𖤐 I spend too much time on video games, music and art, but how can you blame me?
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Thinking about single parent!reader and ghost accidentally bonding with your two kids...
He knows of you vaguely as the apartment two doors down from his that's always toeing the line of some sort of noise complaint. two small kids, four and five respectively. Cute things he sometimes passes in the stairwell since the elevator broke.
"Ewwww!!! What is that!!"
Like now, for example. Arms full of grocery bags, ghost turns the corner to the next flight and finds the wee ones crouched in a corner pointing at something. You sit a few steps up, bags next to you and seemingly taking a breather from the multiple flights.
"Morning, Mr riley." You smile, exhausted. Ghost nods back, then curiously glances over the kid's shoulders when they beging loudly pondering.
"It's an alien!!" Your little girl says, poking at it. "Alien–"
"That's a proper millipede, innit." Ghost grunts above them. He knees down between the two, and lets the long insect crawl onto his hand, holding it up for your kids. "S' the flat face? An' the multiple legs on each segment? Millipede."
You daughter gasps in amazement at the same time your son asks "does it bite?"
"Only kids who don't do their chores." Ghost snorts, then holds it out and gently strokes a single finger along its back "you can pet it."
Which is how your tiny ones end up asking ghost what seems lile a hundred questions about millipedes, then centipedes, and bugs in general.
He answers each one, and after some time sets the bug back down and says "I'll show you more bugs if you help carry groceries in, yeah?"
While your kids grab one bag each, ghost insists on carrying the rest in addition to his own, has the audacity to glare at you when you reach for some.
That night, your kids beg to go to the library to pick out books about bugs, wanting to impress their new friend mr simon.
Of all the people they could like...they chose the weird silent scary guy....at least they're learning stuff, you suppose.
inspired wholly by this hard of hearing!simon by @ynstark — i’ve been plagued by the thought ever since
cw: suggestive
he hears the kettle just fine when it whistles, and he hears the front door when it slams with the wind. what he doesn’t hear, almost ever, is you.
“john,” you call.
you get nothing in return. he’s got his feet up on the coffee table, his reading glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, some dense paperback open in his hands.
“john,” you try again, huffing.
still nothing. the corner of the room he’s not facing may as well be another county.
you cross to the sofa and stop right in front of him until the shape of you finally registers and he looks up over the rim of his glasses, eyebrows lifting like you’ve appeared out of nowhere.
“what?”
“i called for you twice.”
“did you?” he asks, lips pursing slightly.
you’ve been dealing with this for a long while. over dinner, leaning across the table, repeating yourself, watching him nod at the wrong moments and answer questions you never asked. in the kitchen, talking to his back, getting no reply. in bed, breathing his name against his neck, not getting the same response from him you would’ve got a few years ago.
decades of gunfire and breaching charges and the thumping punch of helo rotors, year over year. by the time anyone thought to check, preserving it was out of the question because the damage was already there. the audiologist had been matter-of-fact about it. showed him the chart, the slope of it dropping off. he nodded along like it was someone else’s ear.
the hearing aids have been sitting in the dish by the bathroom sink for weeks, untouched. they’re good ones too. tiny things. they sit down in the canal, you’d have to be nose-to-nose with him to spot the little nub of them, and even then you’d have to know to look. nothing hooks over the ear or catches in the light.
he just wont wear them.
“i’m not seventy,” he’d said the once you really pushed it. “m’not puttin’ in hearing aids.”
“you’re wearing them, john. you already had them fitted.”
“i don’t need them,” he’d protested. “not day to day.”
which is how you ended up here, two weeks later, watching the back of his head while he reads and ignores the sound of you existing.
so you change tactics.
you don’t say his name again. you take the book out of his hands gently, dog-ear his page with your thumb, set it on the table next to his feet. and before he can do more than open his mouth you climb into his lap, knees bracketing his thighs, settling yourself down onto him.
his hands land on your hips instinctually, his whole expression changing. the annoyance smooths out and something warm comes up slowly in its place, you can read his thoughts as clearly as if he’d said it out loud — ‘well, this is alright’.
“well, hello,” he says low, hands sliding up your sides.
he thinks he’s won something. he’s already tilting his chin up for you, lips looking for yours.
you reach into the pocket of your cardigan and pull them out, cupped in your palm where he can see, and his face drops.
“oh, you’re joking,” his shoulders sink with disappointment.
“hold still,” you grumble, leaning forward.
“i was comfortable,” he complains.
“john.” you get the first one in before he can turn his head, fingers careful at his ear, and he huffs through his nose like a dog that’s been told no. “other side.”
“this is entrapment.”
“mm-hm.” you fit the second one in, tucking his hair back where it’s gone astray. you sit back against him to look with your hands resting on his chest. “there,” you grin, satisfied.
“i was reading.”
“and you weren’t hearing a single word i said all night.”
“i can hear!”
“so you’re choosing to ignore me then?”
“i wasn’t— i just—,”
“you answered ‘fine’ when i asked if you wanted chicken or fish for dinner.”
his jaw works. he doesn’t have anything to say to that. “they itch,” he tries instead, pressing a finger against the front of his ear, rubbing the cartilage there.
“they don’t itch. you’re being dramatic.” you shift your weight, just slightly, settling in more solidly against him, and watch his breath catch. “tell me they itch now.”
he’s still scowling, but his hands have tightened on your hips. “i don’t see what hearing’s got to do with this…” he looks down at where you’re pressed to him.
you roll your hips down against him, folding forward, letting your mouth go to the side of his face, right up close to his ear, and you breathe out — soft, the smallest sound, half a moan and half a laugh because you can’t help yourself.
you feel him go still beneath you.
you do it again. rocking down against the shape of him through his trousers and let the noise come up out of you naturally, quiet and close and meant only for him, the kind of sound you make without thinking when his hands are on you. his fingers flex and splay and grip harder, his head turns toward you like it’s being pulled.
“there you are,” you murmur.
“…christ.”
“you hear that?”
he doesn’t answer. his eyes have gone heavy lidded and his hand’s come up into your hair and he’s turned fully into you now, chasing it, the small wet sounds of your breath against his ear, the catch in your throat when you press down and he pushes up to meet you.
these little intimate things he stopped hearing a long time ago and never noticed he’d lost because of how gradual it happened. this way you sound when you want him, the quiet things. the things you only ever say just for him, the things you’ve been saying into the dark for a year now with no return.
“say my name,” you breathe.
“…what?”
“in bed. i always say your name and you never—,” you rock against him and his breath stutters, “you never answer anymore.”
his hand comes up to the side of your face. he pulls back just far enough to look at you, and there’s something that’s gone serious under the want, something that’s caught up with what you’re telling him.
“m’so sorry, love,” he nudges his nose under your jaw, kissing the soft of your neck. “say it now. again,” he says, rough. “go on.” he’s gone hard under you, rolling his hips up, hands keeping your hips down. the seam of his zipper pushing through the thin cotton of your joggers
“john,” you breathe.
he hears you and you watch him — watch his eyes close for a second like it’s gone straight through him.
“yeah,” he says, his thumb moving slow against your cheek. “heard that.” then your name unfurls from his tongue and you kiss him before he can pretend he wasn’t affected, and his arms come all the way around you, and he doesn’t say a single word about the hearing aids again.
john wears them after that without making a fuss over it. just puts them in every morning before you’re up. you never mention that you notice. don’t wanna spook him.
cw: so it's casual but not at all. all i'm saying is undertones (but they're not all that subtle)
it doesn't matter where you are, as long as jack is with you, his hands are on you somehow. whether his palm rests on the small of your back or his fingers curl into the nape of your neck, he guides you through the crowd with a stern look on his face.
to jack, the sidewalk rule might as well be holy scripture. when you cross the street, he immediately switches sides with you. his girl is not walking right where the cars speed past, not when he has seen how quickly an accident can happen.
when it gets dark, jack’s chest puffs out a little more the moment you walk past a group of people, especially if it’s a group of men. he’ll step in front of you like a human shield. should anyone dare to look at you the wrong way, he'll let go of your hand, and instead he'll wrap an arm around you, flexing the muscles beneath his shirt purposefully
food groups—jack makes sure your meals are up to his standard. while he can get away with drinking coffee for breakfast, you best believe he won’t let you out of the house without getting some protein and fiber in you. he even cuts your food for you if you’re too tired, no matter how much you complain about being treated like a kid. (maybe a part of you secretly likes it.)
he doesn’t say anything about the length of your skirts or shorts, but he keeps an eye on them when you’re out together. he’ll pull the fabric down when it rides up or step behind you, should you bend over to pick something up. he glares at anyone whose eyes linger a little too long on your exposed skin, even if it’s “just” your thighs.
when you can’t decide what to wear, he’ll pick for you.
“the purple top looks good, sweet pea. wear that with the black skirt. no, no, the silk one.”
he’ll nod approvingly, hands wandering immediately. his fingers will dig into the flesh of your hips, holding what is his while he takes you in.
“such a pretty girl, mhm?”
jack plans. he organizes dates, makes reservations and picks out the perfect spots for you. he’ll tell you to be ready at seven and then makes sure you are actually ready.
“attagirl”
“good job, baby”
“you’re doing so good”
he likes using those phrases against you because he knows how much they mess with your praise-starved mind. you’ll hear him whisper one of them to you, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, when you do even the simplest task.
jack sometimes picks you up randomly. just to show you that he can. he doesn’t grunt or struggle but makes it seem like the easiest thing in the world—because to him, it is.
placing you on the kitchen counter while you cook together, throwing you on the bed (gently, of course), or carrying you over a big puddle so you don't get your shoes soaked--he loves the startled shriek he manages to pull from you every time.
when you watch a movie together, he’ll scratch your head until you practically purr.
“you like that, baby?”
“just relax. but don’t fall asleep, sweet pea. keep those eyes open f’me.”
it’s your weak spot. the second his fingers thread through your hair, you’re jelly in his hands. his husky voice doesn't help keep your mind focused on the movie at all.
Summary: You and Jack shared a night together. He left. Here is the aftermath.
Warnings: Angst. A lot of angst. Yearning. Idiots in love. Hurt/comfort? Emotional hurt/comfort? Mentions of sex. An almost offensive amount of yearning. Miscommunication? Insecurities. Mentions of death of a spouse. Mentions of being an amputee. Older man x younger woman trope (unspecified age gap). No use of Y/N. Not beta’d. Whatever else I failed to mention.
Author’s Note: I do not own The Pitt in any capacity. The franchise and its characters belong to their rightful owner(s). Similarly, I don’t own any the gifs or pictures used for my fics. All I own are the fic ideas.
Word Count: 6,240
Series Masterlist || Masterlist
Next Part ->
You should’ve expected it, honestly. Thinking he’d stay. Letting yourself believe that maybe there was actually something between you beyond lingering looks and late-night conversations in empty hallways.
You felt stupid.
Waking up to Jack’s side of the bed—your bed—cold and untouched, with no note, no text, nothing to indicate he’d even been there after you’d finally fallen asleep.
Your stomach dropped so hard it made you nauseous.
For a few seconds, you just stared at the empty space beside you, blanket wrinkled where he’d been hours earlier. The faint smell of his cologne still clung to the sheets, stubborn and cruel. Your chest ached so suddenly your eyes burned.
Rolling onto your back, you looked up at the ceiling and swallowed hard.
You should’ve seen this coming.
You should’ve known better than to read into it.
Jack was kind. Attentive. Easy to fall for if you weren’t careful. And you hadn’t been careful at all.
A shaky breath left you as you dragged a hand over your face. God, this was humiliating.
You’d spent so long wanting him that somewhere along the line, your brain had started turning every small thing into something bigger. The lingering touches. The way his voice softened around you. The looks that lasted just a second too long.
And last night—
Last night had felt real.
Not rushed. Not careless. He’d touched you like you mattered. Like he wanted to memorize you. Afterwards, he’d stayed tangled up with you beneath the blankets, warm and half-asleep, his hand resting lazily against your waist while the early morning light spilled across your apartment.
You’d let yourself think maybe this meant something.
Maybe that had been your mistake.
Letting out a heavy sigh, you finally forced yourself to sit up. The apartment felt too quiet now, almost painfully so. Your eyes flicked toward the bedroom doorway half-expecting him to appear somehow, apologetic and disheveled, explaining that he’d just gone to grab coffee or something equally stupid.
But the apartment stayed silent.
Of course it did.
You pushed yourself out of bed and grabbed some comfortable clothes before heading to the bathroom. The floor felt cold beneath your feet. Everything did.
The shower steamed quickly, fogging the mirror while you stood beneath the hot water longer than necessary, trying not to think about him.
It didn’t work.
Your mind replayed everything anyway.
The way he’d looked at you across the room for weeks now. The hesitant flirting. The tension that had built so slowly it almost felt inevitable. The way he’d kissed you last night—careful at first, like he was giving you the chance to stop him.
You’d liked Jack for God knows how long. Longer than you wanted to admit.
And stupidly, selfishly, you thought maybe he felt the same.
You thought last night had been some kind of turning point at the very least. That maybe things would be different now.
He’d been everything you imagined. Gentle when you needed him to be, teasing when he noticed you getting nervous, warm in a way that made you feel safe enough to forget yourself for a while.
Which honestly just made this hurt worse.
Maybe it was for the best that he wasn’t there.
Because if he had stayed only to tell you it didn’t mean anything, you weren’t sure you could’ve handled hearing it out loud.
As you stepped out of the shower, warm steam curling around the bathroom, you reached automatically for the towel hanging nearby and wrapped it tightly around yourself. The fabric clung damply to your skin while you stood there for a moment, staring at your blurred reflection in the mirror.
God, you looked exhausted.
Maybe it was a good thing you had today off.
At least this way, you didn’t have to walk into work pretending everything was fine. You didn’t have to deal with knowing looks or questions or the possibility of running into Jack before you’d figured out how to act normal again.
The thought alone made your stomach twist.
You could stay home. Hide for a day. Nurse your wounded ego in private.
Because really, what had you expected?
That he’d stay the morning? Make coffee? Kiss your forehead before leaving? Maybe linger awkwardly in your kitchen while the two of you tried to navigate whatever this was supposed to become?
The more you thought about it, the more embarrassed you felt for ever imagining it in the first place.
Jack hadn’t promised you anything.
That was the worst part.
He hadn’t lied. Hadn’t manipulated you. He’d just…left.
And somehow that hurt more.
You wiped a hand across the fogged mirror before looking away again almost immediately. Your chest still felt heavy, weighed down by the kind of disappointment you couldn’t even fully justify.
Because technically, nothing bad had happened.
Two adults slept together. That was it.
Except it hadn’t felt casual to you.
That was the problem.
Drying off slowly, you tried to focus on anything other than the memory of him in your bed. The warmth of his hand against your waist. His tired voice sometime in the middle of the night asking if you were okay. The way he’d looked at you like you were something fragile and precious all at once.
Your throat tightened.
You needed to stop replaying it before you drove yourself insane.
Today would be easy. Quiet. You’d clean the apartment, maybe order takeout, maybe sleep half the afternoon away. Anything to keep your mind occupied long enough for the ache in your chest to dull into something manageable.
You could get over one stupid night.
You had to.
* * *
Jack couldn’t get rid of the lump in his throat.
It sat there heavily as he drove, fingers tightening against the steering wheel every time his mind drifted back to the night before—which was constantly.
Your smile.
Your laugh.
The way you’d looked at him like you actually wanted him there.
And then the memory that followed immediately after: slipping out of your apartment while you slept peacefully in bed behind him, too much of a coward to stay long enough to face the morning after.
Jack Abbott wasn’t going to sit there and pretend he hadn’t enjoyed himself.
He did.
God, he did.
He was with you.
That alone had felt dangerous enough.
But sometime during the night, after the adrenaline and want had settled into something quieter, something softer, panic started creeping in beneath his ribs. Slow at first. Then all at once.
The intimacy. The closeness. The domesticity of it all.
Your head resting against his chest. Your sleepy voice mumbling his name. The way you’d curled closer to him in your sleep like it was the most natural thing in the world.
It started to suffocate him.
Not because he didn’t want it.
Because he wanted it too much.
Jack liked you—a lot more than he should’ve allowed himself to. And that was exactly the problem.
There were too many things stacked against this from the beginning. The age difference. His leg. The baggage he carried around everywhere no matter how hard he tried to bury it.
And then there was the biggest thing of all.
His wife.
Even now, years later, the word still hollowed something out inside him.
When he lost her, it felt like losing entire pieces of himself alongside her. She’d been sick for so long that grief had settled into their home before death ever officially arrived. By the end, everything smelled like hospitals and medication and exhaustion.
He remembered sitting beside her hospital bed late one night, her hand frail and cool in his while machines hummed softly around them.
“You can’t hide behind me forever,” she’d said quietly.
Jack’s throat tightened painfully at the memory.
Her eyes had been glassy with exhaustion, but she’d still managed that stubborn little smile he used to love so much.
“You will find someone else,” she told him. “You will be happy. You will live. Do you hear me?”
He remembered shaking his head immediately. Like the idea itself offended him.
But she’d squeezed his hand with surprising strength.
“Jack.”
He’d tried.
He really had.
He went through the motions after she died. Learned how to exist again. Learned how to go to work and laugh at jokes and survive holidays and come home to an empty house without feeling like he was drowning every second of the day.
But moving on?
That part felt impossible.
Because every time he started wanting something again—wanting someone—guilt wrapped around his throat like a hand.
And with you, it was worse.
You made him feel calm in a way he hadn’t felt in years. Less exhausted. Less haunted. You made him feel like himself again, or at least a version of himself he thought had died alongside her.
That terrified him more than anything.
So he ran.
Like a coward.
Jack grimaced, dragging a hand down his face as he stopped at a red light. He could already picture your reaction when you woke up. Confusion first. Then hurt.
Maybe embarrassment.
The thought made his chest ache.
You probably thought he regretted it.
Maybe part of him did—not because of you, never because of you—but because now there was no pretending this was harmless anymore.
He’d crossed a line emotionally long before last night. Sleeping with you had only made it impossible to ignore.
Jack would understand if you hated him after this. If you decided you wanted nothing to do with him anymore.
He left without a word. Without an explanation. Without even giving you the chance to wake up beside him.
Who does that to someone they care about?
The answer came immediately.
Someone selfish.
Jack let out a humorless laugh under his breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind his eyes.
Maybe being alone was just something he deserved.
* * *
By the time Jack’s shift rolled around, he still felt like shit.
Barely slept. Barely ate. Spent most of the morning replaying every stupid decision he’d made in the last twelve hours until his head hurt.
And somehow, walking into the hospital made it worse.
Because there was a very real chance he’d see you.
“You look awful,” Robby stated casually as he fell into step beside him toward the locker room.
Jack snorted dryly, shrugging his bag higher onto his shoulder. “How nice of you.”
“I’m serious,” Robby said, glancing over at him. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Feel like it too.”
Robby let out a quiet hum before smirking slightly. “What’s gotten you all pissed off? Didn’t you go home with Honey last night?”
Jack’s throat tightened instantly at the nickname.
You.
The memory hit him hard and fast—your laugh at the bar, your hand brushing his arm, the way you’d smiled against his mouth later that night like you couldn’t quite believe this was happening either.
His chest twisted painfully.
“Nothing happened,” Jack lied.
The words came too easily. Too practiced.
Robby shot him a look that practically screamed bullshit.
Jack avoided it, jaw tightening as he pushed through the locker room doors. He could already feel irritation prickling beneath his skin, sharp and restless. Mostly at himself.
“Really?” Robby followed after him, unconvinced. “Because at the bar, you guys were practically all over each other.”
Jack said nothing, yanking open his locker harder than necessary.
“Not to mention all the flirting before that,” Robby continued. “I mean, everyone’s been noticing it for—”
“Can we just drop this?” Jack snapped.
The harshness in his voice cut through the room immediately.
Robby blinked, caught off guard.
Jack exhaled sharply through his nose, already regretting it, but the guilt and anxiety clawing around inside him had left him with almost no patience for this conversation.
For any conversation, honestly.
Robby studied him for a second longer, expression shifting from teasing to something more cautious.
“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Jesus.”
Jack dragged a hand down his face and looked away, shoulders tense. He could feel Robby still standing there beside him, probably trying to figure out what the hell had happened between last night and now.
Jack wished he knew too.
Because last night had been good. More than good.
It had felt easy being with you. Natural in a way that scared the hell out of him. Somewhere between your apartment and waking up beside you this morning, something inside him had started spiraling.
And now he was here, exhausted and miserable and completely unraveling.
“Look,” Robby said after a moment, voice quieter now. “Whatever happened…you should probably talk to her.”
Jack’s stomach dropped.
He busied himself changing into his scrubs just to avoid reacting.
“Yeah,” he muttered eventually, though the word sounded hollow even to him.
Because he should.
But he had no idea what he’d even say.
* * *
You were sprawled across your couch by the time evening settled in, takeout containers scattered across the coffee table alongside crumpled napkins and a glass of water you kept forgetting to drink.
The apartment was dim except for the television casting flickering light across the room.
You’d spent most of the day trying not to think.
It hadn’t worked.
Every distraction eventually circled back to Jack somehow. Folding laundry reminded you of him leaving his shirt on your bedroom floor. Making coffee reminded you that he hadn’t stayed long enough for morning coffee in the first place. Even the silence in your apartment felt wrong now, too big and empty after having him there the night before.
It was pathetic, honestly.
One night.
That was all it took to completely throw you off balance.
You flipped absently through channels, not really watching anything. Some sitcom laugh track filled the apartment for a few seconds before you changed it again with a grimace.
Nothing held your attention long enough.
Your chest still felt bruised.
When your phone buzzed loudly beside you, you startled slightly before grabbing it off the couch cushion. Trinity’s name lit up across the screen.
You let out a dramatic groan before answering.
“Hello?” you muttered, already exhausted.
“You sound like shit.”
Of course it was Trinity.
You closed your eyes briefly, sinking further into the couch. Her shift would be ending around now, which explained the call. Apparently your misery had become detectable through the phone.
“What do you want?” you sighed. “It’s late.”
“It’s seven.”
You groaned louder this time, dragging a hand over your face.
“Fine, whatever,” you mumbled. “What?”
“Just checking in on you.”
“Oh, I’m doing great,” you replied flatly, stabbing your takeout with more force than necessary. “Absolutely fantastic.”
Trinity hummed knowingly on the other end of the line.
“Yeah,” she said slowly. “I can tell.”
You shoved food into your mouth mostly to avoid talking.
For a second, neither of you said anything. The quiet stretched just long enough to make your stomach tighten uneasily.
Then—
“Look,” Trinity started carefully, “I saw Abbot come in.”
Your grip tightened around the fork immediately.
“He looked awful.”
Something in your chest twisted painfully at that, equal parts concern and anger.
You hated that you still cared.
“Did something happen?” she asked gently.
You stared blankly at the muted television.
A couple on-screen laughed at some joke you couldn’t hear.
“I don’t really want to talk about him,” you said quietly.
Trinity paused.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “That bad?”
You let out a humorless laugh under your breath, blinking hard against the sudden sting in your eyes.
The embarrassing part was that technically nothing catastrophic had even happened. No screaming fight. No betrayal. No cruel words exchanged.
Jack just left.
And somehow that hurt enough to hollow you out anyway.
“I overheard him talking to Robby earlier,” Trinity continued cautiously. “He told him nothing happened between you guys.”
Everything in you went still.
Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.
You stared down at your untouched food, throat tightening painfully as heat rushed to your face.
He said that?
For a second, you genuinely thought you might be sick.
“Is that true?” Trinity asked carefully.
The silence on your end probably answered for her.
You swallowed hard, trying to force your expression back into something neutral even though she couldn’t see you.
“Yeah,” you stammered finally, your voice sounding thinner than you intended. “Nothing happened.”
The lie scraped against your throat.
Trinity immediately caught it.
“Okay, no,” she said firmly. “I know that voice.”
You pressed your lips together hard enough for it to ache.
“Look, if he did something—”
“He didn’t,” you interrupted quickly. Too quickly. “I promise. I’m fine, okay?”
Fine.
Right.
You were currently sitting alone in your apartment trying not to cry over a man who apparently told people nothing happened between you after spending the night in your bed.
Fine wasn’t exactly the word for it.
Trinity went quiet for a moment.
When she spoke again, her voice softened.
“I’m coming over.”
Your eyes widened immediately. “Trin—”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m not in the mood,” you said quickly, sitting upright now. “Please don’t.”
“Huckleberry will survive one night without me.”
Despite yourself, your mouth twitched faintly at the mention of Dennis.
It disappeared just as quickly.
“Trinity,” you sighed tiredly. “I really just want to be alone right now.”
“No,” she replied bluntly. “You think you do.”
You dropped your head back against the couch cushion with a frustrated groan.
“I’m coming into work tomorrow,” you muttered weakly, like that somehow fixed things.
“So am I.”
“I mean it,” you said, exhaustion bleeding into your voice now. “Can you just leave me alone?”
The question came out quieter than you intended.
Smaller.
And that seemed to hit Trinity immediately.
Her tone gentled again.
“You’re in the middle of a crisis,” she said softly. “You shouldn’t have to do it alone.”
Your throat tightened so painfully you couldn’t respond.
Because that was the worst part, wasn’t it?
You felt ridiculous for hurting this much.
Nothing had happened.
Except everything had.
* * *
You didn’t even bother trying to look presentable by the time Trinity showed up.
There didn’t seem to be a point.
You were still wearing one of your oldest oversized shirts, exhaustion sitting heavy beneath your eyes. The takeout containers were still scattered across the coffee table exactly where you’d left them, the television still playing quietly in the background more for noise than entertainment.
The knock at the door came sooner than you expected.
You opened it slowly, immediately spotting the duffel bag slung over Trinity’s shoulder and the look on her face.
A mixture of concern and irritation.
Your stomach twisted.
“You’re fine my ass,” she said the second she stepped inside.
You rolled your eyes weakly, stepping aside so she could enter.
Trinity brushed past you into the dining area like she owned the place, dropping the duffel bag heavily onto the table before unzipping it with purpose.
“What’d he do anyway?”
You lingered awkwardly a few feet behind her, arms folding tightly across yourself. You still felt strangely numb from the phone call earlier. Numb from the entire day, honestly. Like your body had just decided to shut parts of itself down to keep from fully processing the embarrassment of all this.
“It’s nothing,” you mumbled.
Even saying the words made heat crawl up your neck.
“You’ll think it’s stupid.”
Trinity stopped rummaging through the bag long enough to shoot you a dry look over her shoulder.
“It’s not stupid if it upset you this much.”
Your eyes dropped immediately.
That somehow made it worse.
Because you were upset. Mortifyingly upset. More upset than you had any right to be after one night together.
But it wasn’t really just one night, was it?
It was weeks—months—of tension and hope and carefully buried feelings finally bubbling over into something real. Or at least you thought it was real.
That was the humiliating part.
You’d let yourself believe it meant something more to him too.
Trinity turned back to the bag and started unloading supplies onto the table.
Two large bottles of alcohol.
A bag of chips.
More snacks.
You blinked. “Jesus.”
“I came prepared.”
Despite everything clawing at your chest, a weak laugh almost escaped you.
Almost.
You leaned heavily against the doorway instead, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.
“Abbot and I hooked up,” you admitted finally.
The words came out flat. Hollow.
Trinity froze mid-motion.
A heavy silence filled the room as she slowly turned to look at you properly.
“…Isn’t that a good thing?” she asked carefully after a moment. “You’ve been thirsting over him for how long now?”
Normally, the comment would’ve embarrassed you enough to protest.
Now it just hurt.
You swallowed hard, staring somewhere over her shoulder instead of meeting her eyes.
“He left before I woke up, Trinity,” you said quietly.
The room felt painfully still.
“And you told me he’s going around saying nothing happened.”
Your voice cracked slightly on the last word.
You hated yourself for it immediately.
Trinity’s expression hardened almost instantly.
“Oh.”
You looked away quickly, jaw tightening as emotion surged hot and ugly in your chest again.
The worst part was how badly you wanted there to be some explanation. Some reasonable excuse for why he left like that.
An emergency call.
Panic.
Regret.
Anything.
Because the alternative—the possibility that last night genuinely meant more to you than it did to him—felt unbearable.
Trinity nodded slowly, crossing her arms.
“So he’s a dick.”
You didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
Because even now, even after the humiliation and hurt and confusion, some pathetic part of you still wanted to defend him.
Jack had been kind to you. Gentle. Careful with you in ways that didn’t feel fake.
People didn’t look at someone like that if they felt nothing…right?
Your chest tightened painfully.
Unless you imagined all of it.
Trinity stepped closer, her voice firmer this time.
“He’s a dick,” she repeated. “I don’t care what his reason was. You don’t do that to someone.”
You rubbed tiredly at your face.
“I don’t know if I want to be mad at him,” you admitted softly, “or myself.”
And there it was.
The awful truth sitting underneath all the hurt.
You missed him already.
Trinity’s expression softened immediately.
“Oh, Honey.”
The sympathy in her voice nearly undid you.
“I’ll help you get over him,” she said gently after a moment.
You let out a weak laugh. “That might take a while.”
“Not tonight,” she continued, ignoring that. “Tonight we’re drinking.”
She grabbed one of the bottles and held it up slightly.
“Tomorrow we can spiral. Only a little, though.”
Another reluctant laugh escaped you, watery around the edges.
“And once you’re in a good place,” Trinity added, finally smiling a little, “you’ll go guy hunting.”
You snorted quietly, shaking your head.
“That sounds horrific.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
Trinity nudged your shoulder lightly as she passed.
“That’s fine,” she said. “I’ve got time.”
Something in your chest ached again at the casual warmth of it.
Because right now, with Jack pulling away and your pride lying in pieces somewhere beneath the weight of the last twenty-four hours, Trinity showing up anyway felt dangerously close to enough to make you cry.
* * *
By the time morning rolled around and your alarm started blaring from somewhere beneath the couch cushions, you were immediately aware of the dull, pounding ache behind your eyes.
You groaned quietly, squinting against the weak morning light filtering through the apartment windows.
Right.
You and Trinity had apparently decided that splitting an entire bottle of whiskey on a work night was a reasonable coping mechanism.
In your defense, it had briefly worked.
Somewhere between drunkenly ranting about emotionally unavailable men and Trinity threatening to fight Jack in the hospital parking lot, the ache in your chest had dulled enough for you to breathe again.
Unfortunately, now you just felt emotionally devastated and hungover.
Fantastic.
You fumbled for your phone, finally silencing the alarm before letting your head fall back against the couch cushion with a miserable sigh.
At least you weren’t sick.
You’d dealt with enough brutal hangovers in college to know this could’ve been much worse. Still, the headache pulsing through your skull and the sluggish heaviness dragging at your limbs told you pretty clearly that you weren’t exactly going to be operating at full capacity today.
Which was unfortunate considering you had to spend the next twelve hours pretending your life wasn’t actively imploding.
Fuck.
You slowly pushed yourself upright, wincing immediately at the stiffness in your neck from sleeping on the couch. The television was off now, but the aftermath of last night remained scattered across the coffee table—empty glasses, crumpled snack wrappers, half-open takeout containers.
The apartment smelled faintly like alcohol and regret.
Honestly fitting.
A quiet groan pulled your attention downward.
Trinity was sprawled out on the floor beside the couch, somehow still asleep despite your alarm going off for nearly a full minute. One of your couch cushions was shoved beneath her head at an awkward angle, and your throw blanket barely covered half her body.
You stared at her for a second.
“…You look dead.”
She responded with an incoherent mumble.
You nudged her lightly with your foot.
“We’re gonna be late for work,” you muttered, your own voice rough with sleep.
Trinity made a wounded noise into the cushion.
You scrubbed both hands over your face before grimacing immediately at the taste in your mouth.
Jesus.
Your expression twisted in disgust.
“I think my breath just violated several human rights.”
That finally got Trinity to crack an eye open.
“You’re so dramatic in the morning,” she mumbled.
“And you smell like whiskey.”
“So do you.”
Fair.
You sighed heavily, glancing toward the hallway. The thought of going into work today made your stomach twist unpleasantly.
Because Jack would be there.
The reality settled heavily over you again, chasing away the remaining haze of sleep almost instantly.
You’d have to see him.
Pretend things were normal.
Pretend hearing that he told people “nothing happened” hadn’t quietly shattered something inside you.
Your chest tightened.
God, this was going to suck.
“Did you bring a change of clothes?” you asked, forcing your thoughts elsewhere.
Trinity hummed vaguely in response, still half-buried in the floor.
“I’m gonna take a quick shower,” you said, shuffling toward the bathroom with all the grace of a dying Victorian woman. Every part of your body felt sluggish and heavy, like sleep and alcohol still clung stubbornly to your skin.
“If you’re not ready when I’m done,” you added tiredly, “I’m leaving without you.”
Trinity slowly lifted her head from the cushion, squinting at you with narrowed, deeply offended eyes.
“You’re cruel,” she muttered.
You snorted weakly.
“No,” you corrected. “We’re stupid for drinking that much when we both had work the next day.”
“Worth it,” she grumbled immediately.
You paused in the hallway, glancing back at her.
And despite everything—the headache, the exhaustion, the dread already coiling in your stomach at the thought of seeing Jack—you felt something small in your chest loosen.
Because you hadn’t been alone last night.
Trinity noticed your expression soften slightly and pointed at you accusingly.
“Don’t get emotional,” she warned. “I’m too hungover to comfort you right now.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Small. Tired. Fragile.
But real.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” Trinity mumbled, finally dragging herself upright with the energy of someone being forced out of a grave.
You shook your head faintly before disappearing into the bathroom.
The second the door shut behind you, though, your smile faded.
And there it was again.
That ache.
The one sitting quietly beneath everything else. Beneath the hangover and exhaustion and forced laughter.
Jack.
You leaned heavily against the sink for a moment, staring at your reflection.
Then, quietly—
“You need to get it together.”
Because in less than an hour, you’d have to look him in the eye like he hadn’t hurt you at all.
Trinity had been quick to kick you out of your own bathroom the second you finished getting ready.
“You’ve used up your allotted hot water privileges,” she’d informed you through the door while you were still brushing your teeth.
Now, dressed in clean scrubs and feeling only marginally more human, you leaned against the kitchen counter sipping weak coffee while waiting for her to finish.
The shower had helped a little.
At the very least, you no longer looked like you’d crawled out from the wreckage of an emotional catastrophe.
Unfortunately, that didn’t mean you felt much better.
Your body still carried the sluggish heaviness of too little sleep and too much alcohol, and somewhere beneath the lingering hangover sat the dull, constant ache of having to face Jack today.
Twelve hours.
Twelve whole hours of pretending you were fine.
You could do that.
Probably.
Hopefully.
The bathroom door finally opened, releasing a cloud of steam before Trinity sauntered out adjusting the sleeves of her hoodie.
“You look less tragic now,” she announced.
“Thank you,” you deadpanned.
“You still look tragic,” she added after a beat. “Just…slightly moisturized.”
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your bag from beside the couch.
The walk to the bus stop was quiet at first. Morning air bit lightly against your skin while the city slowly woke around you, traffic humming in the distance. Your stomach twisted tighter the closer it got to shift change.
You kept thinking about walking through those hospital doors.
About seeing him.
About not knowing how he’d look at you after all this.
Would he act normal?
Awkward?
Distant?
Would he avoid you entirely?
The uncertainty was eating you alive.
“You sure you don’t want me fighting Abbot?” Trinity asked suddenly beside you, pulling her hair into a ponytail as the two of you stopped near the curb. “Because I’m not above a good fight.”
A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“Don’t waste your time,” you said, shoving your hands into your pockets. “Besides, I’m trying to hype myself up for my man-hunting phase.”
Trinity let out a dramatic sigh.
“Well, that makes one of us.”
You glanced sideways at her.
“Oh?”
She crossed her arms tightly over her chest, expression flattening.
“Garcia still icing you out?” you guessed.
Trinity scoffed softly.
“She’s more of a fuck-and-have-ramen-after kind of gal.”
The attempt at casualness didn’t quite land.
You caught the slight tightness in her voice immediately.
“She’s made it pretty clear she doesn’t want anything beyond casual.”
Something uncomfortable settled in your stomach at that.
At least Garcia told her.
At least Trinity wasn’t left waking up alone wondering whether any of it meant something at all.
Guilt bubbled low and sour in your chest almost instantly.
Not toward Trinity.
Toward yourself.
Because part of you still felt ridiculous for being this hurt over Jack. Like maybe you were overreacting. Maybe you’d built the whole thing up too much in your head.
But then you remembered him looking at you so softly the night before.
Remembered the warmth of his hand against your skin. The way he’d stayed tangled up with you afterward instead of leaving immediately.
And then you remembered waking up alone.
Your chest tightened painfully.
“Is there anyone else you’re interested in?” you asked quietly, mostly to keep yourself from spiraling further.
Trinity shrugged.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”
You hummed softly in acknowledgment just as the bus pulled up to the curb with a hiss of brakes.
The doors folded open.
You followed Trinity inside, both of you moving sluggishly from exhaustion as you found seats near the back. The bus smelled faintly like coffee and damp jackets, morning commuters staring blankly ahead in silence.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You rested your head lightly against the cool window, watching the city blur past outside while anxiety churned steadily beneath your ribs.
The closer you got to work, the worse it became.
You hated this.
Hated that one person suddenly had this much power over your mood. Hated that the thought of seeing Jack again made your stomach knot with equal parts longing and dread.
Beside you, Trinity glanced over quietly.
“It’s probably for the best we’re on day shift,” she said after a moment.
You frowned faintly. “Why?”
“There’s more options on day shift anyway.”
You snorted softly, immediately understanding what she meant.
“Right,” you muttered. “The man-hunting thing.”
“Exactly.”
You shook your head, a reluctant smile tugging weakly at your mouth before fading almost instantly.
“If you say so.”
Because right now, the idea of looking at anyone that wasn’t Jack somehow felt impossible.
And that was probably the most pathetic part of all.
* * *
Once you arrived at the Pitt, you felt yourself tense almost immediately.
It was instinctive. Unconscious.
The second those familiar hospital doors slid open and the sharp scent of antiseptic hit your nose, your body seemed to remember before your mind fully caught up.
Your stomach twisted painfully as you adjusted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder, forcing yourself to keep walking beside Trinity.
You just had to act normal.
That was the goal.
Be professional. Be mature. Don’t let him see that he’d gotten under your skin this badly.
You could survive twelve hours.
Probably.
The emergency department buzzed around you the moment you stepped fully onto the floor. Phones ringing. Monitors beeping. Stretchers rolling past. Nurses moving quickly between stations while doctors rattled off orders over exhausted conversations.
Normally the chaos would stress you out.
Today, it almost felt comforting.
Familiar.
Grounding.
The Pitt had a way of swallowing personal problems whole if you let it. There was always another patient, another emergency, another crisis demanding your attention before you could spend too long drowning in your own thoughts.
You needed that today.
Needed something louder than your own heartbreak.
You followed Trinity deeper into the department, trying to focus on the movement around you instead of the nervous pounding in your chest.
Then you heard his voice.
Low. Rough with exhaustion.
Your entire body reacted before you even saw him.
You looked up automatically just as Jack exited one of the trauma rooms with Shen close behind him, the two of them discussing something quietly.
He looked terrible.
Dark circles shadowed beneath his eyes, exhaustion weighing heavily across his features. His shoulders seemed tighter than usual, posture rigid in that way people got when they were running purely on caffeine and stubbornness.
Like he was holding himself together with tape and string.
Your chest ached immediately.
Which honestly just annoyed you at this point.
Because really? After everything, your heart still fluttered the second you saw him?
Pathetic.
Jack glanced up mid-conversation.
For one brief, terrible second, your eyes met.
And there it was.
That awful pull.
Something in his expression shifted instantly the moment he saw you. Like surprise mixed with guilt mixed with something softer he couldn’t quite hide in time.
Your stomach flipped painfully.
You looked away so fast it almost made your neck hurt.
Before he could notice how affected you still were.
Before you could start hoping he’d stop you.
Say something.
Anything.
Beside him, Shen continued talking, oblivious, but Jack had stopped hearing almost every word coming out of his mouth.
Because you were here.
And you wouldn’t look at him.
The realization landed heavily in his chest.
He watched you turn away immediately after spotting him, watched your shoulders tense subtly as you kept walking beside Trinity like nothing had happened.
Like he hadn’t spent the last twelve hours replaying your face in his head over and over again.
Guilt twisted viciously beneath his ribs.
Of course you were avoiding him.
What else did he expect after what he did?
Jack swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like follow after you.
Because the expression on your face just now—
You looked hurt.
Not angry.
Not cold.
Hurt.
And somehow that felt worse.
“Abbot?”
Shen’s voice snapped him back into the present.
Jack blinked once, dragging a hand tiredly down his face.
“Sorry,” he muttered roughly. “What were you saying?”
Meanwhile, you forced yourself to keep moving.
Professional.
Normal.
Fine.
You could do this.
“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Dana called from the nurses’ station, dry amusement lacing her voice the second she spotted you approaching.
Beside you, Trinity snorted.
“Hey, Dana.”
You tried for a smile despite the way your pulse still hammered unevenly beneath your skin.
“Hope you had a nice day off, Honey,” Dana added casually, though the knowing glint in her eyes made heat immediately creep up your neck.
You wondered briefly if everyone at this hospital could smell emotional disaster on people.
“No different than any other day,” you said carefully.
The lie felt brittle.
Dana hummed softly, clearly unconvinced, but mercifully didn’t push.
She turned back toward the chart in front of her.
You exhaled quietly through your nose, grateful for the escape.
But even as you started settling into work mode, pulling yourself into the rhythm of the department, you could still feel it.
Jack’s presence somewhere behind you.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
And despite every effort not to, some awful part of you was still painfully aware of him.
Where did the inspiration come from? I actually did the cold water and ice trick and it works, but I looked insane. Hope y'all enjoy it❤️ Also the nickname is partly because my name translates to 'duckling' and partly to one drabble from another writer that used the nickname 'duck' and i found it cute. (Small self insert)
The apartment was silent, silent enough for Simon to start feeling subtly unsettled. Nowadays, he is used to you walking around, watching something in the living room or just talking to him about whatever uni drama happened recently. When these things started, the military man answered things almost mechanically, not exactly interested in the lives of people he doesn't know; however he liked when you started spewing random facts in random moments. With time though, Simon got used to the sound and energy of you - you would call it 'vibe', he called it a comforting presence, even if these words would never get past his lips.
So, it was fair to say that when the exam season came and you started to leave your room less, the apartment felt empty, pressing down on his hyper aware and stressed mind. It wasn't the first exam season, far from it, yet he still felt uneasy without you in his proximity. All Simon could hear from behind your door was the sound of turning pages, scrolling and clicking on your laptop, sometimes typing or cursing.
Today, when Simon came into the kitchen to eat whatever was left from last night's dinner, he stopped dead in his tracks. There you were, face down into a red bowl of water and ice, bubbles surfacing. He expected many things, being used to your shenanigans fueled by stress and frustration, but... This was new.
"Didn' expect ya new copin' mechanism to be goddamn waterboardin' y'self", his voice startled you when your head lifted from under the water. The lieutenant always spooked you because of how light his steps were, though he always mumbles something about listening to less music with your headphones on.
"My head hurts and I heard this actually helps. Pills didn't work", you sigh putting your hands in the ice cold water.
"An' actual torture was the next option?", Simon said pulling the corner of his lips into a slight smirk. "Could've asked for help."
"I actually tried eating ice before this. Wasn't cutting it."
"Tha' school of yours is slowly fryin' y'brain, kid. Take a pause and hydrate", he throws you a bottle of water from the fridge as he looks for something to eat.
Simon, the same man who pushed rookies to their limits, making them train until some of them threw up, wasn't exactly content seeing you overwork yourself. You didn't need anyone to push you to your limit, it was an instinct to do it. While he could appreciate your determination, enough is enough and brains need a break.
The leftovers from last night weren't exactly appealing to him. An idea bloomed in his mind.
"How 'bout y'take a break and we get some take out and watch somethin', duckling?"
The nickname starts a fuzzy feeling to spread throughout your body. You ponder the proposal. These days have been actual hell and, truthfully, you missed hanging out with your roommate watching silly things only for him to be dead serious, playing cards and listening to his horrible dad jokes, anything regarding his presence really.
"Fine, but it's my time to pick."
"It's not, but since y'look like a wet dog, I'll allow it."
Simon won't tell you that for the first night in a few weeks he finally felt at home and at peace. Looking at you laugh warmed something in his chest that he thought to be long dead. He even slept better.
It's hard to say which one of you actually wants more for your exams to be done and over with.
in a perfect world, johnny would be the first to retire. he would be the first to find someone, fall head-over-heels in love, and throw all of his hard work and dedication away in favor of a quiet life by the ocean. it would be tough, at first, it would take years for him to truly shake the weight of the war from his bones, but he would do it. he would rather be a good husband, a father, than just another tragedy in an endless string of them. he would marry you as soon as his retirement papers cleared. he would give you a home full of laughter, and children, three at the very least, maybe a dog. he would be at every ballet recital and sports game, every parent-teacher conference and award ceremony. he would grow old with you, dance with you in the kitchen even at the ripe age of sixty-something, would complain about his creaking back right up until the bitter-sweet end. john mactavish would make a fine husband, given the chance.
kyle would be the next to jump ship. one day, he would see himself in the mirror, and he’d realize that he doesn’t recognize the man he has become. the years have taken their toll on him, he’s tired, he’s scared, he’s angry. his youth will have passed him by, and he’ll have forgotten to enjoy it. all the time he should’ve spent falling in love, and planning for the future, and making stupid decisions so he would have them to laugh about one day, was spent on the front lines, fighting somebody else’s war. he’ll decide that he wants no part in any of it, not anymore, and he’d turn his papers in the following morning. he meets you after, somewhere casual, maybe he’d spill his coffee all over you in his rush to get somewhere that, in retrospect, was entirely unimportant. he’ll buy you dinner to make up for it, and then again the next week, just in case his debt hasn’t been settled, and again, every friday for the next several years. he’ll marry you sometime in between, something small and intimate, with his brothers in arms as your witnesses, maybe he’ll finally give his mama the grandbaby she’s been begging for his whole life. kyle garrick would choose to be a better man, given the chance.
simon wouldn’t retire by choice. not in any world, not even a perfect one. but, eventually, it’s bound to catch up with him. even the world’s most capable soldier is vulnerable to his own damn humanity. he’d be forced to return to manchester, sooner or later, older, meaner, sore all over, all of the time. he’d buy a bike, a passion project, just something to keep his hands busy, lest he goes mad in his empty house, nothing but his own thoughts to keep him company. it wouldn’t be enough, in the end. it can’t chase away the skeletons in his closet or tell him that it’s okay to be scared of the dark, even at his grown age, so he would do what any half-sane man would, and adopt a dog. a retired military mutt, just like him, who’s greying at the snout and growls at little kids when they pass by on their bicycles. he’d meet you at a dog park on a sunday afternoon, would remember your face but not your name. not until you chase him down in the street some weeks later, at least, and claim that his boy got your girl pregnant. he’d pay the vet bills, and he would help you find good homes for the puppies, and then, he’d stick around still, because he, like any stray, is desperate for a place to call home. you’d let him stay so long as got his boy neutered. he wouldn’t give you kids, wouldn’t burden you with his last name, but he’d damn sure love you. simon riley would learn to be happy, given the chance.
john wouldn’t retire until he’s already halfway to too late. the kids are nine and twelve already, old enough to resent him, and you’ve gotten used to having the bed to yourself, setting the table for three instead of four, brushing your friends’ comments off when they bring up how strong you are, doing it all on your own. your worrisome heart would sink every time the doorbell rang unexpectedly, or when he went too long without contact, fearing for the worst. it would not be some big, sudden revelation on his end. he’d notice in fragments. no, he doesn’t know his kids’ teachers’ names, and, no, he didn’t know that your son was diagnosed with asthma last summer. he can’t remember the last time the two of you celebrated an anniversary, or went out for dinner, or talked about anything that mattered. he wouldn’t make a big show of it, wouldn’t even tell you that he was considering it, but you’d wake up one morning, expecting him to be long gone, and he’d be stood at the stove, burning eggs, and he would never leave you again. he’d do what he could to make up for lost time. he’d schedule date nights for the two of you, without prompting, he’d take your boy fishing sunday mornings, share all that hard-earned wisdom over soggy sandwiches and plop his boonie hat on the kid’s head to keep him from burning in the summer sun, he’d sit on his daughter’s bedroom floor with a tiara on his head, sipping shitty tea from plastic cups, and he’d thank god. john price would right his wrongs, given the chance.
but this isn’t a perfect world.
john mactavish dies at twenty-seven, shot in the head by a man who should’ve died two years prior. you bury him before you get to marry him. your daughter’s born three months later — she’ll never meet her father, but she has his eyes, and his smile, and you know he would’ve loved her. he always wanted to be father.
kyle garrick spends the rest of his life fighting for a cause he doesn’t know if he believes in. your paths don’t cross in that little coffee shop, because he’s on the other side of the world, getting shot at, while you go about your life none the wiser. he dies at thirty-six on an operation no-one’s allowed to talk about, desperate and alone.
simon riley kills himself a month after his sergeant’s untimely demise — not like anyone can prove it. it’s impossible to claim that he walked into the line of fire intending to be shot down. what exactly was going through his mind, no one knows for certain. in your late twenties, you adopt an old military mutt, who’s greying at the muzzle and growls at your neighbor’s kids.
john price signs the divorce papers when you send them, because he knows it’s unfair of him to keep you tethered to him. he watches your children grow from afar, through the pictures you send and the quiet, solemn voicemails you leave. you never stop loving him, but you can’t wait around for him forever. you three are the only ones left to attend his funeral, when the time comes. you’re the only one with something kind to say.
every time someone realizes they dont have to pick between being a boy or a girl an angel gets its wings btw. and also extremely loud cheering can be heard in the distance from me specifically
Ghost x afab!reader, jumping on that portal pussy bandwagon, anal, pussy eating, chat is it selfcest if you eat yourself out?, dom/sub vibes
Ghost tosses the portal pussy in front of you, as his cock prods at your asshole, smearing the lube and slick he'd pulled out of you with his fingers before shoving the other half of the portal over your cunt.
You blink at it, hazy, and Ghost drags your wrists into the small of your back. "Eat it."
"Huh?"
You jerk forward over the mattress, chin digging into it, and the pussy- your pussy- bumps your lips. You feel it, a soft brush against your folds, and gasp.
"I said, eat it. Until I say done," Ghost answers, and forces his cock into your ass with a brutal snap of his hips. You moan, body sliding again, and one hand holds your wrists as the other grips the back of your head, briefly forcing you down, lips parting across your own pussy, tasting your slick, clit throbbing on your tongue.
Fuck, oh fuck, hard fat cock in your ass and the musky-sweet taste of yourself, not licked off Ghost's fingers or cock but straight from the source, and you moan as your tongue curls over your clit. The matching sensation spurs you on, needing more, sucking at yourself as Ghost sets a fast, hard rhythm, taking your ass for himself while you feast on your pussy.
Each lick and suck hits you twice over, the mindfuck of it all, eating out a soft, wet pussy but feeling it on your own body, learning how to make yourself feel good from a new angle, no fingers to help you, just your own tongue wriggling into your hole, fucking yourself on it, drool and slick smearing across your cheeks. You suck your clit hard and lose the rhythm immediately, eyes rolling at the dual sensations, as Ghost keeps steadily gaping your ass open around his cock.
"Fuck, oh- I can't," you gasp, and lick across your pussy from hole to clit, shuddering. You know what you need to come but you can't do it, too lost in the pleasure of your tongue and lips, and Ghost takes the back of your head again and shoves you down into your pussy again, this time holding you there as you pant and squeal. Your ass burns around his cock, the clenching muscles only making it worse, pussy so sloppy wet it's obscene, feeling the spasms on your tongue as you moan, clenching around your tongue like a toy.
You can feel Ghost, you realize, the relentless pound of his cock rubbing against your tongue through the thin barrier between pussy and ass, and your tongue curls and your pussy gushes, his hand on your head and the powerful motions of his body forcing you to- grind against yourself, tongue rubbing up and down, in and out, you can't stop it and can't move against or for it, just riding the pressure and heat as it builds in your belly.
Your pussy clamps down, spasms building, and you pant and whine as your tongue is dragged over your clit again. Oh fuck, fuck fuckfuck, gonna come- "Baby, fuck, gonna come," you slur, sloppy with your own gushing fluids, and Ghost grunts behind you, picking up speed.
His cock splits your ass open, and you start to come as he pulls all the way out and shoves back inside, making you take it, and your clit grinds across your tongue as you lap over it, a little throbbing pulse, and oh god, the way your tongue is so wet and hot on your pussy, feeling your breath stutter, you can just barely suck at it and wriggle your tongue into your hole and fuck- oh shit-
"Cum, cumming," you moan, and the squeezing clench of your pussy echoes between your thighs and on your tongue, wet smears sticking to your cheeks and chin as Ghost groans, feeling your orgasm in your ass, as you milk at his cock. The musky scent of your come fills your nose, the soft folds swollen on your cheeks, your own sweet, precious little pussy, eaten and sucked, you know what it feels like now, to make yourself come on your tongue, and you moan and shudder when your lips rub over your clit again.
Ghost pants, his hips slapping hard to your ass, and you muffle a shout into your pussy as he puts his weight on you, crushes you into the mattress, hips forced flat. The angle of your pussy in the portal changes, and your clit rolls between your lips, scraping your teeth, and a sharp burst of slick fills your mouth as a hard clench burns through you.
You squeal, breathless, and Ghost sighs pleasure into your ear as he comes, the hot bursts in your ass, his cock slipping back and forth in the mess he's making of your insides. You gasp when he lets up, releasing your wrists and head properly, leaving you to roll your cheek away from the portal, your pussy all soft and slick in your blurry vision.
His hand slides between your legs, and abruptly the portal is moved up, pussy vanishing from sight, instead replaced with a swollen little pucker- your asshole, gaping just a little, with thick creamy come dripping out to the rhythm of your pounding heart.
Ghost drags the portal back to your face, and sets your lips against it, his cock now notching at the tender entrance to your pussy.
Shout out to my mom who explains my transition as "Having a daughterpillar turn into a Boyterfly". It doesn't erase the fact I was an adorable little girl, and also affirms my gender now. I love my mother.
kyle’s always been the pretty boy. the one birds fawn over at the pub, and in the cereal aisle at the shop, and on the midnight train after the captain bullies him into going home and getting some well-deserved rest. old ladies coo at him, waitresses draw hearts on his cheques, his own teammates tease him, for fuck’s sake.
“maybe if kyle bats his eyelashes at ‘em, we can slip past before they notice us.”
“the only way you’re comin’ out with us tonight is if you were a fuckin’ bag over your head. i never get laid when you’re around.”
“price might fall for those eyes, but i won’t. paperwork on my desk by noon, garrick.”
even when he was young, his ma’s girlfriends would laugh about how much trouble he’d cause, all the hearts he was bound to break, when he grew up. he still remembers how his sisters made fun of him come prom season, when he couldn’t decide which of the dozen invitations he received to accept.
kyle’s always been the pretty boy — until an untimely explosion melts the entire right side of his face into something unrecognizable and, in his eyes, horrific. gone is that heart-stopping grin, his silken skin, and quarter-deep dimples. no more of the cheesy winks he loved to throw around, what with his lack of an eyelid.
no-one’s swooning over him anymore. rather than the blood rushing to a handsome someone’s cheeks when he says hello, it drains from their face completely. no-one will look him in the eye nowadays. the pretty single mum down the street who he once had lunch with now goes out of her way to cross the road when she spots him, shielding her children’s’ eyes like the mere sight of him might traumatize them. the grandmas who used to compliment his warm eyes and soft curls stare at him blatantly, piteously, whisper behind their hands when he passes but won’t dare to address him directly. his favorite bartender turns his flirtations to johnny, who, uncharacteristically, doesn’t even have the heart to poke fun at him for it.
but he should be grateful, right? he could’ve died. he’s lucky to even be here. to be walking, talking, his limbs in tact, heart still beating. it could be worse.
that’s what he tells himself every time a toddler wails at the sight of him standing behind them in line at the coffee shop. whenever price gives him that look, full of worry and self-loathing. it could be worse, he tells himself, the first time he sees his mother after the explosion, and she gasps like she can’t recognize her own goddamned son. but he should be grateful.
he damn near throttles laswell when she suggests that he check out a local support group, saying that he needs to talk to someone since he clearly isn’t going to talk to them. talk about what, he wonders. it isn’t as though there’s anything that can be done about it. it’s beyond fixing, the doctors said so themselves. talking about it will only make him out to be some shallow, self-obsessed little prick, who obviously cares more for his vanity than his life.
he knows what he is. he certainly doesn’t need anyone to point it out.
the flier collects dust on his kitchen counter, gets lost in all of his junk mail and get-well-soon cards, damned to oblivion. he forgets about it — for a while at least, until his oldest sister forces her way into his flat and starts cleaning, claiming that their mother would have his head if she saw what a mess he’s made. she tacks it to the fridge, where kyle has no choice but to see it.
“what harm could it do, ky? you’ve been hiding from us for months — we’re worried about you.”
that’s what finally convinces him. not because he thinks he needs it, or believes it’ll do him any good, or even because he wants to soothe their spirits. simply because he wants them off his back, wants to be allowed to wallow in his misery, in peace, just for a little while longer.
so, he goes. he surrounds himself with a bunch of war-torn veterans, with stories so gruesome that even his stomach churns, he sits alone and speaks to no-one, doesn’t look anyone in the eye, and he listens.
he listens to them talk about their dead friends, their battles won, and their loves lost, about their journeys back to health, and their wisdom hard-earned.
one man — pushing eighty and missing both legs — says something that sticks with him.
“you can be mad, you can curse god, you can spend the rest of your life thinkin’ ‘what if’, but it ain’t gonna change shit. you either grow a pair and get over it, or you don’t — if you can’t make peace with that, you’re better off dead.”
yeah, maybe.
he goes again the following tuesday, and the next, until it’s become a regular part of his routine. he sits alone, still, he doesn’t talk much, to anyone, but they come to expect him. they recognize him. they smile when he walks in. no one flinches at the sight of him, no one’s pitying him, no one’s demanding answers he’s not ready to give. they accept him without expecting anything tangible in return, sans his company.
it doesn’t necessarily make him feel better, it doesn’t make him hate the man in the mirror any less, but it gets him out of his flat. it gives him something to tell the team about when they check up on him on sunday nights.
then, about two months into his newfound routine, he spots you, sat on the opposite end of the room, holding space like it’s been yours all along.
the last time your paths crossed was in boot-camp. a lifetime ago, it feels like. before the 141, before the incident. he was somebody else back then. and so, it seems, were you.
he remembers you as an over-eager, overly-confident recruit, like he, himself, was. you’re older now, battle-weary, weathered by war, grief, and the world itself. you sip your coffee through a straw because your hands tremble too fiercely to hold a mug. an angry, red scar cuts your face in two.
you aren’t new around here, that much is made clear by the way they greet you, with hugs and well-wishes. how long’s it been, he wonders, since you got out?
sammy, who runs the group, goes down the line one-by-one, like she always does, asking all the right questions. elijah saw his grandbabies this weekend. cody’s been cleared for active duty — he’ll return to the front lines next month, for better or for worse. olivia’s met somebody, she thinks she’s found the one. kyle listens, but pays especially close attention when it gets to be your turn.
“how was your trip?” sammy asks, and you laugh, albeit nervously.
“weird.” you admit, profoundly. “first vacation i’ve ever taken in my whole fuckin’ life, y’know? i tried to enjoy it, but— my friends wanna go swimming with dolphins, and tan on the beach, and, whole time, i’m thinkin’ that i’ve got no goddamn business flouncing around in a bathing suit, looking the way i do. i just couldn’t wait for it to be over, honestly.”
and, fuck, he gets it. he knows. it’s the very thing he’s been grappling with for the past year. nobody likes to talk about that part, the doubt, the insecurity. but you do, honest and unapologetic, and he wonders if this is what making peace with it looks like.
and then, sammy looks to him. “anything you’d like to share with us today, kyle?”
usually, he’d wave her off. offer her a tight-lipped smile and shake his head. he almost does, if only out of sheer habit. but he catches your gaze from across the circle. your eyes brighten with recognition, and the hard set of your brow softens. you smile at him, a little crookedly, as if you’re eighteen again, unburdened, naive as to what awaits you.
you might as well have grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him around, the way that smile knocks loose all of the things he’s allowed to fester in his heart. for the first time since he started attending the meetings, kyle’s honest. not only with this motley community he has infiltrated, but with himself.
“i had to take all the mirrors outta my flat. couldn’t stand the sight of myself.”
“i always wanted kids, but now— now, i’m scared they’d think me the fuckin’ boogeyman.”
“i dunno who i am anymore.”
his lungs feel tight, his palms slick with sweat, cheeks warm with an awful, feverish sort’ve heat, but he feels lighter than he has since his brothers dragged him from the wreckage. the old man from that first meeting, colby, lays a hand on his shoulder and squeezes.
no one scoffs at him, or calls him petty, or reminds him of how lucky he is. sammy smiles, soft and empathetic. “sometimes, the man who comes back from the war isn’t the same man that left for it. it’s okay to mourn him, kyle.”
you’re waiting for him, standing on the sidewalk outside, stiff with an indefinite, inescapable ache, but smiling still, when it’s time to leave. he hesitates only momentarily when you open your arms for a hug — he’s careful, weary of whatever injuries you might’ve sustained on the field, but you grab him tight, like you know how desperately he needs it.
“s’good to see you, garrick. s’been a long time.”
“fuck, has it.” he laughs, and it sounds foreign in his own ears, before sobering. “it’s good to see you too. really. i didn’t know you were …”
“yeah,” you help him out before he can start floundering. he isn’t the smooth-talker he once was. “a couple years ago, now. s’a long story. one i’m much too sober to tell today.”
“another time then,” he offers, wryly. he understands. he doesn’t like to talk about it either. talking about requires thinking about it, which isn’t good for anyone involved.
you soften, and he watches the scar on your face stretch as your lips pull down. it’s been years, but he still thinks you lovely. “you haven’t been out long, have you?”
“not long enough, no.”
“hm.” you nod, like you understand, but you don’t say you’re sorry, or tell him that it’ll get better. he appreciates that more than you know. “fate’s a funny thing, ain’t it? what’re the odds,”
“it’s a small fuckin’ world,” he murmurs, and your laugh thaws the ice in his chest. “you live close by?”
“just a couple o’ blocks, not too bad.”
“i could walk with you, if you want. or we could—” he stops, swallows hard, trying valiantly to find his nerve. it used to be so easy for him to ask a sweet someone out, he hardly even had to work for it. hell, he’d flirted with you plenty, back in the day. “we could go get that drink,”
it’s soft, uncertain, timid in a way that kyle garrick is not. you simply stare at him for a moment, as if considering him, your gaze painfully soft, before, finally, “i’d like that.”
“yeah?” he murmurs, hopeful.
you laugh, but it isn’t mocking, or cruel. it’s mirthful, almost flattered.
Summary: Jack knows you read smut. What he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. They are ideas. A whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. When he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, Jack has questions. Several, actually. Should he be jealous? Grateful? Offended? You are more than happy to explain.
Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, sexual themes, spicy book discussion, implied smut, post-sex scene, praise kink references, light restraint references, orgasm control references, semi-public hookup references, body worship, begging/asking clearly, lots of sexual tension, married flirting, Jack being fifty and deeply personally victimized by fictional men with shadows and jawlines, prosthetic mention, emotional intimacy, trust, mutual pleasure, reader owns her sexuality, soft/domestic married sexiness.
Author's Note: This fic is for every woman who has ever been made to feel embarrassed about reading romance or smut. There is no shame here. None. Sometimes books give us language for desire. Sometimes they make wanting feel normal. Sometimes they make asking feel less terrifying. And sometimes your very hot husband finds the red tabs and realizes he has been unknowingly participating in literary adaptation. This one is funny, sexy, soft, and deeply married. It is about trust as much as it is about heat. It is about owning what you want, asking for it clearly, giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, and being with someone who makes desire feel safe. Also, Jack Abbot versus a twenty-two-year-old shadow man? I had to.
Xoxo, Del
MDNI 18+
Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.
This was the second kind.
He knew because your breathing changed.
Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.
He knew you read smut.
That was not new information.
You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.
What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.
You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.
The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.
Not enough to be obvious.
Enough to be suspicious.
Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.
You turned a page.
Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.
Jack’s thumb paused.
You bit your lip.
Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.
You did not notice.
Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.
The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.
Jack had seen the tabs before.
He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.
You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.
He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.
He was about to find out that he was right.
Just not in the way he thought.
You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.
Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”
Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”
Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.
His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”
You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”
You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”
Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”
Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”
Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.
“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.
Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”
You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”
You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”
Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”
You did not hesitate. “Smut.”
Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”
You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”
Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”
You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”
Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”
You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”
You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”
Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”
Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”
You gave him a look. “Obviously.”
Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”
You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.
You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.
Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”
You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”
Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”
You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”
Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”
You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”
Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”
Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”
You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.
You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”
Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”
You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”
Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”
You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”
Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”
You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.
Jack waited.
He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.
The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.
Jack looked at the book.
The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.
He reached for it.
Not because he was snooping.
Snooping implied shame.
Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.
This was clinical curiosity.
Marital clinical curiosity.
He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.
Jack glanced toward the hallway.
The kettle hummed.
He opened the book where your finger had been.
He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.
Jack muttered, “Christ.”
You had not been kidding about the smut.
He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.
Red.
Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.
Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.
At first, he smiled.
Then he stopped smiling.
His eyes moved over the page once.
Then again, slower.
A throne.
A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.
A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.
Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.
Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.
At the end of that hallway sat his home office.
His chair.
His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.
The one with lumbar support.
The one with the locked wheels.
The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.
Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.
Jack said softly, “Well.”
The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.
He should have stopped there.
He did not.
The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.
Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.
He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.
His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.
Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.
Jack murmured, “Fuck.”
You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.
You stopped in the bedroom doorway.
Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.
Not casually.
Not idly.
Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.
Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.
You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”
Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”
You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”
Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”
You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”
Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”
You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.
That was the first thing that got him.
Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.
It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.
Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.
Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”
You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”
Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.
The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter.
“That’s what you wanted?”
You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”
Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”
You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”
His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”
“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.
He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”
You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”
Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”
You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”
You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”
Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”
You smiled. “You like it.”
Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”
The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.
Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.
“He’s twenty-two?”
You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”
Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”
You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”
Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”
You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”
He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”
Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”
Jack paused. “That was vague.”
You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”
Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”
You blinked. “Worried?”
Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”
You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”
Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”
You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”
His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”
You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”
His hand stilled on the book.
You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”
Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”
You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”
Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”
You laughed softly. “Noted.”
His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”
You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”
Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.
You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.
In the way his eyes came back to yours.
In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.
You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”
His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”
“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”
Jack went still.
You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”
His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.
You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.
“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”
His jaw shifted.
“That’s part of it too.”
Jack did not blink.
“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”
His thumb moved once at your waist.
You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”
Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.
You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”
His voice came out lower. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Because I trust you,” you said.
His hand stilled at your waist.
You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.
“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”
Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.
Then they came back to yours.
“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”
Jack was silent for a long moment.
Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.
“It’s the trust,” he said.
Your breath caught. “What?”
His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”
You laughed under your breath.
His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”
You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”
Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”
Jack looked toward the book.
His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”
You laughed.
He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”
Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.
His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”
You blinked. “How many what?”
Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”
You laughed softly. “Your problem?”
Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”
You smiled.
He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”
You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.
Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.
You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.
“You really want to know?” you asked.
Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”
You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.
Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.
You tapped the page. “Start there.”
Jack glanced down at the red tab.
Then back at you.
His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”
You nodded. “The throne.”
Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.
He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.
You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”
Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”
You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”
“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”
Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”
Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”
“We covered the chair,” you agreed.
His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”
The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.
“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.
Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about worship.”
Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.
But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.
“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”
Jack did not interrupt.
You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”
The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.
His voice had gone lower. “What?”
You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.
“I want to try something.”
Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”
Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.
“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”
Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”
You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”
Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.
You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”
Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.
You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”
Jack had taken one slow breath.
Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.
“Close the door.”
You had.
By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.
“Here?” he had asked.
You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.
Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.
Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.
“You want my full attention?” he had asked.
You had nodded, throat tight.
His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”
And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet.
The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.
But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.
“Look at me,” he had murmured.
You had tried. God, you had tried.
Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.
“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”
And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.
It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.
Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.
Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”
You nodded. “That was the idea.”
His thumb moved once. “The worship.”
You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”
For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.
“Okay,” he said.
You smiled a little. “Okay?”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”
Your chest softened.
You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”
You nodded. “Not the first.”
His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”
You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”
Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”
You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”
His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”
You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”
Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”
You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”
Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”
You glanced back at him. “Yes.”
His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”
You smiled. “Yes.”
You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.
Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”
You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”
Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”
You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”
Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”
You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”
You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.
Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”
You added it to the stack. “That one too.”
His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.
You followed his eyes and smiled.
Jack sat forward. “No.”
You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”
Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”
You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”
His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”
You smiled. “It was.”
Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”
You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”
Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.
The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.
Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”
You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”
Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”
You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”
Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”
His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.
Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”
Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”
Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”
You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”
Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”
You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”
The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.
His mouth had curved. “You need something?”
You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you.
You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”
Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.
Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”
You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”
Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”
He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.
Jack had checked once. “Like this?”
Your breath had caught. “Yes.”
Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.
His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”
You had tried.
Jack had noticed every second you failed.
Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”
You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”
You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”
Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”
You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.
Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”
You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”
Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”
You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”
His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”
You nodded. “The night it snowed.”
Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”
Your pulse kicked once.
You held his eyes. “Yes.”
The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.
He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.
Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”
You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”
Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”
You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”
Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.
You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”
His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”
You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”
You had nodded.
Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”
And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.
In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.
His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”
You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”
Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”
You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”
Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”
You smiled wider. “A lot.”
Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.
You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”
Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”
You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”
Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.
“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”
You laughed softly. “Mixed?”
Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”
You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”
Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”
You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”
Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.
His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”
You smiled. “The sundress.”
Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”
You held his gaze. “No underwear.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.
His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”
You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”
You smiled. “That was for you.”
The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.
Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”
Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”
You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”
Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.
Jack had asked, “You sure?”
You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.
“Bathroom,” he had said.
You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”
His hand had found the small of your back.
Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”
In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.
His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.
“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”
Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.
Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.
You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”
Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”
You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”
Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”
You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”
You laughed. “This is not a court.”
Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”
Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.
Jack watched your hand move to it.
His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”
You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”
Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”
You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”
His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.
You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”
Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.
You nodded. “After the double.”
Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”
Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”
The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.
“What?” he had asked.
Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.
His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.
You had nodded.
The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.
“Tell me what you need,” he had said.
You had swallowed.
You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”
Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”
Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”
Jack had gone very still.
Then his mouth had softened against your temple.
“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.
Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.
Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.
His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”
In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.
You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”
Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”
You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”
Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”
You sighed. “Yes.”
Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”
You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”
Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”
You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”
Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”
You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”
Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.
His voice softened. “There.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”
Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”
You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”
Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”
You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”
Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”
You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”
The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.
“Begging,” you said.
Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”
You nodded. “After your shower.”
The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.
His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.
You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.
Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.
“Ask for what?” he had asked.
Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”
Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.
His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”
Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.
His thumb had moved once over your skin.
“Then tell me.” Jack had said.
You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”
Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle.
“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”
Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.
“That one mattered,” Jack said.
You nodded. “Yes.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”
You breathed out. “Because I asked.”
Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”
Your throat tightened.
You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”
Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”
You tilted your head. “The begging?”
His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”
You laughed once.
Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”
Your smile softened.
His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”
The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.
You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”
Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.
Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”
You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”
You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”
You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.
“Green dress,” he said.
You nodded. “Green dress.”
The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.
You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.
Completely.
His eyes moved over you once.
Then again, like the first look had not been enough.
“Jack,” you had said.
He had crossed the room without saying anything.
You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy.
Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.
“I want you to help me see it.”
Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.
Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.
For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.
“Look,” Jack had said.
You had started to glance away.
His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”
Your breath had caught.
His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.
You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.
“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.
Your throat had tightened.
His fingers had spread over your waist.
“Beautiful,” he had said.
You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him.
The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.
You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”
Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”
You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”
Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.
You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”
Jack covered your hand with his.
You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”
Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”
Your smile wobbled. “I know.”
Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.
You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”
The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.
“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”
You nodded. “Mostly.”
Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”
You smiled. “Pool house.”
His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”
“Fireplace.”
He tapped the third. “Risk.”
“Bar bathroom.”
His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”
“Supply closet.”
His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”
“Bedroom.”
Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”
You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”
Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.
Then his eyes returned to yours.
“And worship.”
Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”
Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”
You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”
His eyes darkened.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You smiled.
He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.
“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.
Your breath caught.
Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”
You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.
“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”
You laughed, startled and bright.
Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.
You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”
You smiled. “Every single one.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”
You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”
Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”
You blinked. “What?”
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”
You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”
Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”
Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”
Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”
You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”
Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”
Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”
You laughed. “Obscene.”
Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.
“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”
Your breath caught.
His smile deepened.
“There,” he murmured. “That look.”
Later That Night…
The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.
Face-down.
Spine bent.
One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.
You were going to complain about that eventually.
Probably.
When your lungs worked again.
For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.
Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.
Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.
He had conducted research.
Thoroughly.
For a long moment, neither of you said anything.
The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.
Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound.
“That was incredible.”
You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.
His eyes were still on the ceiling.
You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”
Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”
Your smile widened. “I heard you.”
Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”
You waited.
His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.
Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”
A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.
Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.
You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”
Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously.
“Yeah.”
Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”
His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.
“Just need a minute.”
You smiled. “Take your time.”
Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.
His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”
You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”
Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”
That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”
Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.
“You’re very pretty,” he said.
You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”
Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.
“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”
You raised your eyebrows. “No?”
“Wrong word.”
You waited, biting back a smile.
Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.
“Beautiful,” he decided.
Your throat warmed.
Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”
You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”
Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”
You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.
His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”
You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”
You pressed your lips together. “The process?”
He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”
You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”
Jack looked back at you.
His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.
“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”
You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.
Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.
You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.
His heartbeat was still too fast.
You smiled against his skin.
For a while, neither of you moved.
The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.
Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.
“That was incredible.”
You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”
His eyes shifted to yours.
He looked almost offended by your amusement.
“What?”
“You’ve said that four times.”
Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”
Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”
Jack’s eyes held yours.
For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.
“I liked that you showed me.”
Your chest tightened.
His thumb moved against your back.
“I liked that you asked,” he said.
You swallowed.
His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”
The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.
You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.
When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then he exhaled.
“That was also incredible.”
You burst out laughing.
Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”
His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.
“I’m enlightened.”
You laughed against him. “By smut?”
Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.
“By my wife.”
That stole the breath from your chest.
You lifted your head.
Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.
His thumb brushed your cheek.
“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.
Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”
Jack nodded once, like that mattered.
Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.
His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”
Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.
“Too late.”
You stared at him.
He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”
You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.
Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.
You hit him with it.
He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.
Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.
After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”
Summary: Because of bad experiences with men, you don't think that someone could actually like you in a romantic way, and because of that, you don't notice how your attending is down so bad for you.
Disclaimer: English is not my first language, so I apologize if there are any spelling or grammatical errors.
You were always that friend that men didn't ask out or ask for your number, but they did for your friends. Since high school, you liked a boy and they just approached you to talk about your friends, if they were single, what they liked, or if you thought they would accept going out with them. You wanted to scream every time it happened, but instead you smiled and answered back even if it broke your heart every single time.
So now, as an adult, when a man flirts with you or compliments you, you don't think they are actually flirting or meaning the compliments, because…
Why would they?
It's something that has grown in your head, with time and more men that have dismissed you for someone else or asked to date one of your friends. So when your attending, Jack Abbot, starts to flirt with you very subtly, you actually don't notice because, in your mind, no one would do that and you just thought that it was him being friendly.
How he always knew when you needed coffee at a specific time on your shift and he always got that for you on time when you were just thinking about getting one. How he always got it right, the way you liked your coffee.
Also, Jack could be a little grumpy sometimes, answering a little sharply to anyone but you. He was always sweet and talked to you with a half smile and a shine in his hazel eyes that everybody noticed.
Everyone except you.
And you wouldn't have if it wasn't for Ellis.
She approached you in the middle of your shift as always, you were doing your charts and she probably just wanted to mess around. After some chat, she dropped it, no warning or anesthesia.
“But Abbot is in love with you.” She just said it like it was common knowledge.
You froze, your fingers stopped answering you, you looked at her trying to find out if she's joking and when you saw how totally serious she was, you panicked, that couldn't be true, it wasn't possible, all his gestures were friendly, what would he even look at you for? Definitely not more than friends, you told yourself that you didn't fit with him, he was too handsome.
“You know it, right?” Parker asked after seeing your stunned face.
You just looked at her, wide eyes and red faced.
“Girl… that man is on his knees for you.” She was as stunned as you but for a different reason.
You actually didn't know.
“Have you ever seen him bring coffee to any of us? Let alone get our preferred order right? Give us a soft tone when he's instructing or annoyed. And I can go on and on all night long.”
She left you there because a trauma was coming in. You weren't able to move or think straight. You just repeated to yourself that it wasn't true, that Ellis was messing around with you. But every time you looked at Jack, her words repeated in your mind and you wished they were true and that couldn't happen.
Every time you let yourself have a crush or fall for someone, it ended up with you being rejected, hurt in the most painful way. And when Parker's words wouldn't leave your mind, you started to avoid your attending, running away from every room where he was before he could approach you or direct a single word at you. You presented your cases to Shen or Cruz until it became evident that you were avoiding him.
You didn't leave Jack a choice, not knowing what he did for you to not let him go near you; it was killing him. He made sure to follow every move you made until you grabbed your things and said goodbye to everyone except him. He followed you quickly to the parking lot and didn't give you a chance to run away from him.
“Hey, can we talk?” he stopped you before you could reach your car keys.
“I've got to go…”
“Did I do something?” he asked nervously.
You didn't look at him, trying to stop the butterflies in your stomach and Parker's words repeated in your mind.
“No,” you mumbled.
“Then why are you avoiding me?” he insisted, trying to understand what could have possibly happened to make you avoid just him.
“I’m not,” you whispered, trying not to focus on the warmth of his hand on your arm.
“Don’t lie to me, sweetheart.”
The pet name made shivers go down your back and again you tried to convince yourself that he could possibly say that to any other woman.
“I’m not.”
“Did I say something?” he was more desperate this time. “Whatever I said to hurt you, I didn't mean it that way, I–”
“You didn't say anything wrong,” you assured him, stopping his rambling.
“Then what is it?”
“Nothing.” You tried to go away but he didn't let you.
“Please,” he mumbled your name, not knowing how much you loved hearing it coming out of his mouth.
He shifted his weight from leg to leg nervously given your lack of response.
“Did someone say something?” Again you didn't answer but the shift in your expression answered for you.
Jack sighed defeated.
“I’m so sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable–
“It doesn't,” you said so quickly that you realized what you had said after you did it.
Jack frowned, confused. “Then…”
“Do you actually?” you whispered, unable to look him in the eyes, preparing yourself for the rejection.
“What? That I'm in love with you, sweetheart? Because I totally am.” he said it with such confidence and like it was something so obvious.
You looked at him confused.
“Why?”
That caught him off guard, he didn't understand why you were asking, but if that was what you needed to finally believe him.
“Because you're amazing, you're beautiful, smart, kind, the best under pressure, I love all the gestures that you do when you focus on something or you're excited, how you jump to help people that you don't even know, and I can continue all night long.” He kept getting closer to you, watching how your eyes started to tear up.
“I can't believe you,” you mumbled more to yourself than to him but Jack was so close to you by this point that he heard it anyway.
He sighed desperately.
“Why? It's the truth, honey, the real question is why wouldn't I be in love with you?” he whispered, taking one of your rebellious strands of hair and moving it away from your face.
“Because nobody has ever wanted me that way,” you confessed, holding back a sob but he could clearly see it in your eyes.
How you actually believed that.
Jack felt his heart ache and the need to take you away from everything that could hurt you or have made you think that way because, in his mind, you were the most beautiful woman ever and he would feel very lucky if he could ever have you one day. He couldn't stand that you thought about yourself like that.
Before he could say something, you said something more.
“During my whole life, it's never been me, when I was a teenager the boys would be interested just in my friends, they wouldn't care about me. Now it's no different, something is wrong with me, Jack, you don't actually love me." The pain in your voice when you actually believed your own words made Jack want to cry.
How had nobody ever told you how pretty you were?
How had nobody seen in you what he saw?
How did they not see you for who you really were?
He didn't understand but he didn't care either, because he saw it, and he’ll make you see it too even if it takes him years. He'll make sure you know how pretty, intelligent, and beautiful you are. An incredible person that anyone in their life should be grateful to have.
“Then they are dumb as fuck, they don't understand the incredible girl that they are losing.” he cupped your face with his hands and cleaned the tears with his thumbs. “How lucky they could be to have you in their life.”
“You don't mean it,” you whispered, trying to convince yourself, starting to sob in his arms.
“I do, sweetheart. You don't understand how bad I do,” he insisted, looking deep into your eyes with that intensity that only he had. “I know what I want.”
“What do you want?” you mumbled.
“You.”
He leaned into you, nose touching yours, he waited for you to step back, to give him a sign for him to step back, a glimpse from you that told him you didn't want that. And when he didn't find it he pressed his lips into yours, you took your time but you returned his kiss letting yourself go, letting yourself be loved.
When he pulled away you found yourself wanting more.
“Nothing is wrong with you, I truly love you and if you need me to repeat that to you every single day I will, I don't care, sweetheart.” he mumbled, pressing his forehead against yours and brushing his nose against yours.
You smiled at that contact and the way he called you, you loved hearing that word coming out of his mouth. You had started to believe him and he could see it in the way you relaxed under his touch, stopping your tears.
“I love you too, Jack,” you said shyly in a quiet mumble that made his heart warm. “I just… I–”
He captured your lips in another sweet kiss before you could say something that was going to make his heart ache again and the anger for whoever had made you think that you couldn't be loved could crawl into him.
I actually didn't like this, but I wanted to publish something 🫠
imagine in hard of hearing Simon if reader lost their voice temporarily
hard of hearing!simon riley who comes home and immediately notices the silence. No loud greeting, no mid-rant about your day, no off-key singing. Just you waving at him with a little note that says “lost my voice 🥲”. His stomach drops. Your voice is the one sound he actually wants to hear.
hard of hearing!simon riley who becomes extra protective and attentive. He sits you on the couch and pulls you into his lap, resting his good ear against your chest just to feel the faint vibrations when you try to speak. Even the weak, raspy whispers you manage feel like a gift.
hard of hearing!simon riley who starts carrying around a notepad and your phone everywhere so you can type or write what you want to say. But he still prefers when you try to talk, no matter how scratchy and quiet it is. He’ll lean in close, eyes half-lidded, chasing every little sound you can give him.
hard of hearing!simon riley who gets oddly frustrated by the silence. Not at you — never at you — but at how much he didn’t realize he depended on your constant yapping to feel grounded. The flat feels too much like it did before you.
yapper!girlfriend (temporarily mute) who keeps trying to talk anyway, only for nothing but pathetic little rasps and squeaks to come out. Simon finds it unfairly adorable and infuriating at the same time.
hard of hearing!simon riley who fucks you extra slow that night, face buried in your neck, desperately chasing the faint broken whimpers you can still make. Every tiny raspy moan you manage goes straight to his cock.
hard of hearing!simon riley who growls against your throat, “C’mon, love… give me something. Need to feel you.” He thrusts deep and holds there, grinding against that spot until your voice cracks and you let out the loudest hoarse moan you can manage. It’s enough to make his hips stutter.
hard of hearing!simon riley who puts you on your back, hooks your legs over his shoulders, and eats you out like he’s trying to draw your voice back out. Every time you try to moan his name and it comes out as a wrecked whisper, he sucks harder on your clit, determined to force louder sounds from your damaged throat.
hard of hearing!simon riley who flips you onto all fours and presses his chest flush to your back, mouth right against your good ear so you can hear his low growls clearly. He rails you hard, one hand gripping your jaw, murmuring, “Louder. Try for me.” Your hoarse, broken cries are weaker than usual, but the vibrations against his palm and the way your body shakes make up for it. He cums harder than he has in weeks.
hard of hearing!simon riley who wakes up in the middle of the night to you trying to clear your throat and whisper something. He immediately pulls you on top of him, guides his cock back inside your soaked pussy, and makes you ride him slow while he holds your face to his better ear. Every weak, raspy little “Simon…” and broken whimper sends electricity down his spine until he’s gripping your hips and thrusting up hard, chasing those precious, limited sounds.
Something about gaz having erectile dysfunction after his RTI training....
And it's embarrassing, right? He's not even thirty and has a difficult time getting it up, what kind of person would want to sleep with him? Much less date him?
But he just....can't. No amount of the hottest porn or vain attempts to pleasure himself go anywhere, and the doctors tell him it's purely psychological but if he goes to psyche for that then he's surely getting benched from the field.
So he just...ignores it. Even when he meets you.
You're the hottest thing he's ever met, and everyday gaz wakes up astounded that you actively chose to date him. You don't push him to perform in bed, though not for lack of desire for him if the sloppy make-outs and rough grinding in supply closets is anything to go by.
You just seem to know, and the thought of that stresses him out even more.
It's not until he confronts you, asks why you never pressure him for anything more than the hand and mouth he's willing to offer, that he calms down. Because you just shrug and say "we all have our things, kyle. Honestly you could just be in the same room as me and I could get off."
Then, you pause and narrow your eyes "...Is there something you want to try? To help you get off? Or something you miss?"
Which is how gaz ends up wearing a silicone 'sleeve' over his soft dick, one you had helped him pick out to most closely resemble what he looks like hard.
You're lying on your back for him, too excited to see the joy on his face at finally being able to fuck you properly to go for your usual face-down preference. The sleeve is textured enough he can vaguely get some stimulation, but he's more focused on changing his angle until he hits that spot that makes you tense and moan.
"Fuck, love, I've been dreaming about this since I met you," he confesses, eyes glued to the sleeve— no, his cock— thrusting into your entrance. Voice warm and thick with arousal.
He's soft the entire time, but that only means his stamina is as long as he can keep moving, fucking you into overstimulation because he's missed this so much. Sex like this is such an intimate act he hadn't realized he'd been missing.
Afterwards, when gaz snuggles up to you in bed, all his focus is on you. For once, he doesn't feel broken.
