciousness at the scene. Pressure’s soft, pulse one-thirty. Decreased breath sounds on the left.”
“Chest tube tray,” Ellis said, without looking away from the patient, blood darkening the torn front of his shirt in a widening, theatrical bloom.
You were already reaching for it before she had finished her sentence.
There was comfort, in a strange and grim way, in the shape of instructions. In the crisp obedience of the body when the mind might otherwise have chosen panic. Clamp. Gauze. Betadine. Gloves snapped at the wrist.
The world narrowed itself to hands and numbers and the thin animal sounds of pain.
You had been on nights for less than two weeks, not long enough for the altered rhythm of the place to feel natural, but long enough to understand that the Pitt after midnight was not the Pitt of daylight. It was another creature entirely.
You moved because there was moving to be done. You smiled because sometimes people needed a human face more than they needed another instruction shouted over their bodies.
And if, sometimes, your hand found a shoulder or a wrist or the back of someone’s arm while you spoke, it was only because people were less likely to drift away from you when they could feel that someone had hold of them.
At least that’s what you told yourself.
Outside Trauma Two, Jack remained where you had left him for half a second too long.
It irritated him, that half a second.
He was not a man prone to standing uselessly in corridors because a nurse had dared to straighten his collar. He had been shot at, cut open, widowed, rebuilt, and put back into rooms where people died noisily under his hands. He had survived the great, crude indifference of the world in more forms than he cared to name.
And yet the ghost of your fingers at his throat persisted.
He stood long enough that Shen said his name again, more pointedly this time.
“Abbot!”
“What?” Jack blinked, a bit annoyed, having acknowledged his colleague already.
“Trauma One needs you.”
“Then why are you still talking to me?”
Shen lifted both hands and wisely retreated.
Jack moved then because Jack always moved when he was needed. Whatever strange paralysis had taken him released at once, vanishing beneath the old machinery of training and fatigue. His expression sealed itself, and his shoulder squared.
The man who had forgotten language at the brush of your fingers disappeared completely as if he had never existed.
There was a patient waiting, a pressure dropping, a room full of people who would obey him if he spoke clearly enough.
That, at least, he understood. You, unfortunately, he did not.
In Trauma One, there was an elderly woman with a fractured hip and a blood pressure that would not behave, and Jack gave himself to the work with almost punitive focus.
Orders came clearly from him.
“Two large-bore IVs. Type and cross. I want repeat vitals in five.”
His hands were steady, his voice calm. Nothing in him betrayed the absurd fact that a few rooms over, the ghost of your hand was still lingering.
It was ridiculous.
It was, if he was honest, worse than just ridiculous. It was borderline humiliating.
He was too old for this, too tired.
You had likely already forgotten the moment. You had probably straightened three collars that night, squeezed five shoulders, leaned against half the department in passing.
That was the cruelty of this, he thought. Not that you touched him. But that you touched him as though it cost you nothing.
“Dr. Abbot?”
He looked up. The resident beside him had gone slightly pale, waiting with a syringe in hand.
Jack blinked once, hard, trying to regain his composure that he seemed to lose at only the thought of you.
“Now,” he said, and hated the roughness in his own voice. “Push it now.”
The old woman stabilised by slow degrees, and the room settled. The monitors, having exhausted their shrill objections, returned to a rhythm that suggested not peace exactly, but permission to breathe once again.
Jack stripped off his gloves and dropped them into the bin with more force than necessary.
Then he heard you laugh. Neither loudly nor carelessly.
It came from Trauma Two, brief and breathless, tucked between Ellis’s clipped instructions and the patient’s groans. A small sound, almost absurdly human in the middle of all that blood.
He turned before he consciously decided to.
Through the open doorway, he saw you at the patient’s side, one hand braced against the mattress while Ellis and the intern worked.
There was a smear of red across the blue of your glove, another at the edge of your wrist. Your hair had loosened further, escaping in damp strands at your neck, and your mouth was set in that concentred line he had begun, against all sense, to recognise.
You were good. And that was the part that made it more dangerous.
Not merely warm. Not merely beautiful. Not merely younger than him in the way that made him feel the years in his own bones with particular cruelty.
You were good at the work. You listened before you answered. You learned quickly. You touched frightened patients with the same unthinking steadiness with which you touched everyone else, as though your hands carried with them some private conviction that people were still people even when they were bleeding under fluorescent lights.
Jack wandered to Trauma Two and told himself he was there because Ellis might need an attending.
Instead of going in, he stopped at the doorway. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, one shoulder braced against the metal frame of the entrance. Fatigue had settled into him, roughening the edges of his expression.
And yet there remained in him something unmistakably alert, almost controlled. The sort soldiers carried long after wars had finished with them.
You did not notice him at first.
You were standing beside Ellis at the patient’s side when someone handed you a suction tube, and you took it without hesitation and without needing instruction, calm amidst the ruinous choreography of the room.
Jack just watched you move. Not openly enough to be caught by it. His gaze moved here it ought to move - the monitor, Ellis’s hands, the ultrasound screen - but it always returned to you afterwards with the stubborn inevitability of a tongue seeking the gap left by a missing tooth.
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear with the back of your wrist.
His jaw tightened.
He had seen prettier scenes than this. God knows he had. Women untouched by the fluorescent hospital lights and way too long shifts, and the strange erosion this work inflicted upon the soul.
But none of them had ever looked at him the way you did, touched him the way you did.
And that was the problem.
Ellis glanced up, relief in her eyes when she saw him, unaware of his inner struggle, “Abbot, perfect. Stop haunting the doorway and take a look at this ultrasound?”
You looked up at the sound of his name, too.
Your eyes wandered over him, taking note of how he stood half inside the opening. The overhead light flattened the colour from everything around him, bleaching the walls and turning the air itself a tired grey, but somehow it sharpened him instead.
The black of his scrub top stretched across the breadth of his shoulders; his forearms, bare and muscular, the tendons at his wrist standing out where his fingers tucked against his bicep.
He looked tired. Not just ordinarily tired or sleepless. It seemed like the tiredness had settled deep into his bones.
And still, absurdly, he was devastatingly handsome.
Of course, you had noticed it before; it would have been difficult not to. Everyone noticed Jack Abbot. Some because he was brilliant. Some because he was intimidating. Some because grief clung to him in ways people sensed before they understood. But you had noticed him because of his stillness.
The Pitt was full of loud men. Jack never needed to raise his voice.
Your gaze caught briefly on the rough shadow of his jaw, the silver threaded through his curls, the slight crease between his brows that deepened whenever he was concentrating. Or worrying. You had not yet learned which.
Then his eye lifted fully to meet yours, and something in your stomach shifted.
“There you are,” you said, your voice kind and soft as if you had been expecting him.
Something unreadable moved briefly across his face, and then he crossed the room.
The space around the trauma bed was cramped with carts and tubing and bodies moving in practised collision. Ellis angled the probe again while you stepped automatically aside to make room for him, your hip brushing against the metal rail of the bed.
That was what he would remember later. Not that you meant to touch him. Not that you intended anything by it.
Only that your body, without pause or question, made place for his.
Your shoulder brushed his arm as you stepped closer to the bed. The contact was brief, compressed by necessity, but your warmth passed through the thin cotton of your sleeve with indecent clarity.
Jack looked at the ultrasound screen.
He did not look at you, but you were suddenly aware of him beside you in a way that felt almost grave. You kept your eyes on the patient because that was what the patient deserved, but your attention was split in two. And only one half remained useful while the other noticed Jack Abbot breathing.
“Free fluid?” you asked, because speech was safer when it belonged to work.
“Maybe,” Jack answered, his voice was steady while his pulse was not.
Ellis angled the probe. The dim screen flickered with its lunar shades and swimming uncertainties “Here, see that?’
You leaned in for a better look, and the movement brought you closer still. Your arm crossed Jack’s for one second as you reached for a packet of gauze near his elbow.
“Sorry,” you mumbled.
It should have ended there.
And it would have ended there, if you hadn’t almost lost your balance, if the room had not been as crowded as it was, if his presence had not seemed to take up more space than his body alone could explain.
Instinctively, your hand found the centre of his back as you steadied yourself around him.
It was nothing. It was everything. Under your palm, Jack went still.
Not enough for Ellis or anyone else to notice. Not enough for the room to falter. But you felt it: the minute arrest of muscle beneath fabric, the sudden held breath of a man who had learned too well how to conceal reaction and not quite well enough to conceal it from touch.
So your fingers spread slightly before you thought better of it.
Warm. Solid. Tense.
“Sorry,” you said again, this time quietly as you withdrew your hand, “I’m in your way.”
No, thought Jack. The word rose in him with an immediacy that was almost violent.
You were not in his way. You were, perhaps, too close. Too perceptive. Too capable of disturbing the delicate machinery by which he moved through the shift. But you were not in his way.
But the thought remained soundless, imprisoned somewhere behind his ribs.
He gave the ultrasound another hard look, as though the answer to the catastrophe of his own body might be hiding there amongst the grainy shapes.
His jaw tightened as the patient groaned faintly.
At least he said, “Call surgery. Now!”
The order cut clean through the air, and everyone moved. The other nurse moved first, then Ellis shifted the probe. Someone reached for the phone. The stretcher wheels gave a protesting click as another pair of hands appeared at the rail. The room, which had been suspended for half a breath around the uncertainty of the scan, abruptly became motion again.
You moved too. You had been trained for this, knew how to fold yourself back into function, how to become hands and eyes and clear speech, how to take everything human and inconvenient and set it aside because the body on the bed could not wait for anyone’s private confusion.
But before you turned fully away, your eyes flicked back to him once more.
It was barely a glance, quick and questioning beneath your lashes, there and gone so fast that anyone else might have missed it. Yet Jack saw it. And for a moment, he did not look away.
By the time the patient was wheeled out towards surgery, the room had been stripped of its emergency and left with the strange, intimate wreckage emergencies always seemed to leave behind.
There was torn packaging scattered across the counter, bloodied gauze abandoned in a shallow metal tray, a smear of red where the stretcher was and the flattened impression of a human already gone elsewhere.
The air still held the sour metallic trace of blood beneath the sharper notes of antiseptic and plastic.
You stripped off your gloves and threw them into the bin.
Jack was still near the foot of the bed, speaking low to Ellis, his body angled half away from you. His voice had resumed its usual steadiness, that low, clinical economy that gave very little away.
There was a smear of crimson near his collar. It sat just below the line of his jaw, stark against his skin. You took a clean wipe from the counter, not really thinking about what you were doing.
“Hold still,” you said to him.
Jack stopped speaking and looked at you with furrowed brows.
Ellis, mercifully, had already turned her attention to the chart, her pen moving with precision.
You stepped closer to him, almost on autopilot, driven only by the need to help and lifted the wipe to the side of his neck.
“There,” you murmured, “Blood. You’re collecting bodily fluids, Doctor Abbot.”
Something in him locked at once. It was immediate and humiliatingly complete, the hard, instinctive stillness of a body that had learned too much about pain and restraint; like the stillness of an animal that froze beneath unfamiliar hands.
Your fingers were cool through the thin material of the wipe.
He felt them anyway. He felt the precise place where your hand hovered near his throat. The light pressure of the wipe. The nearness of your knuckles once again.
A moment ago, the room had been all noise and utility: Ellis speaking in clipped phrases, equipment rolling, wrappers tearing, shoes moving briskly across the floor.
Somewhere to his left, someone was still saying something. Beyond the door, someone pushed a cart down the corridor, one uneven wheel tickling faintly with each rotation.
But Jack heard it all as though from underwater.
You meant only to wipe the blood away and step back. He knew that. Of course, he knew that.
You had seen the mark, taken a wipe, stepped close and done what any decent colleague might have done in the brief pause after a shared emergency. There was nothing in the gesture that required interpretation.
But that knowledge did nothing to save him.
The antiseptic smell of the wipe rose faintly between you, clean and chemical and impersonal. And beneath it, maddenlingly, was something warmer - the scent of your skin after too many hours under hospital lights.
It should not have registered. It should not have mattered.
His throat moved once beneath your fingers. A swallow, involuntary and unforgivable.
He saw the instance you noticed.
Not because your expression changed much, you were too controlled for that, but because your hand hesitated. Only slightly, only long enough for the pad of your thumb to settle, absurdly, right against the side of his pulse.
Jack had stood in rooms full of blood and screaming and stayed steady. He had walked into danger with a clear head. He had made calls that would have shaken younger doctors to the core. He had endured fear, grief, violence, exhaustion, and the long, grinding attrition of a life spent pretending that the body could simply be willed to continue.
Shit, he had endured gunfire with steadier nerves than this.
His jaw tightened, and he could not decide where to look.
Your eyes were dangerous because they were too close, and he didn’t want you to know how affected he was by this. Your mouth was worse. Soft with concentration, parted faintly around the quiet breath you had taken before speaking, close enough that some ungoverned part of him began measuring the distance without permission.
There was a loose strand of hair near your cheek, dampened at the end by sweat or sink water or the long brutality of the shift. It clung there, out of place, human in a way that nearly undid him.
The urge to reach for it came so suddenly and violently that his hand almost moved.
Almost.
He imagined tucking it back. Not with purpose or with excuse. Only with the slow, careful intimacy of his fingers at your temple, the back of his knuckles near your cheek, your face turned slightly towards his hand.
The thought was somehow even worse because it wasn’t desire, it was tenderness.
He wondered, not for the first time, whether you understood what you were doing to him.
Whether some part of you had begun to recognise the small betrayals his body committed in your presence. But Jack had never considered himself an easy man to read…life had taken care of that. And the hospital had taken care of the rest.
Yet you just kept finding him.
Not all of him. Not the whole ruin of him, not the darkened rooms he kept locked even from himself.
But enough.
You found the place where his breath caught. You found the pulse beneath his jaw. You found, with the terrible innocence of touch, the part of him still capable of wanting.
So perhaps you did understand. And that possibility was somehow more terrifying than ignorance.
Because if you understood, then Jack no longer knew which outcome frightened him more. That you wanted him back. Or that you did not.
That you knew exactly what you were doing and had chosen him anyway. Or that this was nothing to you beyond the kind of careless warmth you carried without knowing what it could do to those who had learned to live without it.
That you might be playing not cruelly, maybe, but lightly. And that could wound too.
He was ashamed by the thought as soon as it came, since you had given him no reason to suspect cruelty.
In fact, it was quite the opposite.
Your kindness was not theatrical, which he had learned in the short time he knew you. It did not announce itself. It was almost instinctively, almost before thought, towards whatever looked hurt. A frightened patient gripping the rail too hard. A resident blinking too quickly after a reprimand. Ellis pretending not to be exhausted. A fellow nurse quietly swallowing tears in the medication room.
You noticed such things. You just noticed the small fractures people tried to hide beneath competence.
Perhaps that was all this was. Perhaps Jack Abbot was only one more damaged creature in a long line of damaged creatures. Perhaps the shape of your hands had simply learned to soothe.
But God help him, he wanted to be more than that.
He wanted to be more than another injury your kindness had found. More than a tired man at the end of a shift. More than a guarded colleague whose silence invited your gentleness.
He wanted, shamefully and with a force that made him almost whole again, to be singular to you. Not merely cared for. But chosen. To be the person you touched, not because he needed gentleness, but because you could not quite keep yourself from giving it to him.
The desire was selfish. He knew that. Still, there it was. And it terrified him.
“Got it?” he asked. The question came out lower than he intended, the words scraped by the roughness in his throat, and the sound of his own voice irritated him immediately.
It gave too much away. Not to anyone else, perhaps. Ellis would only hear impatience. The room would hear only efficiency. But you would hear the fracture beneath it.
You should have stepped back then.
Jack wanted you to step back.
He wanted the relief of distance, the restoration of ordinary air, the clean simplicity of no longer feeling the almost-touch of your thumb against his pulse. He wanted professionalism to return with its familiar walls and bright, sterile surfaces. He just wanted to be Dr. Abbot again, which was easier than being Jack under your hand.
But you did not immediately step back.
You’d later blame it on the tiredness or the adrenaline. In the end, it was because he was looking at you with that terrible, restrained intensity, the kind that suggested a man holding a door shut from the inside. Because some reckless, increasingly curious part of you had begun to suspect that Dr. Jack Abbot was not nearly so unaffected as he pretended to be.
Your fingers lingered another heartbeat at the edge of his collar. It was barely anything, just a breath of contact.
“Mh-hm,” you murmured softly, and Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
Only briefly, but not briefly enough.
And he wondered what it would be like to kiss you, what it would be like to stop resisting.
Then Ellis cleared her throat, and the sound cut through the moment with surgical precision.
You withdrew your hand at once. Heat rising unhelpfully beneath your scrub top, spreading from your chest to your throat. You turned towards the counter and started to busy yourself with the discarded wrappers there, gathering torn plastic and empty gauze packets with a concentration far beyond what the task required.
Jack stood there frozen for a second longer; he remained exactly how you left him: shoulder still, jaw set, head angled slightly aside. Cold rushed unpleasantly into the place your touch had occupied, and he felt the loss with humiliating clarity.
Then he turned away. But not before you saw his hand flex once at his side.
It was a small movement, almost nothing. His fingers opened and closed against empty air, controlled again almost as soon as it happened. You noticed because you had spent enough hours beside him now to understand the scale of his restraint. It looked like there had been something he almost reached for or something he had almost pushed away.
The thoughts arrived so suddenly that you almost dropped one of the wrappers.
It couldn’t have been more than a minute, maybe less.
Thirty seconds, if anyone had been cruel enough to count them. Thirty seconds from the instant you stepped closer with the wipe to the instant Ellis’s throat-clearing returned you both to yourselves.
That was all. Nothing, really. If there were an official report of everything that happened during the shift, it would not have appeared at all.
The patient went to surgery.
He gave a few more orders.
Someone cursed at a jammed supply drawer.
The hallway swallowed the stretcher, and the room emptied by degrees and became once again just a trauma bay waiting for its next occupant.
Nothing had happened. Nothing that mattered. Nothing that anyone else could have named.
And yet, Jack carried those thirty seconds out of Trauma Two as though they had the weight of the world. As though they had been folded into his pocket. As though they had been ingrained in him now.
This irritated him greatly, because nothing had happened to him.
You had seen blood. You had wiped it away. Your hand had been steady. Your voice had been low because the room had quieted, not because there was anything secret in it. Your thumb had rested at his pulse by accident, because bodies had edges and hands needed somewhere to go.
That was all.
Nothing except the sudden, catastrophic awareness of how long it had been since anyone had touched him with such unguarded care.
Nothing except the disgraceful fact that for one wild instant, he had wanted to turn his face into your palm.
Neither metaphorically nor sentimentally, but rather physically, shamefully. With the tired, aching hunger of a man who had spent too many years convincing himself that wanting comfort was a private weakness, best hidden under confidence clipped instructions and the occasional funny remark.
He could only hope that you hadn’t noticed.
Jack moved towards the sink, washed his hands even though they were already clean and kept his eyes on the water until the rush of it was louder than the memory of your voice.
But he suspected that your words and the simple act of kindness would trouble him for the rest of his shift.
_____
After that, the nights began to arrange themselves around small catastrophes.
Not the visible kind or the ones that seemed to announce themselves in alarms and rapid footsteps, that summoned surgery from upstairs or left blood drying in the seams of the floor. Those catastrophes belonged to the hospital, and Jack knew how to meet them. He had built a life out of meeting them.
They had protocols, names, and consequences. They demanded action and, therefore, gave mercy in some twisted kind of way.
No, the kind that devastated him in ways he could never have imagined were the smaller things. The quieter things.
The brush of your hand against his in an overcrowded room when you both reached for the same box of gloves. Your fingers closing briefly around his wrist as you passed him a pen without looking up from the chart. The absent, thoughless pressure of your palm between his shoulder blades as you slipped behind him at the nurse’s station, murmuring behind you under your breath, as though the warning could possibly prepare him for the touch.
And those moments only existed in the narrow, treacherous space between bodies too tired to maintain perfect distance and too aware to call that failure meaningless.
With each day you worked nights, the department made more room for you with the unconscious certainty of a place recognising one of its own. A mug appeared in the cabinet that no one else used. One of the residents began saving the last decent pudding cup because you had once mentioned liking it. The charge nurse started giving you the complicated patients because you understood quickly and did not rattle easily.
But it was not an easy thing, belonging there.
So you learned the nights’ own grim and tender rituals, when the coffee turned bitter enough to become a warning instead of a comfort. You learned where the extra blankets were hidden, when the warmer ran empty, which supply drawer jammed unless struck with the heel of the hand.
You learned the routines of every resident and fellow. Which ones panicked loudly and which ones panicked in silence.
And despite every sensible boundary and every professional instinct screaming at you, you learned Jack’s rhythms too. Perhaps it was just impossible for you not to.
Dr. Jack Abbot did not make himself easy to know. He offered little freely and even less when pressed. His silences had edges. His patience, though real and kind, was often disguised as irritation so that sometimes new colleagues mistook the two. He had a talent for appearing immovable even when exhaustion had hollowed him from the inside.
But you watched. Never obviously or enough to shame him. Only with the steady, quiet attention you gave to all you did.
So you learned that he took his coffee black when the shift was bad and abandoned it half-finished when it was worse. How he rubbed the bridge of his nose before giving bad news, not afterwards, as if preparing his face to become something useful.
You noticed how he grew quieter when the pain threaded itself into his leg, his words becoming shorter, his movements more economical, the line of his mouth tightening in increments too small for most people to see.
He never asked for help unless the asking could be disguised as an order:
Hold this. Come here. Tell Ellis to check her patients. Tell Shen I need another line. Walk with me.
And you noticed it all too well.
Against all sense and every better judgement he had ever possessed, Jack learned yours as well.
At first, he told himself it was just observation. Occupational habit. The natural consequences of working alongside someone in a department where the difference between competence and collapse could be measured in seconds. He noticed everyone, that was, after all, the job.
But there was noticing, and then there was knowing.
The way you hummed under your breath while restocking cards, always so softly that he suspected you may not even realise you were doing it. Sometimes it was a song he knew. More often, it was something shapeless, a thread of sound pulled through fatigue.
He became aware of the way you touched people before you asked them to breathe - fingertips to a shoulder, a palm, to the back of a trembling hand, a physical reassurance offered before the instruction came.
He even learned that you laughed differently after three in the morning.
Earlier in the shift, your laughter came quick and bright, a spark struck against the roughness of the place. But later, when the halls thinned and the lights seemed harsher, it softened.
The tiredness changed you. Not in the way that you became less capable, if anything, the fatigue stripped you down to something more instinctive, more honest. Your voice grew gentler. Your movement slowed by fractions.
You forgot, now and then, the careful distances other people kept as if your body, once exhausted, returned to some older language of warmth and nearness.
When you were tired, you leaned closer to patients, to Ellis and Shen and the residents, when they looked ready to come apart.
And most dangerously towards him. Especially towards him. That was the intolerable part.
Because Jack could have survived your kindness if it had remained general, he could have endured being one more recipient of your impossible gentleness, one more tired colleague steadied by your hand in passing, one more creature briefly warmed by the careless mercy you gave everyone.
But did it feel general? He wasn’t so sure anymore.
Not when you glanced at him across the nurses’ station before smiling at whatever Ellis had said, as though some private part of the joke belonged to him. Not when you brought him coffee without asking and set it near his charting hand, black and no sugar, exactly as the night demanded.
Not when, after a brutal case, you appeared beside him without a word and pressed two fingers lightly into the file he was holding, pushing it down so he would stop pretending to read it.
“Jack,” you had said softly.
Not Dr. Abbot. Jack.
And he looked at you because he had forgotten how not to. That was the true shape of the catastrophe.
The slow, impossible accumulation of these things. The way each small contact refused to remain small. How every ordinary moment gathered weight because it belonged to you.
The night shift, with all its fluorescent cruelty and exhausted mercy, had begun to feel less like a place he survived and escaped and more like a place where he might be seen.
Jack did know what to do with being seen.
He only knew that each night, when you came into the department, it seemed to alter around him. The coffee tasted worse. The lights seemed brighter. His pulse became less obedient. And all the catastrophes began anew.
_____
There was the night you fell asleep for eight minutes at the nurses’ desk.
Eight minutes, not more. Jack knew because he had looked at the clock when you head first began to dip, and then, for no reason, he refused to examine too closely, looked again when you finally started awake.
You had not meant to sleep, that much was obvious. The night had been quiet, and you had been charting with a stubbornness that was becoming increasingly decorative, your cheek propped against your fist, pen still resting between your fingers, eyes lowering and opening and lowering again until your body gave you the pretence of being governed by will.
For eight minutes, you were still.
Jack had passed you once and did not stop. Then he passed again with coffee.
He set the cup beside your elbow, not loudly enough to startle you but close enough for the heat of it, or perhaps the smell, to reach whatever portion of you remained on duty.
Your eyes opened, startled and confused by the world’s reappearance, before you saw him.
“You looked dead,” he said dryly.
Your mouth curved slightly, “Oh, you say the sweetest things.”
You reached for the coffee, and your fingers closed briefly over his before taking the cup.
There was nothing deliberate in it, Jack told himself once again. After all, you were still half asleep.
Your hand had just gone where the coffee was, and his fingers happened to be there too. That was all, no mystery, no invitation, no evidence of anything except fatigue and proximity. Just the careless imprecision of a person dragged back from sleep too quickly.
That’s what he told himself as he returned to his chart. What he told himself again when you took the first sip and made a face at the taste, then drank it anyway.
He told himself this a third time, hours later, when he realised he could still feel the warm, loose weight of your fingers closing over his.
Another of those catastrophes happened the night a combative patient caught you hard in the shoulder.
It happened quickly, as such things always did. One moment, the room was crowded with negotiation, restraint, the careful voices of people trying not to escalate fear into violence. And the next, the patient twisted with surprising force, and an elbow struck the upper part of your arm with a dull sound, Jack felt in his bones.
You stepped back neither far nor dramatically.
But Jack’s voice sharpened as it cut through the turmoil in the room. “Enough.”
Ellis and your fellow nurse looked, not because the word was unusual. Jack gave orders all the time. He corrected, interrupted, redirected, and cut through panic with the clean brutality of certainty. But this was different, too fast, too hard and too stripped of its usual professional distance.
The patient stilled shortly after, beneath the hands restraining him.
Afterwards, in the narrow stretch of hall where the light always seemed worse, you rolled your shoulder and tried to laugh it off.
“I’m fine.”
Jack looked at you, unconvinced, “You always say that.”
You blinked, then tilted your head at him with an expression so dry it might have been amusement if he had not also recognised the tenderness under it. You just stepped closer as if the distance between you had been decided badly and required correction. Your hand came to his forearm, fingers wrapping lightly around the muscle there, gentle and sure.
It was not gratitude or reassurance. Rather, it felt like forgiveness. As if you had understood the worry in him, the sharpness of his voice, the way concern had risen too quickly to be made polite and had decided not to punish him for it.
He watched your hand leave his arm again, and the absence seemed unreasonable. Absurdly, he felt bereft.
And then there was the night rain battered the ambulance bay doors so hard the whole department seemed to breathe around it.
Water came down in sheets, turning the windows black and restless. Every arrival dragged the weather in with it: wet shoes, damp hair, the cold mineral smell of the street.
The floors grew slicer near the entrance no matter how often someone mopped them. The wind pressed itself against the building, and each time the automatic doors opened, the night outside flashed with rain.
The ache in Jack’s leg had started before midnight. By two, it had become difficult to ignore. By three, ignoring it required enough concentration that he grew quieter than usual.
You noticed, because of course you would.
He should have known that you would eventually pick up on it. Pain altered people in small, specific ways, and you had become uncomfortably fluent in reading his silences by then.
So you saw the shorter stride, the careful stillness when he stopped walking. The hand braced against the counter for one second too long before he let it drop.
But you said nothing in front of the others.
That was another thing about you that unravelled him. You had a talent for protecting dignity while tending to injury.
You did not ask if he was all right in the hallway, where he would have had to lie. You did not fuss at him near the desk, where he would have had to make you stop.
You simply appeared beside him in the empty staff room some minutes later, carrying two paper cups of terrible coffee and a packet of ibuprofen tucked beneath one thumb. And you placed both on the table in front of him.
Jack looked at the packet and then at you, “You always this bossy?”
“Only when people are being stupid,” you retorted, raising one eyebrow.
He should have resented it. He survived in stubbornness for too long not to recognise an attempt to manage him. And how he disliked being read, being handled. Above all, he disliked the sensation of needing something that someone else had seen before he could disguise it.
And yet? The coffee was warm. The pills necessary. Your face held no pity, only attention. So instead of getting up or ripping into you, he remained seated.
You took the chair beside him, close enough that your knee brushed his for the length of one quiet breath before you shifted away. And he wondered whether the contact was just accidental.
The staff room hummed around you with the old refrigerator’s incessant buzzing. Somewhere outside, someone called for transport. Neither of you spoke for a while as he took the ibuprofen and drank the coffee.
Perhaps it would have been easier had you remained ignorant.
Not ignorant of medicine, nor of pain, nor of the thousand small ways people revealed themselves under pressure. But ignorant of him. That would have been safer.
If you had never learned where his restraint thinned. Never noticed how his body betrayed him when yours came too close. If you had continued to believe that Jack Abbot was simply difficult, competent, tired and impenetrable.
He was controlled and disciplined. A man built out of restraint and old damage, every sharp edge held carefully beneath the practised calm of a physician who had seen too much and learned to continue anyway.
But control was not indifference. And after enough nights beside him, you began to recognise the tiny failures.
The way he went still when your hand touched his arm, not with rejection but with the stunned obedience of someone touched where he had forgotten he was lonely.
The way his eyes dropped, unwillingly and only for a moment, to your mouth when you stood too close.
The way his voice changed when he said your name after a difficult patient.
The way he looked away first. Always first. And Jack Abbot did not look away from much.
You did not know what to do with that knowledge. It frightened you to no end, though not because you didn’t like it. Rather, because each small discovery felt less like proof of conquest than proof of responsibility. If he yielded, even by a fraction, it cost him something.
And, god, if you were honest, you had begun to want him to yield.
You did not want to corner or embarrass him, did not want to make him feel hunted. There was too much damage in him for that. Too much restraint that seemed less like pride to you and more like survival. And yet you wanted to know whether the thing passing between you was only your foolish invention or whether he felt it too.
So for a while, you did nothing at all - almost nothing.
For Jack, it turned out, almost nothing was still enough to ruin him.
You never crossed any line. No breach of professionalism that could be examined beneath the cold light of sense and condemned accordingly. But there was none of that. There was only almost nothing.
And that had become impossible for him. He endured it because he had not yet found a way to ask you to stop without revealing how badly he wanted you to continue.
_____
By the eighth week, Jack had begun to dread and anticipate you in equal measure, which disturbed him more than he cared to admit.
Dread, at least, was familiar and something he could understand. It had shape and function. He had known it in operating rooms and field hospitals, in the seconds before bad news was spoken out loud, in the thin silence after a monitor changed its rhythm.
Anticipation, on the other hand, was another matter.
It was unreasonable. Undignified. It had no place in a man of his age and temperament, certainly not in a man who had taught himself, over the long and punishing course of his life, to expect little and need even less.
He had endured months in the desert heat with torn skin and less physical awareness of his own body than he now possessed whenever you stood too close beside him.
And that irritated him to no end.
He despised how some part of him had quietly made a study of you and could no longer stop. It was as if the night had begun to arrange itself more sensibly when he knew you were within it.
If you were busy with another resident, he found reasons to pass by.
Good reasons, of course…defensible ones. He was the attending after all, and there was always a chart to check, a resident to correct. A patient whose labs he wanted to review personally again, even after Shen already did it.
Jack was not stupid enough to wander aimlessly after you like a boy, so he wrapped every detour in purpose and carried it with sufficient authority that no one questioned him.
Except you. You had begun to look up when he appeared. Not obviously, of course. But sometimes your eyes lifted before he spoke as though some part of you had started to anticipate him as well.
That was dangerous enough to make him avoid you for almost an entire hour one night. But of course it did not help.
If your name was not on the night roster, the ER seemed colder.
That was absurd. He knew it was absurd. The temperature did not change because you were absent. The lights remained the same merciless white. The coffee tasted just as shitty. The stretchers rattled, the monitors beeped, and the residents panicked with ordinary regularity.
And yet the place seemed altered without you. Emptier in some quiet, structural way.
As though someone had removed a source of warmth he had not meant to depend on.
If you laughed with someone else, something old and unbecoming moved in him before he could will it into silence.
Jealousy.
It disgusted him that he was jealous over laughter of all things. Over the tilt of your head towards a young resident. Over the easy touch you gave Shen on the shoulder. Over the way, a paramedic leaned too close while telling you some story from the ambulance bay and was rewarded with a tired but nonetheless delighted smile.
It was ridiculous and downright shameful.
As if he had any right. Made any claim on you. Had offered anything that might justify the dark, brief tightening of his chest when your warmth turned elsewhere. As if standing still beneath your hand and then looking away first constituted a promise.
He had no right.
None.
And even if he had wanted one, what exactly did he imagine he could offer you?
A complicated body. A leg that punished rain and long shifts and the arrogance of pretending he was younger than he was.
A dead wife whose absence still occupied rooms in him, he rarely opened.
A history full of locked doors and old wars, of choices made under pressure and consequences that had outlived the circumstances that created them.
A temperament built more for endurance than joy. And exhausting that had settled so deeply into him, it might as well have been character.
You, meanwhile, moved through the department with your tired eyes and your quick hands and your reckless tenderness. Young enough still (or so he told himself) to expect that life might give something back if you loved it hard enough. You deserved someone unburdened. Someone uncomplicated. Someone who could take your warmth without flinching as though it were a wound.
After all, he was sure that there was someone waiting for you at home. A boyfriend, perhaps or more.
Jack imagined someone decent. Someone with clean hands and an unbroken history, someone who texted you before your shift and kept dinner warm badly but honestly. Someone who did not measure desire against grief and guilt and the arithmetic of age, Someone whose body didn’t ache.
Someone who could accept your careless affection without making a religion of it.
Your imagined partner served a purpose. He transformed restraint into decency, into professionalism, into something cleaner than fear.
Wanting a woman who belonged to someone else was pathetic enough, but reaching for her? That would have made him cruel. And Jack, wherever else he had been, whatever he had failed at, refused to be cruel to you.
So he let the imagined man stand between you as a useful ghost.
He disliked the idea of him with an intensity that embarrassed him every time it surfaced.
But he needed him. Because the man made restraint noble, sensible, clean.
And, god, Jack was desperate for cleanliness in a thing that had begun to feel anything but clean.
Because the truth, when stripped of all its careful justifications, was far simpler and far more humiliating:
When you touched him, he wanted.
Not in a weird philosophical way, nor a tragic one and neither in the elegant, distinct manner of a man nobly suffering from some doomed attachment. But rather, he wanted with a terrible simplicity.
Wanted your hand close there when your fingers brushed against his. Wanted your knee touching his when your legs touched under the table. Wanted to hear you say his name - Jack, not Dr. Abbot, in a room where no one else could hear it.
Every time that wanting rose in him, all his noble restraint began to change shape into something that looked less like virtue or decency. Less like the necessary discipline of an older man protecting a colleague from the ruin of his own desire.
Instead, it began to look very much like fear. Fear of being seen. Of being wanted. Of not being able to refuse you when you reached for him with any true intention.
And worst of all, fear that you would not reach for him at all.
You examined this thing between you way too much.
You thought about him while washing your hands. While restocking carts. While walking home in the pale, exhausted morning after a shift, when the city looked too clean and unreal, and your body still felt tuned to the artificial brightness of the Pitt. You thought about the impossible carefulness of him, the way he let you come close and then seemed furious with himself for wanting it.
You were afraid you’d misread him, that all his stillness was not wanting but discomfort.
So you gave him chances, touched him, and then left space for him to move away. Smiled and let him look first. He never stepped away, never hardened against it, but also never reached for you either.
And you were blissfully unaware that Jack had conjured up a man by your side in his head that, over time, had become strangely useful to Jack. Because as long as this ghost existed, the thing growing steadily and silently between the two of you remained impossible by default.
He could stand beside you at the nurses’ station while your shoulder pressed warm against his arm and tell himself that the warmth belonged to someone else. He could endure the small, unbearable mercies of your touch because they were, in the end…. Harmless.
They had to be just that because you were unavailable. That made restraint simple… simpler. But not easy.
You continued touching him with the same careless familiarity that had first disturbed the machinery of his peace weeks earlier. Each contact lasted seconds and remained with him absurdly long afterwards.
The worst of it all was that the touches did not remain the same.
Maybe they did, and Jack was only losing the ability to interpret them sensibly. That was a possibility.
After all, he was tired, older than he felt, and more affected than he wished. And desire had a way of falsifying evidence. He knew that. A starving man could make a feast out of crumbs.
And yet, to him it seemed that your hand sometimes lingered. Not long enough to name or accuse. But only a fraction longer than they should remain. Your eyes sometimes held there for one dangerous heartbeat too long, as if you were waiting for him rt do something with the silence between you.
He refused to examine this too closely, because he didn’t want to chase after hope. He had no patience to deal with the fact that hope would inevitably soften the walls that kept him functional.
So he returned to the boyfriend again and again to keep himself in check.
Until Thursday night.
The Pitt had settled into one of its uglier moods, and the waiting room had become its own nation of misery. Someone was vomiting loudly into a plastic basin near triage, Lena was threatening a resident with bodily harm over misplaced paperwork and from the tone of her voice, Jack suspected she had advanced beyond metaphor. Ellis had sworn at two separate monitors and the wall itself. Shen’s mood was just as bad, with Dunkin’ having closed due to a burst pipe and him not getting his sugary coffee in before the shift.
Jack himself had perhaps slept three hours, and that would be the explanation he’d later use.
He was due upstairs shortly before surgery, already running through labs and images and the sequence of calls he had to make today, when you appeared in front of him with that focused look you wore when your body had decided before your mind had finished justifying it.
The night had scraped your nerves raw, and you were tired of pretending you did not want excuses to touch him.
“Hold still,” you said.
Jack should have stepped back. Should have taken the chart in his hand and used it as a shield. Should have turned towards anything else. Should have said something dry enough to restore the distance between you before your fingers reached him.
But he did none of those things, and you stepped into his space before either of you could pretend it had happened by accident. One hand catching the edge of his collar when it had twisted and smoothing it back into place with absent concentration.
It was the same gesture as before, but then your palm flattened once briefly over the centre of his chest.
Warmth, through cotton and t-shirt and skin and bone, Jack felt it everywhere,
The exhaustion of the week, the months of hunger carefully buried beneath professionalism. The imagined boyfriend standing between Jack and the thing he wanted. All the structures he had built around restrained all the arguments he had polished until they looked like virtue, all the locked rooms in him that had remained obedient for years.
Something simply gave beneath the pressure of your hand.
He looked down at your palm resting against his chest as though it had some right to be there.
“Does your boyfriend know you touch people like this?” The words were out before he could recall them.
Silence, not long but long enough for the full, catastrophic stupidity of the sentence to reveal itself.
Jack felt the room stop around him, though of course it had not. The hospital carried on with its usual indifference, but between the two of you, everything became still.
You could not make sense of the words at first. It landed between you as an object dropped from a height, strange and heavy and weird.
And so Jack experienced the full humiliation of what he had done. The jealousy. The nakedness, the pathetic hope dressed badly as accusation. He had asked a question he had no right to ask in a tone that he could not quite excuse as professional.
He had dragged the imagined man into the space between you and, in doing so, revealed precisely how long he had been thinking about him.
About you.
His jaw tightened, and he prepared himself for the worst: offence, withdrawal and the measured kindness with which you might decide to spare him.
Part of you wanted to laugh at the misunderstanding; there had been no one for years. But another part of you, quieter and more vulnerable, hurt with the knowledge that he may not feel the same. And yet you realised that beneath the edge of his words, something frightened and exposed had taken root in him. Something that made your irritation soften before it could fully become irritation again.
So when you looked up, you didn’t look offended, just startled with a flicker of understanding and something softer still that Jack was suddenly far too frightened to name.
“Jack,” you said slowly and a little breathless with the sudden rearranging of everything you thought you knew about his silence, “I’ve been single for years…”
Years. Years.
That word struck him almost with physical force. Not now or recently or between things.
For a moment, Jack felt suspended. The air between you became too close, too warm, too full of all the meaning he had spent weeks refusing to gather.
You watched all that move through his face almost invisibly. The brief blankness, the tightening in his jaw, the way his eyes sharpened as if the room had tilted.
Behind you, Ellis shouted for him from down the hall, but neither of you moved.
Your palm remained on his chest, and you could feel his pulse under your hand, fast and thumping. And you looked at him as though the rhythm had answered a question you had not yet dared to ask aloud.
You saw him realise that you were not beyond reach, and the sight frightened you because it did not make him look triumphant. It made him look undone.
Not dramatically, but enough. His jaw had gone slack slightly. Just enough to soften the hard line of his mouth to make him look less like the man who cut through emergencies and more like someone who had been struck by a truth he had not prepared himself to survive. His lips parted as if there had been a response in him once, but it had vanished before it could reach the air.
And his eyes - god, his eyes.
They had gone distant and exposed, fixed on you with a kind of stunned uncertainty as though he were looking not merely at your face but at the sudden collapse of every careful assumption he had built between you.
You saw the muscle in his throat work one. Saw the small, almost helpless shift of his mouth as he thought he might speak and could not decide whether spelling would save him or ruin him faster.
The fluorescent light caught in the tired lines at the corner of his eyes, the rough shadow along his jaw, the silver threaded through his hair and all at once, he seemed unbearably real to you.
Not distant, not untouchable, not safely contained between the authority of Dr. Abbot.
Just…Jack.
A man standing very still under your hand, with his pulse beating hard and fast, realising that the person he had been denying himself was not safely beyond reach.
And that realisation did not make him look victorious. It made him look afraid.
As though the one thing that had protected him from hope had been removed without warning.
So at least you stepped back, your hand falling from his chest, and cold air replaced it.
The surroundings returned to Jack in a rush, and he could only muster a soft sound to comment on what you had just revealed, “Oh…”
Under the circumstances, it was an exceptionally inadequate response, but it was all he could say right now, and you wouldn’t push for more.
Your mouth twitched slightly at one corner as Ellis called his name again and shattered the moment around both of you.
You walked away first because you had to. If you stayed, you were afraid you might say something neither of you could take back. Something too honest for the hallway and too soft for the Pitt. Something like I thought you knew, or There really is no one, or even I don’t touch everyone like that.
So you turned towards the noise of the department and made yourself useful.
Jack remained where he was for several seconds longer, staring at the space you had occupied as though your absence had left a visible outline in the air. The place where your hand had reset still burned through his scrub top. His pulse had still not recovered.
The man he resented for weeks did not exist. There was no boyfriend, no decent man waiting at home.
The realisation continued to move through him, but he didn't feel relief or joy or anything so simple. It was too complicated for that, too threaded with fear and hunger and the brutal awareness of consequence.
But beneath it all, low and sickenly warm under his ribs, something dangerously close to hope had begun to unfurl from its coil. And Jack hated it instantly.
And you, walking away with your hand still tingling from the shape of his chest, felt hope, too, but you did not hate it.
But it did scare you enough that you did not look back.
_____
After that question, Jack became careful, and you noticed almost immediately.
He didn’t withdraw with the intention of punishing you, and somehow that made it even worse. Because it meant he believed he was doing something decent. Something responsible. Something that hurt both of you and therefore must, by some grim equation of his, be right.
He changed so subtly that no one else in the department would have paused over it, and yet sharp enough that you felt it almost at once.
He stopped lingering beside you after hard cases.
Before, there had always been those few quiet seconds when the patient had gone, when the room looked wrecked, and the two of you stood in the aftershock together. He would remain near, not speaking much, pretending to study a chart, wiping his hands, or listening for someone calling his name.
You learned the language of that lingering. It meant I am still here, that was bad, or maybe even stay near me while I remember how to be ordinary again.
Now? He left first and always with some reason in his hand.
He no longer reached for the coffee you handed him. He glanced at it, then at you, and seething shuttered behind his eyes.
“Thanks,” he said. Polite. Careful. Awful.
When your arms brushed in crowded hallways, he moved aside first now. And that was maybe what bothered you the most because the hospital was cramped and bodies collided. It was perfectly ordinary.
But Jack began avoiding even the ordinary. He gave you space with the grave courtesy of a man offering an apology you had not asked for.
You hated it. And Jack? He hated it too. That was maybe the worst part.
You could see it in him, the cruelty of knowing someone too well. He was not unaffected by what he was doing. If anything, the carefulness had made him more visibly strained with his jaw tighter and his silences harsher.
He didn't watch you as often anymore, and yet when he did, it was with such hunger quickly disguised as restraint that it felt almost unbearable to catch him at it.
Distance was supposed to restore proportion, which had been his intention at least. To step back before the thing growing between you acquired enough shape to be named. Before it became visible to Ellis, to Shen, to anyone with eyes and the misfortune of being awake at three in the morning.
Before it ruined you.
Not himself. Jack had very little patience for his own preservation, had dragged his body and soul through worse things than longing and expected no sympathy for it. But you were different. Younger, warmer, and still capable of giving tenderness without flinching from it first.
And he would not be the thing that taught you to.
To Jack, the department felt wrong without your nearness in it. He noticed the missing warmth of your shoulder, the way you laughed without catching his gaze afterwards, and how you stopped reaching for him as easily.
The last one should have relieved him, but it did not. Instead, it irritated him with the sheer unfairness of a self-inflicted wound. He had created the distance and now restored the shape it made around him.
It was pathetic, really. At his age, desire ought to arrive with dignity or not at all. But it had just reduced him to someone measuring entire shifts by the accidental proximity of a nurse.
You deserved someone lighter than him. That thought followed him everywhere. Through the endless hours of his shift. Through the ambulance bay. Through the staff room. Through the brief moments when he washed his hands and found himself staring too long at his own reflection in the dark window above the sink.
Someone younger, whose body did not ache with old injuries. Someone who could still stand at the end of a brutal shift and imagine dancing or breakfast, or sunlight without first calculating how much pain the next hour might cost.
Someone who did not carry war quietly in the set of his shoulders.
Someone who did not carry widowhood in the exhausted caution of his hands.
Someone who could offer you uncomplicated things. Mornings untouched by nightmares, intimacy untouched by grief… a future not assembled awkwardly from surviving pieces.
He feared all of that because wanting you made him feel breakable.
So he thought he could endure wanting you. Because wanting was private and could be locked away. He had survived worse than wanting, so he could survive this, too.
What he could not endure was the possibility that you might actually want him back, because then restraint would no longer be noble, but rather a refusal. He wouldn’t protect you; he would actively hurt you.
You missed the moments between the two of you immensely, and you suspected he felt the same.
Twice during this week, you caught him looking at you with an expression that made your pulse stumble.
One time, you had been laughing at something someone said near the medication station, tired enough that the laughter came out softer than usual. When you looked up, Jack was watching you from across the department.
Not with the ordinary irritated attention he gave noise in a place already too full of it. He was looking at you as though he had forgotten that looking could be seen.
The second time was sometime after four in the morning. You were standing together at the nurses’ station, close but not touching, both exhausted. His shoulders were rounded with fatigue, one hand braced beside the keyboard, the other resting near a chart he had stopped pretending to read.
You needed a pen. Probably pens were everywhere, from drawers to pockets. But the nearest one was tucked behind Jack’s ear.
And before you could think, ask, or remember that things had changed, you reached for it.
When your finger brushed his temple, he froze, went still under your hand. It was as if he had ceased to be the steady centre of anything and became a statue under the smallest possible kindness.
Your hand closed around the pen, but you did not pull it free yet, and Jack just looked at you. No, not at you. More into you.
As though your touch had interrupted something inside the machinery he had built to keep himself distant, as if it suffered a catastrophic failure at the contact of your fingers.
Slowly, carefully, his eyes dropped to your mouth. Heat moved through you instantly. It struck low and sharp, almost carnal in a sudden awareness of your own mouth and the small distance between you.
His gaze stayed there for longer than it should have. When he lifted his eyes again, he looked almost angry. Not with you. With himself, with the want that had become visible despite all his effort.
You could have made it easy for him then. You could have laughed, taken the pen, turned away, restored the moment to something ordinary again. You could have pretended not to notice the way his pulse had changed, or how the tips of his ears turned red, or even how his eyes had betrayed him.
Instead, you just stayed close, too. Just long enough to let him understand that you had seen him.
Then he moved back gently.
After that, you stopped pretending you didn’t know.
Not loudly. There were still patients to be seen, families to call, rooms to turn over before the next emergency arrived.
But still, you knew now.
You knew in the way he went still, when you came too close with the sudden arrested quiet of a man holding himself back by force. Or how he stared at your mouth too often in a way that couldn’t be denied. And, of course, in the way he had asked about a partner and retreated the moment your answer removed the last clean excuse between you.
He wanted you. But it felt like a man standing very still in a burning room because he was more afraid of harming you than of being consumed himself. And so you gave him the choice to leave.
You wouldn’t - couldn’t - demand a confession from him when he seemed so torn between his inner demons and what he wanted so clearly.
So you started to behave normally again. Standing beside him instead of across, touching his shoulder or arm in passing once more. Nonetheless, you always made sure he could step away if he wanted to.
Sometimes he would, and those times always hurt. Not because you thought he didn't want you, but because you know he did and chose distance.
But sometimes, he did not.
Sometimes, when you touched his wrist and said his first name, he looked down at your fingers, not like a man rejecting a boundary crossed, but like a thirsty man refusing to drink the water in front of him.
These moments were almost nothing: a pause, a breath, a hand not withdrawn, a man allowing himself to be touched.
And somewhere in those small permissions, the thing between you stopped being imaginary.
It became waiting.
_____
It happened after a child with appendicitis turned septic faster than anyone would have liked.
That was how Jack would have described it later, if anyone had asked. Nothing catastrophic, in the end: Surgery took him, and the vitals steadied. The boy was alive. His mother had only stopped crying after Ellis had told her that her son had arrived in time and that he was in the best hands. The machinery worked as it was meant to work.
And still, by the time you slipped into the medication room, your hands were shaking. Not enough for anyone else to notice in the hall. You had kept them useful when it mattered, held pressure, passed instruments on, spoken gently.
But in the narrow privacy between shelves and drawers with the door half-closed behind you and the worst over, your body had demanded compensation.
Jack found you there, your fingers trembling around nothing.
“Hey,” his voice was low and careful.
You looked down at your hands, “I’m fine.”
“I didn’t ask.”
His dry retort almost made you laugh, almost broke you too.
The laugh rose first, small and helpless, because of how he had said it. But under it, something hot and sudden began to manifest itself behind your eyes; you had to press your lips together to keep it from becoming a sound you would not be able to take back.
Jack stepped closer to you, not much. Just in the way it had been now for quite some time, only allowing proximity in measured doses as though closeness was some volatile drug to be administered with caution.
For a moment, he only stood there, the war in him obvious. Something between you had been stretching for weeks now. Thin as wire. Hot as a live current. Every almost, every retreat, every glance too long had pulled it tighter.
And as his hand rose and settled at the back of your neck, you knew something in him had snapped.
Your breath caught, and for one second, the world seemed to stop turning. His palm curved around the nape of your neck with a restraint so delicate it was almost worse than hunger. His fingers rested beneath the fall of your hair, not gripping, not claiming, only there - steady and human and closer than he had allowed himself to be in days.
The touch should have calmed you, but instead it felt like oil thrown onto the flame.
Your skin seemed to know him before the rest of you could decide what to do. The warmth of his hand spread down your spine, across your shoulders, beneath your ribs, until the shaking in your fingers became something else entirely.
Jack felt it too. Or maybe he only felt his own ruin answering yours.
“You did well,” he said, his voice was rougher than usual, and his thumb moved once, barely.
In any other world, the words should have just steadied you. Returned the moment to something safe, something professional; just one colleague comforting another one. You should have just nodded, thanked him and stepped back.
Instead, you looked up. And his gaze dropped to your mouth again.
This time, he did not look away immediately.
That was the difference. That was the match.
For weeks, he had glanced and retreated, wanted and punished himself, let his gaze fall to your mouth only long enough for both of you to know before turning away with the grim discipline of someone believing he was doing something right.
But now he just looked. Really looked.
“Jack,” you whispered, and whatever he saw in your face, your eyes, ruined him.
You could watch it happen, the small collapse inside of him. The flare of want before restraint closed around it, and how his eyes darkened.
His hand tightened by a fraction at the back of your neck. Not enough to hurt, but enough to tell the truth.
You just stood inside the tiny room, close enough that the air seemed shared and everything beyond the door became distant and irrelevant. His hand was on your neck, your eyes on your mouth. And that was all that mattered. The fire had caught now, and all his carefullness, all his distance, all his noble, miserable retrauint had only fed it.
Then someone shouted from the hall and tore through the moment.
Jack stepped back so quickly that the absence of him felt like a slap. His face closed again, and then he left.
And for the next hour, he was furious with himself. Not because he had touched you. No, it was because for one second he had believed he was allowed to.
That was the dangerous thing. Desire could be mistrused and eventually starved. Permission was worse.
The look on your face had not been pity. And he couldn't make it pity no matter how hard he tried. It had been wanting. Unmistakable enough that even Jack’s considerable talent for self-denial could not fully disfigure it.
You wanted him. Possibly. Probably.
That thought moved through him like a second ignition, heat catching where he had already been burning.
And still, he couldn’t let go of his thoughts. He was too old, too damaged. He was sure you only wanted the idea of him. The controlled version you saw.
You didn’t know the rest; the bad nights, the stiffness, the pain.
You deserved better than a man who would have to explain himself before letting you undress him.
Better than a body that came with history written into muscle and bone.
Better than a man who had learned to survive so thoroughly that he no longer knew whether he could be loved without first apologising for what survival had made of him.
Better than Jack Abbot.
That was what he told himself like a mantra through the rest of his shift. As he scrubbed his hands too hard. As he corrected a resident too sharply. As he avoided looking towards you because he knew if he saw you again, the thing in him might snap a second time.
And next time, he was not so sure he would step back.
_____
The night that continued the unravelling began badly and then worsened with an almost theatrical dedication.
Rain came down hard enough to turn the outside almost silver. It sheeted over the asphalt in violent, glittering bursts beneath emergency lights, gathered in gutters, and struck the roof with a steady metallic insistence. The city seemed to empty itself into the Pitt one siren at a time.
By midnight, every bed was full.
By two, the hallways had become waiting rooms.
By three, even Shen had stopped making jokes.
Jack had not eaten since noon, and had only had half a cup of black coffee that now stood forgotten on the counter next to a protein bar he had taken one bite from. You had not sat down in six hours, and your body ached with it.
Around dawn, the department seemed to quiet down a bit. At least it gave the illusion of rest, ten stolen minutes in the staff room beneath humming lights. When you entered, you found Jack already there.
He was sitting on the worn couch with his head tipped back against the wall, eyes closed, one hand resting loosely over his abdomen and the other along the cushion at his side. Exhaustion had stripped something from his face. Without the sharpness of command and the motion of work, he looked older.
Not weaker. Just… unbearably human.
His hair was damp at the edges, curling even more than normally. The shadow of the stubble along his jaw was more pronounced than at the start of the shift. He looked like a man assembled out of duty, pain, caffeine, and refusal. And for one aching moment, you wanted nothing more than to touch the place where the world had rested hardest on him.
“You should go home,” he said without opening his eyes.
“So should you.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” you mumbled as you sat down beside him, the couch dipping beneath your weight.
Once again, you were too close. Your knee nearly touched his, and the heat of his body met yours in the narrow space between you.
For a while, neither of you spoke. But silence did what speech could not: It softened the edges and let the hospital drift away inch by inch. Somewhere outside the ER continued breathing, but inside the room, the world narrowed down to you and him.
Exhausted, you leaned against him in a small surrender. Jack went still beneath the contact, his body reacting with that familiar restraint as every muscle seemed to hold its breath. His arm was warm and solid against yours had become the nearest real thing in a room that had been moving all night.
Your temple came to rest against him next.
“This okay?” you asked, barely above a whisper.
It was not. It was the least okay thing that had happened to him all week. Because it was so gentle and the question gave him a chance to refuse you, but some starving part inside him knew that he did not want the distance.
“Yes,” he said. The word came out low and rough, nearly unrecognisable.
You relaxed against him by degrees. First, your shoulder settled more fully against his upper arm, the tension easing from you in small increments. Then your head came to rest more heavily against him, your temple warm through the fabric near his shoulder, your hair brushing the side of his jaw whenever you shifted. Your hand, loose and tired and utterly thoughtless, drifted towards his forearm.
He had the kind of arms that made restraint look physical: broad through the forearm, corded not in any decorative way but with the practical strength of a man who had spent his life using his body because there had never been another option. There were small marks there too, old nicks and pale scars, the sort of evidence a life left behind without ever asking whether it would be welcome.
Your fingers touched him lightly, and Jack stared down.
You traced the inside of his forearm slowly, not with the deliberate confidence of someone trying to seduce him, but with the absent tenderness of a person too tired to keep desire and comfort in separate rooms.
Your fingertips followed the raised path of a vein beneath his skin, then drifted over the firm muscle beside it, then back again, slow enough that every inch of contact seemed to enter him with impossible precision. You felt the warmth of him, the roughness of fine hair under your fingers, the faint tension that moved through his arm each time your touch passed near the bend of his elbow.
He smelled closer like this. Less than the department and more like Jack.
Beneath the traces of coffee, rain and disinfectant was the living warmth of his skin, the scent held at his collar and in the fabric of his scrubs after a night of work and fear and too little rest. It made you dizzy in a way that exhaustion could not fully explain.
Jack watched your hand as though it contained instructions for his destruction.
He knew he should move, should sit forward or should clear his throat. Should do any number of sensible things before the thread between you, stretched for weeks by almost-touches and almost-confessions and the cruel oil of hope poured again and again onto desire, finally snapped.
But you were so warm against him with your fingers on his arm and your head beneath his chin. And Jack, who had spent weeks starving himself of the exact tenderness, found that self-denial had a limit after all.
He didn’t decide to kiss the top of your head. Because a decision would have implied a process, a moment in which consequences had been weighed and accepted or rejected. But consequences belonged to a version of Jack Abbot who had slept, eaten, kept a better distance and had not spent the last several months becoming quietly and completely undone by the way you touched him when you thought you were being gentle.
So his mouth found your hair before he understood that he had moved.
It was barely a kiss, barely anything,
Just the lightest press of his lips to the crown of your head. It should have been innocent, but Jack felt it go through him like a match to oil.
Your hand stilled on his forearm, and you lifted your head, slowly but not startled or pulling away. And that, more than anything, destroyed the last fragile thing holding him back.
Jack’s hand was still on your arm, though he had no memory of putting it there. His fingers curved around you with careful pressure, thumb resting against the soft skin just below your sleeve, not gripping, not yet, but holding enough that both of you knew he could not pretend this was merely fatigue.
Your hand remained on his forearm, your fingers spread over the vein you had been tracing, and beneath your palm, his muscles were tense with the effort of not reaching for more.
For one suspended second, you looked at him with the same softness that had been ruining him for weeks.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His name in your voice was the final pull on the thread.
His hand rose from your arm to the side of your face as he leaned in, broad palm warm against your cheek, fingers sliding carefully into the hair near your temple as though even in surrender, he could not stop himself from being gentle with you. His mouth found yours slowly enough to give you one last chance to turn away and urgently enough to confess that he had been wanting this for longer than he could bear to admit.
You did not turn away but moved into him.
So he kissed you like a man arriving starving at his own destruction.
Your hands caught his shoulders, fingers gripping the fabric of his scrubs as though some part of you needed more proof that he was solid and that this was real.
He responded by deepening the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow stroke that made your stomach clench.
His own fingers could not seem to decide where they were allowed to belong.
They found your waist first, large and careful and so unsteady, drawing you closer and closer. Then one slid to your back, pressing between your shoulder blades as if he could keep you there. And then it rose to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek with an overwhelming tenderness.
Your hand slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck. Your fingers found the short hair at his nape, and Jack made a sound, low and involuntary, that vibrated through the narrow space between your bodies.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, to make sure that this was real. That you were real. His thumb brushed over your cheek again, and when you tilted your face up, he kissed you again.
You shifted on the couch, turning towards him. His hand slid from your jaw to the back of your head, fingers threading through your hair, and you felt the gentle pressure of his palm. His tongue brushed against yours and responded in kind, tasting him and deepening the kiss even further.
Driven by hunger, his hands found your waist, and he lifted you up until you were straddling him on the narrow couch. You settled against him, your knees bracketing his hips, and the first thing you felt was the solid wall of his thighs beneath you.
“Jack-” you started, voice breathless even to your own ears.
“I’ve thought about this,” he murmured against your throat, interrupting you. His lips moved over your pulse point, his stubble scraping over it. “Thought about you … for months.”
His thumbs started to trace slow circles against the jut of your hipbones through the fabric, and you arched into him instinctively.
You felt him hardening beneath you. The thick length of his cock pressed against your cunt through too many layers of fabric, and you rolled your hips without thinking, chasing the friction. The sensation sent sparks up your spine, and you gasped against his neck.
His head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes closed and throat exposed. You took the opportunity to lean in and press your lips against the hollow of his neck.
When he let out a low groan, you rolled your hips again, slower this time. His fingers dug into your hips, guiding you, pulling you harder against him. You could feel the tension coiling in his body, the way his thighs tensed, and the ragged catch in his breathing.
“Fuck,” he gasped. “Fuck, wait..I-”
But you were already moving again, lost in the heat of him and the taste of his mouth when he pulled you back in for another kiss. His hips bucked up against you, and you felt him throb against you.
Then he went rigid beneath you.
A low, broken sound escaped his throat. Half groan, half something like aguish. Jack’s hands clamped down on your hips hard, fingers curled in the fabrics of your scrubs hard enough to wrinkle them, as his whole body shuddered.
You felt the warmth spreading against you even through the fabric.
A flush of shame rose to his face. Colour high along his cheekbones now, through the stubble and the exhaustion of the shift.
“Fuck,” The word came out strangled. “I’m so sorry.”
His jaw tightened, and he couldn’t bring himself to look at you. He could feel the cooling wetness against his skin, the uncomfortable cling of fabric. It had been years since anyone touched him with intention. Years since he had let himself want something enough to lose himself in it.
“I need to change my scrubs…” He said quietly, words rough and scraped raw by embarrassment.
“It’s been a while,” he said finally, the admission dragged out of him like a confession. “A long while. This doesn’t usually…”
He could not finish the sentence, couldn’t articulate the way his body had betrayed him, had responded to you with an intensity he had forgotten he was capable of feeling.
You watched the shame move through him like a wave. Watching how his eyes could not quite meet yours, the way his jaw worked around words he could not say. Nonetheless, your body still hummed with want; you could feel the ache between your thighs that hadn't been satisfied yet. But you also felt a fierce tenderness for this man who looked at you like you were something precious and terrifying.
“Jack.” You kept your voice soft and steady. “It’s okay.”
“It's not,” he exhaled sharply. “That wasn’t…I wanted to...”
“I know.”
You leaned in and pressed your forehead to his. The gesture was intimate in a way that made his chest tighten. He could smell your shampoo, feel the warmth of your breath against his lips.
You stayed where you were for another long moment. The fluorescent lights hummed. The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere in the ER, the night shift continued without you, but here in this small room, time had become something elastic and strange.
Finally, reluctantly, you began to move.
His hands slid from your hips as you rose, but not before he squeezed them once - hard, deliberate, a silent promise. The fabric of your panties stuck to your cunt, and you were acutely aware of how muhch you wanted him.
Jack watched you stand. He remained on the couch, making no move to rise, and you understood why. The evidence of his orgasm was visible if you looked, a slight darkening of the fabric at his groin. He kept his thighs pressed together, one hand resting casually over the affected area, but his ears had gone red again.
Then, very gently, you cupped his cheek.
Jack stopped breathing.
Your palm fit against the side of his face with a tenderness that made his expression change before he could prevent it. Your thumb brushed once beneath his eye, over the tired skin there, near the place exhaustion had settled into him so deeply that it seemed part of his bone structure. His stubble rasped faintly against your palm. He smelled of coffee and rain and hospital soap and the warm, human aftermath of being kissed past his own defences.
“It’s okay, really,” you murmured.
Finally, Jack looked at you properly again.
Something steadier had begun to settle behind the embarrassment now. Not calm exactly. Calm would have been too clean a word for it. This was darker, quieter, more deliberate. Determination, perhaps. Or surrender wearing the clothes of decision.
“Come with me after shift,” he said.
Not a question.
The command seemed to surprise him the instant it left his mouth.
His expression shifted, the old caution returning so quickly it almost hurt to watch, and his voice softened immediately afterwards, roughened by the effort of giving you room.
“If you want,” he paused and swallowed. “I’ll do better. I’ll make it good for you…I-”
“Yes.”
You answered before he could finish or spiral into self-doubt or find reasons why this was a mistake.
“Yes,” you repeated softly. “I want that. I want you.”
Something low and helpless moved through Jack’s expression before he looked away from you entirely.
It was not quite a smile, not quite a grimace, not quite surrender, but some private combination of all three - desire and disbelief and the terrible relief of being answered. His hand flexed once against the couch cushion, as though he had to remind himself not to reach for you again when the door was unlocked, and the department still needed him.
“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath.
You laughed softly.
And for the first time in weeks, he did not step back from the sound.
I'm trying to think of Ed Warren Smuts you can write cause I've read like....all of the Ed Warren Smuts in Tumblr! So hopefully I can plan some good prompts for youuuu anyway love your Ed Warren and Patrick Wilson Smuts❤
Aaah thank youuuu. I love love LOVE your requests so much! Promise I'm gonna get to it hopefully sooner than later ✨
doormatty, how I've missed you and your patrick wilson fanfics✌️🥹
🖤🖤 well I am back! And I'll try to write more! I will also dabble in some other fandoms when I feel like it, BUT there will certainly be more PWilz fanfics. I've got some planned but if anyone has some requests, let me knooow ~
I just read unravelled and im obsessed!! The way it didnt even feel long because it was so delicious and i just wanted to immerse myself in it
Thank you so much 🥹 I'm so so happy that so many people like it. I'll probably write part 2 at some point as well! Originally, I didn't plan for it but yeah 😄
[Aaron Hotchner x Reader] [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]
It’s supposed to be the last carefree night before your new job begins - just a drink, maybe two, and a chance to forget the nerves waiting for you in the morning.
Instead, you meet him. Aaron Hotchner. Calm, controlled, and devastatingly handsome, intense in a way that makes your skin itch to find out what’s hiding behind that commanding shell.
And before the night is over, you do find out exactly what happens when he lets go of all that careful control.
OR:
Aaron puts the hot in Hotchner and makes you obey
A/N: This has been in my drafts embarrassingly long...so I figured it's time to finally finish it. I may have gotten completely carried away lol
To be honest, you are not sure why you are here - here, of all places, in a bar thick with low murmurs and the clink of glass.
Tomorrow is your first day with the Behavioral Analysis Unit at the FBI. A fresh start. A career people would kill for. And yet tonight, instead of preparing or sleeping or doing anything remotely sensible, you’re sitting beneath warm amber light with a drink in your hand.
Maybe it’s nerves. Maybe it’s the uncertainty curling in your stomach every time you think about tomorrow. Maybe you just needed one last night of being no one important yet.
At least you chose well.
The bar has the kind of charm that can’t be fabricated. Age settled into the dark wood panels and worn floorboards, into the brass fixtures dulled by time, into every nick and scratch left behind by years of strangers passing through. It feels lived in, familiar, like a place that has seen a thousand stories and kept every one of them.
The lighting is low and golden, casting everything in softness. It catches on framed photographs lining the walls, on polished bottles behind the counter, on the edges of glasses raised in quiet toasts.
And the varied crowd reflects just that. A few play darts with quiet intensity, while others linger at the bar, absorbed in conversation that hums rather than roars.
Behind the counter, the bartender moves, pouring drinks with careful precision. Ice knocks softly against glass, laughter rises and fades, and the room vibrates with the easy comfort of a place suspended somewhere between celebration and escape.
A quiet sigh slips from your lips as you study the depths of your glass, where the scotch rests in a pool of amber fire, gathering and releasing the low light of the room. It was a good choice. It’s something warm, expensive enough to feel indulgent, strong enough to quiet the edges of your thoughts.
The tumbler sits heavy in your hand, its weight oddly reassuring, as though anchoring you in the sea of uncertainty that you’re afloat in.
When you tilt the glass, the liquid clings for a moment to the crystal walls before slipping downwards in thin golden rivulets. You watch them with more attention than they deserve, grateful for the distraction, however brief, from the shape of tomorrow waiting just beyond midnight.
“A beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be here alone.”
The voice arrives like a stone through still water, disturbing the fragile calm you had so carefully constructed around yourself.
You lift your gaze to find a man standing beside you, perhaps near your own age. His eyes are a washed and uncertain blue, curious in a manner that feels less charming than practised. Angular features are softened by an uneven stubble, and brown hair falls untidily to his ears.
He is not unattractive…only uninteresting. Too young, too eager, and possessed of that particular energy, you have no patience to entertain tonight.
You offer him the kind of smile civility demands and nothing more.
“Sometimes being alone is rather nice,” you reply evenly. “Besides, I’m not alone.”
Demonstratively, you lift your glass a bit - the whiskey is your company.
He grins, entirely untroubled by your refusal, “Fair enough. Mind if I join you? The night’s still young, and good company is hard to find.”
For a moment, you let the silence linger between you, hoping it might accomplish what politeness had not.
“I appreciate the offer,” you say at last, measured and clear, “but I was rather enjoying some time to myself.”
You hate men who just don’t get it. How broad should the hint be, you ask yourself.
His expression does not so much as flicker. With the confidence of a man long accustomed to mistaking persistence for charm, he draws the empty stool beside you and settles onto it as though invited.
“No harm in a little company, is there? Name’s Sean, by the way.”
You give your own name with a restrained inclination of the head, the sort of courtesy you extend to strangers and endures.
“Nice to meet you, Sean.”
It is, in fact, not.
Jesus, you’re not in the mood to deal with someone like him today.
Sean continues on, filling the air with the easy, thoughtless chatter of someone entirely content to occupy more space than he has been given. You scarcely hear the words. Your attention has already turned elsewhere, your gaze moving over the room in quiet calculation, searching the dim corners and crowded tables for some means of escape from the tedious siege of unwanted conversation.
And then you see him. Dark, serious, and older.
He takes a seat at the counter with the quiet assurance of a man who never needs to announce himself. One hand settles around a glass of amber liquor, the other resting loose beside it, every movement economical, precise. There is nothing ostentatious about him, and yet the room seems to bend, almost imperceptibly, around his presence. He is magnetic, drawing you in and captivating you.
Dark eyes, brown, you think, though the light keeps their true colour half-concealed, view the room from beneath a stern, thoughtful brow. There is intelligence there, sharp and watchful, the kind that misses very little and forgives even less.
His hair is black, neatly kept, touched by the faintest suggestion of silver at the temples. It frames a face cut in decisive lines: strong jaw, straight nose, a mouth made severe by habit rather than nature.
His dress shirt is charcoal, sleeves rolled once at the forearm, collar open just enough to suggest the night has coaxed some small concession from discipline. Broad shoulders strain the fabric in a way almost indecently distracting. Everything about him speaks of control - careful, practised, absolute.
He is all sharp lines and silent strength.
His gaze rests now on you and Sean with calm, unblinking attention. Not intrusive. Not idle. Merely observant. But there is a flicker in those unreadable eyes. Interest, perhaps, or disapproval, or the private consideration of a man already deciding what to do next.
You decide to use a subtle diversion tactic, seizing the opportunity, offering Sean a polite smile, “I appreciate the conversation, Sean, but I’ve just spotted someone I need to catch up with. Perhaps another time?”
Before Sean can gather himself enough to object, you slip from the stool, leaving him in a brief and well-earned silence.
You cross the short distance to the stranger and offer him a small smile.
“Mind if I join you?”
The mysterious stranger glances towards the empty stool beside him and gestures to it with a quiet inclination of his hand.
As you settle onto the chair your initial impression is confirmed: He is, indeed, remarkably handsome.
The dark dress shirt fits almost too well, stretching lightly across broad shoulders.
Your gaze lingers on his hands; large, capable hands. The fingers are long and precise, the nails neatly kept, each detail suggesting a man who values order, control, and competence. Yet there is nothing delicate about them. They look built for command.
Your eyes trail upwards, and you can’t help but notice the soft shadow that graces his cheeks and chin. You wonder whether you would feel the gentle prickle of stubble if your fingers were to trace the contours of his face?
And then there are his eyes.
Exactly as you suspected: dark brown, deep-set and observant. Yet up close, they are warmer than expected, touched by an intelligence that feels almost tangible. They hold yours with calm steadiness, and in their depths a warmth that draws you in.
You’re interrupted when Sean returns a moment later, his expression sharpened by annoyance, as though your leaving had been less a choice than a personal affront.
“It’s not very nice to just walk away, you know,” he remarks, his tone laced with irritation. A cringe creeps over you at the edge in his voice, but before you can respond, the man beside you speaks first.
“Walk away, Sean.”
His voice is deep and level, not raised in the slightest, yet it cuts cleanly through the room and through Sean’s indignation with equal ease.
Sean lets out a humourless laugh. “Oh, fuck off, Aaron. Stay out of it. I wasn’t talking to you.”
Wait, they know each other? They seem so different: Sean all noise and entitlement, this man all restraint and consequence.
Aaron.
The name suits him. You turn it over once in your mind and find you like the sound of it far too much.
Sean, determined to prove himself a fool in every possible manner, places a hand upon your shoulder as though to reclaim the conversation. Irritation flares hot and immediate. You knock his hand away without hesitation.
Before he can speak again, Aaron repeats himself.
“Walk away, Sean.”
This time, the words arrive colder. A warning stripped to its essentials. His expression scarcely changes, yet the faint furrow between his brows deepens, and the air about him seems suddenly sharper, charged by something carefully leashed.
Sean scoffs, though less convincingly than before.
“Who the hell do you think you are, Aaron? She doesn’t need you fighting her battles.”
Aaron turns his gaze fully upon him then, and it is remarkable how much force can exist in stillness.
“She doesn’t need anyone harassing her either.” He pauses only a beat. “Walk away.”
Aaron’s words, a silent warning, hang in the air.
You feel both discomfort and an undeniable relief, as though someone has finally spoken aloud what should have been obvious from the start.
“I’m not taking orders from you,” Sean says, but the bravado has thinned. Uncertainty frays the edges of his voice.
Aaron’s reply is calm, almost courteous, which somehow makes it more threatening.
“You should. It would be in your best interest.”
Silence stretches between them. Then, with the sulky resentment of a man who knows he has lost but cannot bear to admit it, Sean steps back.
“Fine. Have it your way.”
He casts you one final bitter glance before disappearing into the shifting dimness of the bar.
Aaron’s gaze turns back to you once Sean has vanished into the crowd, and with the shift comes a subtle but unmistakable change. The severity that had sharpened his features moments ago eases; the hard line of his mouth softens, the tension at his brow loosens. It is as though some private switch has been thrown; the man who had stood like a blade now becoming something quieter, steadier.
“Are you alright?” he asks.
The question is simple, but there is nothing careless in it. His attention settles on you fully, deliberate and searching, as though he intends to make certain of the answer rather than merely hear it.
You nod, still feeling the remnants of adrenaline fluttering beneath your ribs.
“Yes,” you say, then with greater sincerity, “Thanks to you.”
For a moment, he only inclines his head, accepting the gratitude without ceremony.
“No problem.” His glance flicks briefly towards the direction Sean disappeared. “Some people require a clearer message.” A pause, almost dryly amused. “My brother especially.”
You blink. “Your brother?”
Something like resignation passes over his face before he sighs, “Unfortunately, yes. Younger brother.”
The revelation rearranges the scene in your mind: The hostility, the familiarity, the confidence with which he had intervened.
“Well,” you say slowly, “family dynamics can be... complicated.”
A low sound escapes him, half breath, half laugh. He leans back against the counter then, one elbow resting on the polished wood, glass turning idly between long fingers.
“Complicated is one word for it,” he says. “Sean has a talent for finding trouble wherever he goes.” His eyes lift to yours. “And I have a talent for getting him out of it.”
You laugh despite yourself, the image too fitting not to.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is.”
The answer comes at once, dry and honest enough to surprise another laugh from you. A faint smile touches his mouth in response, brief as light on water.
“But I’d rather not spend the evening discussing my family’s flaws.” He tilts his head slightly, studying you now with that same measured attentiveness. “What brings you here tonight?”
The question turns the light back onto you, and under his gaze, you find yourself answering more openly than you intended. You tell him about tomorrow: Your first day at your new job, the weight of beginnings and expectations pressing against your thoughts. You speak of wanting one quiet evening before life becomes something faster, louder, and more demanding.
Aaron listens without interruption. His eyes remain on you, dark and steady, reflecting understanding without pity, interest without intrusion.
When you finish, he glances around the room - the clatter of glasses, the murmuring crowd, the dartboard thudding softly in the distance.
“Well,” he says at last, voice touched with dry humour, “you chose an interesting space for peace and quiet.”
You laugh aloud, genuinely this time, and the sound appears to please him more than he lets on.
Then he smiles.
It changes him.
Until now, you had admired the stern architecture. But a smile dismantles all of it in an instant. Warmth spills suddenly through features once guarded. The lines of tension vanish from his brow; his eyes brighten, revealing a softness you would not have thought possible in them.
There are dimples, faint but unmistakable, appearing at the corners of a mouth that seems built more for command than delight. They lend him an almost dangerous charm, because they humanise what was already striking.
You stare a moment longer than politeness allows.
He notices, surely. A man like this notices everything. Yet he says nothing. And somewhere, with startling clarity, a thought forms.
You want to see that smile again.
Even want to be the cause of it. You want to peel back every careful layer of restraint he wears so elegantly and discover what lies beneath the discipline, beneath the severity, beneath the immaculate control.
All in all you want, quite suddenly and quite seriously, to be the making of his undoing.
You chat a little longer, conversation flowing with surprising ease over the slow passage of drinks and borrowed glances. There is something effortless in it now, the earlier reserve worn away until words pass between you as naturally as breath.
After a while, you excuse yourself to the restroom.
As you slip from the stool, your phone happens to fall from your hand, striking the floor with a sharp little sound. You bend to retrieve it, slowly, deliberately, so that the hem of your skirt rises just enough to flash more of your thigh and ass than appropriate. You linger there longer than necessary, arching your back a touch more.
From above comes the low, rough sound of a man losing patience with restraint.
You glance back only briefly, catching the dark heat in Aaron’s eyes, and give your hips the faintest sway as you straighten. Then, with a look of playful innocence that fools neither of you, you turn and make your way towards the corridor.
Footsteps follow behind you - swift, purposeful, leaving no doubt as to their owner. Then strong hands find your waist, firm and certain, turning you in one smooth motion until your back meets the wall and Aaron stands before you.
He is close enough now to feel rather than simply see. The breadth of him blocks the narrow hall, his body a wall of warmth and solid strength, every line of him commanding space with effortless authority. His chest rises beneath the dark fabric of his shirt, close enough that you feel the heat of it through your own clothes. His thighs, thick and unyielding, bracket yours, making escape impossible even if you wanted it.
His eyes hold yours, dark and intent, searching your face for something deeper than permission.
“I’ll stop,” he says quietly, voice lowered to a gravelled murmur, his breath warm on your lips, “if you don’t want this.”
But you just smile, tilting your head up in invitation.
It is all he needs.
He crashes his mouth to yours, hard and demanding, his full lips claiming you with a force that steals your breath. His tongue pushes past your teeth, stroking deep, tasting you like he’s starved.
One massive hand cups the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair to angle you just right, while the other slides down to grip your hip, pulling your body flush against his.
Your fingers dig into his shoulders, tracing the broad expanse, and he responds by pressing his hips forward, letting you feel how hard he’s getting. His hand dips lower, cupping your ass and lifting you slightly against the wall, his thigh wedging more between your legs to rub against your aching pussy.
The friction makes you moan into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, kissing you like he never wants to stop, his stoic mask shattered by the raw need in his eyes.
You tease him by grinding your hips forward, feeling the thick length of his cock strain harder against his jeans, rubbing right along your thigh. He groans low into the kiss, his big hand squeezing your ass tighter, fingers digging in to pull you closer, while his other palm slides up to cup your breast fully, thumb circling your nipple through the thin fabric until it peaks stiff and sensitive.
He breaks the kiss just enough to nip at your jaw, whispering hot against your skin, “You like that, don’t you? Getting all worked up in a hallway where anyone could walk by.”
You whimper in response when he captures your lips once more. His touch turns bolder, hand slipping under your skirt to trace the edge of your panties, fingertips brushing your damp pussy, making you whine and buck against him.
But then it hits you- the distant hum of voices from the bar, the risk of someone rounding the corner. You’re in public, exposed in this dimly lit hallway of a busy bar, and the thrill mixes with a sharp jolt of reality. You pull back, breathless, your lips swollen and tingling from his assault.
“Not here,” you murmur, eyes locking on his darkened gaze. You’re almost surprised how strongly you’re reacting to him, but can’t find it in yourself to care, so the next words tumble our breathlessly, “My place.”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then Aaron gives a single nod, sharp and decisive. Desire has coloured the stern planes of his face, though discipline still holds him in check by sheer force of habit. A fleeting smile touches his mouth, rare enough to feel like a private reward, before he reaches to smooth the hem of your skirt back into place with a touch that is both practical and unmistakably possessive.
He grabs your hand, enveloping it completely and leads you back through the crowd.
When you near the counter to settle your tab, Sean notices at once.
He is leaning against the bar with the sullen posture of a man still nursing his humiliation, and the sight of you beside Aaron sharpens something ugly in his expression.
“Well, look at that,” he drawls. “Guess playing hero worked out for you after all.”
A few nearby heads turn, sensing conflict with the vulgar instinct of crowds everywhere.
Aaron does not so much as glance at him at first. He sets payment on the bar, calm and precise, as though Sean were no more than background noise. Yet the line of his jaw tightens.
Sean mistakes silence for permission once again.
“What was it this time, huh?” he continues, bitterness creeping into each word. “Flash the badge, give the big speech, scare everyone into line?”
Aaron turns then. Slowly.
“You’ve embarrassed yourself enough for one night,” he says, voice low and controlled. “Don’t continue.”
Sean scoffs, but there is uncertainty beneath it now. “You always think you know best.”
“No,” Aaron replies evenly. “I usually just happen to be right.”
You cannot help the small laugh that escapes you. Sean hears it, flushes, and glares.
Aaron merely offers him one final look. Cold, steady, final enough to end the matter without another word. Then he takes your hand again and guides you toward the door.
Outside, the night air cools your heated skin as you hail a cab. It pulls up quickly, and you both slide into the back seat, Aaron’s massive frame taking up half the space, his arm immediately draping around your shoulders to tug you close.
The driver glances in the rearview, muttering about the address as you rattle it off, but you barely register. The second the cab lurches forward, Aaron’s mouth is on yours again, kissing you fierce and unyielding, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours.
You tease him relentlessly, straddling his lap despite the cramped space, your skirt bunching up as you rock against the hard bulge tenting his jeans. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, while you suck on his lower lip, then trail bites down his neck, feeling his pulse thunder under your teeth.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he rasps, voice rough, one hand shoving up your top to palm your bare breast, pinching the nipple until you gasp.
You grind down harder, the friction against your soaked pussy making you slicker through your panties, and he thrusts up to meet you, the cab’s motion adding to the rhythm.
The driver clears his throat loudly, eyes flicking to the mirror with clear irritation. “Hey, folks, keep it PG back there! This ain’t a motel on wheels.”
But you ignore him, moaning softly as Aaron’s fingers dip between your legs, rubbing your clit in firm circles over the fabric. He kisses you deeper, swallowing your sounds, his free hand fisting your hair to tilt your head back for better access.
The cab swerves a bit, driver’s dismay obvious in his grumbled curses, but neither of you cares, lost in the building heat, Aaron’s cock throbbing insistently against you as the city lights blur past.
It screeches to a halt outside your building, the driver’s final grumble fading as the door swings open. Aaron’s hand is already fumbling for his wallet, tossing bills onto the front seat without breaking eye contact with you. His gaze is dark and predatory, promising everything you’ve been building toward.
“Keep the change,” he mutters to the driver, who shakes his head in disbelief but doesn’t say anything anymore.
Before you can slide out on your own, Aaron’s grip clamps around your wrist, strong fingers wrapping like a vice as he hauls you from the back seat. He almost drags you across the sidewalk, your heels scraping the pavement, his other arm snaking around your waist to steady you or maybe just to claim you outright.
The cool night breeze does nothing to temper the fire raging between you; your thighs are slick with arousal, panties soaked from the ride, and his cock presses insistently against your hip as he pulls you close to his side.
“Inside. Now,” he growls low, voice gravelly with restraint barely holding. You don’t even register the cab driving off with screeching tyres.
You fumble with your keys at the front door, fingers trembling from the adrenaline and his proximity. His massive frame looming behind you, chest brushing your back, one hand splayed possessively over your stomach while the other cages you against the doorframe.
He teases you mercilessly, lips grazing your ear as he whispers, “Look at you, shaking already. Bet that pussy’s dripping for me, isn’t it? Been thinking about how tight you’ll feel clenching around my cock since that hallway.”
His free hand dips lower, thumb pressing just above your cunt through your skirt, circling slow and firm enough to make your knees buckle. You gasp, keys jingling as you finally slot the right one in, twisting the lock with a click that echoes like permission.
The door swings open, and you barely cross the threshold before Aaron kicks it shut behind you, the sound sharp and final. He spins you around in one fluid motion, his shoulders blocking out the dim hallway light as he shoves you back against the door.
Solid wood meets your spine with a thud. His body crashes into yours, pinning you there, those muscular arms bracketing your head, biceps flexing under his shirt sleeves. Up close, his stoic mask is shattered; sweat beads along his jaw, dimples flashing in a wicked half-smile as his hips grind forward, letting you feel every inch of his thick erection straining against his zipper, right up against your belly
“Fuck, I’ve wanted this since you bent over in that skirt,” he rasps, voice dropping to a dangerous timbre, his breath hot on your neck as he nuzzles in, teeth scraping your pulse point.
One hand fists your hair, tilting your head back to expose your throat, while the other yanks your top up in a rough tug, exposing your tits to the cool air. His mouth descends immediately, latching onto one nipple, sucking hard and wet, tongue flicking the peak until it throbs.
You arch into him, moaning, but he doesn’t let up. His free hand shoves your skirt higher, fingers hooking into your panties teasingly.
He straightens just enough to meet your eyes, his own burning with raw intent, that captivating smile twisting into something feral.
“I’m gonna take you apart, piece by fucking piece,” he promises, voice thick and commanding, his thumb tracing your lower lip before pushing inside your mouth for you to suck.
His hand slides between your thighs now, two fingers plunging into your slick cunt without warning, curling to hit that spot that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. He pumps them slowly and deliberately, thumb grinding your clit, while his mouth claims yours in a bruising kiss, tongue fucking in rhythm.
“You’ll cum on my fingers first, then my mouth, then my dick…over and over until your voice is hoarse and your body’s shaking. I won’t stop until you’re ruined for anyone else, dripping with my cum, marked everywhere.”
He adds a third finger, stretching you wider, his palm slapping lightly against your pussy with each thrust, the wet sounds filling the entryway. His cock twitches against you, desperate for release, but he holds back, eyes locked on yours, watching every gasp and shudder as he edges you closer. “Say it. Tell me you want it. Want me to fuck you senseless right now…”
Your moans spill out uncontrollably, body arching into his touch as his fingers drive you wild, that relentless rhythm building the pressure inside you until you’re teetering on the edge. But his words hang there, demanding a response, and in the haze of pleasure, you can’t form the words fast enough. Just more whimpers, your lips parting around his thumb earlier, now gasping against his mouth.
He pulls his fingers free with a slick pop, the sudden emptiness making you whine in protest. Before you can catch your breath, his hand comes down in a sharp, light slap against your soaked pussy, the sting sending a jolt straight to your core.
You yelp, thighs clenching, but it only makes you wetter, heat flooding your cheeks as his eyes darken with approval. “Already speechless, huh?” he growls, voice low and mocking, his free hand gripping your jaw to force your gaze to his. “That’s fine for now, but listen up: When I ask you something, you answer. Clear and quick, or I’ll make you wait even longer for what you need. Understand?”
You nod frantically, biting your lip, the lesson sinking in amid the throbbing ache between your legs. He smirks, satisfied, and without another word, he yanks you away from the door by your wrist, his grip iron-tight as he drags you down the hall.
He doesn’t hesitate, kicking open the first door he finds. Your bedroom, like he already knows the layout of your life, and hauls you inside, slamming it shut behind him.
The room spins for a second before his mouth crashes back onto yours, rough and demanding, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as he backs you towards the bed. His tongue invades, while his hands roam possessively, squeezing your ass, pinning your arms when you reach for him. He’s in complete control, growling into the kiss when you try to touch him too freely, batting your hands away.
“Not yet,” he murmurs against your lips, voice gravelly. “This is about you learning to take what I give.”
He breaks the kiss just long enough to shove you down onto the mattress, your body bouncing once before he follows, caging you beneath his weight. His hands are everywhere now, rough and impatient as he tears at your clothes. Yanking your top over your head in one swift motion. He doesn’t waste time, palming one roughly while his mouth descends on the other, sucking hard enough to make you cry out.
“Fuck, these tits are mine now,” he rasps, biting down just enough to leave a faint mark, his tongue soothing the sting before he switches sides. “Gonna suck bruises into them, bite you until everyone knows you belong to me.”
Your skirt gets hiked up and ripped away next, his fingers hooking into the fabric and tearing it with a sharp rip that echoes in the room. He doesn’t bother with finesse, shoving your panties aside before stripping them off completely, leaving you exposed under his hungry stare.
“Look at you, all spread out and dripping for me,” he says, voice thick with lust as he kneels between your thighs, forcing your legs wider with his knees. His hands grip your hips, thumbs digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. “I’m gonna mark every inch. Hickeys on your neck, handprints on this ass, my cum leaking out of your pussy so you feel me for days.”
He leans down, capturing your mouth again in a bruising kiss, his cock, still confined in his pants, grinding against your thigh, hard and insistent. You buck up instinctively, but he pins you harder, breaking away to trail bites down your neck, sucking dark spots into the sensitive skin.
“Say it now,” he demands between nips, his hand sliding up to wrap around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, a reminder of his dominance. “Tell me you want me to mark you, to fuck you until you’re covered in me.”
“Yes, Aaron, mark me, fuck me…please, make me yours,” you gasp out, your voice trembling with raw need as his hand tightens just enough around your throat, his eyes burning into yours with that feral intensity.
A low growl rumbles from his chest, satisfaction flashing across his face. “That’s my good girl,” he murmurs, releasing your throat to shove himself up from the bed.
He stands there for a moment, towering over you, his shirt already half-unbuttoned from the frenzy at the door. With quick, impatient yanks, he strips it off, revealing his body. Lean and powerful, the kind of trained dad bod that’s all honed muscle under a layer of soft give, his arms thick and corded from years of lifting and holding control. His chest rises and falls heavily, a light sheen of sweat already glistening on his skin.
He kicks off his boots, then shoves his jeans and boxers down in one rough motion, his cock springing free. Hard and thick, veins bulging along its length, the head already slick with pre-cum.
You can’t tear your eyes away, your breath hitching at the sight of him, so ready to claim you. He steps closer, grabbing his discarded belt from the floor with a deliberate snap that makes you flinch in anticipation.
“Hands up,” he orders, his voice like gravel. You obey instantly, lifting your arms towards the headboard, wrists together. He loops the belt around them, threading it through the sturdy wooden post and pulling it tight. Not enough to cut circulation, but firm, unyielding, pinning you in place.
The leather bites into your skin just right, a constant reminder that you’re his to use, spread out and helpless on the bed.
“There,” he says, testing the bind with a tug that jerks your arms higher. “Now you take every fucking inch of what I give you. No escaping, no hiding.”
He climbs back onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs, his strong hands gripping your hips to hold you steady. His cock brushes against your inner thigh, hot and heavy, but he doesn’t enter you yet. Instead, he slides one hand down, his fingers finding your soaked pussy without hesitation.
He pushes two fingers inside you roughly, no teasing warmup, just a deep thrust that stretches your walls and hits that spot that makes your back arch.
“Fuck, you’re dripping for me,” he grunts, curling his fingers to drag against your inner walls, pumping in and out with a brutal rhythm. His thumb circles your clit, pressing hard, building the pressure fast and relentlessly.
You moan, your bound hands straining against the belt as pleasure coils tight in you. He watches your face, his expression dark and focused, adding a third finger to scissor inside you, stretching you wider, his pace unyielding.
But just as the edge rushes up, your body tensing and breaths coming in sharp pants, he pulls his fingers out completely, leaving you clenching around nothing.
“Not yet,” he says, smirking at your whine of protest.
He slaps your pussy lightly once again, the sting sending a jolt through you, mixing pain with the ache of denial. Then he’s back in, fingers plunging deeper, faster, his free hand pinning your thigh down to keep you from bucking too wildly. He edges you again and again. Thrusting hard until you’re right there, sobbing with need, then withdrawing, spanking your slick cunt to heighten the torment.
“Please, Aaron,” you beg finally, your voice breaking as he works you towards that peak once more, his fingers relentless inside you. “I need to cum…please, let me cum on your fingers. I’ll be good, I swear, just... fuck, please!” The words tumble out desperate and raw, your hips grinding against his hand.
He chuckles darkly, leaning down to bite at your collarbone. “Cum for me, then. Soak my hand like the needy slut you are.” His fingers slam home one last time, thumb grinding your clit, and the orgasm crashes over you. Your pussy clamps down hard around him, waves of heat pulsing through you as you cry out, body shaking against the restraints
As the aftershocks ripple, he doesn’t let up.
Instead, he yanks his fingers free and brings his hand down in a sharp spank right on your throbbing cunt. The slap echoes, fresh sting blooming across your sensitive skin, making you yelp and twitch.
“That’s for making such a mess,” he says, his voice laced with approval, already positioning himself closer, his thick cock nudging at your entrance. “But we’re just getting started.”
He drags the thick head of his dick along your slick pussy, pressing just inside your entrance before pulling back out, repeating the torment a few more times. Each shallow thrust leaves you aching, your hips bucking up desperately to chase the fullness you crave. A pathetic whimper escapes your lips, your bound hands straining against the belt looped around the bedposts.
Aaron tsks, his dark eyes gleaming with wicked amusement as he withdraws completely, his cock bobbing heavy and glistening with your arousal. “Not desperate enough yet, huh? I can see it in those pretty eyes…you need to beg like the filthy little whore you are before I’ll fuck this greedy pussy.”
He shifts up your body, his rough palms cupping your breasts, thumbs flicking over your hardened nipples before pinching them hard enough to make you gasp. He leans in, sucking one into his mouth, teeth grazing the sensitive bud while his stubble scrapes against your skin, sending sharp tingles racing down your spine. His other hand kneads your flesh roughly, twisting and tugging until your back arches off the bed.
“Remember what I promised?” he murmurs against your tit, his hot breath fanning over the wet skin. “An orgasm with my mouth. Time to deliver.”
He releases your nipple with a pop and trails his lips downwards, nipping at your ribs, your stomach, until he settles between your spread thighs. His strong hands grip your hips, pinning you in place as his mouth descends on your soaked pussy.
His tongue lashes out flat and broad, lapping up your juices in long, firm strokes that make your clit throb. He doesn’t hold back. Sucking it into his mouth, nibbling the swollen lips with just enough edge to sting, his stubble rasping against your inner thighs and the tender skin around your cunt like coarse sandpaper, heightening every sensation.
You moan, the roughness of his face grinding into you as he devours your pussy, his tongue plunging deep to fuck you with wet, insistent thrusts.
“You taste like sin,” he growls against your flesh, the vibrations humming through your core. “Dripping all over my face…such a perfect, needy hole for me to ruin.” He slides two thick fingers inside you, curling them to hit that spot again, pumping in and out with brutal precision while his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard.
The pressure builds fast, your body coiling tight as his fingers stretch and stroke your walls. You’re teetering on the edge when he presses his thumb against your asshole, circling the tight ring before pushing in knuckle-deep.
The sudden intrusion overwhelms you. Fullness in both holes, his stubble scraping, tongue flicking relentlessly. “Come on, cum for me now,” he demands, voice muffled but commanding. “Milk my fingers with that tight ass and pussy. Show me how much you love being my dirty fucktoy.”
It hits you like a freight train, somehow more intense than the first. Your orgasm rips through, pussy clenching around his fingers, ass fluttering against his thumb as waves of ecstasy crash over you. You scream, body convulsing, tears pricking your eyes from the intensity, every nerve alight as you gush against his mouth. He doesn’t stop, lapping up your release greedily, drawing out the shudders until you’re a trembling mess.
Finally, he pulls back, lips shiny with your cum, a smug grin splitting his face. “That’s my girl. So fucking responsive. But don’t think we’re done. Your ass is next, and I’m gonna make you scream even louder.”
Your body is still quaking from the orgasm, every muscle twitching uncontrollably as overstimulation sets in, your nerves raw and firing on edge.
Aaron’s fingers remain buried deep in your pussy, and he starts scissoring them wide, stretching your slick walls with deliberate, ruthless pulls and twists that make your hips jerk involuntarily. At the same time, his thumb rotates inside your ass, circling the tight ring with firm pressure, grinding against the sensitive inner walls and sending jolts of electric pleasure-pain shooting up your spine.
You thrash against the belt that’s binding your wrists to the bedposts, the leather biting into your skin as you yank desperately, your back arching off the mattress in a futile bid to escape the overwhelming sensations.
Whimpers spill from your lips. High-pitched, broken sounds that mix with your shaking breaths. Your thighs are trembling around his hand, pussy is fluttering erratically around his invading fingers.
“Look at you, thrashing like a wild thing,” Aaron growls, his voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on your face as he watches every twitch and gasp. “Already overstimulated and shaking like a leaf, but your holes are sucking me in deeper. You love this, don’t you? Having both your pussy and ass filled up, clenching so greedily around my fingers and thumb,” He scissors harder, spreading you open wider, the wet squelch of your arousal filling the room, while his thumb twists deeper into your ass, rotating with unyielding insistence.
You whimper louder, tears streaking down your cheeks from the intensity, your body a live wire of too much, too soon. But he shows no mercy, his free hand pinning your hip down to keep you from bucking away.
“Oh no, baby, I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot. You’re gonna take everything I give until you’re begging for my cock in every hole. See how your body’s betraying you? Fuck, it’s a shame I don’t have two cocks to pound this pussy and ass at the same time…stretch you out proper, make you scream until you can’t think straight. But don’t worry, I’ll fill you up anyway. Gonna wreck you with what I’ve got until you’re ruined for anyone else.”
Aaron’s eyes gleam with wicked intent as he pauses his relentless assault on your holes, his gaze flicking towards the bedside table. On a hunch, he reaches over and yanks open the drawer, rummaging briefly until his fingers close around the smooth length of your vibrator. He pulls it out, holding it up with a slow, predatory smile curling his lips, the toy’s silicone shaft glinting under the dim bedroom light.
He withdraws his fingers from your pussy and thumb from your ass in one slick motion, the sudden emptiness making your holes flutter desperately, clenching around nothing as a fresh wave of need cramps through your core. A soft whimper escapes your throat, your body still trembling from the overstimulation, hips twitching in protest at the loss.
He wraps his hand around the vibrator’s base, stroking it slowly from tip to hilt as if it were his own throbbing cock, the motion deliberate and teasing. His real dick twitches visibly against his thigh, hardening further at the sight, pre-cum beading at the slit as he watches you squirm.
“Open your mouth, slut,” he commands, his voice rough and unyielding, leaning in close enough that his stubble scrapes your cheek. “Get this ready for your greedy little cunt. I want it dripping before I fuck you with it.’
You part your lips obediently, and he pushes the vibrator past them, sliding the thick head over your tongue and deep into your mouth. You whimper around the intrusion, the silicone filling your mouth with its unyielding girth, your saliva coating it as he rocks it gently in and out.
All the while, his free hand roams your body. Fingers tracing your hardened nipples, pinching them sharply to draw out more muffled cries, then dipping lower to stroke your inner thighs, brushing feather-light over your fluttering pussy lips without giving you the pressure you crave.
“That’s it, suck on it like you wish it was my cock,” he murmurs, his breath hot against your ear. “You’re such a filthy girl, aren’t you? Tied up and whimpering for more, even after I’ve already made you cum so hard. Bet you’ve used this toy thinking about a man like me ruining you.”
After a few teasing thrusts that make your jaw ache, and your whimpers vibrate along the shaft, he pulls the vibrator free with a wet pop, strings of your spit trailing from your lips. He drags the slick toy down your body deliberately.
Over your chin, between your breasts, circling each nipple until they pebble tighter, then lower across your quivering stomach, teasing the sensitive skin just above your pussy.
Finally, he positions the tip at your entrance, rubbing it up and down your soaked cunt to coat it further in your arousal. “Time to fill that needy pussy,” he growls, and with a firm push, he drives the vibrator deep into your cunt, the vibrations coming to life on a low setting as it stretches you wide, buzzing against your overstimulated walls and sending shockwaves through your bound body.
The vibrator hums steadily inside you, its girth splitting your slick walls as Aaron grips the base and starts thrusting it in and out with deliberate, shallow pumps.
You’re already so overwhelmed. The orgasms have left your pussy raw and throbbing, every nerve ending screaming from the overload, but he doesn’t stop. He leans over you, his free hand pinning your thigh wide open, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to leave marks.
“Fuck, look at how that toy stretches your greedy little cunt,” he rasps, his voice low and gravelly, eyes locked on where the vibrator disappears into you. “Gonna fuck you with it slow, make sure it’s soaked through. Can’t have my second cock going in dry…needs to be dripping with your slutty juices so it glides right in later.”
He twists the base slightly on one thrust, angling it to grind against that swollen spot deep inside, and a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain shoots up your spine, your back arching off the bed as you gasp and clench around it.
He pulls it back almost all the way out, the tip catching on your entrance before plunging in again, deeper this time, the hum intensifying the stretch as it bottoms out. Your walls flutter helplessly, trying to adjust, but the overstimulation has you trembling, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the relentless buzz against your clit indirectly through the pressure.
“That’s it, squeeze it like you mean it,” Aaron growls, pumping it faster now in short, teasing strokes that keep you hovering on the edge without mercy. “Feel how it’s buzzing right up against those overworked nerves? You’re gonna beg for it to stop, but I know you won’t. Not when it’s prepping that tight hole for more.”
Sweat beads on your skin, your breath coming in ragged whimpers as the toy fucks into you rhythmically, coating itself thoroughly in your arousal with each wet slide. He reaches down with his thumb, pressing it firmly against your clit in slow circles that sync with the thrusts, amplifying the vibrations until your thighs quake and your bound hands yank at the belt. The build-up coils tight in your belly, heat flooding your limbs, but just as you’re teetering on the brink, he yanks the vibrator free with a slick sound, leaving your pussy clenching around nothing, aching and denied.
“Nope,” he chuckles darkly, holding the glistening toy up so you can see how it’s drenched, strings of your cream clinging to its length. “We’re just getting started. Your ass is next, and I want it ready to take us both.” He trails the buzzing tip along your inner thigh, teasing the puckered ring of your asshole without entering, watching you squirm and whine from the denied release, your body a quivering mess of need.
Aaron’s cock throbs heavily between his legs, bobbing with each shift of his hips as he kneels between your spread thighs, the thick shaft veined and leaking pre-cum from the tip.
He circles the tight ring of your asshole with the rounded head again, pressing just enough to make the sensitive pucker twitch and flutter under the teasing pressure. Your body jerks from the overstimulation, pussy clenching emptily after the denial, every nerve fried and begging for relief that he won’t grant.
“Has this virgin ass ever had anything shoved inside it?” he demands, his voice a rough command laced with hunger, eyes flicking up to meet yours while he rubs the vibrating tip insistently against your hole, coating it in the remnants of your pussy juices for lubrication. The vibrations send unwelcome sparks through the untouched entrance, making your hips twitch away instinctively, but his free hand clamps down on your hip, holding you steady.
You're too far gone to form words right away. Your mind is a haze of buzzing need, breaths heaving as the toy’s hum echoes in your core, your clit pulsing from the earlier denial.
The question hangs, unanswered, and Aaron’s jaw tightens. Without warning, his hand cracks down on your soaked pussy with a sharp smack, the wet slap echoing in the room as pain blooms hot and sharp across your swollen folds, jolting you back to focus with a cry, reminding you that you are to answer his questions.
“Speak up, slut,” he growls, rubbing the sting in roughly with his palm before pulling back. “Answer me: Has anyone ever fucked this tight little backdoor?”
“N-no,” you gasp out finally, voice breaking on a whimper, the smack leaving your cunt throbbing anew, heat flooding the abused flesh. “I’ve never... never had anything back there.”
A wicked grin splits his face, dark satisfaction gleaming in his eyes as he notches the vibrator’s tip right at your resistant entrance.
“Good girl. Means I get to break it in first.” He pushes forward steadily, the buzzing length breaching your asshole with a slow, unyielding pressure that makes the ring stretch and burn around the invading girth. Inch by inch, it sinks in, the vibrations rattling deep into your untouched ass, forcing your walls to yield as they clamp down in protest.
You whine high and desperate, the fullness overwhelming. Your ass is so tight and unaccustomed, every buzz amplifying the stretch until tears spill down your cheeks. Aaron pulls it back out halfway with a slick drag, your hole gaping slightly before he thrusts it in again, deeper this time, twisting to work it around and loosen the clenching muscles.
“Fuck, feel that? Your poor neglected hole’s gripping it like a vice,” he rasps, pumping the toy in shallow strokes now, in and out, the wet sounds mixing with the hum as he coats your inner walls with the lube from your pussy. “Gotta prepare you right…stretch this virgin ass wide so it can take my cock later. Can’t have you tearing when I split you open.”
His free hand wraps around his bobbing cock, stroking himself lazily as he watches the vibrator fuck into your ass, the sight making his length twitch and harden further.
The dual sensations, the toy’s relentless buzz stretches you from behind while your overstimulated pussy aches, untouched, have you thrashing against the belt restraints, body a trembling wreck of denied pleasure and building intensity. He doesn’t let up, driving the vibrator deeper with each pass, rotating it slightly to widen you, his dirty words pouring out like gravel. “That’s it, take it deeper for me. Your ass is gonna be ruined for anyone else after tonight…gaping and hungry for cock, just like your sloppy cunt.”
Aaron eases the vibrator out of your ass with a deliberate slowness, the buzzing toy dragging against your clenching walls until it pops free, leaving your hole stretched and gaping slightly in its wake. A raw, puckered ring that twitches and winks open, exposed and vulnerable under his hungry gaze.
The sudden emptiness makes you whimper, your body shuddering from the lingering vibrations that echo through your core, your ass muscles fluttering helplessly as cool air kisses the abused entrance.
“Fuck, look at that,” he murmurs, voice thick with lust, his eyes locked on the way your hole refuses to close fully, quivering from the preparation. “Can’t wait any longer. Gonna bury my cock in that dripping cunt now. Been teasing you long enough.”
He sets the slick vibrator aside on the bed, the toy still humming faintly, and grips his throbbing shaft at the base, the thick length heavy and flushed, veins pulsing as he lines it up with your soaked folds. The broad head nudges your entrance, parting the swollen lips with a teasing rub, smearing your arousal along the underside before he presses forward.
He doesn’t rush it. Oh no, Aaron savours the stretch, inching his bare cock inside you with controlled pressure that makes your pussy walls yield around the invading girth. You’re so wet from the earlier torment, but the fullness hits like a shock, his thickness splitting you open as he sinks deeper, the bare skin of his shaft gliding against your sensitive inner flesh without any barrier.
“Feel how you’re sucking me in? This greedy little pussy’s been begging for it,” he growls, hips rolling in a shallow grind to work himself further, the head bumping your cervix with a jolt that has you arching off the bed.
He teases you, pulling back just enough to let the ridge of his dick catch on your entrance before thrusting in again, stretching you wider with each pass, your body trembling as it adjusts to the raw, unyielding intrusion.
Once he’s fully seated, balls-deep and grinding against your clit, he starts thrusting. Hard, deliberate strokes that punch into you, his hips snapping forward to fill you completely. The rhythm builds quickly, his cock pistoning in and out with wet, obscene slaps, your pussy clenching around him in desperate pulls.
It doesn’t take long; the overstimulation from before has you teetering on the edge, and after just a few deep, punishing thrusts, the coil snaps. Your orgasm crashes over you without warning, walls spasming wildly around his buried length, milking him as waves of heat rip through your core, a broken cry tearing from your throat.
“Tsk, tsk,” Aaron chides, his voice a low rumble even as he doesn’t stop, pounding through your climax with unrelenting force. “Cumming already? I didn’t give you permission, did I?”
But there’s a dark thrill in his tone, and as your body convulses around him, mind fracturing into a haze of white-hot bliss, thoughts scattering like ash, he reaches down with one hand, snatching up the abandoned vibrator. You’re still lost in the throes, barely registering the world beyond the pounding in your pussy, when he angles it back toward your ass.
The tip presses against your gaping hole without mercy, and he shoves it in deep in one firm push, the buzzing girth reclaiming the stretched passage while his cock continues to fuck your cunt.
The dual penetration hits like lightning: the immense stretch overwhelming, your ass walls clamping down on the invading toy even as they burn from the renewed fullness, vibrations rattling through the thin barrier separating it from his thrusting shaft.
It feels impossible, too much, your body locked in a vice of sensation as he holds the vibrator buried to the hilt, twisting it slightly to amplify the buzz against your most sensitive spots. You gasp incoherently, hips bucking wildly against the restraints, the combined assault dragging out your orgasm into something endless and shattering, every nerve screaming from the intensity while Aaron’s grin widens.
He grips your hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you back onto his shaft with every thrust, the dual invasion making your walls flutter and spasm around both the thick toy and his bare length.
“That’s it, take it all,” he snarls, voice rough and commanding, leaning over you to pin you down further against the mattress, his weight pressing you into the sheets as he rutted like an animal. The vibrator stays lodged deep, its base flush against your skin, and he twists it occasionally with his free hand, grinding it against your inner walls to heighten the vibrations that rattle your core, making your ass burn and pulse around the intrusion.
He teases you through the haze of your shattered mind, slowing his pace just enough to drag his cock out to the tip before ramming back in, the head battering your cervix with each punishing stroke.
“Look at you, so fucking wrecked already. Pussy squeezing me like it never wants me to stop, even with your ass stuffed full.” His words drip with dominance, a low chuckle escaping as he feels you tremble beneath him, your bound wrists straining against the belt, body arching involuntarily into the relentless pounding.
Sweat slicks his chest, dripping onto your skin as he picks up speed again, thrusts turning erratic and savage, balls slapping against your ass with wet smacks that echo the obscene squelch of your soaked cunt gripping him.
The pressure builds unbearably, the vibrator’s merciless hum amplifying every slide of his cock along your sensitive nerves, pushing you toward the edge once more despite the exhaustion ripping through your limbs.
You’re a mess of gasps and whimpers, mind blank and floating in a sea of sensation, every nerve ending raw from the onslaught. Aaron senses it, growls low in his throat, and redoubles his efforts: fucking you harder, deeper, the friction between the toy and his shaft creating a friction that has you seeing stars.
“Cum for me again, slut. Milk my cock while I fill you up.” His command shatters the last of your control, and your fifth orgasm rips through you like fire, pussy convulsing violently around him, walls clamping down in rhythmic pulses that drag a guttural moan from his lips.
He doesn’t stop, pounding through your climax with savage grunts, the way your body seizes around him tipping him over.
His cock swells inside you, thrusts stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt one final time, hips grinding against your clit. Hot spurts of cum flood your pussy, thick ropes painting your inner walls as he roars his release, holding the vibrator steady to prolong the torment. You feel every pulse, the warmth spreading deep as he empties himself, your wrecked body quaking from the aftershocks, ass still clenching around the buzzing toy while his seed leaks out around his softening shaft.
Finally, he stills, breathing ragged, but doesn’t pull out yet, but rather lets you lie there utterly spent, limbs limp and trembling, mind fractured into pieces from the endless pleasure. Your pussy throbs around his cock, ass stretched and vibrating faintly, every inch of you marked and claimed, completely wrecked.
Aaron’s breaths slow from ragged pants to steady draws, his body finally easing off the frantic rhythm as the haze of his orgasm clears. He shifts his weight carefully, one hand still resting on your hip, thumb brushing lightly over the red marks he’s left there.
“Shh, easy now,” he murmurs, voice dropping to a low, soothing rumble, all traces of the snarling dominance gone, replaced by a gentle tenderness that surprises even in the afterglow.
He reaches back first, fingers wrapping around the base of the vibrator still humming faintly in your ass. With deliberate slowness, he eases it out inch by inch, the toy slick with your arousal, popping free with a wet, obscene squelch that makes your oversensitive nerves twitch.
Your ass clenches instinctively at the sudden emptiness, the ring of muscle gaping slightly, raw and fluttering from the prolonged stretch, a dull ache throbbing in its wake. You whimper high and broken, body jerking faintly against the restraints, the overstimulation hitting like a wave now that the relentless buzz is gone.
Aaron hushes you softly, “I’ve got you, just breathe,” as he sets the vibrator aside on the nightstand with a quiet click.
Then, he grips the base of his cock, still half-hard and slick with your combined fluids, and pulls out gradually, dragging along your swollen walls until the head slips free. The withdrawal drags a lewd, sucking sound from your pussy, followed by a thick gush of his cum spilling out, warm and viscous, dripping down your folds and over your ass to pool on the sheets beneath you.
Your pussy gapes too, stretched wide and pulsing, the inner lips puffy and red from the rough fucking, every tiny movement sending sparks of sharp pleasure-pain through your core.
You’re a trembling mess, whimpers turning to soft whines as the dual emptiness leaves you feeling exposed and achingly hollow, your body too wrecked to do more than quiver under his gaze. Tears prick at your eyes from the intensity, limbs heavy and boneless, mind foggy with the overload of sensations that won’t quite fade.
He unties the belt from your wrists with careful fingers, gently rubbing circulation back into them, then gathers you against his chest, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you steady. “There you go, sweetheart, you’re safe,” he whispers, pressing soft kisses to your temple and forehead, his free hand stroking down your back in slow, reassuring circles.
He shifts you both slightly, pulling a blanket over your cooling skin, his touch light and protective now, letting you sink into the warmth of his body as the whines quiet to shaky breaths.
Your breaths even out gradually, the whines fading into soft sighs as Aaron’s steady presence anchors you, his hand still tracing lazy patterns along your spine. The overstimulation lingers like a low hum in your veins, every nerve ending raw and tingling, but the exhaustion creeps in heavier now, pulling your eyelids down despite the ache between your thighs. You’re drifting, words too far away to grasp, body limp and heavy in his arms.
After a few quiet minutes, Aaron presses one last kiss to your hair and carefully disentangles himself, easing your head back onto the pillow with a murmured, “Stay right there, I’ll be quick.” The bed dips as he rises, his footsteps soft on the floor as he pads to the bathroom.
The sound of running water filtering through the door. Moments later, he returns carrying a small ceramic bowl steaming faintly with warm water and a soft white washcloth draped over his arm. His expression is calm, attentive, all sharp edges softened in the dim light.
Kneeling beside the bed, he dips the cloth into the water, wringing it out with careful squeezes until droplets cease falling. Starting at your face, he dabs lightly over your cheeks and forehead, wiping away the streaks of dried tears and sweat with feather-light strokes that make you sigh. “Good girl, just relax,” he says softly, his voice a low anchor.
You manage a faint hum, too sleepy to form anything more, your eyes fluttering half-closed as the cloth moves down your neck, tracing the curve of your collarbone with feather-light pressure. He avoids the tender spots at first, dipping the cloth back into the water to refresh it, then works lower, cleaning the sweat and spit from your breasts, circling each nipple with careful swipes that make you twitch faintly from the sensitivity.
He works methodically lower, parting your thighs with gentle hands to access the mess between your legs. The cloth presses tenderly against your inner thighs first, cleaning the sticky trails of arousal and cum that have cooled there.
You flinch slightly at the initial contact, your nerves still raw and buzzing, but he pauses, blowing a cool breath over the area before resuming, the warmth seeping in to ease the hypersensitivity. He folds the cloth to a fresh side and wipes along your swollen folds, careful not to press too hard on your puffy clit, though the mere brush sends a faint echo of pleasure sparking through you.
He dips it just inside to scoop out the thick globs that linger, each pass drawing a soft whimper from your lips. Your pussy twitches under the attention, gaping slightly as he works, but his touch remains patient, thorough, without overwhelming. He shifts to your ass next, lifting your hips with one steady hand while the other guides the cloth over the tender ring, washing away the slickness with slow circles that make your muscles flutter in response.
You squirm a little, too worn out to protest, just a soft whine escaping as sleep tugs harder at you.
Once satisfied, he rinses the cloth in the bowl and repeats the process, ensuring every inch is tended to until your skin feels clean and refreshed.
“All done, sweetheart,” he whispers once you’re fresh and the bowl’s water is murky, setting everything aside and drying you off with a soft towel from the bathroom. He tucks the blanket back around you, pulling it up to your chin, and brushes a strand of hair from your face. You barely register him standing, your mind already slipping into that fuzzy space between wakefulness and dreams.
The shower starts up in the bathroom, a quick rush of water that lasts only a few minutes. Enough for him to rinse off the sweat and scents of your encounter. When it shuts off, he emerges, skin damp and towel slung low around his hips, the air carrying a faint clean scent.
He dries off swiftly, then slides into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. His arm drapes over your waist, pulling you back against his warm chest, his breath steady and even against your neck. “Sleep now,” he murmurs, lips brushing your shoulder, and you do, sinking into the safety of his hold as darkness claims you.
You sleep dreamlessly and utterly exhausted when morning comes softly.
At first it’s just light slipping through the curtains and stretching across the bed in quiet lines. It brushes over your closed eyelids, warm and insistent, until you stir.
You’re aware of him before you even open your eyes.
The weight of his arm is still draped over your waist, heavier now in sleep. His chest is solid against your back, rising and falling in a slow rhythm that feels almost grounding. One of his legs is hooked loosely over yours, keeping you there without effort, like even unconscious he hasn’t quite let you go.
You shift the smallest amount.
Behind you, he makes a low sound, half breath, half murmur, still lost to sleep, merely reacting to the disturbance. His arm tightens instinctively, drawing you nearer by an inch.
The movement sends a dull ache through your body.
Right. Last night.
Your muscles protest in tender places. Your skin feels strangely sensitive, as though it remembers every touch with greater clarity than your mind yet does. There is a lingering heaviness low in your body that sends embarrassment and something softer, deeper, curling together through your stomach.
You open your eyes fully and lie still for a moment.
The room is quiet, washed in the pale morning light that slips through the curtains in narrow bands. Dust drifts lazily in it. Somewhere outside, traffic murmurs at a distance, softened by glass and height. Inside the room, there is only the warmth of tangled sheets, the faint scent of sleep and skin, and the steady presence of the man behind you.
It is almost strange how peaceful it feels.
Not awkward. Not hurried. Not like a mistake waiting to be regretted or an encounter from which one ought to make a graceful escape before daylight can expose it. Merely quiet. Merely still.
Carefully, you tilt your head enough to glance back at him.
His face is relaxed in sleep, all sharp edges softened. Hair messy, a little damp at the ends. There’s something unexpectedly gentle about him like this, nothing like the version of him from last night.
Your chest tightens, just a little.
Then you glance toward the bedside table and your eyes lock onto the clock. Your eyes widen at once. Panic strikes so suddenly it feels physical. You jerk upright too fast, a sharp breath catching in your throat as every part of your body objects to the abrupt movement.
“Fuck,” you whisper to no one in particular, already clawing your way out of sheets that seem determined to hold you hostage.
Behind you, he stirs properly this time.
“…what?” His voice is roughened by sleep, deep and disoriented, dragged reluctantly into consciousness.
“I’m late,” you blurt, pushing hair from your face as you scan the room in mounting horror. “I’m…I have my first day today, I..”
Words abandon you. You reach for your shirt from the floor, snatching it up with frantic hands.
There is a brief pause behind you. Then the mattress shifts with his weight. A hand closes gently around your wrist. Not hard. Not restraining. Simply enough to stop the frantic motion for a moment.
“Hey.”
You turn, breath still uneven. Aaron is sitting up now, sheets low around his waist, eyes half-lidded with sleep yet already focused, already gathering himself into alertness with that unnerving speed some people possess.
“It’s okay,” he says, voice quieter now, steadier. “What time do you start?”
“Nine,” you answer, the word coming out thinner than you intended.
Aaron shifts slightly beside you, leaning toward the bedside clock with the lingering heaviness of someone only recently dragged from sleep. He narrows his eyes at the display for a moment before speaking, voice still roughened by sleep and entirely too calm for the crisis you had just convinced yourself was unfolding.
“It’s eight ten.”
You stare at him.
For a second, your mind refuses the information outright, as though it has already committed itself so thoroughly to catastrophe that reason can no longer gain entry. Then, slowly, reality catches up. You are not late. You had never been late. You had simply panicked yourself into believing it.
The realisation moves through you all at once. The rigid tension in your shoulders collapses, leaving behind a dizzy mixture of relief, embarrassment, and the near-hysterical urge to laugh at your own foolishness.
“Oh my God,” you breathe, dragging a hand down over your face. “I thought - I genuinely thought it was nearly nine.”
“Clearly,” he murmurs.
There is amusement in his voice now, though it is subtle, restrained by the same natural control that seems stitched into every part of him.
You sink back onto the edge of the bed, your heart still pounding from the rush of alarm, clutching your shirt in one hand as though it were evidence in some private case against your dignity. Morning light spills across the sheets, across the floor scattered with clothing, across the broad line of Aaron’s shoulders where he sits half-turned toward you.
Then you feel it.
His hand, warm and fully awake now, settling lightly at the small of your back. The touch is gentle enough to surprise you.
“You okay?” he asks.
It is such a simple question, asked without teasing, without smugness, without any attempt to make light of your brief unraveling. He is not laughing at you. He is only checking.
You glance at him, momentarily thrown by the sincerity of it.
“Yes,” you say after a pause, softer now. “Just… first day nerves, apparently mixed with temporary insanity.”
He gives a small nod, as though that explanation accounts for everything. Perhaps, to him, it does.
“Come here.”
The words are quiet, lacking any of the command they might have carried the night before. There is no force in them now, only invitation.
You hesitate for scarcely a heartbeat before shifting back toward him.
His arm slips around you once more, slower this time, deliberate in a way that feels almost careful. He draws you against him - not tightly, not with the consuming urgency of last night, but just enough that you settle easily beside him, your shoulder against his chest, your temple brushing the warm line of him.
“You’ve got time,” he murmurs near your hair.
Your body still aches in small, lingering ways, every muscle aware of the night behind you, yet held like this the soreness feels less sharp, less startling. It becomes something softer. Something grounded.
You allow yourself to remain there for longer than you probably should, listening to the measured rhythm of his breathing, feeling the quiet steadiness of him beneath your cheek.
Eventually, reality returns in the practical form of needing to get ready, and the two of you move around one another in that peculiar space shared by strangers who are no longer strangers, but not yet anything clearly defined either. There is a slight awkwardness to it, though not an unpleasant one. Something intimate and uncertain at once.
The bathroom mirror fogs as you wash your face, and when you glance at your reflection, you scarcely recognise the woman looking back. Your hair is unruly, your mouth still faintly swollen, your cheeks touched with leftover colour. There is a softness to you that had not been there yesterday.
When you step back into the bedroom, Aaron is pulling on his shirt. He does so with easy, efficient movements, fastening buttons as though mornings after unexpected nights are either common enough not to trouble him, or rare enough that he has learned not to show it.
“Coffee?” he asks, glancing over.
You nod at once. “Please.”
The kitchen is small, the sort of space that was never meant for two people moving through it, and yet the quiet between you remains strangely comfortable. He moves with competence there too, finding mugs, measuring grounds, setting water to boil with the calm assurance of a man who prefers order wherever he can create it.
A minute later he hands you a mug. Your fingers brush as you take it, and a faint spark passes between skin and skin, something of last night returning in gentler form.
You lean against opposite counters, sipping in companionable silence for a while. It is not awkward. It is merely new.
“So,” you say at last, blowing lightly across the surface of your coffee, “is this how your mornings after usually go?”
He lets out a low breath that might almost be called a laugh and shakes his head.
“No.”
You look up.
He is already looking at you.
“This isn’t really my thing,” he adds after a moment, voice quieter now. Then, as if unwilling to let the confession grow too serious, he reaches into his pocket. “But.”
He steps closer and sets his mug aside. From his pocket, he produces a receipt and a pen, scribbling something quickly before taking your hand and pressing the folded paper into your palm.
You unfold it. His number.
When you look back up, he is wearing the faintest crooked smile. It transforms him again, softening the severe lines of his face into something unexpectedly warm.
“I’d like to take you out properly,” he says. “Somewhere that isn’t your bedroom.”
Your lips curve despite yourself.
“Properly?”
“Yes,” he says, and there is something in the steadiness of the word that makes your chest tighten. “Properly.”
A pause settles between you, though this one feels different from the earlier uncertainties. It is not tense or awkward. It feels open, as though something has quietly begun without either of you naming it.
He glances toward the door, then back to you.
“I should head back. Need to change before work.”
“Okay,” you reply.
Neither of you moves immediately.
Then he steps nearer one final time, lifting a hand to brush an errant strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is so small, so ordinary, and yet it lands with surprising force.
“Good luck today,” he says softly.
“Thank you.”
He leans in then, pressing a brief kiss to your lips, gentle, warm, and far more affecting than the fiercer ones that came before it.
And then he is gone.
The door closes with a quiet click, leaving the apartment still once more.
You remain where you are for a moment, coffee warm between your hands, his number folded in your fingers. Outside waits your first day, your new life, the sharp unknown of everything ahead.
After a long breath, you set the mug down and begin to move. The day, after all, is waiting.
You arrive at the building with a curious mixture of anticipation and unease, around ten minutes later.
The structure itself rises with an austere authority, all clean lines and guarded entrances, as though it were less a place of work and more a vessel for serious, unspoken things.
Inside, the air is cool, almost clinical. Your footsteps echo faintly against polished floors as you are directed forward, deeper into the heart of it.
You find her soon enough.
Erin Strauss stands waiting her posture impeccable, her gaze sharp but not unkind. She greets you briskly, her words precise, and without delay begins to guide you through the corridors. As you walk, she speaks of procedures, of expectations, of names that pass you by too quickly to properly anchor themselves in your mind.
You try to listen. You truly do. But there is something about the place, a quiet tension beneath its order, that unsettles your focus.
At last, she leads you into a wide, open office.
Desks stand arranged with a peculiar neatness, papers stacked, screens dark or idling. Yet the room feels… absent. As though its occupants have only just departed, leaving behind the faint impression of movement and thought.
“There you go,” Strauss says, gesturing with a measured hand. “This is the BAU.”
Her voice carries easily in the stillness.
She turns slightly, indicating a door at the far end of the room - closed, yet not entirely concealed. The blinds are open, and through them, a figure may be glimpsed.
“And this,” she continues, “is where your Unit Chief, SSA Hotchner’s office is. I’ll get him for you.”
Your attention, already drifting, settles fully upon that door. There is something almost involuntary in the way your gaze lingers.
Inside, you see him.
A man, tall even in repose, seated behind his desk, his form bent slightly forward in concentration. Dark hair. Broad shoulders. The quiet intensity of someone wholly absorbed in his work. Papers are spread before him, and though you cannot hear him, you can almost imagine the faint scratch of pen against page, the steady rhythm of thought made visible.
There is something strikingly familiar about him. In the stillness he seems to command, as though the room itself conforms to his presence.
Strauss moves away from you, her heels marking a deliberate path across the floor. She knocks. The man looks up and rises.
You look away then, perhaps too quickly, your attention shifting across the empty desks, searching for signs of the rest of the team Strauss had mentioned. It is a small, instinctive act, an attempt to steady yourself, though you cannot quite say why.
Fragments of the morning return unbidden: tangled sheets warmed by sunlight, the pressure of an arm around your waist, the low roughness of a sleep-heavy voice, the brush of fingers against yours over a mug of coffee. The softness that had followed the storm of the night before.
You push the memories aside with some effort.Not quickly enough.
You do not hear the office door open. You do not notice footsteps crossing the floor. But you are aware only of a subtle change in the air beside you. A presence close enough to alter the space itself.
You turn.
And in that instant, the world seems to contract violently around a single, impossible fact.
Your breath catches so sharply it almost hurts.
Your mouth goes dry.
Because you know him.
Not as a superior waiting to be introduced. Not as a stranger glimpsed through office glass.
But as the man whose hands had been on you only hours ago. The man who had kissed you goodbye this morning. The man who had fucked you within an inch of your life, who had stood half-dressed in your kitchen making coffee as though it were the most natural thing in the world. The man who had pressed his number into your palm and said, with quiet certainty, that he wished to see you again.
Aaron.
Only now -
Aaron Hotchner.
He stands before you immaculate in a dark suit, every trace of the night before hidden beneath the severe authority of his position. The shirt is crisp, the tie exact, his expression composed to the point of austerity. He looks every inch the unit chief people speak of in lowered voices.
If he feels even a fraction of the shock that you have just gone through, he does not show it.
Only the faintest tightening at the corner of his gaze betrays that he, too, is affected.
He extends his hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
The words are smooth, measured, impeccably professional.
As though nothing at all has passed between you.
And yet, standing there with your pulse hammering and the memory of his mouth still far too vivid, you know with sudden certainty that everything has.
[Ed Warren x Female Reader] [Ed Warren x You]
Your first Christmas as Ed Warren’s wife starts quietly. Just the two of you, a glowing tree, and him waiting on the couch in nothing but a white shirt and a smug little smile.
You’re confused about the early present.
He’s more interested in unwrapping you.
OR:
Ed surprises you with a different kind of present
Wordcount: 3,816
Warnings: 18+, smut, dirty talk, flirting, oral sex, rough oral sex, come swallowing, face fucking
A/N: This is based on an ask I got from @imobsessedwithslipknot - I hope you like the smutty Ed Warren fic! There’s not enough out there.
It's a bit shorter than normal, I know...But I figured I should also try different things and not stress so much to reinvent the wheel. Like with every story I write, I feel like I need to make it more 'spectacular' than the one before. So: Here's to trying to not do that anymore.
You wake up slowly, as though the morning itself is coaxing you back into the world.
At first, there is only warmth. Soft sheets gathered loosely around your body, the faint lingering heat of sleep, and the quiet hush that belongs only to early hours.
Then, slowly, awareness seeps in. A pale gold light presses against your closed eyelids, insistent yet tender.
When you open your eyes, the room is bathed in colour.
Sunrise has spilt itself generously through the curtains, painting the bedroom in hues of amber and rose, the kind that seem almost too vivid to belong to winter. The shadows are long and delicate, stretched thin across the floor and the rumpled bed.
For a moment, you simply lie there before you stretch. It is an instinctive thing, almost unthinking, your body arching slightly as sleep loosens its final hold. Your arm drifts across the mattress beside you, seeking without question the familiar solidity that should be there.
Instead - cold.
Your fingers meet only the faintly chilled sheets, the fabric already losing the memory of his warmth.
You frown, not sharp but rather confused. The absence feels louder than it should, as though the room itself has shifted subtly in his absence.
“Ed?” you murmur, your voice still thick with sleep, barely more than a breath in the quiet.
No answer.
You push yourself upright, the blankets slipping from your shoulders as the morning air greets your skin with a coolness that makes you shiver faintly.
A small smile tugs at your lips despite yourself. He is an early riser - always has been. There is something steady, almost comforting, in that predictability. And yet, this morning, you feel the absence more keenly.
Perhaps because it is Christmas.
The thought settles softly in your mind, bringing with it a quiet warmth that has little to do with the room.
And suddenly, you find yourself craving something simple and immediate. Coffee. And him. The rich, bitter scent curling through the house, of his arms warm and solid around you, grounding in a way nothing else quite manages. It pulls you fully from the remnants of sleep.
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your feet meeting the cool floor with a small, involuntary intake of breath.
Wrapping a robe loosely around yourself, you cast one last glance at the sunlit bed before you step out into the quiet house.
You step into the hallway.
Fairy lights have been strung along the railing, their glow soft and unwavering, little constellations brought down to earth. They do not flicker, but hum gently with a steady warmth, casting delicate reflections against polished wood and glass.
A few ornaments that you insisted on hanging, despite Ed’s mild amusement, catch the light and scatter it in quiet, prismatic fragments across the walls.
You remember decorating them together.
It had not been a hurried task, nor a particularly efficient one. He had handed you things instead of placing them himself, watching more than working, as though the act mattered less to him than the way you smiled while doing it.
The Christmas tree stands in the middle of the living room.
It may be a bit too large for the space, although neither of you was willing to admit that when you brought it home. It reaches almost to the ceiling, its branches full and unapologetically alive. The deep green is now softened by a careful layer of lights. Not the garish kind, but warm ones - golden, almost candle-like in their glow
They wind through the branches in patient spirals, illuminating the ornaments you had chosen together. Some are delicate glass, catching the firelight and the morning sun alike; others are older, more worn, carrying the quiet weight of years. A few hang slightly crooked, placed with more enthusiasm than precision, and left that way because neither of you had thought it worth correcting.
There is a small wooden angel near the top, slightly off-centre. You had gently argued about before deciding together that its imperfection suited it.
Tinsel, used sparingly, drapes here and there like frost caught mid-fall. And at the very tips of some branches, a dusting of artificial snow clings.
You find yourself smiling.
It is your first Christmas as a married couple.
The fireplace crackles softly to one side, its flames steady and low.
Above the fireplace, the mantle is decorated with a garland of evergreen that stretches across its length, threaded with warm lights. It features small, thoughtful touches: candles, a few ornaments, and a pair of stockings hanging side by side.
Yours and his. They gently brush against each other where they hang.
Outside the window, the world is hushed beneath falling snow.
It drifts steadily, thick enough now to soften the edges of everything outside, turning the world into something quieter, gentler. The glass has begun to fog faintly at the corners, the warmth inside pushing gently against the cold beyond.
And beneath the tree lay presents. Not an overwhelming number, but enough.
Each one wrapped with a kind of deliberate care, paper smoothed neatly, ribbons tied with quiet precision. A few bear small imperfections, creases where the paper had folded awkwardly, corners not quite as sharp as intended, but those only make them feel more real, more yours.
For a moment, you simply stand there, taking it in: the light, the warmth, the quiet evidence of shared effort and shared life.
Ed sits on the couch as though he has been there for some time, not restless, but waiting in that patient, grounded way that seems so entirely his.
The firelight catches him first, tracing warm gold along the edges of his figure before the morning light from the windows finds him too, softening everything it touches.
He is still in his pyjamas.
A plain white shirt, slightly rumpled from sleep, clings just enough to hint at the warmth beneath it - simple, unassuming, and yet somehow unfairly distracting in its simplicity. The sleeves are short, the fabric is worn soft with time, and it deliciously highlights those big arms of his.
His checkered pants sit low and comfortable, as though he had dressed without thinking, more concerned with the moment than appearance.
And his hair is still unruly.
Not styled, not tamed, but left as sleep had made it, falling slightly out of place in a way that feels so quietly intimate it makes your chest tighten, just a little.
For a moment, you simply stand there in the doorway, watching him.
There is a box in his lap.
Wrapped.
Carefully, though not perfectly - one corner folded just slightly off, the ribbon tied with more determination than precision. His hands rest lightly on either side of it, not fidgeting, but not entirely still either, as though he has been aware of your absence and the anticipation of your return in equal measure.
He looks up then.
“Good morning,” you say softly, your voice carrying a warmth now that had been missing moments before.
His face changes. Ed’s eyes soften, something bright and unmistakably fond settling into them, and then he smiles.
Open, warm and immediate. The kind of smile that feels as though it belongs entirely to you in that moment.
“Good morning,” he replies, his voice low, still roughened faintly by sleep.
There is a small pause, just long enough to take you in properly, as though he is making sure you are really there, standing in the doorway with the morning wrapped around you.
Then, softer: “Merry Christmas.”
The words are simple, but they settle into the room with a kind of quiet significance, threading themselves through the light, the fire, the scent of pine and coffee.
His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer, something unspoken passing through it - something warm, something certain - before one hand lifts slightly from the gift in his lap.
An unspoken invitation to come closer.
You hesitate only a second before crossing the room, drawn in by him in a way that feels both natural and inevitable.
The floor is warm beneath your feet here, kissed by the fire, and as you move closer, the details of him sharpen. The faint crease in his shirt, the way his fingers rest against the edge of the box, the quiet steadiness in the way he watches you approach.
You lower yourself onto the couch beside him, close enough that your shoulder brushes his and your gaze drops to the box in his lap.
Your brow furrows slightly.
“…Ed,” you begin, a small note of confusion threading through your voice as you glance back up at him, “isn’t this… a little early for this?”
There’s something almost amused in the way you say it, but it’s genuine too. Habit lingers: Christmas mornings filled with noise, with family, with the slow, shared ritual of waiting until everyone is gathered.
A slow, knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, subtle at first, then deepening just enough to betray that he has been expecting exactly this reaction.
He shifts slightly beside you, turning just enough that his knee brushes yours, his body angling toward you in a way that feels deliberate without being forced.
“Yeah,” he says, voice low, edged with something warm and teasing. “I know how it’s usually done.”
There’s a beat.
His gaze lingers on you - not fleeting, not distracted, but steady, intent, as though he’s choosing his next words carefully… or perhaps enjoying the moment just a little too much.
“But this isn’t usually.”
Your breath catches, just slightly.
He watches it happen. Of course he does.
That smirk shifts into something gentler, though no less dangerous in its own quiet way. His thumb brushes absently along the edge of the ribbon, not looking at it, his attention entirely on you.
“It’s our first Christmas,” he continues, voice dipping just a fraction, “as a married couple.”
The words settle between you, heavier now, more deliberate.
His shoulder presses a little more firmly against yours - not enough to trap, but enough to anchor.
“And,” he adds, tilting his head just slightly, eyes flicking over your face with a softness that contrasts the teasing curve of his mouth, “you’ve been a little… stressed lately.”
There’s something in the way he says it - not accusing, not even questioning but rather observing.
Your lips part, perhaps to protest, perhaps to dismiss it - but he doesn’t quite give you the chance.
His hand shifts, just barely, brushing against yours where it rests between you on the couch. The contact is light, almost accidental in appearance, but it lingers just long enough to be anything but.
“So,” he says, quieter now, his voice carrying that low, familiar warmth that seems to settle somewhere just beneath your skin, “I figured I’d do something about that.”
His eyes meet yours again - steady, unwavering.
And then, with the faintest lift of one brow, the smirk returning in full.
“What?” he murmurs, voice soft, teasing, unmistakably flirty now. “You gonna tell me I’m not allowed to spoil my wife a little?”
His blue eyes sparkle with mischief, that bright smile widening just a touch as he nods toward the box. “Go on, open it. It’s all for you.”
He doesn’t shift an inch, keeping the box firmly in place over his crotch, his body heat radiating through the thin material.
Curiosity piqued, you reach for the ribbon, your fingers brushing the edge of the box.
You untie the bow and lift the lid, a soft gasp escapes your lips.
There, nestled in the tissue paper like the most forbidden present, is Ed’s cock - thick and hard, poking up through a cleverly cut hole in the bottom of the box.
The shaft stands proud, veined and flushed a deep pink, curving slightly toward you with a glossy bead of precum glistening at the swollen tip.
It’s girthy, easily filling the space, the smooth skin stretched taut over the rigid length, his heavy balls tucked just below, peeking out from the opening in his pants that he’s obviously freed himself from.
Ed chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound that vibrates through his chest. “Surprise, sweetheart. Merry fucking Christmas. See how hard I got just thinking about you opening this? Your present’s been waiting all morning for you...”
He shifts his hips ever so slightly, making his cock twitch in the box, the tip brushing the edge of the tissue paper.
“Go ahead, touch it. Wrap your hand around my fat dick and feel how much I want to pound into you right here on the floor, make you forget every damn worry. Or maybe slide your mouth down on it - suck me off like the naughty wife you are while I watch those pretty lips stretch around me.”
His voice drops lower, laced with hunger, as his free hand guides yours toward the box. “What do you say? Ready to unwrap the rest of your gift?”
Your eyes widen in genuine surprise, a bubble of laughter escaping your lips before you can stop it - nervous, delighted, and utterly turned on all at once.
The audacity of it hits you like a warm wave, your cheeks flushing hot as you stare at Ed's exposed cock in that ridiculous, genius gift box.
It's so him: playful yet filthy, knowing exactly how to catch you off guard and ignite that spark low in your belly. Your heart races, a mix of shock and arousal pooling between your thighs, making your pussy clench with anticipation.
“Ed! Oh my god,” you manage between giggles, shaking your head in disbelief, but your gaze lingers on the thick cock, already imagining how it would feel sliding inside you.
Ed’s bright smile turns downright predatory, his blue eyes darkening with lust as he watches your reaction.
“Yeah, laugh it up, baby. But I see that look - you're soaked already, aren't you? Thinking about how my big cock’s gonna fill you up, make you scream my name while I fuck you senseless under this tree before our families arrive.” His voice is a gravelly whisper, dripping with promise, as he reaches for your hand, his strong fingers wrapping around yours with gentle insistence.
He guides your palm downward, pressing it against the warm, velvety skin of his shaft. The heat of him sears into you, the rigid girth throbbing under your touch, veins pulsing as you instinctively curl your fingers around it. His dick is heavy, the precum slicking your skin as you give it a tentative stroke.
A low groan rumbles from his chest, his hips bucking slightly into your grip.
“Fuck, that's it...stroke my cock like you own it, wife. Feel how hard you make me? Been dreaming of your tight mouth wrapped around the head, sucking me deep while I tangle my fingers in your hair and thrust down your throat.”
His words send shivers racing down your spine, your laughter fading into a soft moan as arousal floods your cunt, your nipples hardening against the fabric of your robe.
You pump him slowly, savouring the way he twitches in your hand, the salty scent of his arousal filling the air, making your mouth water. Every glide of your fist heightens the ache between your legs, your clit throbbing with need.
After a few more teasing strokes, Ed’s breath hitches, his free hand abandoning your arm to grip the edge of the box.
“Enough playing, sweetheart. Time to taste your present.” With a swift motion, he lifts the lid and shoves the box aside, his cock springing free.
The sight makes your pulse pound, desire overriding any lingering surprise as you lean forward without hesitation, your robe slipping open slightly.
Your lips part, tongue flicking out to lap at the tip, over the salty bead there before you take him in - stretching your mouth around the swollen head, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him deeper.
He fills you so perfectly, the musky flavour exploding on your tongue, and you hum in pleasure, your hand still working the base while waves of heat build inside you, eager for whatever comes next.
Ed’s fingers thread through your hair, gripping firmly at the roots as he tilts your head back just enough to meet your eyes, his gaze smouldering with that mix of affection and raw hunger.
“Look at you, baby - already so eager for my cock down your throat. But let’s see how much you can handle this morning. Tap my thigh if it's too much, okay? I want you to take it all for me.” His voice is a husky command, laced with teasing challenge, sending a fresh rush of heat through your veins.
You're nodding before you even realise it, the thrill of his control making your pussy throb, slickness gathering as you relax your jaw wider around him.
He eases in shallow at first, his hips rocking gently to slide just the head past your lips, letting you swirl your tongue along the underside while he watches your every reaction.
The velvety texture drags against your mouth, his precum mixing with your saliva, and you moan softly, the vibration drawing a sharp hiss from him.
His free hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your stretched lips, the tenderness contrasting the building intensity as he pushes a little further, testing your limits with each incremental thrust.
Your body responds instinctively, arousal coiling tighter in your core, as you hollow your cheeks and take him deeper.
The stretch starts to build, his thickness pressing against the back of your throat, but you’re so into it - the way he fills you, the power dynamic that makes your clit ache for friction.
He talks more now, words tumbling out in a gravelly stream as his grip tightens. “Fuck, your mouth’s so hot and wet, swallowing me like a good little wife. Deeper now - relax that throat for me, let me bury my dick all the way in.”
His hips snap forward with more force, driving past your gag reflex, the intrusion deeper than he's ever gone before.
The sensation borders on uncomfortable, your throat constricting around the invading girth, muscles fluttering as you fight to breathe through your nose.
Saliva pools and spills from the corners of your mouth, dripping down your chin in messy strings, but the discomfort only heightens the pleasure surging through you - waves of endorphins mixing with the burn, making your thighs clench together for relief.
You gag wetly on the next push, the filthy, choking sound echoing in the quiet living room, but he doesn't stop, holding you steady as he grinds in further.
“Gag on it, sweetheart. I love hearing those slutty noises. You’re taking me so well, throat, squeezing my cock like it’s begging for my load.”
Tears prick at your eyes from the effort, but you’re lost in the intensity, drool slicking his shaft and balls as you manage to take every last inch, your nose brushing his trimmed pubic hair.
The fullness is overwhelming, your body trembling with the effort to accommodate him, yet the ache in your pussy intensifies, turning the almost-pain into pure, electric need. He fucks your mouth relentlessly now, pace quickening as wet slurps and gurgles fill the air, his balls slapping lightly against your chin with each deep plunge.
“All of me, baby…Fuck, you’re perfect. Gonna cum so hard watching you choke on my dick like this.”
His rhythm falters, breaths coming in ragged pants, and you feel him swell impossibly thicker against your tongue.
With a guttural groan, he pulls back just enough before cumming, half his length still buried in your mouth. Hot spurts flood your tongue first, salty and thick, coating your throat as you swallow what you can, the taste exploding with his essence.
He yanks free on the next pulse, ropes of cum painting your lips, cheeks, and chin in sticky white streaks, some landing warm on your closed eyelids.
You gasp for air, chest heaving, the mess dripping down your neck as aftershocks ripple through you, your own arousal at a fever pitch, body buzzing from the raw claim he’s just made.
Ed’s chest heaves as he stares down at you, his blue eyes darkening with a potent mix of satisfaction and lingering desire.
Cum glistens on your skin, warm trails cooling against your flushed cheeks and neck, while the remnants in your mouth pool thickly on your tongue.
He doesn’t let the moment fade; instead, he cups your jaw gently, thumb swiping across your lower lip to gather a stray rope of his release.
“Open up for me, love. Don’t waste a drop. Show me how much you love tasting me.” His voice dips low, coaxing rather than commanding, but the heat in it stirs the fire still smoldering in your belly.
You part your lips obediently, letting him slide his thumb inside, pressing the salty essence against your tongue.
Obediently, you close around the digit, sucking softly to draw it clean.
He watches intently, a soft groan escaping him when you swallow, the motion visible in the bob of your throat. “Good girl,” he murmurs, repeating the gesture with his fingers, scooping more from your chin and feeding it to you bit by bit.
Each swallow sends a shiver through you, your body humming with submission, pussy clenching emptily as you take every salty bit he offers, eyes locked on his until the mess is mostly gone, leaving only faint shiny streaks.
Once he’s satisfied, Ed pulls you up into his lap, his strong arms wrapping around your waist to tuck you against his broad chest.
The white shirt clings to his skin, damp from the intensity, and you can feel the steady thump of his heart under your palm as you rest your head on his shoulder.
He grabs a nearby throw blanket from the couch, draping it over both of you, his hands roaming soothingly - stroking your back, brushing tangled hair from your face, wiping the last traces from your eyelids with the soft fabric.
“You were incredible, baby. So brave taking all of me like that. Merry Christmas. Couldn't think of a better way to start our day.” His words are tender, laced with that bright smile you adore, as he presses a kiss to your forehead, then your temple, nuzzling into your hair with affectionate hums.
But even in the afterglow, one hand drifts lower, palming your ass through the thin robe, squeezing the flesh as he shifts you closer, his semi-hard cock pressing insistently against your thigh.
"Fuck, you’re so wet for me, aren’t you? I can feel it soaking through.” He nips at your earlobe, breath hot as his fingers tease the hem of your robe, dipping just inside to trace the slick folds of your pussy.
The gentleness mixes with renewed hunger, promising he’s far from done spoiling you this morning.
The Space Between Instinct and Ruin (Zayne | Li Shen x Reader)
Masterlist Ao3
Summary
[Zayne| Li Shen x Female Reader] [Zayne| Li Shen x You]
He kept his distance like it was the only way to survive. Controlled. Careful. Untouchable.
Until the moment he almost lost you, and everything he had been holding back started to fracture.
When he came back, there was no space left for restraint.
Because the moment he touched you again, it stopped being about healing.
And started becoming about everything he’d been denying.
OR
How Zayne snapped and performed more than just a medical checkup on you
A/N: Okay... so I’m back with something different. I have some time off and check on the boys every day. And since HE KEEPS WEARING THAT DAMN RED SCARF, here’s some trauma for our boy Zayne (he also gets laid so it's fine)
You didn’t remember the moment of impact - only its echo, carved into you like something ancient and merciless. A sound came first. Not just loud, but primordial. A deep, guttural roar that felt less like it travelled through the air and more like it erupted from the marrow of the world itself.
Your lungs emptied in an instant, breath stolen by the force of it, leaving behind nothing but a hollow, aching void.
Then came the pressure, violent, suffocating, absolute. It crushed against your body like an invisible hand determined to fold you in on yourself. Heat followed close behind, blistering and relentless, licking across your skin with a hunger that felt almost alive.
And the ground beneath you didn’t just shake. It twisted and warped. Heaved like something wounded and furious. Walls convulsed around you, metal groaning in protest as if the structure itself was trying to scream. Jagged shards of metal protruding at unnatural angles, like teeth bared in a silent, predatory grin.
For one impossibly disorienting moment, even gravity lost its meaning. Up dissolved into down. Down fractured into nothing at all.
So the world didn’t just fall apart - it exploded sideways.
Smoke slithered through the corridor in slow, serpentine trails, coiling through broken support beams and gnarled wiring, winding itself through the wreckage like it had nowhere better to be.
The air itself tasted wrong. Thick with the stench of scorched metal and something sharper. It coated your tongue, your throat, your lungs. Everything. Each breath was a struggle against something sharp and invasive.
Lights flickered overhead, their weak pulses casting fractured shadows that jerked and trembled along the walls. They didn’t move naturally. They twitched, like they were trying to escape the ruin that birthed them.
Sparks sputtered from shattered consoles, brief arcs of dying electricity that flared and vanished like the last breaths of something already gone.
And somewhere far off in the distance, sirens wailed.
Their cries stretched and warped, as if dragged through layers of debris and damage before reaching you. Both muted and mournful, like they were grieving something they already knew couldn’t be saved.
The comms crackled with static. No voices, no signal. Just the hollow, broken sound of something trying and failing to speak.
When awareness finally returned to you, it came in fragments.
You felt him first. Before the pain could find you - before fear had the chance to take shape, before the chaos could settle into something your mind could understand.
A weight pressed over you. Not crushing or trapping, but shielding, almost like sheltering you from the fractured world around you, with a quiet, unyielding certainty that spoke of instinct rather than thought.
Zayne.
His body covered yours completely, a barrier between you and everything that had just torn the world apart. One arm braced beside your head, the other planted firmly on the opposite side.
His arms were trembling slightly as if the effort of holding himself up had only just begun to register.
Dust clung to him like a second skin. It streaked across the dark fabric of his jacket, settled into the sharp lines of his face, caught in the strands of his hair. Smudges marked his cheekbones, dulled the edges of him - but somehow, impossibly, he still felt solid. Anchored. Real in a way that nothing else around you did right now.
He wasn’t moving, just breathing.
Each inhale scraped in too quickly, each exhale leaving him in a rush that brushed hot against your cheek, stirring the fine layer of ash and debris on your skin.
He was close - closer than he’d ever been - and for one fleeting, suspending heartbeat, that mattered more than the wreckage around you. More than the silence. More than the pain you hadn’t yet started to feel.
Just him.
Zayne was staring, just looking at you unblinking and unspeaking. As if the simple act of glancing away would undo something fragile and irreversible. And in that gaze was something raw and wild and tacit like he was still trying to convince himself you were really there.
Still breathing.
Still alive.
You tried to speak, but the sound dissolved before it could leave you. The words caught, snagged somewhere deep in your throat, choked by the thick, acrid taste of smoke and ash your lungs burnt with.
So you didn’t speak. You just kept looking at him, trying to make sense of the situation you’ve found yourself in.
And even now and even here, in the aftermath of something violent enough to tear reality apart, he didn’t feel real.
Zayne looked like something pulled from memory rather than the present. Like a figure drawn in firelight and shadow, too vivid, too sharp.
The flickering emergency lights carved him into sharp contrasts, outlining every angle of him with almost unnatural clarity. His dark hair, usually so carefully kept, had fallen loose in the chaos - strands clinging damply to his forehead, tangled with sweat, streaked with blood.
A thin crimson line traced from his temple, cutting cleanly down along the ridge of his cheekbone. It caught the light with every flicker, gleaming briefly before slipping back into shadow, like it couldn’t decide whether to be seen or hidden.
The black fabric beneath his coat had fared no better. His shirt was scorched, torn along the seams, the clean, tailored lines distorted by heat and impact. It looked wrong on him - this disarray, this evidence of something breaking through the precision he carried so effortlessly.
His eyes remained locked onto yours with unwavering focus.
That familiar undertone of smouldering bronze flickered within them, but now it burned differently. There was something in his gaze you had never seen before.
“Zayne,” you whispered, the name left your lips as little more than a breath, fragile and uneven, nearly swallowed by the high, relentless ringing that filled your ears. “You’re hurt.”
His brow tightened almost imperceptibly, like the echo of an emotion he hadn’t decided whether to acknowledge.
He still didn’t move - not until you reached up, your hand unsteady, heavy in a way that didn’t feel entirely physical. Dust coated your skin, mixed with streaks of drying blood you didn’t remember earning. Your fingers trembled as they reached him, almost hesitant until they brushed against the fabric of his sleeve.
That simple contact broke something behind his eyes. A fracture that hadn’t been there before. A tremor that rippled through the carefully maintained stillness he held around himself.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted his weight, pushing himself up and away as though afraid even the act of moving might hurt you more.
For a single suspended breath, he lingered above you, not pulling back completely. Staying close enough that you could still feel the warmth of him. Close enough that his gaze didn’t waver, still searching your face with that same quiet urgency.
“Are you okay?” Your voice cracked under the weight of the question. It was almost a paradox that you’d chosen to ask him that when pain radiated through your whole body, setting everything in its way ablaze.
He didn’t answer, instead just pulled back more, distance returning in slow, reluctant increments. The space between you reopened, inch by inch, until the absence of him felt colder than the debris beneath you.
No sound fell from his lips even when your trembling fingers brushed his sleeve again, a silent, desperate plea for him to stay.
He didn’t react.
Then the med team arrived, loud and sudden.
Shouts tore through the corridor, echoing off broken metal and fractured walls. The sharp rhythm of boots striking the ground followed, fast and relentless, cutting through the haze like a second wave of impact.
Figures emerged through the smoke - indistinct at first, then clearer. Hazmat suits. Masks. Gloves. Movement driven by training and urgency rather than hesitation.
And Zayne, without a word, without a backward glance, stood completely.
The motion was smooth, controlled - almost eerily so, as though none of what had just passed between you had ever happened.
He stepped away, into the drifting smoke, into the chaos that was beginning to swallow everything whole again.
The haze wrapped around him almost immediately, softening his outline, blurring the sharp edges of his form until he became something indistinct and unreachable.
As if he had never been there at all.
___
Hours later, you surfaced into a world of blinding white and bone-deep silence.
The first thing that returned was your sense of smell.
It came sharp and immediate, cutting through the fog before anything else could follow. The air was too clean, sterile in a way that felt unnatural, almost invasive. Bleach lingered heavily, crisp and clinical, undercut by the faint, acrid sting of burnt wires that seemed to linger like a ghost.
A cold settled in next.
It crept through the thin hospital sheets, seeping into your skin, your bones, leaving you hollowed out and trembling before you even fully realised you were awake. The fabric beneath your fingers felt too light, too insubstantial, like it couldn’t quite anchor you to anything real.
So you didn’t move, didn’t open your eyes. Just existed in that strange, fragile space between unconsciousness and awareness, where nothing had formed yet, and nothing could hurt you.
Machines whispered somewhere nearby, their steady, mechanical rhythm threading through the silence like a quiet reassurance that time hadn’t stopped completely.
Your brow furrowed slightly, the first conscious movement pulling faintly at muscles that felt unused, unfamiliar.
Then you forced your eyes open, and the light hit you instantly.
Not gently. Not gradually. It struck.
The overhead LEDs bled into your vision, flooding everything in stark, sterile brightness. It was too much, too sharp and too sudden, like your eyes hadn’t been meant to handle it yet.
So you blinked rapidly, but the world only wavered and reformed in uneven pulses, as if reality itself was still struggling to piece itself back together around you.
For a moment, you lay frozen, trapped between confusion and fear, your mind whirling in slow, broken circles.
Nothing made sense. Not the room. Not your body. Not the cold, coiled knot of dread that had wrapped itself around your chest.
Until it did, and the memory seeped into your tired mind.
The mission. The detonation. Zayne.
Your pulse surged hard and completely uncontrollable. It slammed against your ribs, loudly dragging the rest of you along with it.
You pushed yourself upright on instinct alone, elbows digging into the mattress as your body protested. Pain flared across your ribs, dull but insistent, while a pounding headache roared to life the second you moved, loud enough to rival the explosion still echoing somewhere in your mind.
Your head snapped to the side, eyes raking the room in a frantic search as if he might be there, lurking in the shadows, waiting.
But he wasn’t.
There was nothing. Only white walls. Only machines. Only the hollow, echoing absence where he should have been.
And yet when the door finally sighed open some minutes later, its mechanism releasing with a soft, pneumatic hiss that seemed almost indecently loud in the stillness, you just knew who it would be.
You could see him already, so vividly that the image overlaid itself upon the doorway before anything had even crossed its threshold.
Zayne - shoulders straight beneath the familiar fall of a white coat, stethoscope resting like a quiet declaration of purpose at his collar. There would be tension in him, subtle but unmistakable. A crease drawn between his brows, the faint downturn of his mouth betraying what he would not say aloud.
He would move quickly - decisively - each step measured, controlled, as though precision alone could contain the concern that threatened to surface.
But…it wasn’t him. It was a nurse.
She walked into your room with a practised quietness, her presence neither abrupt nor gentle, but something in between. The soft soles of her shoes whispered faintly against the polished floor, a sound so subtle it seemed swallowed almost as soon as it was made.
In one hand, she carried a tablet, its screen casting a pale, sterile glow across her features. In the other, nothing though her fingers moved occasionally, as if accustomed to holding instruments not presently required.
Her expression was composed into something approximating warmth, though it bore the unmistakable marks of repetition. A smile worn smooth by overuse, offered not unkindly, but without depth.
There was no hesitation in her movements as she approached your bedside, no curiosity, no acknowledgement of the fragile stillness that had settled around you. Her attention fixed itself upon her task with quiet diligence.
Cool fingers found your wrist.
They were steady, almost impersonal, devoid of hesitation, devoid of familiarity. She measured your pulse with the same detached precision one might apply to machinery, her gaze flickering only briefly between your face and the data displayed before her.
When you spoke, the question came haltingly, almost against your own better judgment.
“Did… did anyone come with me?” The words felt strangely ill-formed, as though they had not quite belonged in the air once spoken.
For the briefest moment, something shifted across her expression. Not enough to name, only the faintest interruption in the smooth, practised neutrality she wore. Then it was gone again, and you wondered whether your fragmented mind had played tricks on you once again.
“No one was authorised to stay.”
Her voice was gentle, but there was a finality to it. A clipped precision that suggested this was not the first time she had delivered such an answer, and that she had long since learned not to let it linger.
You nodded, though the motion felt disconnected, as if your body were performing it without your consent. You attempted a smile in return that didn’t hold, as something in your chest tightened gradually.
A slow constriction, like a pressure building inward rather than out. The edges of the room seemed to tilt, not enough to disrupt your vision, but enough to unsettle it. Enough to make the ground beneath you feel uncertain.
And beneath it all, there was a quiet, sinking certainty.
He wasn’t coming.
The rest of the process unfolded with a kind of impersonal efficiency that left little room for pause or protest. You were examined, assessed, and recorded. Each step was conducted with the same quiet detachment as before.
No fractures. No lasting structural damage.
A minor concussion, they told you. Irritating, but not uncommon. Your lungs, though irritated by the smoke, would recover. The damage was superficial, and treatable…temporary.
You were fortunate.
The word lingered unpleasantly in your mind. You didn’t feel like the lucky one.
They administered medication, something to dull the ache behind your eyes, something to steady the rhythm of your breathing, and placed a clearance form into your hands.
On paper, you were fine. But none of it mattered to you because Zayne hadn’t contacted you. Not a word. Not a message.
You told yourself, with a persistence that bordered on desperation, that there were reasons.
He was busy…of course he was. The aftermath of such an incident would demand attention at every level. Reports to complete, injuries to assess, procedures to oversee. He would be needed elsewhere.
The thought repeated itself, over and over, until it began to lose meaning.
And still, you waited.
___
Without quite deciding to, you found yourself lingering.
The common areas became familiar in a way they had never been before. You passed through them more often than necessary, your steps slowing without instruction, your gaze drifting inevitably towards the entrances, the corridors, the spaces where he might appear.
You told yourself it was nothing.
But your path drew you near the hospital again and again, as if guided by something quieter than intention.
Your phone became a constant presence in your hand. You checked it without thinking. Again, and again, and again. Each glance driven by a faint, unreasonable expectation.
As though at any moment, something might appear. A message. A name. A sign that you had not imagined the intensity of what had passed between you.
Nothing came.
___
Sleep was a joke; it came in fractured, unreliable fragments. Never long enough, never deep enough to offer rest.
Every time you closed your eyes, you were back again. Not in the explosion nor the chaos but in that moment after.
You felt the ghost of his weight over you, saw the way he’d looked at you like you were the only real thing left in the world and that he’d die ten times over before losing you.
Eventually, hours bled into a day. And one day into two.
You passed him once after that in the sterile, brightly lit corridors where light pooled too brightly against polished surfaces, leaving no room for shadow when you had to come in for a checkup.
He appeared without warning. The space between you collapsed in an instant as you passed one another, his coat brushing lightly against yours. A fleeting, almost imperceptible contact that nevertheless sent a sharp awareness through you.
And for a moment, you thought he’d look up. He would stop.
But he didn’t.
His gaze remained fixed on the datapad in his hand, fingers moving across its surface with practised ease. There was no acknowledgement. It was as though you were not there at all, and your presence did not register within his field of awareness.
Like he couldn’t bear to look at you. Like you hadn’t nearly died under him. Like he hadn’t stared at you in that ruined corridor as if you were the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.
___
On the fifth night, sleep still refused you.
It lingered just beyond reach. Close enough to tease, never close enough to claim. The hours did not pass so much as they thinned and stretched, each dissolving into the next with a quiet, indifferent persistence, offering neither rest nor reprieve.
The room itself had long since surrendered to stillness. Whatever life the world beyond its walls possessed had faded into a distant, indistinct hush, for existence itself had drawn a curtain and withdrawn.
Yet your mind refused to follow suit. You were lying in the half-dark, suspended in that peculiar state where silence grew loud, where one became acutely aware of the absence of sound, until it felt indistinguishable from its presence.
It was in that strained quiet that you heard it.
A sound so slight that, for a moment, you wondered if your tired mind had conjured it.
Soft. Tentative. Two gentle taps against the door.
Not the assured knock of someone who belonged, nor the sound of someone to be expected. This was something altogether different. Hesitant, almost apologetic, as though the one who stood on the other side was uncertain of their right to disturb the stillness within.
Your breath caught before, and you were conscious of it, you were already moving.
Already crossing the room with a quiet urgency that outpaced reason itself. Your hand found the door before your thoughts had time to assemble into anything resembling caution, and you pulled it open quickly
He stood there.
Zayne, framed by the dim, diluted glow of the hallway light, which seemed to gather around him without ever fully illuminating him, softening his outline into something almost unreal. For a single, disorienting second, there was a sense of unfamiliarity. Not because you did not recognise him, but because you had never seen him like this.
There was none of the usual structure about him, none of the quiet authority he wore like it was second nature. The careful composure, the subtle armour that seemed always to exist between him and the world was just…gone.
His hair was still damp, the dark strands falling loosely about his face, curling faintly at the ends where they had begun to dry. There were traces of water still clinging to his temples, catching the low light in brief, shifting glimmers.
Fatigue had etched itself into the hills and valleys of his face. His eyes were tired and almost hollow. A disarray that made it obvious something had changed.
“Can I come in?” he asked quietly at last.
You did not trust yourself to answer, so you just stepped aside.
He passed you then, close enough that you felt the faint warmth of him in his movement. Yet he did not go far into the room. Took only a few measured steps, as if uncertain of whether he was still welcome.
The door, closing softly behind him, gave a quiet click. Yet in the stillness that followed, it seemed disproportionately loud.
For a second, neither of you spoke until you finally broke the silence.
“You saved my life.”
The words escaped you almost involuntarily, loaded by everything you didn’t say yet.
Zayne’s reaction was subtle, yet unmistakable. A faint flinch, so controlled it might have escaped anyone else’s notice, flickered across him. It was gone almost as quickly as it appeared, like a passing shadow, but not without leaving its mark.
“It was instinct,” he replied. The answer came too readily. Too smooth.
It almost seemed as if he’d prepared it long before this moment and repeated it until he himself believed it.
“Instinct,” you recounted, though the word came out sharper than you intended. “So was disappearing, I guess?”
Zayne’s jaw tightened as his posture became more rigid and his hands gradually curled into fists at his sides, fingers pressing inward, seeking some anchor in the pressure.
“I had to walk away,” he said. His voice, though still controlled, had shifted. It carried strain now, a tension that suggested effort. Effort to contain, to explain, perhaps even to endure. “I couldn’t - ”
“Couldn’t what, Zayne?”
The interruption came, once again, sharper than you had intended, cutting through his unfinished sentence with a clarity that left no room for evasion.
His gaze, which had held yours until that moment, faltered. It dropped, settling upon the floor as though it offered some refuge, some answer he could not find elsewhere.
The silence that followed was no longer fragile. It was weighty. Dense with all that had not been said.
So you moved then, though you were scarcely aware of the decision forming. Only knowing that your addled brain could not have made up the situation.
One step, tentative at first, then another, each bringing you closer, each heightening the quiet rhythm of your own heartbeat until it seemed to reverberate within you.
“You acted like I meant something to you,” you said. Your voice had softened, yet it carried a tremor that betrayed its steadiness. “That moment, under the rubble…you looked at me like…”
The thought faltered, the words dissolving before they could fully take shape, suspended somewhere between feeling and speech as you stopped just before him.
And for a moment that almost felt eternal, he didn’t move or speak. Then, with a deliberateness that suggested effort rather than ease, he lifted his head.
That’s when you saw it. Gone was the composure, the quiet certainty that so often defined him.
Everything he’d been hiding was right there in his eyes - fear, guilt, something deeper. Something carved into his bones, almost ingrained, as though it had shaped him in ways that could not be undone.
“You terrify me,” he said. The words emerged low and hoarse, like they had been forced through resistance. He did not avert his gaze this time. There was a steadiness in it now, though it came at a cost. “Because I almost lost you. And if I let myself feel that… I don’t know if I’d come back from it.”
The admission settled into the room with a quiet finality.
There was no defence in it. No attempt at distance. Only the plainness of truth, laid bare before you.
You reached for him - not because you had forgiven him yet, nor because the hurt had vanished, but because, in that moment, you understood.
Your fingers found his wrist, resting there lightly.
“I am here,” you said, your voice scarcely above a whisper, yet steady in its certainty.
In the next second, Zayne surged forward with a raw hunger that shattered any lingering restraint, his body crashing into yours like a dam breaking after years of pressure. His hand tightened around your wrist, pulling you into him, closing the distance so abruptly it stole the breath from your lungs.
And then his mouth was on yours.
No hesitation, no measured control. Only urgency, raw and consuming. The kiss was fierce, almost overwhelming, driven by something that refused to be quieted any longer. It wasn’t polished or precise.
His lips crushed against yours, tongue pushing deep to tangle with yours in a sloppy, urgent rhythm that left you breathless. He tasted of salt and heat, his breath ragged as he sucked on your lower lip, biting just enough to sting and send sparks racing through your veins.
You moaned into his mouth, your body igniting under the onslaught, every nerve screaming for more as heat pooled low in your belly.
He backed you up step by step, his hand shifted to your waist, firm, guiding, holding you close as though he had no intention of letting you slip away again. Each step sent a new wave of sensation through you, your thoughts dissolving beneath its intensity.
Your back met the doorframe with a soft impact, the cool wood a sharp contrast to the heat that had begun to spread through you.
Zayne pulled back a bit. His forehead hovered close to yours, his breath uneven, his gaze searching.
“You sure?” he asked. His voice was low, quieter than usual. Not because he lacked certainty, but because it seemed to cost him something to keep it steady. Like the words were held together by effort alone.
It took you a moment to understand the question fully, your mind still caught somewhere between sensation and thought.
“I’ve never been more sure.” The answer left you with a clarity that cut through everything else.
He hesitated only for a second.
Then the breath left him, slow and heavy, like something tightly held had finally slipped loose. With a low growl, he pushed you inside your bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him without breaking the kiss.
His hands moved as though they had long since learned the shape of you.
One hand roamed up your side, palming your breast through your shirt, thumb circling your nipple. The other hand found your hair, fingers threading through it with a firm gentleness, guiding rather than forcing, tilting your head back just enough to deepen the kiss.
You barely registered the movement until you felt the mattress beneath you. As he eased you down, his body following yours in a slow, deliberate descent that pinned you beneath his weight without crushing you.
The gentleness in his touch lingered for a heartbeat longer.
His hand shifted, leaving your hair to follow the line of your jaw and down your throat. His fingers came to rest across your collarbone, pausing there, gentle and unhurried, like he needed to remember exactly how you felt beneath his touch.
“God, I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured against your skin, his voice roughened by restraint, lips brushing your earlobe as he nipped at it lightly. “You have no idea how many nights I lay awake thinking about you.”
The words hit you like a spark to dry tinder, your pulse racing, a flush creeping up your chest as heat flooded your core.
His mouth captured yours again, the kiss starting tender but quickly igniting into something fiercer. Your thoughts dissolving under the sensation, while his hand dipped lower, shoving up the hem of your shirt to expose your stomach.
Cool air kissed your skin, but his palm followed immediately, hot and possessive, flattening against your abdomen before sliding higher to cup your breast. He squeezed firmly, thumb flicking over your nipple until it stiffened into a tight bud, drawing a gasp from your lips that he swallowed with a hungry groan.
“Fuck, you’re so responsive,” he growled, breaking the kiss to trail his mouth down your jaw, sucking hard at the sensitive spot just below your ear.
The sting of his teeth grazing your skin sent shivers cascading down your spine, your back arching off the bed as you pressed into him. Every nerve ending buzzed, alive and demanding, the ache between your legs growing insistent, your pussy slick and throbbing with need.
You could feel the hard length of his cock straining against his pants, grinding against your hip in slow, deliberate rolls that made your breath hitch.
Zayne shifted his weight, hooking one leg between yours to nudge your thighs apart, his knee pressing firmly against your cunt. The friction was electric, rubbing right where you craved it, and you rocked against him instinctively, a soft whimper escaping as pleasure spiked through you.
His free hand gripped your thigh, fingers digging into the flesh as he hauled your leg higher around his waist, opening you up further.
“That’s it, spread for me,” he rasped, his breath hot on your neck. “I want to feel how wet you are for me, how much you need me to take care of that pretty little pussy you’ve been hiding from me all these years.”
The dirty words from his mouth made your head spin, vulnerability mixing with the hunger in his gaze. You tugged at his shirt, yanking it up to expose the lean muscles of his torso.
Your fingers followed instinctively, tracing, then scraping lightly over his ribs as you explored the warmth of his skin. He hissed in response, his hips bucking forward, cock twitching against you through the layers of fabric.
He drew back only as much as necessary, his movements quick but not careless, fingers catching the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head in one smooth motion. For a brief second, you simply looked at him.
The lines of his torso were lean and defined, not overly sculpted, but strong in a way that spoke of quiet endurance rather than display. The dim light traced along his shoulders, catching on the subtle tension still held there, before slipping lower across his chest. His hair fell messily into his face, and there was something almost undone about him now.
Then his attention was back on you.
His hands found your shirt with a kind of practised efficiency, lifting it away in a single, fluid motion. There was something almost clinical in the precision of it, but it didn’t quite hide the faint tremor in his fingers, the way his touch lingered just a fraction too long to be purely methodical.
Before the thought could fully settle, he leaned down, his breath warm against your lips, and captured your mouth in another kiss. Deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your head spin.
One hand roamed freely now, calloused palm gliding over the dip of your waist, sending tingles skittering across your skin like sparks. It followed the swell of your hip, pressing just enough to ground you in the moment, before venturing lower, dipping between your thighs.
His fingers teased over the seam of your pants, rubbing deliberate circles right over your clit through the rough denim. The friction built an insistent, throbbing pressure, your body betraying any pretence of restraint as it responded with raw instinct. Your pussy clenching rhythmically with desperate need, slick arousal soaking through the fabric in a way that would have mortified you under normal circumstances.
But nothing felt normal now; the pleasure overrode any embarrassment, flooding you with a hazy warmth that made your skin flush and your breath come in shallow, needy pants, every nerve attuned to the promise of more.
Each stroke drew gasps from you, your hips bucking up to chase that building ache, the sensation coiling tighter, making your thighs tremble, and your heart hammer against your ribs.
“Tell me you want it,” he demanded, voice low and edged with urgency, his forehead resting against yours as he watched your face contort with pleasure. “Say you want me to fuck you senseless, to fill you up until you’re coming around my cock.”
The plea in his eyes, that mix of reverence for what you’d shared and raw hunger for what was to come, hit you hardest. You nodded frantically, words tumbling out in a breathless rush: “Yes, Zayne, please... I need you inside me.”
With a satisfied rumble, he unbuttoned your pants, peeling them down along with your underwear in one swift motion, exposing you to the cold air.
His gaze darkened as he took you in, fingers parting your cunt to slide through your wetness, to coat themselves before circling your entrance teasingly, the sensation making your breath hitch and your hips shift restlessly.
“So fucking soaked,” he praised, the words rough with awe, as he eased one finger inside you, then a second, curling them expertly to stroke that hidden spot deep within that exploded stars behind your closed eyelids.
You cried out, walls clenching around him as he pumped slowly, his thumb pressing your clit in firm strokes. It sent jolts of electric pleasure radiating outward, your body arching off the surface as the tension coiled impossibly tighter with every thrust of his hand.
He leaned down then, his mouth closing over your nipple with a firm suck that drew a keening moan from you, the wet heat of his tongue laving the sensitive peak while his fingers drove deeper into your pussy, the dual sensations crashing over you like a tidal wave.
Heat radiated from every point of contact - his tongue on your tit, his stubble scraping your skin, the obscene, wet sounds of his fingers plunging into you filling the room.
Then, with a slick, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled his fingers free, the sudden emptiness wrenching a plaintive whine from your lips as your pussy clenched around nothing, protesting the loss. Your eyes followed him hazily as he shifted, dropping to his knees on the floor between your spread legs.
And when he looked up from there, it stole the very breath from your lungs, leaving you lightheaded and aching.
“Let me take care of you,” he murmured, voice roughened by desire yet softened by an unguarded tenderness that made your chest tighten with emotion. “Let me learn everything about what makes you feel good.”
Zayne’s hands clamped onto your thighs with firm, possessive strength, spreading them wider as he positioned himself properly, his breath ghosting hot and teasing over your sensitive cunt, making you shiver and clench in anticipation.
“You’re flushed here,” he observed quietly, his lips grazing the tender skin of your inner thigh, the light touch sending goosebumps racing up your spine. “Blood pressure’s spiked. Pupils dilated. Heart’s racing.”
His eyes lifted to meet yours, dark and smouldering with intent, holding you captive.
“Do you know what that tells me?” You shook your head, body already trembling on the edge, every inch of you alive with need.
“That your body’s begging for me.”
And then he devoured you.
Zayned started with a slow, deliberate lick - a long, flat stripe from your dripping entrance up to your swollen clit, savouring your taste with a deep, approving hum that vibrated against your skin and drew a gasp from your parted lips.
You arched your back off the mattress again, fingers instinctively tangling in his damp curls, tugging lightly as he dove in deeper, his mouth sealing over your clit with a gentle suck at first, soft pulls that made your toes curl and your breath hitch in short, desperate bursts.
Then he increased the pressure, sucking harder, his tongue flicking in quick, insistent circles around the throbbing nub, each lap sending jolts of electric pleasure racing up your spine, making your thighs quake around his head. The wet sounds of his lips and tongue working you filled the air - slurps and smacks mingling with your escalating gasps and moans.
One hand slid up your inner thigh, calluses rough against your smooth skin, fingers parting your pussy wider for better access. Broad, sweeping strokes that covered your entire slit, coating his chin with your wetness, alternating with targeted sucks on your swollen clit that made stars burst behind your eyelids.
Your hips bucked wildly against his face, chasing the building pressure, but he held you steady, his free hand pressing down firmly on your lower belly, pinning you in place.
“Fuck, you taste so good,’ he murmured against your skin, the vibration sent sparks through your core.
He slid two fingers into you, curling them just right to hit that spot inside again while his tongue relentlessly circled your clit. The pleasure built fast, coiling tight in your belly as he pumped his fingers in rhythm with his licks, drawing out every whimper and plea from your lips.
Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his head, muscles straining as the edge approached, and he knew. sensing the spike in your pulse, the way your breath came in ragged sobs.
He ramped up the pace, sucking harder on your clit, fingers thrusting deeper and faster, curling with precision to grind against that spot until the wave crashed over you in a blinding rush.
You cried ot, a broken keen of his name as your pussy clenched rhythmically around his thick fingers, flooding his mouth with your release, waves of ecstasy pulsing through you, making your vision blur and your body convulse.
Zayne didn’t stop, licking you through every shudder, his tongue gentle now but insistent, prolonging the bliss until you were a shaking, breathless mess beneath him, sweat-slicked and utterly spent
His gaze lifted to meet yours with a mix of triumph and tenderness that made your heart stutter.
“You taste better than anything I’ve ever known,” he growled, voice husky and edged with awe. “And I’ve memorised every cell in the human body. But this? This is what I want to study forever - every quiver, every gasp, the way you grip me like you never want to let go.”
His fingers slid inside you again - slow, deliberate, pushing impossibly deep this time, scissoring gently to stretch your walls, the sensation reigniting sparks without pushing you over. He rose slightly, his other hand reaching up to cup your breast, thumb rolling your nipple in firm circles while he pumped his fingers lazily, building friction but holding back the rhythm that would tip you into another release.
“Gotta stretch you out good first,” he continued, voice dropping lower, eyes darkening as he added a third finger, the fuller stretch burning sweetly, your pussy yielding to him inch by inch. “Because my cock’s thick. It’s gonna fill you up so completely.... Can’t have you hurting, not when I’ve waited this long to claim you.”
He leaned in to capture your other nipple between his teeth, nipping lightly before soothing with his tongue, his hand kneading your tit while his fingers twisted inside you, exploring, preparing.
“Feel that? How you’re opening for me? It’s just the start - soon you’ll be taking all of me, clenching around every inch like you were made for it.”
The pleasure built agonisingly slow, coiling but never cresting, your hips rolling to meet his thrusts, pleas bubbling up, but he withdrew just as you teetered on the brink, leaving you panting and empty, frustration mingling with the ache of anticipation.
When he was done, he brought his glistening digits to his lips, sucking them clean with a deliberate slowness, eyes never leaving yours as he savoured your taste.
He rose up on his knees between your spread legs, popped the button of his slacks first, the sound sharp in the charged air, then dragged the zipper down tooth by tooth, the metallic rasp amplifying your ragged breaths.
His movements were unhurried now, teasing you with the anticipation, drawing out the reveal like a deliberate torment, your gaze fixed on the bulge as your mouth went dry and your pussy throbbed in response. With a slow tug, he shoved his pants and boxers down his hips, freeing his dick.
It stood heavy and thick, curving slightly upward, the shaft flushed a deep, angry red and so girthy that your breath hitched, eyes widening at the sheer size of him. The broad, mushroom-shaped head gleamed under the dim bedroom light, already slick with a bead of precum that welled from the slit.
Zayne wrapped a hand around the base, stroking himself lazily from root to tip, a low hiss escaping his lips as his thumb smeared the precum over the sensitive head, making it glisten.
“See what you do to me?” he rasped, pumping his fist a few times, the slick sound joining your quickened breaths, his free hand trailing up your thigh to tease your cunt lightly, dipping just the tip of a finger in before pulling away.
He leaned in closer, the heat of his body radiating against yours, and dragged the swollen head of his cock along your slit in a torturously slow glide. The velvety skin of his tip parted your lips, coating itself in your wetness, bumping against your swollen clit with each pass until a whimper tore from your throat.
Your hips bucked up instinctively, chasing that electric friction, the pressure sending sparks racing up your spine.
“Been hard for you since the moment I touched you,” he growled, his breath hot against your ear. “Gonna slide in so deep, make you feel every inch of me.”
Just as he notched himself at your entrance, the thick head pressing insistently against your fluttering cunt, you grabbed his wrist, your voice coming out breathless but resolute. “Wait! Condom, I’m not on the pill.”
He froze, his dark eyes locking onto yours, searching for any hint of doubt amid the haze of lust. A flicker of raw vulnerability crossed his face, chased quickly by unbridled hunger, before he nodded, a crooked, predatory smile curling his lips.
“I’ll pull out, I swear. But fuck, I don’t want anything between us if we can help it. Not when this feels so right.” His words hung heavy, laced with promise and risk, your heart pounding as you released his wrist.
With a controlled roll of his hips, Zayne pushed forward, the blunt head of his dick breaching you slowly, stretching your walls with a burn that bordered on exquisite pain. Inch by thick inch, he sank deeper, your pussy yielding to him reluctantly at first, the girth forcing you open wider than you’d anticipated.
The sensation was overwhelming - a delicious fullness that made your toes curl, every ridge and vein dragging along your inner muscles as he filled you completely.
You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, feeling the heat of him pulsing inside you, bare and unprotected, the slick slide eased only by your arousal coating him. He bottomed out with a deep groan, his balls pressing snug against your ass, the tip nudging that sensitive spot deep within.
“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he rasped, holding utterly still to let your body adjust, his hips flush against yours, the coarse hair at his base grinding rhythmically against your clit with the slightest shift.
The pressure there sent jolts of pleasure radiating outward, your walls clenching around him involuntarily, drawing another hiss from his throat.
Then, he began to move. Pulling back almost to the tip before thrusting in again, slow and measured at first, each drag and plunge pulling fresh gasps from your lips as he claimed you fully. The rhythm built steadily, his cock pistoning in and out with increasing force, the wet sounds of your bodies connecting filling the room like a filthy symphony.
His hands roamed your body possessively, one pinning your hip to the mattress to control the angle, fingers bruising in the best way, while the other returned to your tit, teasing your hardened nipple between thumb and forefinger. Pinching, twisting just enough to make you arch into him.
You hooked your legs around his waist, heels digging into the firm muscles of his ass to urge him deeper, harder. The slap of skin on skin grew louder, punctuated by your mingled cries.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” he muttered through gritted teeth, his hips grinding slow and deep on the next thrust, burying himself to the hilt as your pussy fluttered around him.
“Clenching me like a vice and so wet, soaking my cock. You need to be fucked right out of your mind, don’t you? Filled up until you can’t think straight. Doctor’s orders…” His words dripped with filthy intent, each one syncing with a powerful snap of his hips that jolted you up the bed, your breasts bouncing with the force.
You moaned in agreement, lost in the haze, and he leaned down to capture your mouth in a bruising kiss, tongue mimicking the thrust of his dick as he picked up the pace.
“God, I could stay like this forever. Raw inside you, feeling you milk me dry. Imagine if I didn’t pull out, baby... pumping you full of my cum, breeding this tight little pussy until it takes. You’d look so good swollen with me, wouldn’t you? My seed deep in your womb, marking you as mine.”
The breeding talk sent a forbidden thrill through you, your walls spasming harder around him, the risk amplifying every sensation - the stretch, the heat, the raw intimacy of nothing between you.
Zayne fucked you even more relentlessly then, his control fraying as he drove into you with punishing strokes, the bed creaking under the assault. Each plunge hit that perfect angle, his cockhead battering your cervix with just enough pressure to blur the line between pleasure and ache, your clit grinding against his pubic bone on every inward push.
Sweat slicked your bodies, his muscles flexing under your hands as you clawed at his back, urging him on. He shifted, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder to open you wider, allowing him to go even deeper, the new position making you cry out as he hammered into you, the obscene squelch of your arousal echoing with every withdrawal.
“That’s it, take it all. Every fucking inch,” he growled, his voice breaking on a moan as your pussy squeezed him tighter, the coil in your belly winding unbearably.
His hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit and rubbing firm circles that had you seeing white, your orgasm crashing over you in waves, walls convulsing around his pistoning length as you screamed his name.
He didn’t stop, his hips thrusting with desperate urgency, each drag slamming his thick cock deeper into your clenching cunt, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room like a frantic rhythm.
Your body trembled beneath him, still quaking from your own orgasm, but Zayne was lost now, his breath ragged and hot against your neck, muscles taut and straining as he chased the edge.
“Fuck. I’m right there... gonna cum... tell me to pull out. Tell me now before it’s too late,” he groaned, voice raw and pleading, his length swelling inside you, the veins pulsing against your sensitive walls as he buried himself fully one final time, grinding against your cervix with a shudder.
Your mind swam in a thick fog of pure ecstasy, the risk and heat overwhelming, and you locked eyes with him. Your voice emerged as a ragged, pleading whisper, barely audible over the harsh rhythm of your shared breaths. “Don’t. Don’t pull out. Fill me up.”
Those words shattered the last thread of his restraint. Zayne’s eyes flashed with a feral, unbridled hunger, pupils blown wide as a low, guttural growl ripped from deep in his chest, vibrating against your skin. He surged forward in one powerful thrust, burying his thick cock to the hilt inside your clenching pussy, the head pressing firmly against your cervix as if staking a permanent claim.
He stayed locked there, hips rolling in tight, deliberate circles that ground his length against your sensitive walls, forcing every inch deeper. His body tensed above you, muscles coiling like steel cables, and then he came.
Hot, thick ropes of cum flooded your cunt with relentless spurts. The warmth spread instantly, viscous and heavy, coating every fold and crevice of your pussy until you felt impossibly full, your belly swelling slightly with the sheer volume of his release. It seeped into you, marking you from the inside out, a primal declaration of possession that left you trembling.
Your walls spasmed around him involuntarily, gripping and fluttering in rhythmic pulls that milked his cock greedily, coaxing out every final drop as if your body refused to let go.
The sensation triggered your second orgasm, a brutal wave crashing over you. Sharper than the first, ripping a shattered cry from your throat. Your back arched off the bed, nails digging deep furrows down the taut muscles of his back, drawing thin lines of blood that only seemed to heighten his groans.
Pleasure tore through you in electric shocks, your pussy squeezing him in vice-like contractions while your legs locked around his waist, holding him captive as stars burst behind your eyelids.
Finally spent, Zayne collapsed onto you, his weight a comforting press as his length twitched weakly inside you, excess cum trickling out where you were joined. You both lay there panting, hearts thundering in unison. Sweat cooled on your skin, mingling with the musky scent of sex that hung thick in the air.
After a long moment, he shifted. He lifted his hips slowly, withdrawing his softening dick with a wet, obscene pop that echoed in the quiet room. A fresh gush of his cum followed immediately, spilling out of your gaping pussy in a messy rush, coating your thighs and pooling beneath you on the sheets.
But Zayne had no intention of letting it go to waste. His fingers dipped between your legs, gathering the leaking cum. He pushed it back inside you without hesitation, two long digits sliding deep into your cum-slicked cunt, curling gently to press it against your walls and seal it in.
“I’ve patched up bullet wounds with steadier hands than the way I just touched you,” he murmured against the damp skin of your collarbone, his voice rough and wrecked. His breath ghosted hot over you as he continued the slow, rhythmic thrusts of his fingers, each one sending fresh sparks through your oversensitive nerves. “You do something to me. You always have.”
A soft moan escaped your lips, unbidden, as your fingertips traced idle paths along the sweat-damp curve of his spine, feeling the play of muscles beneath. Words failed you in the haze. What had just happened between you felt too vast, too consuming to articulate.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze softened, still possessive and intense but now laced with something quieter. Almost reverent.
“You terrify me,” he said again, but this time there was no distance in it. No fear of you. Just a truth too big for him to hold inside. “Because I’ve studied anatomy. Neurology. Chemistry. I’ve memorised what makes the human body function.”
His hand cupped your face with his free hand, thumb brushed tenderly across your swollen lower lip.
His fingers inside you stilled for a moment, as if the weight of his admission demanded focus, before resuming their gentle exploration. You could feel the subtle stretch, the way his touch coaxed your body back to awareness, arousal simmering anew despite the exhaustion.
“But there’s no textbook that explains what the fuck this is. What you do to me.”
A small smile tugged at your lips. “Maybe that’s because it’s not something meant to be studied.”
Zayne leans down and kisses you again - slower this time. Deep. Thorough. Like he’s not rushing anymore. Like he has all the time in the world to rediscover every inch of you.
When he finally drew back, it was only inches, his breath mingling with yours. A smirk curved his lips, wicked and knowing. “You know… I never finished my assessment.”
Your brows lift. “Doctor.”
He grinned, slow and wicked, his fingers scissoring inside you with deliberate pressure. resh slickness gathered around his digits, your pussy clenching in response. “Vital signs still elevated. Skin flushed. Pupil dilation’s gotten worse. And -” He twisted his wrist slightly, pressing against that sensitive spot that made your breath hitch. “You’re already getting wet again.”
You gasped.
And Zayne just smiled like a man about to write a thesis - with you as his favourite subject.
Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 13 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)
Masterlist Ao3
Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink
Summary
[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character]
Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world.
At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days.
As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work.
But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one.
OR:
Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.
Wordcount: 4078
A/N: So...here we are at the final chapter of Éléanor and Patrick's journey—thank y’all for reading along! This story truly holds a special place in my heart; it's probably one of my favourite things I've ever written.
Back in France, Éléanor slipped back into the rhythm of her days at the café, but something inside her had shifted. The town was the same, cobblestone streets winding between sun-bleached buildings, shutters clattering softly in the wind, and the soft hum of early morning life. The café, too, was unchanged. Its windows still fogged with warmth each morning, the scent of butter and sugar curling out into the street like an invitation. But Éléanor…Éléanor had changed.
Everything felt faintly distant, as if she were living in the outline of her life, not quite filled in. Her hands still moved with practised ease—mixing flour, folding dough, pouring espresso with a steady hand—but her mind wandered constantly .
Every scent, every moment of quiet, carried her back to the mountains. To the creak of the cabin floorboards, the sound of snow falling thick outside the window. To the warmth of Patrick's flannel shirts, the way he said her name like it was a secret only he knew.
There were mornings when she’d pause while setting out the croissants, her fingers lingering on the warm trays, remembering the way his hands had moved over her skin—slow and reverent. She’d catch herself staring at the window, eyes unfocused, wondering what he was doing at that exact moment. If he was thinking of her too.
Virginie, ever the perceptive friend, noticed the change in Éléanor.
There was a lightness to her step and a sparkle in her eye that had not been there before. It was as if Éléanor was carrying a secret joy with her, one that she was reluctant to fully share but could not completely hide. Virginie’s teasing continued unabated, with playful comments and knowing glances.
“You keep staring out the window like he’s going to appear in the fog,” she’d tease as she passed by with a tray of espresso cups.
Éléanor would only roll her eyes and mutter something about inventory, but her blush betrayed her.
“You’re completely useless,” Virginie would sigh dramatically. “A disaster. You’ve been ruined by love.”
But there was no malice in her voice—only affection. A deep and wise sort of happiness for her friend. Virginie, who had once sworn Éléanor would grow old married to her oven and her sourdough starter, now watched her with the warm amusement of someone witnessing the first bloom of something rare and true.
Late at night after the café closed, Éléanor would slip on the flannel Patrick left her, curl up in it by the window of her small apartment, and reread the letter he’d left again and again until the ink faded and felt etched into her memory.
She’d look up at the stars. The same sky, she told herself. The same moon. Somewhere out there, maybe he was looking too.
She whispered goodnight to him even though he couldn’t hear.
Her sketchbook was filling faster than it had in years. Between scribbled café orders and hasty recipe notes, drawings unfurled like vines across the paper. She drew without thinking, without planning—just chasing moments before they vanished. His eyes appeared again and again, as if by muscle memory: the way they crinkled when he laughed, how they turned stormy in thought. She traced the gentle curve of his nose, the way early morning light dappled across his cheekbones, the silhouette of him standing in the doorway of their snow-covered cabin, haloed by frost and sky.
Once, she caught herself sketching the chipped enamel mug he always used—the navy blue one with the constellation painted on the side, the rim cracked just slightly. Another time, it was their boots in a heap by the fire, tangled together like sleeping dogs. Small things. Ordinary things. But they felt like anchors. She drew as if by capturing them, she could keep their world from slipping through her fingers.
But the days stretched.
Time moved differently now—slower somehow, heavier. Mornings arrived not with the clatter of alarms but with a quiet ache that settled in her chest, deep and dull. There was a rhythm to it, involuntary: two weeks since he left. Twelve days since she last heard his voice over a flickering video call. Three days since that last text—just a simple thinking of you , but she read it over and over, like scripture.
Their last conversation replayed in her mind like a vinyl record left looping—his voice low and certain, even through the static. We’ll figure it out, he’d said. This isn’t the end. She wanted to believe it, clung to it. But promises felt fragile now, too easily broken by distance, by life pulling in different directions.
Because it wasn’t just geography that separated them anymore, it was the weight of everything unspoken. It was time zones and obligations and the yawning unknown. The world he had returned to was fast and bright and loud. The world she had returned to was warm and small and still.
And somewhere in between, they tried to hold onto each other.
_____
One crisp autumn morning, the little French town wore its autumn colours like a painting—cobblestone streets scattered with golden leaves, ivy turning crimson along the stone walls. Inside the café, the warmth of cinnamon and fresh pastries mingled with the soft hum of conversation and the hiss of steamed milk.
Éléanor moved through it all with the grace of someone who had built her world cup by cup, pastry by pastry—her fingers expertly shaping croissants and loaves of bread, her arm reaching for familiar mugs on familiar shelves. But her mind wasn’t fully there; it hadn’t been for weeks.
The rhythm of her days was the same, but her heart beat out of time.
She hadn’t seen Patrick since that snow-wrapped goodbye in the mountains. Weeks had turned into months, and though they still called, still texted, still promised—it wasn’t the same. Their words, however tender, were filtered through phones, screens, delays, and exhaustion.
He was lost in the whirlwind of a new film project—long days, strange cities, late nights under someone else’s stars. She, after battling a nasty bout of flu and the sudden loss of her and Virginie’s one reliable assistant, was buried in flour and fatigue, barely keeping up with the café’s demands.
Éléanor missed him.
Missed the way his laughter filled a room, the curve of his lips around her name, the quiet weight of his hand on the small of her back as she moved past him. The way he always remembered how she took her tea. The way he made her feel like the centre of some beautiful secret.
And though she tried to hold onto hope, there were days—especially between the mid-morning bustle and the lull of the early afternoon—when she felt the ache of him like a shadow stitched to her spine.
Virginie tried in the gentle way only old friends could. She brought warm croissants and stories about absurd customers, played Édith Piaf and sang along off-key. But even she came to understand, with a quiet sort of resignation, that there was a space inside Éléanor shaped precisely like him. A hollow nothing else could fill.
No distraction, no comfort, no well-meaning attempt at joy could soften the edges of his absence. He was gone—but not in any way that time could erase. He was gone in a way that lived on.
_____
It was the same chime she heard a hundred times a day, a soft, familiar sound that usually meant one of the regulars had popped in for their usual five minutes of café gossip. She didn’t even look up at first, her hands busy pouring a swirl of foam into a latte.
But the silence that followed made her pause.
No casual greeting. No rustle of newspapers or clink of coins in the tip jar. Just stillness, and then a slow, deliberate step.
She turned toward the sound—and froze.
A man stood in the doorway, haloed in the golden morning light. He wore a charcoal wool coat that clung to him like it had been made for his shoulders. Dark jeans, travel-worn boots. A wide-brimmed hat shaded his face, and sunglasses hid his eyes, but there was something unmistakable about the shape of him. Not just the outline but the way he moved.
There was a kind of quiet power in his posture, a groundedness that came not from vanity but from certainty. He walked towards her with the steady pace of someone walking towards something they never stopped hoping for. Every step pulled the breath further from her lungs.
The porcelain cup in her hand trembled.
It couldn’t be.
But even before he reached the counter, she knew. Her body knew. Hersoul knew. That tilt of his head, that unmistakable rhythm in his stride—it was him.
Patrick.
His name caught in her throat before it could leave her lips.
He stopped in front of the counter, close enough that she could smell the cold still clinging to his coat, mingling with a trace of cedar and something faintly citrus. He pulled off his sunglasses first—slowly like he wanted her to see. Then he removed his hat and set it gently down beside him.
And just like that, he was there.
The man she had dreamed of and longed for. The man she had missed with a kind of fierce, unbearable softness. His eyes—those ocean-blue eyes she had memorised—met hers, and she saw it all written there: the same ache, the same joy, the same impossibility of what they’d found and the inevitability of it too.
His hair, still thick and swept back with that easy elegance, was more styled now than it had been in the mountains, less windswept, more deliberate, but the touch of silver at his temples remained. His jawline was clean-shaven, more defined than she remembered, the angles crisp beneath the café’s warm lighting.
Éléanor still hadn’t moved.
Her flour-dusted hands hovered in midair like she’d forgotten how to finish a task. Around her, the café went on—coffee brewed, chairs scraped, soft music murmured overhead—but the world had gone utterly silent. As if it, too, had paused to make space for this.
All she saw was Patrick.
And then he smiled—slow, familiar, achingly tender. The kind of smile that had once lit up snowy mornings and quiet evenings in the mountains. It was just a little off-centre, a little imperfect, which somehow made it feel entirely his. A smile that didn’t just greet her, but reached into her chest and stirred the pang she’d tried so hard to quiet.
“ Bonjour, ” he said, his voice low and rich, laced with the softness she remembered. “I thought I’d stop by… see how you’re doing.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came at first. Her throat clenched tight, swollen with everything she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in his absence: disbelief, wonder, fear, the tremble of hope. She blinked rapidly, her heart clawing up her throat.
“Patrick?” she managed, breathless. “What… what are you doing here?”
He took a single step forward—just one—but it was enough to close the aching space between them. His smile softened and grew more vulnerable.
“I missed you,” he said quietly, the words simple but full. “I couldn’t stay away any longer.”
And before she could stop it, before the tears could gather, before her hands could remember they were holding anything, he leaned in and kissed her.
It was gentle. No urgency, no fire—just a soft meeting of lips that said more than any words could. It was a kiss made of memories and hope, of the long nights apart and the longing tucked into every unanswered call. It tasted like winter mornings and shared silence and something beginning again.
All she felt was the warmth of him: his arms around her, solid and familiar, and the quiet weight of the moment pressing against her chest.
Éléanor’s fingers curled into his coat as her arms wound around his waist, anchoring herself to him, to the proof that he was real and here and hers, even if just for a breath. He smelled like travel, airports and late-night taxis, maybe—but beneath it all was that same familiar scent she had memorised and mourned. Cedar. A touch of citrus. Warm skin and something she couldn’t name but had never once forgotten.
When they pulled apart, she looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes, her voice threaded with awe. “I can’t believe you’re actually here. How did you even pull this off without me knowing?”
Patrick’s chuckle was low and warm, the sound of it curling around her like a familiar song. “I wanted to make it a bit of a grand entrance,” he said, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Besides… I’ve been thinking. About us. About how we might finally steal a little more time together.”
Her heart surged at his words.
“I’ve missed you so much,” she said, voice trembling with sincerity. “There hasn’t been a single day I haven’t thought of you—wondered when we’d find our way back.”
He reached for her hand then, fingers threading through hers with ease, like they had never let go. His grip was warm, grounding. Real.
“I’ve thought about it too,” he said softly. “About us. About how to make this something more than moments snatched between flights and phone calls. I don’t want this to be a beautiful story we almost had. I want it to be real. All the way real. Even if it means changing everything.”
Her breath caught again, this time on something sharper—something like fear, or joy, or both tangled together.
“You’d do that?” she asked. “You’d really… change everything?”
Patrick didn’t hesitate.
“For you?” he said, his voice breaking just a little. “In a heartbeat .”
_____
They spent the rest of the day wrapped in the kind of quiet joy that only follows a long-awaited reunion. The hours slipped by like soft pages turning—each one filled with laughter, stories, and stolen glances that said more than words could.
Patrick’s visit was a balm to the slow, gnawing ache Éléanor hadn’t quite known how to soothe. His presence, so tangible now, grounded her in a way she hadn’t realised she’d been missing.
They wandered the cobbled streets of the town like they had all the time in the world, unhurried and open to wonder. Patrick moved through it all with the easy awe of someone trying to memorise everything—the peeling shutters, the ivy-wrapped balconies, the scent of yeast, rain, and roasting chestnuts in the air. He paused at flower carts to admire the late-season blooms, stooped to pet the lazy cats sunning themselves on doorsteps, and listened with a soft smile to the melodic rise and fall of French spoken in passing.
Éléanor led him through the pieces of her life as if she were offering him sacred things.
She brought him to the little bookshop tucked behind the church, its door creaking like a secret as they stepped inside. The scent of ageing paper and leather-bound time wrapped around them, and Patrick lingered at the poetry shelves while she traced her fingers over familiar titles. She watched him as he read snippets aloud in a hushed voice, each word softening in the intimacy of the space.
She showed him the park where she liked to sketch, pointing out the bench beneath the chestnut tree with its gnarled roots and canopy of rust-red leaves. “That’s where the light falls just right,” she murmured. “Around three-thirty, maybe four.” Patrick didn’t say anything, just looked at the tree like it mattered to him now too.
And, of course, they returned to the café. The hum of conversation, the smell of espresso, the clink of ceramic—all of it felt different now with him there, woven into the pulse of it. It no longer felt like a place where she simply endured her days; now, it held a moment—a spark of reunion, a doorway to something new.
Each place was a piece of her life, and sharing them with Patrick made everything feel more vivid, more real.
As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in strokes of amber and rose, they found a quiet bench on a hill just above the town square. The bells from the distant cathedral chimed the hour. Around them, the world slowed.
They sat close, their shoulders brushing, neither of them rushing to speak. There was a stillness between them now, not heavy, but full. The kind that follows months of waiting, of missing, of holding onto love through distance and silence and all the in-between spaces where longing tends to collect.
Patrick was the first to break the quiet. His voice was low and thoughtful.
“Time’s strange, isn’t it?” he said, his gaze sweeping the dusky horizon. “It stretches, pulls at you. You blink, and a week’s gone. Or it slows, painfully slow, when all you want is to be near the one person who makes the noise bearable.”
Éléanor nodded, her eyes on the streetlamps flickering to life one by one below them. “I know,” she murmured. “Sometimes I’d stand behind the counter, hands deep in flour, and suddenly it would hit me, how far away you were. Like I could feel the absence, like physically.”
He turned to her then, his eyes—those impossibly clear, storm-still eyes—holding hers. His hand found hers again, fingers brushing across her knuckles like a question. And then, more firmly, he wove them together.
“I’ve thought about you every damn day,” he said, quiet but unwavering. “ Every day, Éléanor. Not just in passing. You’ve been in the background of every thought, every scene, every silence.”
Her breath caught in her throat. It wasn’t just what he said—it was how he said it. With the weight of months behind it, with a steadiness that cut through all the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens.
“I love you,” Patrick said then. No grand flourish. Just the truth, placed gently in her hands. “And I’m tired of letting life happen around us, hoping we’ll find our way back each time. I don’t want to keep living in the pauses between visits. I want more. I want space where we’re not waiting. I want a life that includes you—not just in memory or messages, but every day.”
Her breath caught. The words fell over her like rain after a long drought. She didn’t realise she’d been waiting to hear them until now, didn’t realise how deeply she’d needed the assurance.
“I love you too,” she whispered finally, her voice rough with feeling, her eyes shining in the golden spill of light from the streetlamp overhead. “I’ve loved you in every quiet moment. And I think… maybe we’ve spent enough time just trying to make it work. Maybe now it’s time to build something real.”
Patrick exhaled, his shoulders relaxing as if she’d unlocked some tightly held breath. A smile curved at his lips, not wide, but real. Grounded.
“I want a future with you,” he said, his voice steady, certain. “Not this patchwork of calls and crossed time zones. I want to make plans and keep them. I want to know when we’ll wake up in the same place again—not just hope for it. I’m tired of wondering. I want to know .”
Éléanor let out a soft laugh, delicate and trembling at the edges. It slipped from her like breath after surfacing from deep water.
“So do I,” she said, her words barely louder than the wind brushing through the trees. “More than anything…You still feel like home. Even through a screen, even when it’s late and I’m tired, and your voice is the only thing keeping me from falling apart. But I want more than that now.”
He nodded, and she saw the way his throat moved when he swallowed, emotion making his voice rough around the edges. “I don’t want us to be something that waits for windows to open. I want a door. A life. One we walk into together.”
They stood, not in a rush, just moving as if guided by some shared rhythm. Twilight had deepened into night, the sky bruised in hues of violet and navy, stars blooming into view above them. They wandered the path toward town, shoulders brushing, hands naturally finding each other again.
Éléanor glanced over and really looked.
It hadn’t been that long—a few months since they’d last stood in the same room. Video calls, voice messages, the daily check-ins, they’d kept each other tethered. But this—being here, in the same space—was different. Every detail of him felt more vivid, more textured in real life.
The way his wool coat moved with him, how the collar was still turned slightly from where he’d adjusted it earlier. His jaw was more defined than she remembered, clean-shaven now, the sharpness of his features softened by the warm cast of the streetlamps. His mouth was slightly downturned in thought, but the corners lifted when he glanced her way. That same lopsided smile that made her chest ache.
His hair was slightly longer than the last time she saw him in person, combed back with a casual sweep that didn’t quite tame the wave. There was more silver at his temples now, something he’d brushed off over video, but in person, it gave him a kind of quiet gravity.
“Do you think we could really do it?” she asked softly. “Not just see each other more, but actually live together in the same rhythm? You with your films. Me with the café. Those lives are so different.”
Patrick was quiet for a moment, his gaze fixed on the stone path ahead. “I’ve thought about that,” he said finally. “And maybe it won’t be simple. I can’t promise I won’t still disappear into some set in another country. But I can promise I’ll never let that be the whole story. I want to build something steady—with you at the centre of it. Not the edges.”
She felt her heart pull towards him like a tide shifting.
“I’ve gotten used to being alone in certain ways,” Éléanor admitted. “Not lonely, always. Just… independent. Protective of my space. Of my time. But then you came, and everything softened. It still scares me how much I want this.”
Patrick squeezed her hand gently, his thumb brushing over her knuckles. “It scares me too,” he said. “But the kind of scared that feels like standing on the edge of something good. Something real.”
He looked over at her, eyes clear and open. “I’ve been thinking about the life we could make. Not the dreamy version—but the real one, the everyday kind of life. Grocery runs. Sunday mornings in bed. The little things. I miss them. I miss you in them.”
She turned to him fully. “You always made it feel easy. Even when it wasn’t. And I don’t want a life that’s paused between visits either. God, I want something we can step into together.”
He smiled, soft and a little crooked. “So let’s stop waiting.”
They paused near the fountain in the square. The windows of the café glowed a few steps away, warm and inviting. The scent of roasted coffee and sugar drifted into the night, mingling with chimney smoke and the chill of fall.
“You know, I don’t need a perfect plan,” Éléanor said. “But maybe we could start with a season when you’re not filming. A few months where you’re here. Where we see what this looks like in the sunlight, not just the in-betweens.”
He turned to her, blue eyes steady. “I’d like that. I could stay here. Take fewer projects. Maybe even something local. I’ve already started pulling back. Making room.”
She looked up at him, eyes shimmering. “You’d really do that?”
“I already am,” he said. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
And somehow, that —more than the kiss, more than the arrival—was what undid her. Not the grand gesture but the quiet work he'd already begun. The sacrifice he hadn’t demanded applause for. The space he’d made for her, even when she wasn’t watching.
Their hands stayed clasped as they stepped back into the familiar warmth of the café. And for the first time in a long while, Éléanor didn’t feel like she had to choose between what she’d built and what she wanted.
They were already starting to overlap.
And maybe that was what love really looked like—not sacrifice, not surrender, but something bigger. An ever-expanding circle. A life made larger by letting someone in.
Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 12 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)
Masterlist Ao3
Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink
Summary
[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character]
Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world.
At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days.
As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work.
But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one.
OR:
Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.
Wordcount: 3363
A/N: Well...this is a very sad chapter. But where would we be without some kind of angst, right? Happiness? Don't know her
Their last day came quietly, not with drama or fanfare, but like an exhale—slow and inevitable.
It arrived in the hush of early morning, barely noticeable at first, just a change in the light. Pale blue seeped in through the windows, stretching in long, cold beams across the worn wood floor. Outside, the world was still and muted, muffled under a fresh fall of snow. The trees stood silent, their branches heavy with white, as if even they didn’t want to disturb the quiet.
Inside the cabin, nothing had changed, and yet everything had. It looked the same with coffee brewing in the corner, the stove humming softly, steam rising from the kettle—but everything felt off. Thicker. Slower.
Like the air itself knew what was coming and didn’t want to name it.
They hadn't spoken about it.
Not last night, when they had gone to bed in a frenzy, with the kind of urgency that bordered on frantic. Clothes were stripped hastily, mouths finding each other in the dark. Not with tenderness, at least not at first—more like hunger. As though touching more would delay the truth. Wishing that they could outrun the morning with every kiss, every bite, every breathless moan against skin.
Later, when the rush had slowed, and they lay tangled in the sheets, limbs knotted, breath slowly returning, there had been a moment. A soft, quiet space where his hands smoothed gently over the bruises his mouth had left. His fingers had moved slower then, reverent. Like he was trying to memorise every inch of her: the slope of her hips, the curve of her spine, the softness behind her knee. She’d let him. Let him trace her as if that touch might stay with him longer than the memory.
Not this morning, either, when she’d stirred awake before the light had fully broken. His arm had been wrapped tight around her waist, and his body curved into hers like a question he didn’t want to ask. She’d kept her eyes closed, just for a few more minutes, pretending it was any other morning. But the ache had already settled low in her chest, a dull throb that grew louder with every passing second.
He’d kissed her shoulder then, slow and aching. Not to wake her or to start anything. Just because he could—for now.
And then, like a quiet echo of the night before, he’d taken her apart again. This time softer and slower. There was no rush, no frenzy. Just long, unhurried touches.
Éléanor had felt the goodbye in every movement, in the way he looked at her like she was already slipping away. And she hadn’t stopped him. She hadn’t said a word.
Because saying it out loud would’ve made it real.
Still, the words had hovered on the tip of her tongue, sharp and trembling. She’d almost told him then, with the morning light pooling across the sheets and his hand tangled in hers, that she had fallen in love with him.
But she didn’t. Because if she said it and gave voice to the feeling blooming wild in her chest, then she’d have to face what came next.
Patrick was leaving that evening.
And they still hadn’t talked about what came after. What this was. What they were—if anything at all.
Now, Éléanor stood at the stove, flipping the last pancake with mechanical precision, watching as it bubbled and browned in the pan like nothing had changed. Like her world wasn’t quietly unravelling around her.
She wore one of his sweaters, the sleeves swallowing her hands, the hem grazing her bare thighs. It smelled like him—cedarwood, snow, and something deeper she could never quite name. Something she’d learned to associate with safety.
With home.
Her hands moved automatically, but her chest was tight, every breath measured. The sweet scent of maple syrup mingled with the faint smokiness of the fire behind her, but she barely registered it. Her focus was on the pan, on the sizzle, on not thinking about the inevitable. Not thinking about how much she’d fallen for him, how him leaving would surely break her heart.
Behind her, Patrick was setting the table with a kind of reverence, like each ceramic plate and mismatched mug held meaning.
She caught a glimpse of him in the reflection of the kettle—his tall frame bent slightly, shoulders stiff beneath a flannel shirt that looked a little too lived-in. His jaw was tight, his brow drawn in focus as if placing the cutlery just right might somehow stop time.
Éléanor slid the pancake onto a plate and turned off the stove. The quiet seemed to grow louder without the fan’s low hum. She stood for a beat too long, hands gripping the counter as it might steady her.
“Breakfast’s ready,” she said at last, her voice too soft, too even. As if pretending everything was normal could make it so.
Patrick gave a short nod, but didn’t answer right away. She finally turned and met his eyes, and there not yet—but she felt the pause between them, thick and full of things neither had dared say. When she finally turned, her eyes met his, and the weight of what she saw there hit her like a fist to the chest.
Something quiet. Something breaking. Something she wasn’t ready to face.
Not yet.
“So,” Patrick said after a beat, his tone light in a way that didn’t quite land, “any plans for Jacques today?”
Éléanor’s eyes flicked toward the windowsill, where the sourdough starter rested in its usual spot, the faintest fizz of bubbles along the surface. “He’s resting,” she replied, forcing a small smile. “I might bake tomorrow.”
Tomorrow.
A word she said too lightly, dropped between them like a stone. She’d said it too easily like it was guaranteed. Like he’d still be here to smell the crusty bread fresh from the oven, to tease her about naming her starter like a pet, to lean his hip against the counter while she worked and sneak kisses in between folding dough. Like tomorrow wasn’t a future she’d have to face without him.
Patrick nodded and poured maple syrup over his plate like it was any other morning and not their last one. They ate in near silence, the scrape of cutlery and the occasional murmur filling the space where something heavier wanted to live.
When the plates were cleared and the kettle whistled for a second round of coffee, Patrick reached out and tugged her into a hug. It wasn’t sudden or showy. Just quiet and long as his arms encircled her slowly, his chin resting lightly on top of her head.
Éléanor didn’t hesitate but folded into him, letting the warmth of his chest soak into her like sunlight she’d never feel again. Her arms wrapped around his waist, fingers curling into the back of his shirt like they could anchor her there.
She hadn’t meant to cry—not yet—but the tears came anyway. Not in a rush. Just one, then another, sliding silently down her cheek and onto the front of his shirt. She didn’t wipe them away.
Patrick’s arms tightened, steady and solid, letting her sink further into him, letting her pretend, just for a few seconds longer, that this didn’t have to end.
“You’re gonna make it hard to leave,” he murmured, his voice thick, the words barely brushing the air between them.
Éléanor gave a soft, shaky laugh against his chest. “You were never going to make it easy,” she whispered, the words barely catching in her throat.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. Not far—just enough to see her face. “I’ve been avoiding it,” he said, searching her eyes. “Talking about it. Us. What comes next. But I think not saying anything is making it worse.”
She nodded slowly, her sleeve brushing under her eye. “I know. I’ve been doing the same.” Her voice cracked like thin ice underfoot.
They stood in the middle of the kitchen, morning light pooling around their feet, the silence stretching. She tilted her face up to his. Her eyes drank him in—the messy streaks of silver in his tousled brown hair, the scruff on his jaw she loved the feel of against her skin, those blue eyes that had undone her since the very first glance.
“I’ve fallen for you, El,” Patrick said, barely above a whisper. “Completely. Somewhere between the first cup of tea and the second snowstorm.”
Her breath hitched. She blinked slowly, trying to keep it together. “I have too,” she said, voice raw. “Fallen for you. I just didn’t know how to say it. I still don’t.”
The quiet between them shifted. It wasn’t uncomfortable now—it was full. Heavy with everything that hadn’t been said, everything they were finally saying.
“But…” Éléanor’s voice cracked, barely more than a breath. She swallowed hard, willing the words to come out steady. “You have your life. Your world. Los Angeles. The red carpets. The interviews. Scripts and meetings and premieres. People depending on you to be there, to show up and shine.” Her eyes flicked down, her fingers twisting into the hem of his shirt. “And I have mine. This place. The bakery in France. Virgine. And I…”
Her voice faltered.
“I know,” he said quickly, cutting in like he couldn’t bear to let her spiral. His voice held that same soft urgency she’d grown to crave. “I know, El. It’s not easy. It’s not neat. It’s not some fairytale where everything magically works out. I get it.”
She looked up at him again, eyes shining, bottom lip trembling like she was holding back more than tears. “I just…” Her breath hitched. “I don’t want this to become something I look back on and wonder if it was even real. I don’t want to be sitting in that bakery one morning, wondering if I dreamed you. If this was just some perfect little snow globe I got to live in for a few days before it shattered.”
Patrick reached for her then—not just a comfort, but something steadier. More certain. “It’s not a snow globe,” he said, voice low and sure. “It’s not something we had and leave behind. It’s something we are. Something we started. ”
“But how do we keep it?” she asked, almost pleading, her gaze scanning his face for an answer she wasn’t sure existed. “How do we make this real when the world pulls us in opposite directions?”
He lifted a hand to her cheek, brushing a thumb over the tear she didn’t even realise had fallen. “We try, ” he said, the words gentle but solid. “That’s all we can do. I come to France. You come to L.A. Or maybe we meet in the middle. We don’t let time or distance scare us off before we even give this a chance. We take the messy version, the complicated version, because it’s ours. And if it’s real—El, if it’s anything like what I feel in this moment—then that has to be enough to start.”
She let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Her hand came up to cover his, pressing it tighter to her cheek like she could absorb the comfort through skin alone. “It is real,” she said, voice cracking with conviction. “It’s the realest thing I’ve felt in a long, long time.”
“Then we don’t let go,” he murmured. “Not now. Not when it’s only just beginning.”
She leaned into him again, forehead resting against his, their breaths syncing in that quiet way only people who truly saw each other could manage. Time blurred at the edges, the soft creak of the cabin settling around them. Her fingers curled around the back of his neck, memorising the texture of his hair, the warmth of his skin.
Éléanor closed her eyes and tried to hold it all—the scent of coffee and woodsmoke in his clothes, the scratch of his stubble against her temple, the sound of his breathing and the weight of his promise. She tried to carve the moment into her memory so deeply it wouldn’t fade, no matter how far he went.
_____
By late afternoon, the light had shifted into that soft, grey-blue hush that meant evening was closing in. Outside, snow drifted down in slow, deliberate spirals, dusting the windowsills and softening the world into a quiet kind of stillness.
Inside the cabin, Patrick moved slowly and deliberately, folding sweaters with a care that bordered on reverence. He checked drawers he already knew were empty, ran his fingers over the worn spine of a book on the shelf, zipped and unzipped his duffel like he was waiting for something to stop him. Every movement carried the weight of goodbye. Every breath seemed measured.
Éléanor stood quietly in the doorway, arms folded, her shoulder resting against the frame. She didn’t interrupt. Just watched him. Memorised him. The slope of his shoulders. The way his brow furrowed slightly when he folded things too neatly. How he hesitated before placing the last shirt in the bag like it might keep the moment from ending.
She’d already gathered her things earlier in the day. her favourite mug, a few clothes, her worn leather sketchbook. Jacques sat in his jar on the counter, bubbling quietly like he too could sense the change in the air. Her own cabin was just a short walk away through the snow-dusted trees, but it felt impossibly far. Like crossing back into her old life meant leaving something vital behind.
She hadn’t really been back since that first storm—the day she slipped and he caught her, the day everything began. They’d fetched her things once or twice, but this cabin, his cabin, had become their shared space. Their shelter. Their pause in the world. They’d cooked in this kitchen, fallen asleep tangled under its blankets, and kissed beside its fireplace. It had held something sacred.
And now, it was ending.
Patrick zipped his bag for the last time, the sound sharp in the stillness. He stood by the door, his coat already on, bag slung over one shoulder. His eyes lifted to meet hers, and she could see it—the heaviness in them. The reluctance. The ache that mirrored her own.
“I guess this is it,” he said quietly, voice low and rough at the edges.
Éléanor nodded, but it took her a moment to find her voice. Her throat was tight, her chest aching in that hollow, too-full way that only comes with endings. “Yeah,” she whispered. “I guess it is.”
They walked to his car in silence, the only sound the soft crunch of their boots through the fresh snow. The cold didn’t bite so much as it wrapped around them like a breath held too long—quiet and expectant.
At the car, Patrick slid his bag into the trunk with a reluctant thud. He didn’t open the driver’s door. Didn’t reach for the keys. He just turned to her, his breath clouding in the winter air, eyes scanning her face like he needed to remember every line of it.
“I really don’t want this to be the end,” Patrick said, voice rough, thick with everything he was trying not to feel.
“It’s not,” Éléanor said quickly, hands finding his. Her fingers were cold, but they clung to his like she’d fall without the grip. “I want to try. Really try. Whatever that looks like.”
His eyes glistened, the sharp blue of them going soft with emotion. “Me too,” he said. “I’m in, El. All the way. Even if it’s messy. Even if it’s hard.”
She nodded, but the tears were already slipping free, warm against her cold cheeks. She stepped in close, pressing her forehead to his, her breath mingling with his in the narrow space between them. She breathed him in—the smell of his coat, the cedar from the cabin, and underneath it all, the scent that was just him . The one she already knew she’d never forget.
“I don’t want to say goodbye,” she whispered, barely managing the words.
“Then don’t,” Patrick murmured back. “Say, ‘See you soon.’ Say, ‘Call me when you miss me.’ Say, ‘I’ll save you the middle slice of the next loaf.’”
A watery laugh escaped her lips, trembling. “Okay. I’ll save you the middle slice,” she said, brushing her nose against his.
He kissed her then—slow and deep and aching. Not like the kisses from before, all heat and urgency. This one was steadier, full of everything he couldn’t say aloud. A promise. A plea . A memory being etched into both of them.
And she kissed him back like she could hold time in place, her hands burying into his hair, pulling him closer, anchoring herself. It tasted like salt, and she realised he was crying too.
When they finally broke apart, it felt like something torn.
Patrick gave her one last look before he climbed into the car, shut the door, and started the engine. The low rumble of it shattered the quiet. Éléanor stepped back, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if holding herself together. The headlights flared to life, cutting golden paths through the white haze, casting long shadows that danced against the trees. The tyres rolled forward with a steady crunch, carving tracks into the untouched snow.
She didn’t wave.
Didn’t move when the car turned down the narrow road, disappearing between the pines. Didn’t blink when the red taillights vanished completely. The silence that followed was deafening—thick, echoing, absolute.
Only when the wind shifted and the trees creaked did her breath finally hitch. And then, quietly, she broke completely. Tears slipped free, carving warm trails down her chilled cheeks as she stood alone, letting the stillness absorb her grief. The kiss still lingered on her lips, like the ghost of something holy.
The walk back to her own cabin was a blur. The snow muffled her steps, her heartbeat loud in her ears. When she opened the door, the air inside hit her like a stranger—stale and cold, untouched since the start of the week. Her boots left damp marks on the floor as she stepped inside and dropped her bag. She didn’t take off her coat. Didn’t bother with the lights.
She just stood there.
And then she saw it.
The flannel.
Folded neatly on the chair by the hearth. The deep green one Patrick always wore. The one she’d stolen more than once and claimed as hers. Her breath caught as she crossed the room and picked it up, fingers brushing the fabric like it might dissolve. It smelled like him—cedar, smoke, and warmth.
She cradled it to her chest, then noticed something beneath it: a folded piece of paper, slightly smudged at the corners.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. It was a sketch with rough pencil lines on plain paper. Her, curled up in the armchair, hair spilling loose over one shoulder, legs tucked beneath her. The perspective was all wrong: one eye too big, her body slightly lopsided, and her hand looked more like a mitten than anything anatomical, but she knew instantly when he’d drawn it. That quiet morning when she’d been reading and he’d pretended to be writing emails.
Below the sketch, scrawled in his unmistakable handwriting:
You always see me. I wanted to try and see you back. I know I’m not good at this, but I hope it makes you smile.Keep the flannel—something warm for when I’m not there.But El… I really, really want to be with you.
Love,P.
She pressed the note to her chest like it could steady her. Then she sank into the chair he’d drawn her in, curled into the flannel, and let herself cry—quiet, aching sobs that rose from somewhere deep and sacred.
They were tears of longing, of love, of all the words and moments they hadn’t had time to live yet.
The cabin was still cold. The wind howled outside. But wrapped in that flannel, the fabric still holding the warmth of his body, she didn’t feel entirely alone.
And this time, the tears didn’t feel like goodbye.
Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 11 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)
Masterlist Ao3
Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink
Summary
[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character]
Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world.
At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days.
As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work.
But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one.
OR:
Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.
Wordcount: 5601
A/N: So I've finished writing the fanfic! So if you've got requests for the next one lemme know.
The air was thick with the crisp bite of winter, and each breath Éléanor took felt sharp and refreshing. The snow underfoot crunched with a satisfying sound as she moved, leaving a path of shallow footprints that led to the half-finished snowman. The clearing, surrounded by tall evergreens that seemed to bow under the weight of the snow, felt like their own private world, untouched and serene.
Éléanor glanced at Patrick as he rolled the final ball of snow, muscles flexing beneath his thick jacket with each movement. Stray flakes clung to his stubbled jawline, and his breath came in quick puffs, visible against the pale backdrop. His eyes found hers, and a playful smirk spread across his face as he caught her watching.
“Caught you staring,” he teased, his voice warm with mischief. His eyes sparkled with mischief beneath the knitted beanie that sat slightly askew on his head, a lock of hair falling across his forehead.
“Maybe I was admiring your snowball-rolling technique,” Éléanor shot back, unable to suppress a grin. She tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach as Patrick’s eyes narrowed in mock suspicion.
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?” he said, stepping closer with the snowball balanced between his hands. The light in his eyes danced, a teasing glimmer that made her want to both laugh and shiver.
“Just put the snowball on top,” Éléanor retorted, rolling her eyes but stepping aside to give him room.
Patrick chuckled, the deep, warm sound filling the quiet clearing. “This is starting to look more like a snow titan than a snowman,” he replied, rolling his snowball a bit closer. It was already nearly half his height, and the effort had painted a slight flush on his cheeks.
Éléanor burst into laughter again and reached out to give his snowball a playful nudge. “Hey, it’s winter. If we’re going to make a snowman, we might as well make one the gods would envy.”
Patrick’s lips twitched as he fought back a wider smile. “Well, I guess if anyone could create a snowman to rival the gods, it’d be you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Éléanor said, raising her eyebrows at him, though her smile softened the words.
She watched as he positioned it carefully, the top of their snowman now towering over them. For a moment, it wobbled, and both of them reached out instinctively to steady it. Their hands brushed, lingering just a second longer than necessary, and Éléanor felt a tingle travel up her arm.
“Close one,” he said, eyes twinkling as he glanced at her. “We almost lost the snow-monster before it even came to life.”
Éléanor’s eyes met his, their faces just inches apart. For a moment, she was acutely aware of the cold biting at her cheeks and the warmth that radiated from him. She smirked, trying to shake off the butterflies in her stomach. “Teamwork makes the dream work,” she quipped, giving him a nudge with her elbow.
Patrick shook his head, the smile never leaving his face. “You and your sayings,” he said, stepping back to take in their progress. “All right, what’s next? Arms, eyes, nose?”
Éléanor laughed, tilting her head thoughtfully as she scanned the area. “Well, I didn’t exactly pack snowman accessories, but I think we can improvise. Do you have any ideas, or are you just here for moral support?”
Patrick scoffed, feigning offence. “Excuse me, I am the snowman master,” he said, reaching down to pick up two sturdy twigs for arms. He poked them into the middle snowball, positioning them so they jutted out at awkward angles. “See? Artistic genius.”
Éléanor giggled, looking at the lopsided limbs. “Oh, it’s a masterpiece, all right. Picasso would be jealous.”
Patrick pointed to his eyes in an exaggerated gesture, then to Éléanor. “I saw that smirk,” he teased. “But wait, it’s missing something.” He glanced around and spotted a small cluster of smooth stones near the porch, half-buried in the snow. He grabbed them and arranged them in a crooked smile on the snowman’s face, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Now it’s perfect.”
Éléanor stepped back, too, hands on her hips as she surveyed their creation. It was tall, slightly uneven, with a scarf that she’d sacrificed from her own neck wrapped snugly around it. Patrick took off his beanie and placed it on the snowman’s head with a flourish, revealing his tousled hair to the cold air.
“There,” he said, brushing his hands together and giving Éléanor a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”
“I think we’ve created something legendary,” she replied, meeting his gaze with a grin. “But now you’re going to freeze without your hat.”
Patrick shrugged the corners of his mouth lifting. “It’s a fair trade. Besides, I’ve got you to warm me up.”
Éléanor felt her cheeks heat up, and not from the cold. She gave him a light shove. “Smooth, Patrick. Very smooth.”
Before she could step back, Patrick caught her hand, pulling her close as he took a playful step forward. “Is it working?” he whispered, his eyes holding hers.
A shiver ran through Éléanor, but it wasn’t from the chill. “Maybe,” she whispered back, a smile curving her lips.
Patrick chuckled, lowering his forehead until it rested gently against hers. The snow fell around them in quiet, soft flakes, settling in their hair and on their shoulders. “Good enough for me,” he said softly.
He glanced down at her, his face only a few inches from hers now. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Éléanor’s breath caught, and she nodded. “Go on.”
“I’m not really worried about how good our snowman is,” he said, stepping close enough that she could see the tiny flecks of green in his otherwise blue eyes. “I’m more interested in moments like this.”
A smile broke across her face despite the rapid thud of her heart as she felt herself blush.
His arms circled her waist, the chill of his gloves a stark contrast to the warmth of his embrace. He pulled her close, and she rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath the layers of his jacket.
When Patrick finally spoke again, his voice was low, vibrating through his chest and into her cheek. “We should go inside before we freeze,” he murmured, though he made no move to let her go.
“Yeah,” she agreed, closing her eyes briefly, committing the feel of his embrace to memory. “We should.”
Patrick’s arm remained wrapped around Éléanor’s waist as they made their way back towards the cabin. Just as they reached the porch, Patrick paused and turned to look at Éléanor, his eyes lighting up with an idea.
“Hold on,” he said, fishing his phone out of his pocket with his free hand. He held it up, eyes flicking between the screen and her. “We need to capture this moment.”
Éléanor laughed softly, brushing snowflakes from her hair. “A picture? Are you sure? I’m probably covered in snow…” she teased, but a smile tugged at her lips.
“That’s exactly why it’s perfect,” Patrick said, nudging her playfully with his shoulder. He lifted his phone, holding it out at arm’s length. “Come here.”
She stepped closer, leaning into his side as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, so the heat from him could seep into her. Éléanor tilted her face up to the camera, feeling a mix of shyness and giddy warmth that made her cheeks flush deeper.
Patrick glanced at her and grinned, the expression so natural and unguarded that it made her heart flutter. “Ready?” he asked, his voice low, the word coloured by the cold.
“Ready,” she whispered.
They both smiled at the lens, and Patrick pressed the button. The click of the camera was followed by a slight pause before he turned the screen towards her. The photo showed them with flushed cheeks and bright eyes, hair dusted with snow, and a slightly lopsided snowman in the background.
Éléanor let out a laugh as she looked at the picture. “I love it,” she admitted, the honesty slipping out before she could think to stop it.
Patrick’s eyes softened as he looked at her, then back at the photo. “Me too,” he said. His gaze lingered on her for a beat longer than the picture. “It’s one for the memory books.”
He saved the photo and slipped the phone back into his pocket, but not before taking one more glance at it. Then, with a playful smirk, he took her hand and led her into the cabin. The warmth from the fire enveloped them as they stepped inside, shutting out the crisp edge of the winter air.
As they shed their layers and hung up their coats, Patrick’s hand found its way back to hers. He squeezed it gently, his blue eyes twinkling with the unspoken understanding they shared. “Hot chocolate?” he suggested.
Éléanor’s smile widened. “Only if we add marshmallows.”
“Deal,” Patrick agreed, pulling her towards the kitchen as they laughed.
He pulled out a pot and began to heat milk on the stove while Éléanor rummaged through the cabinets for the jar of marshmallows. The cosy glow from the fire crackled behind them, casting golden hues across the room as it melted away any lingering chill from outside.
“Found them!” Éléanor said triumphantly, lifting the jar like a prize. She turned to see Patrick watching her, an amused smile playing on his lips.
“Excellent. Can’t have hot chocolate without marshmallows.” He moved to the cupboard and brought out two mismatched mugs, setting them on the counter. The scent of warming milk filled the air, rich and inviting. Patrick grabbed a tin of cocoa and spooned generous amounts into each mug.
Éléanor stepped beside him, adding a handful of marshmallows to each cup. “One for me, one for you, and... two for me,” she said with a giggle, popping one into her mouth. The soft, sweet texture melted on her tongue, and she playfully offered one to Patrick.
He leaned in, taking it from her fingers, his eyes locked on hers as he chewed, a playful gleam in his expression. “Fair trade,” he murmured.
They stood close, shoulders touching as the milk steamed. Patrick poured it carefully, the chocolate swirling and blending, creating a deep, velvety brown. He stirred each mug, handed one to Éléanor, and lifted his in a mock toast. “To snowmen, selfies, and unfairly distributed marshmallows,” he said with a wink.
Éléanor laughed, the sound bright and genuine. “And to mornings like this,” she added, meeting his gaze as they clinked their mugs together.
They carried their drinks over to the couch, sitting close enough that their legs brushed. Éléanor curled her feet up beneath her and sipped her hot chocolate, the warmth seeping through her, spreading outward from her chest.
Patrick took a sip of his own drink, then turned to her, studying her face for a moment. “I didn’t think a day in the snow could be this perfect,” he said softly.
Éléanor’s cheeks warmed at the sincerity in his voice. She glanced out the window where the snow still fell, the world outside muted and peaceful. “Me neither,” she admitted. There was a comfort in the quiet between them, the shared warmth of the fire and the simplicity of being together without needing to fill the space with words.
After a moment, Patrick set his mug down and reached for his phone. “That picture... I’m sending it to you,” he said, a boyish grin breaking across his face. “So you can remember this day.”
Éléanor’s heart skipped a beat as her phone vibrated with the new message. She opened it and smiled at the image—his arm around her, both of them laughing, the snowman crookedly standing guard in the background. It was imperfect and wonderful.
Patrick’s gaze lingered on her, and he tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Next time we’re out there, we’ll have to give him a name,” he said, breaking the quiet spell with a soft chuckle.
Éléanor turned to him, her smile matching his. “Next time? Does that mean we’re making this a tradition?”
Patrick’s eyes softened, a mixture of warmth and intent. “Yeah,” he said, leaning in closer until his face was just a breath away from hers. “I think we should.”
Patrick’s gaze held hers for a moment, his eyes reflecting the flickering light from the fire. The world seemed to pause as he closed the distance between them. His lips were soft and warm, tasting faintly of cocoa. The kiss deepened slowly, savouring the moment, as if they had all the time in the world.
Eléanor’s heart thudded in her chest, and she let herself get lost in the feel of him—the way his hands cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing her cheekbones, and how he angled his head slightly to fit against her perfectly.
Her fingers found their way to the collar of his flannel shirt, tugging him closer, feeling the solidness of his chest against hers.
When they finally pulled apart, their breaths mingled in the small space between them. Patrick’s blue eyes held a hint of mischief as he traced a thumb across her bottom lip. “You had a little cocoa... right here,” he whispered, a playful smile quirking his lips.
Éléanor laughed, the sound breathless and light. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” she teased, leaning back but keeping their faces close.
He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Maybe.” His voice dropped to a murmur as he leaned in, pressing another quick kiss to her lips. “Can’t help it. You’re irresistible.”
A soft blush spread across her cheeks, but she grinned and sat back, reaching for her mug again. Outside, the snow continued its steady descent, and a faint glow hinted at the sun attempting to break through the dense clouds.
They sipped their drinks in comfortable silence, the kind where words were unnecessary. Éléanor glanced at Patrick over the rim of her mug, noting how relaxed he seemed, how the lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled to himself. She wondered if he was thinking the same thing—that this was the kind of morning they’d remember long after the snow melted and the days grew warmer.
Patrick set down his mug and shifted on the couch, reaching out to tuck her closer against him. “I’m serious about making this a tradition,” he said, his voice low and sincere. He brushed his thumb absentmindedly over her shoulder. “Mornings like this, snowmen with crooked hats...”
Éléanor laughed softly, nestling into his side. “I’m holding you to that. And next time, we’re building the snowman with a carrot as a nose,” she joked, tilting her head to look up at him.
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through her. “Deal.” His eyes softened as he traced the curve of her jaw with his gaze, and he bent down to press a kiss to her temple. “And I’ll make sure we stock up on more marshmallows.”
She smiled, contentment filling her like the warmth from the fire. “I’d like that.”
Patrick reached for his phone again, turning it into selfie mode. “One more photo, for good measure,” He slid an arm around Éléanor’s shoulders, fingers grazing her upper arm as he pulled her closer. She didn’t hesitate, laughing softly as she leaned into him, their bodies pressing together with the easy closeness that only came from shared comfort.
Their cheeks touched, skin warm against skin, and she tilted her head just enough to rest against his. Her hair, tousled and slightly frizzy from the heat, mingled with his still-damp curls, the strands catching tiny sparks of light from the fire.
They smiled—not the stiff, posed kind, but real, radiant grins that made their eyes crinkle at the corners. Their cheeks were flushed, partly from the fire, partly from the hot chocolate, but mostly from the lingering glow of each other.
The camera clicked.
A quiet moment captured forever once again—Patrick’s thumb still brushing the edge of her arm, the firelight dancing in the background, their laughter barely faded from the air.
“Perfect,” he murmured as he lowered the phone, looking down at the screen with a reverence usually reserved for priceless paintings or shooting stars. His voice had that soft, gravelly texture it took on when he wasn’t trying to charm, when it was just them .
Éléanor turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting towards the screen. The photo showed exactly what it felt like: the slow warmth of crackling logs, their windblown hair slightly tangled, the rosy glow in their cheeks and the serenity that came from shared silence. It looked like home.
She reached over and laced her fingers through his, thumb brushing over the back of his hand. “Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice wrapped in something tender. She rested her head more fully on his shoulder, letting her eyes flutter closed for just a second. “It really is.”
For a while, they just sat there, wrapped in a cocoon of firelight and quiet, sipping their hot chocolate. The mugs were still warm in their hands, the rich, velvety scent of cocoa lingering in the air, edged with cinnamon and a hint of the peppermint he’d insisted on adding.
When the mugs were finally empty, and the warmth of the fire had begun to dwindle, Patrick leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of Éléanor’s head. It was unhurried and soft, almost reverent, his lips lingering for a breath before he stood.
“I’m gonna stoke the fire,” he said quietly, giving her hand one last squeeze before letting go.
Éléanor watched him as he knelt by the hearth, his silhouette haloed by firelight. He moved with practised ease, feeding the flames with a few new logs, coaxing the embers back to life. Sparks jumped, swirling upward like fireflies, and a deep orange glow bloomed across the room once more.
She hesitated for a moment, then picked up her phone from where she’d set it on the coffee table. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she stared at the photo— that photo. Her and Patrick, flushed and happy, firelit and genuine. It was intimate without being posed, unguarded and full of something she couldn’t quite name but felt all the way down to her ribs.
She tapped the share icon and sent it to Virginie.
A few seconds passed before the typing bubble appeared. Éléanor leaned against the couch, fingers nervously drumming on the cushion as she waited. Virginie’s response popped up on the screen, and Éléanor’s heart skipped as she read it.
**Virginie:** “OMG, look at you two! That is beyond adorable. Seriously, I can’t even.”
Éléanor let out a surprised laugh, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. A warm, fizzy sense of relief bloomed in her chest. She’d known Virginie would react—but this? This was joy.
Before she could reply, another message popped up.
**Virginie:** “Okay, I have to say it. I was a little worried at first…you know, with the age thing and all. I thought maybe he was a bit too old for you, but... wow. That photo? El, you look so happy. Like, deep in your bones happy. And he looks at you like you’re the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him. So yeah. I’m sold.”
Éléanor’s cheeks flushed, a small smile tugging at her lips as she reread Virginie’s words. Virginie had never been one to hold back her opinions, and knowing that she genuinely approved made something inside Éléanor unwind. She quickly typed back.
**Éléanor:** “You were worried? Since when do you worry about that kind of thing?”
The reply was almost instantaneous, punctuated by a winking emoji.
**Virginie:** “I worry when it’s about you! But seeing this… ugh, I’m melting. He’s a keeper, isn’t he?”
She looked up, letting her gaze drift to where Patrick knelt, carefully nudging logs into place with the fire poker. His shoulders moved with quiet strength, the firelight outlining the shape of his back beneath his t-shirt. His hair was still damp from earlier, the curls falling in uneven waves across his forehead. He paused for a moment, sensing her gaze, and turned to glance back at her over his shoulder. The smile he gave her—lopsided, boyish, effortless—made something in her chest flip over.
She smiled back, heart aching in the sweetest way, and turned back to her phone.
**Éléanor:** “Yeah, he really is.”
Virginie sent back a string of heart emojis, followed by another message that read: “You deserve this, El. All of it. Don’t get in your head about it, okay? Don’t pick it apart. Just let yourself have this. You’ve earned it. Every messy, beautiful second.”
Éléanor felt tears prickle suddenly behind her eyes, unexpected and sharp. She blinked them away, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. Virginie always knew exactly what to say—to ground her, to lift her, to remind her she didn’t have to apologise for wanting love that felt like more.
She tucked the phone into her pocket gently, like it held something sacred, and stood.
Patrick had just set the poker aside, stretching his arms as he turned to face her. His expression softened when he saw her, eyes sparkling with something curious and warm.
“Everything alright?” he asked, voice low and rumbling with the same gentle cadence that always made her stomach flutter.
Éléanor walked towards him slowly, the fire casting dancing shadows around them. She stopped in front of him and smiled, her voice quiet but steady.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper as she slid her arms around his waist, resting her cheek lightly against his chest. “Everything’s perfect.”
Patrick’s expression softened, and he reached out, pulling her close and pressing a kiss to her forehead. They stayed like that for a moment, wrapped in the quiet comfort of their cabin, surrounded by the gentle crackle of the fire and the soft patter of snow against the window.
Then, from the depths of the comfortable silence, came a sound.
A low, unmistakable grumble echoed from Patrick’s midsection—a small, comical roar that seemed to vibrate right through him.
Éléanor froze for a beat, then snorted into his shirt, her laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. She pulled back just enough to clap her hands over her mouth, her eyes sparkling with mirth. Patrick’s eyes, a vivid blue with hints of stormy grey, widened in mock surprise as he looked down at his midsection.
“Really, man?” he muttered, patting his abdomen, which only made Éléanor laugh harder.
“Well,” she managed between giggles, “it seems someone’s overdue for lunch. Good thing we’re stocked up.”
Patrick grinned, his smile crinkling the edges of his eyes and softening the rugged angles of his face. The light from the window caught on the flecks of silver in his stubble, casting a warm glow over his jawline.
“Well then,” he said, cocking a brow, his voice laced with playful challenge. “How about that bread-making lesson you promised? I’m ready to learn from the best.”
Éléanor arched an eyebrow and tilted her head with a teasing smile. “Confident, are we? Bread-making isn’t as straightforward as chopping wood, you know.”
“Oh, I can handle it,” Patrick said, the corners of his mouth lifting into a cocky grin that revealed the dimples that she pretended not to notice.
“Alright, then.” She shook her head, smiling as she moved across the room. “Let’s put that confidence to the test, lumberjack.”
She pulled open a tall cupboard door and reached up to grab a sack of flour, the weight of it solid in her arms. Setting it down on the counter with a satisfying thud, she followed it with a small, weathered jar of coarse sea salt.
Patrick stepped closer, watching her with a mix of curiosity and admiration as she rolled up her sleeves. She dusted her hands with flour, her movements instinctive and graceful.
“This,” she said, lifting a wooden mixing bowl with both hands and turning to face him, “isn’t just about feeding your growling stomach.”
Patrick stepped in beside her, his voice teasing and warm. “Is it also about impressing you?”
Éléanor laughed again, softer this time. “That part’s optional,” she said, sliding the bowl into his hands. “But it couldn’t hurt.”
“First step,” she said, looking up at him with a glint in her eye, “is mixing the flour and salt. Go ahead and do the honours.”
Patrick pushed off the counter, his movements lazy but deliberate. As he approached, he rolled his sleeves to the elbows, revealing his muscular forearms that were dusted with fine dark hair. The firelight caught the shift of muscle beneath his skin as he reached for the measuring spoon. Their fingers brushed as she handed it over—just a glancing touch, but enough to slow time for a breath.
“Like this?” he asked, brow raised with mock innocence as he tipped the salt over the flour and gave it a few exaggerated stirs.
“Perfect,” Éléanor replied, a smile dancing on her lips as she observed his expression change from playful to serious. “Now, we’ll add the water and yeast.” She offered him a small bowl filled with warm water, where the yeast had already begun to bloom in gentle brown swirls.
Patrick raised an eyebrow and looked at her. “Is this the magic potion?” he teased, pouring the bowl into the flour mixture.
“Be careful, wizard,” Éléanor laughed, stepping in to assist him in pouring it properly. Patrick’s gaze locked onto hers, and a shared understanding lingered as he started stirring on his own.
Once the dough formed a uniform mass, he started kneading it with his hands.
The dough began to take shape—sticky, rough, uncooperative. It clung to his fingers like wet clay, and he looked up with a sheepish grin, holding out his mess-covered hand. “Alright, I’m officially humbled.”
Éléanor laughed, stepping beside him. “Give me your hand,” she said, her voice soft but sure.
She took his hand in hers and guided it into the bowl, pressing his palm into the dough. “Kneading’s all about rhythm,” she explained, her hands moving with his—folding, pressing, turning. The warmth of his skin through the flour-dusted dough made her pulse skip a beat.
They worked together like that, side by side, their laughter quiet and breathy, their shoulders brushing now and then as the dough began to smooth under their touch. Patrick leaned into the motion, his shirt pulling taut across his back and chest. The scent of him, woodsmoke, pine, and something unmistakably his, mingled with the yeasty aroma rising from the bowl.
At one point, he scratched at his jaw, smearing a streak of flour across his cheek. Éléanor caught the sight and laughed under her breath.
“You’ve got a little…” she said, gesturing to his face.
Patrick shrugged. “Occupational hazard, apparently.”
Éléanor’s fingers were already tucked behind her ear, leaving behind a streak of flour on her own cheek without her noticing.
He spotted it instantly.
“Now, who’s messy?” he murmured, stepping close. His thumb brushed gently along her cheek, wiping away the flour with a touch so careful it made her breath hitch. His gaze stayed on hers, steady and searching.
“That’s enough kneading,” she said softly, taking a small step back—half a breath of space, no more. “Now we let it rest. Let it rise.”
“Just like that?” Patrick’s voice was quiet, but his presence was full. He didn’t step away.
“Yeah,” Éléanor murmured, eyes not leaving his. “Just like that.”
Patrick’s eyes softened, the teasing spark in them replaced by something deeper, quieter—a warmth that curled behind his expression like a secret waiting to be told. He leaned in slightly, his eyes flicking from hers to her lips, the moment hanging on a string. But before it could unfold, his stomach let out a loud, unmistakable growl again.
The spell shattered. Éléanor burst into laughter, the sound light and effortless, slipping out before she could stop it. Patrick groaned dramatically, covering his face with one flour-dusted hand. “Unbelievable,” he muttered. “Sabotaged by my own body again .”
“Alright, alright,” she said between giggles, patting his chest. “Let’s feed the beast before he causes any more interruptions.”
Patrick chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “The bread might take a while to rise, right? What else can I learn while my metabolism is punishing me?”
Éléanor gave him a sideways glance as she turned to the counter, where a small bundle of carrots and a sack of potatoes sat waiting. “How do you feel about soup-making?”
“Lead the way,” Patrick said, stepping close enough that their arms brushed. “I’m ready for round two.”
Patrick stepped beside her again, close enough that their arms brushed as they worked. She handed him a peeler and a carrot, watching with amusement as he examined the tool like it was some kind of weapon. His first few attempts were clumsy, uneven strips falling to the floor, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he glanced at her with exaggerated seriousness.
“Are you sure this thing isn't broken?”
She laughed, brushing her shoulder against his. “Operator error, I’m afraid.”
His grin widened. “That bad, huh?”
“Not hopeless,” she replied, flicking a carrot peel in his direction. “Just… mildly concerning. Part of me honestly wonders how you survive out there in the wild on your own.”
He clutched his chest in mock offence. “Hey! I can cook,” he said, eyes dancing. “Just not peel. Totally different skill sets.”
She raised a sceptical brow. “Oh really?”
“Absolutely. One day, I’ll make you a steak. Medium rare. With homemade barbecue sauce that’ll ruin you for anything store-bought. But you’ll have to peel your own carrots. That’s where I draw the line.”
She laughed again, shaking her head as she handed him another carrot. “Deal. But I’m watching you. No more casualties, okay?”
He gave her a playful salute, still wielding the peeler like a sword. “For you, I’ll try to keep the kitchen injuries to a minimum.”
They fell into an easy rhythm—peeling, chopping, stealing glances when they thought the other wasn’t looking. The kitchen was filled with the soft percussion of knives against wood and the low hum of shared conversation.
Soon, the cutting board was a mosaic of colours—orange, cream, green. Éléanor swept the vegetables into a large pot, added water, and reached for the seasoning jars, her movements graceful and practised. Patrick leaned against the counter, watching her with open admiration.
The fire behind them crackled softly, casting golden light across the kitchen and catching in Éléanor’s hair. Patrick noticed the way it shimmered at the ends, how the strands curled slightly from the cabin’s dry warmth. When she leaned forward to add a sprig of thyme to the pot, he caught himself staring—not just at her, but at the way she moved through the space like it already belonged to her. Like she belonged there, with him.
“See something interesting?” she asked, her tone teasing but her cheeks flushing with warmth.
Patrick shrugged, trying to play it off, but his eyes betrayed him, holding a tender amusement. “Just trying to memorise the steps,” he said, his voice low and rich, laced with something that made her heart skip a beat.
“Mm-hmm,” she said, glancing at him over her shoulder, her smile teasing and knowing.
As the soup began to simmer, the scent of herbs and root vegetables filled the cabin, blending with the faint woodsmoke in the air. Éléanor wiped her hands on a dish towel and leaned next to him, their shoulders bumping gently.
“Well, Chef,” she said, eyes dancing with amusement, “now we wait again.”
Patrick slung an arm casually around her waist, pulling her into his side. The touch was easy, familiar—but there was an intimacy in the way his thumb began to draw slow, unconscious circles against the small of her back. She rested her head lightly against his shoulder, her heartbeat syncing with the slow, steady rhythm of his.
“Soup on the stove, bread rising…” he said with a sigh. “This sounds like the perfect excuse for a break.”
“You’re suggesting we just stand here?” Éléanor asked, trying to sound casual, though her voice betrayed the flutter in her chest.
Patrick tilted his head, catching her gaze with eyes that had softened into something that hovered between desire and something deeper, harder to name. “Not just stand here,” he said quietly.
His hand tightened on her waist. And then, without warning, he kissed her.
It wasn’t hesitant—it was hungry, almost desperate as if the silence between their breaths had grown too thick to bear. She melted into it, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring herself to this— to him .
The kiss deepened, his hands exploring the curve of her back, her hips as if he were trying to memorise her shape. Her knees weakened, her heart beating so fiercely she could feel it echoing in her fingertips.
When they finally pulled apart, her lips were bruised and tingling, her breath coming in short, disbelieving bursts. Éléanor looked up at him, dazed, mouth parted. “Perfect,” she breathed, unsure if she meant the kiss, the warmth, the quiet snow spinning outside—or all of it.
Patrick’s gaze was already on her, unreadable for a second. Then he nodded, his voice husky and low. “Yeah. It really is.”
The snow outside continued to fall in lazy spirals, but inside the cabin, everything was warm—safe, golden, and utterly still.
Blizzards and Beef Stew - Chapter 10 (Patrick Wilson x FOC)
Masterlist Ao3
Blizzards and Beef Stew Masterlink
Summary
[Patrick Wilson x Original Female Character] [Patrick Wilson x Original Character]
Éléanor had always adored winter: its snow, its crisp air. But what she treasured most was retreating to her cosy cabin in the Swedish mountains. There, she could bake, sketch, and enjoy the solitude, far from the noise of the world.
At least, that’s how it used to be—until a new neighbour arrived. Patrick Wilson was tall, charming, and with a smile that seemed to melt the coldest days.
As they struck up a friendship, Éléanor found herself drawn to him, even though he remained oddly secretive about his last name and evasive about his work.
But when a fierce snowstorm trapped them both, it became clear that Patrick might just be the warmth she needed in more ways than one.
OR:
Patrick uses his body to warm up Éléanor in the snowy mountains.
Wordcount: 3429
Later that evening, as the sun sank behind the mountains, casting long shadows across the snow-draped landscape, Éléanor found herself alone in the cabin. The fire crackled softly in the background, its warmth filling the room, while Patrick was in the shower.
It felt like the perfect opportunity to call Virginie and share her big revelation—who Patrick really was. She paced the floor, her heart pounding with excitement and nerves as the call connected.
When Virginie’s lively face popped up on the screen, wearing her usual mischievous grin, Éléanor felt a flutter of relief. Beside her, Enrique lounged casually, offering a small wave.
“Hey, Virginie!” Éléanor greeted, trying to keep her tone light and casual despite the bombshell she was about to drop. “Okay, I’ve got something to tell you—and you're seriously not going to believe it. I finally figured out who Patrick actually is.”
Virginie’s eyes lit up instantly, her smile stretching wide as she leaned toward the camera. “Ooh, this already sounds juicy. Do tell! Who’s the mystery man? And what do you mean by ‘figured out’? Is he an axe murderer or something? Should I be worried?”
Éléanor burst out laughing, the tension easing slightly as she shook her head, pacing a little. “God, no! Though, weirdly, that might’ve been easier to process.”
She hesitated, drew in a deep breath, then blurted it out before she could second-guess herself. “Okay—so, turns out… he’s Patrick Wilson. Yes, that Patrick Wilson. The actor. You know, the hot guy from The Conjuring and Moonfall ?”
Virginie’s jaw dropped in mock disbelief, her eyes going wide as she stared at the screen. “No way. Shut up! Patrick Wilson? As in the guy from all those horror movies? ”
A beat passed before she added, teasingly, “Wait…isn’t he kinda… old?”
Rolling her eyes, Éléanor groaned, already bracing for more teasing as she tried to find the right words. “Rude. First of all. And second—no, he’s not. He’s gorgeous. Seriously, he looks even better in person. Like, stupidly attractive.”
Just then, Enrique leaned into view behind Virginie, phone already in hand. “Hang on, I’m Googling him,” he muttered, tapping away.
Before Éléanor could say anything to stop him, Virginie snatched the phone and turned it toward the camera. “Oh my God!” she cried, wheezing with laughter. “This? This is your mystery man? Girl, his hairline’s fighting for its life in this one!”
Éléanor let out an exaggerated groan, as she buried her face in her hands. “Okay, okay, I know, that’s not a great photo,” she said, her voice muffled. “But I swear he looks so much better in person! That picture is like ten years old or something. He still has plenty of hair, and he’s so much more... I don’t know... handsome in real life!”
Grinning, Virginie tilted her head. “Mhm. If you say so, I’m just saying, next time bring me a warning when you start dating someone famous.”
“You think I knew ?” Éléanor paced the cabin’s narrow living room, one hand tugging nervously at the hem of her sweater, the other clutching her phone. “I found out by accident! Trust me, I was just as shocked.”
Virginie leaned in, eyes glinting with mischief. “Uh-huh. Sure, Éléanor. We’re talking about the same Patrick Wilson, right? As in, old enough to have memories of the original Star Wars premiere?”
Éléanor groaned, her cheeks turning pink, though the grin on her face was impossible to hide. “He is not that old. He’s in his forties—barely.”
Raising her eyebrows dramatically, Virginie leaned back as if contemplating something. “Mmm... right. Let’s see… oh!” She tapped away at her phone before gasping theatrically. “Oh look! He’s fifty. Exactly fifty! Éléanor, you’re fucking a senior citizen!”
“Shut up,” Éléanor nearly choked on her laughter, holding up a hand as if to stop the onslaught. “He’s not that old! And he doesn’t have that much grey hair!”
“Oh, come on, Éléanor,” Virginie smirked, leaning back with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “I’m just saying, does he, like, need a walker to get around the cabin? Or does he still have a bit of spring in his step?”
“ Virginie! ” Éléanor wheezed with laughter. “He’s in amazing shape! He’s been splitting logs and hauling firewood like it’s nothing.”
Virginie’s eyebrows shot up, her grin widening. “Oh, chopping wood, is that what we’re calling it these days?”
Éléanor's face flushed with a mix of exasperation and laughter as she struggled to respond. “Can we please stop this now? What about you? Enrique can’t be more than, what, 25? Does he even know how to do taxes yet?”
Without missing a beat, Virginie turned the camera toward Enrique, who was lounging next to her on the couch, bare-chested and flexing his muscles like a model in a fitness magazine. “Oh, he’s got plenty of experience,” she said, running a hand playfully across his chest. Enrique smirked and gave a casual wave at the camera, clearly enjoying the back-and-forth.
Just as Virginie’s camera began to dip lower, Éléanor let out a mock-horrified gasp and flung a hand over her eyes. “Oh my God, Virginie, put Enrique’s prepubescent penis away! No one needs a live demo of your thirst. Save it for your OnlyFans—or your diary.”
Virginie burst into laughter, the phone jerking wildly as she nearly dropped it. “Relax, prude. I’m just saying, you’re out here living your winter romance novel with a silver fox, and I fully expect chapter updates.”
Enrique chuckled, raising his eyebrows playfully. “For the record,” he said, tone teasing and cocky, “I’m twenty-nine. Not some clueless teenager. I work in finance, thank you very much.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “But I bet your Patrick has his accountant on speed dial—for his pension plan.”
Virginie gasped dramatically, her eyes wide with pretend astonishment. “Oh my God, yes! Éléanor, does he need his reading glasses just to check his bank balance? He probably still writes checks, doesn’t he?”
Éléanor plopped down on an armchair. “ Enough! And for the record, his reading glasses are only for books, not his finances!”
Virginie leaned toward the screen, her expression positively devilish. “ Reading glasses, huh?” she purred. “So… does he put them on when he’s trying to locate your clit, or what?”
Éléanor’s face turned bright red, and she gasped in mock horror, laughing despite herself. “Oh my God, no! He’s perfectly capable, thank you very much!”
“Uh-huh,” Virginie drawled, clearly savoring every second. “I can just see it. Him looking over the top of those glasses all slow and serious—like, ‘Excuse me, ma’am, looks like you need my... professional assistance.’” She lowered her voice into a sultry baritone, miming a dramatic adjustment of imaginary specs.
Éléanor nearly fell off the armchair, dissolving into breathless, tear-streaming laughter. “I cannot with you! And for the record, he looks stupidly hot in those glasses. Like rugged professor meets mountain lumberjack, it’s a look .”
Virginie waggled her brows. “Rugged professor, huh? Well, as long as he’s not asking you to file his Medicare paperwork, I guess I can give you my blessing.”
Éléanor rolled her eyes, still giggling. “He’s not that old, Virginie! Why are you so obsessed with his age?”
“Because it’s hilarious,” Virginie declared. “Be real—does he need a grab bar to get out of the bathtub? Or one of those little stools to sit on while he showers?”
Éléanor almost dropped her phone, barely catching it as she was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “No! He’s—he’s very mobile , okay? He does yoga and chops wood and carries heavy things with his bare hands. He’s like... rustic Thor!”
Virginie’s grin widened wickedly. “ Rustic Thor , oh my God . You mean Elder God of Thunder .”
Éléanor tried to hold it together, dabbing at her eyes. “Stop it. I swear, if you call him ancient one more time—”
“Okay, okay,” Virginie said, pretending to wave a white flag. “I’ll stop. But riddle me this—does he grunt when he sits down? You know, that little old man grunt?”
Éléanor gasped, her laughter so intense that tears spilled from her eyes. “No, he doesn’t grunt! And for the record, he’s super strong. I’ve seen him lift all kinds of heavy stuff like it’s nothing.”
Virginie’s grin turned devilish again. “Does he call you ‘sweetheart’ in that old-timey way? Like, ‘come here, darling, let me show you how we used to do it back in my day.’”
Éléanor wiped her eyes, barely able to catch her breath through the laughing fit. “Virginie! Oh my God! I hate you so much right now!”
“Oh, I’m not done.” Virginie’s eyes practically sparkled with mischief. “Please don’t tell me he’s got a little glass on the nightstand. You know. For his teeth.”
Éléanor gasped, half-laughing, half-horrified. “He does not have dentures! He has all his teeth—and they are very… nice, thank you.”
“I’m just saying…” Virginie held her hands up in mock surrender, her tone sweet and insufferable. “As long as they don’t start slipping during important activities, then I guess it’s all good.”
Enrique snorted off-screen, and Virginie kept going, fully enjoying herself. “Does he smell like Old Spice and Werther’s Originals? Keep butterscotch candies in his coat pocket for you?”
Éléanor let herself collapse onto the couch, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “He smells amazing, okay? Like pine trees and something rugged and masculine. No candy, no mothballs, just woodsy and him .”
“Uh-huh,” Virginie said, unconvinced. She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. “So... be honest. Do you call him Daddy? Or wait— Grandpa?”
Éléanor covered her face with her hands once again, the tips of her ears red. “ Virginie! I swear to God, stop it! You’re the worst! I do not call him either of those things! This conversation is over.”
Laughter erupted on the other end of the call—Virginie doubled over, gasping for breath, while Enrique laughed along like this was the best free show he'd seen all week.
“I’m teasing, I’m teasing,” Virginie finally said, brushing away a tear. “I really am happy for you. He sounds... honestly, kind of great. Even if he is just a tiny bit prehistoric.”
Éléanor rolled her eyes but smiled, the teasing unable to touch the quiet warmth glowing behind her ribcage. Her gaze flicked towards the bathroom, where the sound of the shower still ran steady. “He’s more than just great. He’s kind. Steady. And somehow, all this…” she gestured vaguely to the snow-covered cabin around her. “Feels like something I didn’t know I needed until it showed up.”
Something in Virginie softened then. She leaned back on the couch, her grin mellowing into something genuine. “I know I joke a lot, but if he makes you feel like this, then I’m all in.”
Éléanor nodded, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. “Thanks. It’s just... it’s weird sometimes, you know? He’s famous, but up here, he’s just... Patrick. No cameras, no Hollywood stuff, just him. And I really like him.”
Virginie sighed happily, leaning back with a grin. “Well, I’m glad for you. But don’t think I’m done making fun of you just yet. I’ve got years of senior citizen jokes left in me.”
Éléanor groaned dramatically. “I feared as much.”
“And I swear ,” Virginie said, pointing at her through the screen, “I’m going to start sending you nursing home brochures. Gotta make sure there’s decent Wi-Fi, so he can keep up with his bingo tournaments online.”
“You are the worst, ” Éléanor said, giggling again. “Why are we even friends?”
“Because you love me.” Virginie leaned smugly against Enrique, who was still chuckling. “And let’s be real—he does sound like a good match. Even if he needs reading glasses to check the expiration date on the milk.”
Enrique leaned in, tapping her arm. “Babe, you should cool it. The guy could probably buy this cabin and turn it into a Hallmark movie set.”
Virginie let out a dramatic gasp, clutching her chest. “Oh no. You’re right. Does this mean I can’t make fun of him anymore?” She turned back to the screen, wide-eyed. “Éléanor, would you really ban the jokes? For the sake of love and friendship?”
Éléanor tilted her head, pretending to consider it. “Hmm. It’s tempting…”
Virginie snorted. “Fine, fine. Truce—for now. But next time we talk, I want every juicy detail. Don’t hold out on me.”
“Deal,” Éléanor said, grinning.
Virginie blew a kiss to the screen. “Alright, I’ll let you go before your rugged mountain man finishes his shower and catches you gossiping about his bedtime vitamins.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Éléanor replied with a wicked smirk. “I’m telling him everything. Just to be fair.”
Virginie threw her hands up. “Okay! Truce, I swear! No more jokes… today. ”
Éléanor laughed, warm and real. “I’ll take it. Love you, Virg.”
“Love you more, El. Talk soon!” Virginie’s voice echoed as she reached for the ‘End Call’ button. “And I’m just glad you found someone who isn’t yeast-based!”
The call cut out on her final burst of laughter, leaving Éléanor smiling alone in the glow of the screen, the cabin quiet but for the distant sound of running water.
Éléanor blinked, her smile faltering as Virginie’s words sank in. Her eyes widened in sudden realisation.
“Oh God! ” she gasped, clutching her forehead with both hands. “I forgot Jacques! ”
Panic shot through her like a lightning bolt. She began pacing the small cabin living room, her slippers muffled against the old wooden floorboards. Her breath came fast, visible even indoors thanks to the lingering bite of mountain air that crept in through the logs.
How could she forget him?
Jacques—her precious, temperamental sourdough starter—had been left alone in her cabin, for days . The thought of him sitting there, untended, neglected in his jar like some abandoned science experiment made her stomach twist. What if he was already dead? What if she found him sunken and sour, a flat, lifeless mass of yeast that once had such promise?
She imagined him, poor Jacques, suffering in silence. Slowly deflating. Starving.
Patrick stepped into the room just then, freshly showered and radiating a quiet warmth that seemed completely unaware of the existential baking crisis unfolding. He was barefoot, dressed in a soft, worn t-shirt and grey sweatpants that clung just slightly to the damp skin of his hips.
A towel was draped lazily over one shoulder, and his hair was still wet, curling in unruly waves that made him look unfairly good for someone who’d just stepped out of the shower.
His brows furrowed instantly when he saw her pacing.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, crossing the room in three long strides. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Éléanor turned to him, hands flying out dramatically. “I forgot Jacques at my cabin!”
Patrick blinked, visibly trying to catch up. “Jacques...?”
“My sourdough starter !” she wailed, pacing faster. “He’s probably suffocating in his jar right now, dying a slow, yeast-related death, and it’s my fault!”
Patrick’s expression softened, a grin tugging at his lips as he tried to suppress his amusement. “Wait, hold on—you named your sourdough starter Jacques ?”
“Yes, Patrick, I did! And he’s alive, thank you very much. He’s not just a blob of dough…he’s practically a dependent. And I left him alone in that cold cabin like a monster !”
Patrick ran the towel over his hair, chuckling as he leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Okay, okay. You’re seriously worried about a fermenting blob?”
“It’s not just a blob or dough!” she shot back, chest rising and falling with exasperation. “I’ve been nurturing him for ever. You have to feed him, keep him warm—he’s basically the sourdough equivalent of a houseplant with abandonment issues! Jacques is an essential part of my life! He’s like... a living being! And I can’t just let him die.”
Patrick bit back another laugh, crossing his arms as he leaned against the doorframe. “Well, then I guess we’re heading back to your cabin to rescue him.”
Éléanor’s eyes lit up, her entire body practically vibrating with urgency. “Now. We have to go now.”
He glanced toward the windows where darkness pressed thick and silent against the glass, moonlight casting silver shadows across the snow. “You want to head out right now? In the dark? Through the snow?”
Éléanor was already pulling on her coat and gloves, not giving him a chance to object. “Yes! Jacques needs me, Patrick. And I won’t be able to sleep knowing I abandoned him.”
Patrick sighed with a good-natured smile, shaking his head as he grabbed his own jacket. “Alright, alright. Let’s go save Jacques.”
The icy wind hit them as soon as they stepped outside, the snow crunching beneath their feet. The darkness of the forest wrapped around them, but the moon hung low and bright, casting a silvery glow across the snowy landscape.
Patrick, with his hands stuffed into his pockets, looked over at Éléanor as she marched ahead, clearly on a mission. He couldn’t help but admire her determination—even if it was for a jar of fermenting dough.
“So,” he called after her, voice carrying in the cold, “how exactly did you end up naming a jar of yeast ‘Jacques’?”
She looked back at him over her shoulder, her cheeks flushed, her scarf slightly askew. “The guy who taught me to bake... his name was Jacques. He was this grumpy Frenchman who lived in the village. Total kitchen tyrant, but brilliant. He passed away a few years ago, and it just felt right—keeping the name going.”
Patrick caught up, bumping her shoulder gently with his. “That’s actually kind of sweet.”
Éléanor grinned as they trudged through the snow, the path to her cabin growing steeper. “So you see, not just any sourdough starter, Patrick.”
“Clearly,” Patrick said, shaking his head with a laugh. “This might be the strangest rescue mission I’ve ever been a part of.”
“Hey, don’t mock me,” Éléanor shot back playfully, her cheeks flushed. “Jacques is important. If he dies, so does my homemade bread! And I remember you liking my bread!”
Patrick raised his hands in playful surrender. “I’m not mocking! I’m just saying, this is a first for me,” he said, reaching for her hand and intertwining his fingers with hers to show he was with her in this.
Eventually, her cabin came into view—quiet and unlit, half-buried in snowdrifts. Éléanor fumbled with the key, her fingers stiff with cold and nerves. The door creaked open, releasing the familiar scent of cedar and cinnamon into the night.
She rushed inside like a woman possessed, stripping off her gloves as she made a beeline for the kitchen. “Please be okay, please be okay…”
There he was. Sitting on the counter. Unmoving.
“ There he is! ” she breathed, scooping up the jar as if it were something precious. She cracked the lid, nose hovering close, eyes narrowing with scientific scrutiny.
Patrick leaned over her shoulder, peering in at the unimpressive blob of slightly bubbly goo. “So... is he... alive?”
Éléanor gave a cautious sniff, then smiled. “A little sluggish. But he’ll recover. He just needs a meal.”
Relief bloomed across her face as she grabbed a measuring cup and began the ritual—equal parts flour and warm water, mixed with quiet reverence. Patrick watched her, leaning against the counter, amused by the way her entire demeanor softened as she stirred.
“You really are something else,” he murmured.
She glanced up at him, her cheeks flushed from the cold and her earlier panic, but now there was a soft, affectionate glint in her eyes. “Well, Jacques is family.”
Patrick shook his head, a smirk playing at his lips. “I’m just glad we didn’t have to break out the defibrillator.”
Éléanor laughed, finally feeling the tension melt away. She closed the jar and set Jacques back in his rightful place on the counter. “Crisis averted.”
“Thank God,” Patrick said, pretending to wipe sweat from his brow. “I don’t think I could’ve handled the emotional toll of losing Jacques.”
Éléanor swatted him playfully, a grin spreading across her face. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously supportive,” he said, catching her hand and pulling her gently toward him. His touch was warm despite the cold, and she melted into it without hesitation. “And yet, here I am, risking frostbite to save a jar of sourdough. Must mean I’m a good guy.”
Éléanor laughed, leaning into him. “Yeah, I think it does.”
Patrick pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his arms wrapping around her as they stood there in the warmth of her cabin, the night’s absurd adventure leaving them both feeling a little lighter, a little closer
