[pencil-n-pen]

—too sweet

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jack abbot x chronically ill! reader

wc: 8.7k

summary: being in and out of the hospital all the time has never been an enjoyable experience. But after meeting a certain ED doctor who you can't seem to get away from, things just might start looking up.

warnings: probably inaccurate medical procedures (i’m usually unconscious or incapacitated when they do this stuff to me) past medical gaslighting (not from Jack ofc) Javadi is ur roommate idc that it’s inaccurate, unresolved sexual tension cause i don’t write smut

a/n: abbot said “is anyone gonna take care of her?” and didn’t wait for an answer. anyways me and my oomfie @leeknowpegger came up with this in the comments of one of my posts cause we both are in desperate need of this man

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"I’d rather take my whiskey neat My coffee black and my bed at three You’re too sweet for me.” —Too Sweet, Hozier

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Being a frequent flier in lots of places gets you perks. Free coffee, rewards points, stuff like that.

Being a frequent flier in a hospital is just depressing.

You’re only about three or four months into your recent move to Pittsburgh when you get sick. And you’re one of those, special, lucky people who has the immune system of an un-vaccinated Victorian orphan, so despite having several hours worth of college assignments waiting for you, you’re currently lying on your bathroom floor, face smashed against the cool tile.

It is, genuinely, the only comfortable place in your shitty apartment. (At the moment.)

You pull the thermometer out of your mouth and slowly blink at the reading:

100.2 degrees.

Like you usually are. Just barely outside the normal range. Well, normal range can eat bricks because there’s no way having a mild fever is making you feel this bad. And you’re not being dramatic. Your throat genuinely feels like it’s on fire, and every breath is laborious and agonizing. Your face and head feel like they’re about to explode, and you’re pretty sure someone or something is stabbing you over and over again in your legs and lower back (which also feel like they’re on fire.)

Time passes in a weird way on the bathroom floor. Not really slow, but the pain and discomfort of each breath keeps it from moving too quickly.

You recognize, distantly, that you’re really sick. Really sick even for you.

There usually comes a certain point in the common cold that never fails to absolutely destroy you when it faces a fork in the road: get better or get much, much worse.

It’s fairly obvious which path your immune system decided to take.

There’s a large puddle of drool wetting your cheek because swallowing hurts too bad, and it’s not like you can breathe through your nose anyway. You don’t even have the energy to be grossed out.

You never really do.

Being sick is all about distracting yourself from how much pain you’re in until the worst of it passes, but right now you’re only getting worse. You can’t keep anything down, not even water, which means you’ve just been digesting snot for the past two hours which is bound to make you throw up (again.) No matter what kind of sickness you get, you always end up throwing up.

You measure how much time has passed by how large the puddle of drool grows. When it surpasses hand-sized, you attempt to haul yourself up, maybe take some more ibuprofen (you really shouldn’t, your liver is honestly toast at this point) but upon making an effort, you find that you can’t.

It feels like executive dysfunction. You want to get up. You need to get up. You cannot get up.

You’re so tired.

Alarm bells are ringing in your head. The same alarm bells that went off the time you had walking pneumonia and genuinely came to terms with dying in your sleep. It’s a spike of panic in your chest, a small dump of adrenaline and cortisol that’s just barely enough for you to haul yourself upright.

The action takes more energy than it feels worth, and you feel like your heart is going to beat out of your chest.

You kind of feel like you’re dying. And honestly, with how bad you feel, you wouldn’t mind going to sleep and not waking up.

And that isn’t a usual thought to have when you’re sick, not to level of sheer apathy and exhaustion you’re feeling now, so you think that maybe it’s time to go to the Emergency Room.

You come to that conclusion about the same time that your roommate, who you aren’t quite friends with, comes into the bathroom and promptly screams when she finds you lying on the floor. (You don’t remember lying back down.)

“Hey,” She says, kneeling down and shaking your shoulder, “I think you need to go to the hospital.”

—

On another day, maybe when you don’t actually feel like death warmed over, you might be thankful that there is at least someone to take you to the hospital, to grab your hospital bag (you’d had to tell her where it was when you first moved in, and being a medical student herself, had understood your need for it) and to already have the route to the ED memorized. Probably because she currently works there.

“You’ll be fine,” Victoria rambles as she pulls into the parking lot with practiced ease, “I’ve worked with the night crew before, they’re great. They’ll make you feel better.”

Unlikely, you think.

Maybe you look particularly awful, or maybe it’s not that busy in the ED, or maybe you get some sort of special treatment as the roommate of a medical student, but before you know it, you’re shivering in a triage bed, still drooling uselessly into a wad of paper towels Victoria had been kind enough to shove into your hands.

It’s weird being in a hospital that doesn’t know you.

Nurses come and go, asking questions you barely answer and poking and prodding and you think, probably, that you should communicate that while on the worse end of the spectrum, this is still fairly normal for you. Being this sick from the common cold.

You think Victoria is talking to whoever is working on you, and then you’re in a wheelchair, and then they run more tests you don’t remember and then you’re in a bed.

“Dr. Abbot is gonna come see you,” Victoria tells you, looking mildly uncomfortable in a chair to your left.

She's honestly been so nice for this whole thing. Like, way too nice, considering that you guys aren't really friends (yet?)

“You should go home,” You tell her, speech really only possible because of the Toradol they gave you a few minutes ago, “You have work in the morning.”

She purses her lips and looks like she’s going to argue, so you painfully swallow and speak again.

“Go. I’ll be fine here. You said it yourself.”

It takes a few minutes to get the words out, and you have to pause more than once, which probably isn’t very reassuring, but logic seems to win out because she makes sure that you have everything you need before heading out.

And then you’re alone.

You attempt to pass the time by sleeping, to no avail. Discomfort, ever the unwanted companion, makes itself incredibly known. The Toradol helps, but since it’s basically just ibuprofen in IV form, there’s only so much it can do.

You’re just about to slip into a doze when a knock on the door frame rouses you. As the current pulls back, you have exactly one thought:

Victoria could’ve warned me that Dr. Abbot is insanely fucking hot.

“Hello there,” The man says, grabbing some hand-sanitizer which only served to extenuate the rippling muscles and veins of his forearms and biceps, “I’m Dr. Abbot. Javadi told me you weren’t feeling so good?”

Okay, focus. He can definitely see the heart-rate spike on the monitor. He’s just another doctor. You’ve had hot doctors before.

(Not like him.)

You shrug with the non-chalance of a twenty-something year old who has designated hospital clothes.

“Been better.” Kind of.

“Well, let’s see if we can’t get you better.”

He asks the same series of questions that Javadi helped you answer before since your brain still feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, but Dr. Abbot is patient and listens attentively while you stumble through answering every single one.

“Any pre-existing conditions?”

“Yes and no.”

He raises an eyebrow, finger hovering over the tablet in his other hand. “That sounds like a story.”

You wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult.”

“You’re totally fine,” He immediately soothes before you can continue, voice rich and smooth like high-quality chocolate, “You’re actually the nicest patient we’ve had so far tonight.”

“Really?”

“Yep. No screaming, no cursing, you haven’t asked a billion and one questions or needed anyone to explain every single thing we’re doing.”

He grabs one of the spinny-stools on the other side of the room and wheels it over, sitting down with his tablet in his lap.

“Now. About those pre-existing conditions?”

You slowly and painfully explain your situation— very obviously chronically ill to pretty much everyone except the doctors you need to diagnose you.

Dr. Abbot doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t defend the doctors you’ve seen, just dutifully jots down everything you tell him.

“Any history of heart issues?”

You nod. “I went to a cardiologist last year and did a few tests. Second degree AV block, um, I think Mobitz one? And mild diastolic dysfunction.”

Another eyebrow raise. “And your cardiologist didn’t decide to move forward with any sort of treatment plans?”

“Just diet and exercise. He told me to drink more water.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Your eyes widen. “Sorry?”

He sighs, looking up from his tablet. “I apologize, that was unprofessional of me. I agree that Mobitz one is normally benign, so long as you’re asymptomatic or old. But coupled with that ‘mild’ diastolic dysfunction and the fact that, from you’ve told me, you are experiencing symptoms means it’s something that should be addressed.”

Oh.

Dr. Abbot barrels on. “I’m going to give you a referral for a cardiologist I know. She’s good.”

“Thank you so much,” You croak, barely able to believe what’s happening. "I don't know how to thank you. Um. Other than saying thank you."

He gives you a tiny grin, like this interaction is some sort of secret you're sharing. Is he not aware of the effect he has on patients? On you?

"Don't worry about it, kid. Call it duty of care."

Kid.

The way he says it doesn't make it seem condescending or pitying. It's an acknowledgment.

It makes your skin feel hot.

(That might be the mild fever.)

He breezes through the rest of the preliminary examination, questions all answered and typed into his tablet, which just leaves the physical examination.

He has gloves on, stop freaking out. And there's like, no way he isn't married, and he's literally your doctor for crying out loud. Don't make this weird.

No amount of internal begging to keep your rampant issues under control actually keeps said rampant issues under control. At the very least, you hope it isn't too noticeable when you bask in the feeling of his blissfully warm (you're already running a fever, so really, it should be uncomfortable) hand as it palpates here and there. Checking for internal bleeding, probably. Or an inflamed appendix. Or something like that.

Palpating is likely one of the least sexy touches a human being can experience, and yet, presumably due to the fact that hospitals are actually nostalgic to you and palpating is an experience you go through more often than most other people, and, you know, your issues, you genuinely manage to get a little... hot under the collar.

Like, his hands are right there. Gloved, sure, and he's not actually touching your skin, just the battered band t-shirt you've been wearing since you got sick three days ago, so again, really not hot circumstances, but his deliciously freckled and really enticingly well-muscled forearms are right fucking there.

Can Toradol make you high? Are you having an allergic reaction to the fluids? Has the common cold finally decided to snatch your soul, leaving you the shuffle miserably off this mortal coil?

He glances up at the monitor.

"Bit of a heart-rate spike there."

Oh sweet mother of Christ.

Dr. Abbot gives you a little knowing smile, which does nothing but make you want to crawl in a hole and die, and finally finishes his palpating.

"So from the look of things, you really do just have the common cold--" He winces when you groan, "I know, I know. But you do have a touch of strep-throat, which I think might be contributing to your general awfulness and malaise. Your labs came back a little all over the place, so we're going to send you home with a prescription for some broad-spectrum antibiotics. Have you ever taken Azithromycin before?"

You shake your head no.

"The coarse is only for a week, and you'll take them twice a day. As for your cold symptoms, I'd have to recommend your basic over-the-counter cold medicine and lots of rest. Sound good?"

You nod. "Thank you so much."

Another heart-rate-spiking smile. "Anytime. I hope you feel better, but come back straight back here if you feel any worse, okay?"

You agree, and offer him another thanks and pretend like you're not going to be silently wondering if this is who your roommate works with every day.

—

A few days of antibiotics later, you're staring at yourself in the mirror after a late-night everything shower, and you think you might be cursed.

"Hey Victoria?" You shout through the door to where you know she's studying in the nearby living room. "What are the normal symptoms after taking Azithromycin?"

"Uh, none?"

"Thanks!"

Motherfucker. Who the fuck is even allergic to antibiotics? They're antibiotics.

You stare at the rash-slash-hives that's developed on your arms and legs (you convinced yourself it was razor burn the first two days) and wonder how life threatening it really is. Like, what could even really happen?

You skip lotion and throw on what was supposed to be a cute-pajama set, but now the striped tank-and-shorts combo serve to be functional— no fabric touching the sensitive skin where the rash covers and for ease of access, because of course you're going to run it by Victoria before you jump to any sort of conclusions about severity and allergic reactions.

Maybe this just one of those things. Like when doctors say "Just a little pinch" or "You'll feel some pressure" and then you go on to experience a level of agony previously only experienced by mafia traitors.

Like, maybe you won't even have to go to the ER. It might be a low-level twenty-four-hour-clinic type of deal.

—

So apparently between the rash, your flu-like symptoms (you thought you were just sick) and the fact that your heart rate has been all over the place since starting the antibiotics, Victoria does, in fact, insist that you go to the ER. Again.

At least this time you're lucid enough to drive yourself.

You've only just checked in, settling in the moderately-empty waiting room, cursing your existence when a familiar face walks in the front door, backpack slung over his shoulder and a cup of coffee in his hand.

It's pure coincidence that you happen to be sitting in like, the only seat in his direct eye-line as he glances down and then comes to a full-body stop. You shove down the shiver that threatens to overwhelm your body as a sharp, calculating gaze scans up and down your body before coming to rest on the visible rash on your legs.

He blows out a breath.

"Oh, kid."

Dr. Abbot leaves in the waiting room with the promise to return shortly after he clocks in and does his... whatever it is doctors do upon clocking into work. Rounds? Or is that a general medicine thing?

Before he walks through the door, he points a finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Like the loyal dog you are, you comply. First of all, where would you even go, (do patients jump ship often??) and secondly, like there is any universe in which you are arguing with that man.

YOUR DOCTOR, you mentally correct. HE'S YOUR DOCTOR. THERE ARE LITERALLY LAWS IN PLACE FOR THIS KIND OF THING. HE'S ALSO PROBABLY MARRIED. GET A GRIP.

It doesn't take him long to return to you, and like, isn't that unusual? Don't nurses and whoever usually get patients instead of like, the doctor on shift?

He gets the door for you (which is hot, even though he literally has to since it's only opened via staff-issued key-card.)

You feel kind of bad for skipping the line, cause there's other people in the waiting room, and surely some of them have more pressing medical concerns than your little rash?

You paraphrase this to Dr. Abbot as he leads you down the hallway towards one of the triage rooms, but he just snorts.

"You questioning my triage and risk assessment skills?"

Horror fills every aspect of your being.

"No no no no no, no, of course not, I didn't mean—"

Then he starts laughing.

"Relax, kid," He huffs, shoving his hands in his pockets, eyeing you from the side, "I was just poking at you. I think it's very... sweet, that you're worried about the other patients, even if it's unnecessary. I promise, if someone else had a more pressing medical concern, they would get seen first."

You deflate a little at his reassurance, though you still feel thoroughly mortified.

"Besides," He continues, pulling back a curtain and gesturing for you to take a seat in one of the large triage chairs, "You're having a fairly serious allergic reaction. I'm guessing this started after you started taking the Azithromycin?"

You nod as you situate yourself. "Yeah, sorry. Um, it started—"

He holds up a hand, and you cut yourself off.

"Respectfully," He starts, his hands clasped in front of his mouth. "What the hell are you apologizing for? And don't say being allergic to Azirthromycin."

"Um... For having to bother you again..? Right when you get on shift?"

"Kid," That shouldn't be hot, that shouldn't make your stomach flip-flop around, "Didn't I tell you to come back if you got worse?"

"Yes."

"And did you come back because you got worse?"

"...Yes?"

"Yes, you did. It was good that you came back," He says the second sentence slow and careful, like he's trying to cement it into your brain.

"It says on your intake form that you were experiencing fast and irregular heartbeats and dizziness accompanying the rash and hives, is that correct?"

"Yes. I thought I was just having a flare-up. And I kind of thought the rash and hives was just razor burn, but I don't shave my upper-arms, so."

He nods slowly. "...Right. I know that you've had a lot of unfortunate experiences with doctors and treatment in the past, but that's not going to fly with me, understand? There's a very real chance that if you'd ignored your symptoms you would've gone into anaphylactic shock. And while I trust Javadi to recognize the symptoms of a severe allergic reaction, I also know that she spends most of the day at the hospital or at lectures, meaning that if you had gone anaphylactic, there wouldn't have been anyone home to help you."

Dr. Abbot leans down when he notices you staring at your lap, sheepish, avoiding his gaze. "I don't say any of this to scare you. I just need you to understand the seriousness of your reaction."

He snatches the tablet off the cart. "You can't minimize your health issues. They're real. If you do, doctor's won't take you seriously. And you get enough of that without contributing to it or doing it yourself."

There's a few beats of silence while he types some things on the tablet and you digest his words.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

He flashes you a grin, a little sharp. "Like I said before. Duty of care."

—

Victoria is happy that you had such a nice experience at the PTMC —"I told you they were great!"— and both of you are happy that the new antibiotics are working the last dredges of your cold are fading.

Since you finally feel (relatively) well, you decide to go to the coffee shop Victoria has been trying to convince you to go to for ages. Apparently, she loves their coffee so much she gets it there on hospital days and lecture days, despite it being much closer to the hospital than it is to the university. Thankfully, the apartment you share is fairly close to the hospital (a win both for your constant medical issues and for your roommates chosen career) so the coffee shop is within walking distance. Honestly, living in the city like this, there aren't a lot of things that aren't within walking (or bus, depending on the weather) distance.

You arrive to the cafe roughly around the time it opens, desperate to get as many hours studying and playing catch up as you can. Most of your professors were understanding when you explained your frequent health problems and the fact that you had to go the ER twice in the span of a week, and gave you extensions, but there's always a few no-nonsense hard-asses who think a 6,000 word paper can easily be accomplished from a hospital waiting room or bed, even when you explain how incapacitated you were. And to top it all off, in your endless wisdom, you hadn't thought to ask Dr. Abbot for a doctor's note that you could've held over the aforementioned hard-asse's head's, since they have to comply when you have actual evidence of illness, signed by a medical doctor.

So yeah. Lots of work, very little time.

You order yourself a gigantic coffee with several extra shots of espresso, heart-problems be damned, because there's no way you're accomplishing the amount of assignments you have without drugs, and since you can't do drugs, medically inadvisable amounts of caffeine is the next best thing.

Sure, the caffeine kind of makes your chest feel like it's floating, but the study work-flow you manage to accomplish is unparalleled.

With your headphones on and your eyes glued to your laptop screen your neck might as well be made of stone. Which means you don't really notice the man who's approached the table in the corner you've tucked yourself into.

"Do I even want to know how many shots you had them put in there?"

You jump, launching yourself backwards and straightening, causing your skull to crack rather unpleasantly against the wall behind you. You hiss in pain at the same time that Dr. Abbot says "Shit."

"Sorry," He rumbles, stepping forward. "Can I see?"

He really didn't have to ask. He could've just told you that he was going to look and you wouldn't kick up a fuss. You'd like it actually, if he told you what to do. What's that line from Fleabag? “I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like, what to hate, what to rage about." Yeah. Dr. Abbot could do all of that for you.

Still technically your doctor you depraved lunatic.

You must've nodded or made a noise of affirmation or something (or maybe he got tired of waiting for you to respond) but he steps forward and. Well. Okay. You had this idea, in your head about what him 'seeing' actually entails, and conceptually, you understood that it involves him touching you, without gloves or a sterile, anti-septic wall between the two of you, but actually feeling his large, warm hands (is he always this warm, then? You remember how warm they were at the hospital) cradling the back of your head, fingers rubbing along your scalp, checking for a bump or scratch or whatever is a completely different ballpark.

If you thought the palpation was difficult to endure, it doesn't hold a goddamn candle to him leaning over you, dressed in his own clothes that smell like him, hands bare (!!) and actually touching you, skin-to-skin. There's no rumpled band tee or blue latex gloves between you now.

"No bump," He affirms after a few (unrequited and one-sided) sexually charged moments. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's not your fault. Coffee makes me jumpy."

His eyes skate down to the large, mostly empty cup next to your laptop. "And I'm sure the quantity was helpful."

You smile, more than a little embarrassed. He's charted your medical history. He knows exactly how stupid it is for you specifically to be drinking a twenty-four ounce iced cold brew with five extra shots of espresso. Realistically, that is an unhinged and borderline masochistic coffee order for a normal person.

"Enlighten me," He starts, his head tilted to the side, eyes once again looking you up and down. But this time, his gaze isn't clinical. Maybe you're imagining it, making things up to feed your delusions and issues, but right now, it's almost like he's looking at you like he's... hungry.

"Why would little-miss-mild-diastolic-dysfunction be drinking a concentrated heart attack?"

Jesus H. Christ.

"—Little-miss—“

This is genuinely becoming a very serious problem. You might have to leave Pittsburgh forever. Forget your master's program. Maybe your professors will understand that you ended up with a giant, overwhelming, unhinged, and slightly insatiable and completely inappropriate crush on the ER doctor you are definitely going to be seeing a lot of.

That's it. You can never come back to this coffee shop. Or go to the ER again. Ever. You'll just die next time you have a health problem, thanks.

Oh, fuck. How long have you been just staring at him?

He's smiling at you, all teeth and a knowing sparkle in his eyes and you know what, you actually hate him, he's such an asshole--

"You know I'm willing to bet I'd see a spike if you were still hooked up to that heart monitor."

"Oh, fuck you," You laugh, your shoulders relaxing.

"She does bite back," He says, humor clear on his features. "Was wondering if I should start concussion protocol."

You roll your eyes. "If you must know, I have a mountain of homework to do and very little time to do all of it, so."

You gesture to your coffee cup. "Caffeine it is."

"You know, as your former doctor, I'd have to advise you against finishing that. Please tell me you at least ate something with it?"

"... I had a pack of fruit snacks from the bottom of my bag?"

Dr. Abbot sighs, looks heaven-ward and mutters "kids" under his breath and, in a mirror of the week prior in the hospital room, points one finger at you and says:

"Stay."

Again. You're not sure where you would go and you are very inclined to listen. Probably too inclined to listen. Whatever.

He returns after a few minutes with a large iced water, a ham-and-swiss croissant on a plate, and another coffee, this one hot.

Then, smooth and confident, he moves your laptop back to make room, and sets the plate and water in front of you.

"Eat that," He points to the croissant, then to the water. "And drink that. All of it."

Your eyes widen. "Dr. Abbot, you didn't have to--"

"Jack."

"What?"

"We're not in the hospital. And I'm not your doctor."

Your face feels so hot. It has to be on fire. Are you on fire?

“I really can’t—“

“You can,” He assures, self-confident and jeez-us there is no way you’re not thinking about that in bed tonight. Or like, maybe forever?

You want to fight him on this, maybe push back a little, because there’s absolutely no universe in which this means what you want it to mean, but—

There’s a certain temptation to give in. Plus, who knows what other downright sinful things he’d say if you kick up more of a fuss?

“Okay,” You acquiesce (it feels a lot more like melting, though.)

Dr. Abb— Jack doesn’t say anything as you dutifully sip the water and take a bite, he just—

Watches. It’s almost worst than anything that could come out of his mouth.

“There we go,” Okay, you take it back that is a million times worse, “You’d better finish that, you hear me?”

“I will. I promise.”

Jack hums, then pulls a pen out of the pocket of his hoodie and scribbles something on a napkin. He hands it to you, then says:

“Call me.”

And then he just. Turns around, and walks out the door, coffee in hand.

What. The. Fuck.

—

Two things occur after your interaction with Jack in the cafe. Well technically, don’t occur, since the first thing is that you don’t tell your roommate that her kind-of boss maybe possibly flirted with you a teeny bit and gave you his number?

There isn’t really a way to bring that up organically, so you just. Don’t.

The second thing is that after an embarrassing long time about what to even name him in your phone (you settle on Dr. Jack Abbot, keeping the Dr. part as if you’re going to forget) you do not, in fact, call him. Or text him.

So yeah, actually, two things do not occur. There is no occurring. There is a severe lack of occurring.

It’s not that you don’t want to text him (you really do) you’re just not sure how to go about doing so? Like, what does that first text even look like?

‘Hey, thanks for not medically gas-lighting me, wanna get coffee? Except you probably don’t want to get coffee with me, because you’ve seen first hand how neurotic coffee makes me. So, drinks?’

No. Not happening.

You mainly just try to focus on staying busy. Which is easy, because master’s programs are so incredibly good at making sure you never have a waking moment to yourself. It’s so great. (You’re dying.)

Weeks come and go in a blur of late nights, intense study sessions, and minor breakdowns over your workload that turn into major breakdowns about your life (you are now the not-so-proud owner of homemade nose piercing, courtesy of you, Victoria, and two bottles of rosé.)

Soo the nose piercing probably wasn’t the best idea, but now you’re kind of too scared to take it out and honestly it doesn’t even hurt. Victoria made sure that everything was clean and sterile, and honestly she did an amazing job with the placement, so no complaints there.

You just now have a semi-permanent reminder of why not to get drunk when you’re having a bit of a breakdown. At least you didn’t tell Victoria about Jack. You might’ve given yourself bangs.

As it stands, though, the whole “don’t get drunk when you’re having a breakdown” apparently didn’t stick, because a dark Wednesday evening has found you at a bar Victoria told you was great, nursing a a third or fourth beer you really don’t have the money to be drinking.

(It was the cheapest thing the bar sold, anyways.)

You stare at the ring of condensation on the counter in front of you, thinking about the un-texted and un-called contact that’s currently burning a hole in your pocket. For some reason, no matter how busy you get, you never really manage to forget that it’s there.

“Call me.”

God, you think to yourself, pressing the heels of your hands into your eyes, the memory of the low timber of his voice and how warm and nice it felt to be the center of his gaze; the center of his attention.

The memory makes your skin flush, so you throw back the rest of your beer so you can blame the heat on the alcohol.

It’s an unconvincing lie and a miserable action.

“Didn’t know you were old enough to drink.”

You really need to stop taking Victoria’s recommendations. Or maybe remember where she works.

You don’t bother turning to face him, because he sidles up next to you at the empty bar seat.

“I’m legal,” You mumble, the tiniest bit buzzed from the beer.

Glancing over turns out to be a mistake, because he’s wearing a button down with the sleeves rolled up, which means that the arm he has propped on the bar is exposed in all it’s deliciously muscled and freckled glory.

And he’s looking at you. Eyes a little narrowed, tiny smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

He’s a bad idea, is what he is. Just like the sparkling stud in the side of your nose. Except that tiny piece of jewelry doesn’t look nearly as fucking good as he does.

You might be a little more than buzzed, if how much you want to kiss him is anything to go off.

“You stare more than you talk,” Jack says, curling his fist to prop his head up, absentmindedly waving the bartender over. “Always looks like there’s a lot going on in that pretty head of yours.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Cause I’m not sure you mean them.”

The silence between you too isn’t really silence. Not with the dull sounds of bar chatter and shitty bar music and Jack telling the bartender to pour him a drink.

Whiskey, neat.

Figures.

“I would’ve told you that I meant them,” He tosses back the whiskey, almost all in one go. Leaves a tiny bit at the bottom of the glass, swirls it around before continuing. “If you’d called.”

More not-quite silence.

“I wanted to.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” You turn your body to face him, newly mirroring his position, “…I almost did. A few times.”

“Why?”

“Why didn’t I?”

“Why did you almost call?”

You swallow, nearly choking on the sudden lump in your throat. “Um.”

Very eloquent, you are. Truly, a master of poise and class.

“Need some liquid courage, sweetheart?”

“I’ve been drinking beer all night,” You say, sheepish. Sweetheart. God. It’s like he’s trying to torture you.

Is he?

“That’s not real alcohol. Come here.”

The next chain of events are much too sexually charged to happen in a cheap bar with a man who used to be your doctor.

It happens anyway.

You don’t move closer— frozen stock-still in something like apprehension or fear. But not necessarily the unpleasant kind?

The ‘Come here’ must’ve been figurative or metaphorical or something, or maybe he knows that you’re too nervous to comply (even though something in you desperately wants to) because he moves.

Jack reaches a hand up— slow enough that you could back up or push it away if you wanted to.

You don’t. You don’t want to, anyways.

His fingers ghost up your neck before settling on the edge of your jaw, his thumb pressed firm against your chin. He tilts your head back, just a slight angle, and then—

He takes his glass, the one with that little bit of whiskey in it (oh god, did he plan this? Did he leave that whiskey in there on purpose?) and raises the glass to your lips, letting the rum rest heavy against your mouth.

“You ever had whiskey before, kid?”

You shake your head no. You probably have, at some point, but relaying that would require a certain amount of effort and speaking skills— neither of which you are in current possession of.

“It’s gonna burn a little. Swallow it quick.”

What the fuck? Is—

He—

Then he tips up the glass, and you really don’t want whiskey on your face, so you part your lips enough to let the amber liquid be poured into your mouth, and he’s right, it does burn, and it kind of tastes gross.

You screw up your face at the flavor, but do your best to swallow it quickly, feeling the burn of it lick down your throat before settling like a warm, heavy weight in your stomach.

Like that was a normal thing to do, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened, he sits back onto his stool, releasing your face and resuming his position propped up on the bar.

“So. When did you almost call me?”

You don’t drink often. It’s honestly way too expensive, you despise hangovers (you have headaches and migraines all the time, why induce one?) and you don’t much care for the taste of most alcohols.

All of that to say. You are an embarrassingly easy lightweight. A cheap drunk, if you will.

“First time was two weeks ago,” You mumble, maybe not loud enough for him to hear over the shitty bar music, “Got a tea instead of a coffee to study with. Wanted to text you a picture.”

Jack has this easy, warm, but also simultaneously shit-eating expression on his face, which you take to mean that he’s aware of your incredible intolerance for alcohol.

“And what reason did you whip up in that pretty head of yours as to why you shouldn’t?”

You shrug. “Thought you wouldn’t care. Like, maybe you just want to hookup.”

“I do not want to hookup.”

“Oh.”

He motions to the bartender, who pours him more whiskey. What is it with men and whiskey?

“And the other time?”

This one you don’t really want to tell him, but with the alcohol burning away in your stomach and Jack’s equally burning stare, you give in.

“… Wanted to call you and ask you to yell at one of my professors. Cause he’s a dick and doesn’t believe in giving extensions or allowances even if you go to the hospital.”

He snorts. “And why didn’t you?”

You let your head flop onto your arm, halfway on the bar halfway off. “Didn’t wanna bother you. Seemed stupid. Plus, I managed to catch up on all my homework.”

Jack finishes the rest of his drink, then nudges your head off the bar and back onto your arm with the back of his hand. “Don’t lay on there. It’s gross.”

You whine. Your arm isn’t as comfortable as the solid bar top.

He didn’t really respond to your explanation (at least not in any normal way) so instead you decided to amuse yourself by just staring at his face. It’s a nice face.

You narrow your eyes at him. “Did you get me drunk on purpose?”

“No.”

“Then how come I’m drunk?”

“Because you’re a lightweight and whiskey has a higher alcohol content than beer.”

“Oh. Was that flirting? With the—“

You gesture vaguely to his glass and then to your lips. He just raises an eyebrow.

“Do you really need confirmation?”

“Yes.”

His face makes a funny expression. “Yes, that was flirting. The thing at the cafe was too.”

“Oh. That’s good to know. I wasn’t sure.”

“You weren’t sure?”

“Yeah,” Your neck is starting to hurt from lying there, so you prop it up with your hand. It’s only mildly more comfortable. “People don’t flirt with me very often.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“It’s true.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe they are and you just don’t notice?”

“I would notice.”

“Kid, you just asked me if hand-feeding you my whiskey was flirting.”

You shrug, jostling your head and nearly slipping. “I don’t come to bars like, ever. Maybe that’s normal bar etiquette.”

“If you don’t come to bars, then why are you here tonight?”

You arm is too tired to keep holding your head up and your vision feels like it’s processing at a lower frame rate, like an old video game, so you put your head back on the bar top. Jack does a funny little huffing noise, and sticks the palm of his hand under your head right before it lands on the table, so you’re lying on his hand instead of the bar.

“Your hand is warm.”

“Is it now?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.”

His eyes catch on the piece of jewelry now adorning your nose.

“When’d you get that?”

“Last week. Got drunk with Victoria— uhm, Javadi.”

“I know what her first name is, thank you sweetheart.”

“Right. Anyways, she had some nose jewelry from her mom, and kept drinking rosé and crying about our workload, I mean, hers is like, definitely worse than mine, you know, medical student and all, but we were drunk and we thought why not? Like, she’s a doctor, she knows how to sterilize stuff and keep it clean. She chickened out and wouldn’t let me give her one. Which makes sense. Cause I didn’t give myself a nose piercing. I had her do it.”

“You been keeping it clean?"

“Mhm. Twice a day.”

“Good girl.”

Jack sighs a little, the thumb that’s pressed against your temple beginning to sweep back and forth.

“You don’t belong in a place like this, kid.”

“I don’t?”

“No.”

“Oh. Okay. I think I wanna go home.”

Jack just nods, still rubbing your temple. It feels too intimate for a bar, but it feels really nice, and you don’t really want him to stop.

“Do you have a ride?”

“No. Victoria went to sleep before I left. She has an early morning. She works really hard.”

He hums. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You don’t have to,” You mumble, “I know you’ve got the. The leg.”

Some sort of unreadable look flashes across his face, the kind of look you probably wouldn’t be able to decipher even if you were sober and fully in possession of all your faculties.

“I know I don’t have to. But I’d feel better if I saw you get home safely with my own two eyes.”

You huff. “This isn’t some sort of sex thing, right? Like, you get me drunk so you’ll have to take me home, and then you know where I live, and then you take me to my room and then I’m drunk so i’m easier to coerce—“

“Fuck, no. Has someone ever tried that with you?”

“No. I’ve heard about it, though.”

“Look at me,” He raises your head a little with his hand, eyes searching your face. “You ever feel uncomfortable or unsafe, in any way, call me. I don’t care what time it is or if you think you’re bothering me. You’re not. Okay?”

That’s probably too intense for… whatever thing you guys have going on. But you’re not really normal, and it just sounds so nice, having someone to call.

“Okay.”

Jack nods again. “Alright. Let’s get you home. Come on, up we go.”

He manages to get you too your feet after a minor amount of stumbling on your part —“Jesus, kid, you are a lightweight”— and keeps one stabilizing arm around your waist as he helps you home.

“Your arm feels nice.”

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t talk very much except little mutterings here and there.

“Careful— there’s a big crack there.”

“Don’t walk into that trash can.”

“Keep your eyes open.”

“Almost there.”

The walk back to your house isn’t far, like most of the places you go to since moving to Pittsburgh.

“I can get up there myself,” You say, motioning to the stairs that lie in front of you and lead up to you and Victoria’s apartment, “Thank you, though. I’ll text you in the morning. I promise.”

Jack let’s go of you and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Don’t forget to drink water before you go to bed. At least a full glass.”

You clasp your hands behind your back. “Goodnight, Jack.”

“Goodnight, kid.”

—

Two days later finds you sitting at your tiny table, phone sitting face-up, Jack’s contact open and painfully empty.

You forgot to text him in the morning, because your hangover was fucking awful (You can’t even think about whiskey without getting nauseous again) and then you had school and… well. Now it’s been two days, and you still need to text him.

Victoria walks past you, two steaming mugs of coffee in her hands. She sets one down in front of you and sits down at the table.

“Still haven’t texted him?”

Apparently, Victoria had set an alarm on her phone to check if you’d made it home okay and ended up seeing you and Jack outside the apartment. She’d had the kindness to wait until the next morning before asking:

“So, you and Dr. Abbot?”

Vomiting had saved you from answering immediately, though you did end up telling everything that had happened after you finished worshiping the porcelain altar. Talking and throwing up don’t mix.

“No,” You answer her miserably. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious that he’s into you. Based on,” She winces, “Past evidence. I doubt a text is going to put him off. Probably?”

“I told him I’d text him yesterday morning.”

“In your defense, you spent pretty much all day yesterday dying, so. I’m sure he figured that might happen.”

You take a generous gulp of coffee. “Should I just say hi?”

“I’m really not the person you should be asking for romantic advice.”

You take her by the shoulders. “You’re all I have, Victoria.”

“Um,” She sets her mug down. “Maybe something like, hello? Say sorry for not texting?”

You hum, typing out the sentiment, then slide the phone over to her. “Does that sound awkward?”

“Again. I really do not think you want to ask me.”

You chew on your lip, drink the last of your coffee in one go, totally burn the shit out of your tongue, then send the text.

You promptly stand, your chair screeching loudly as it nearly tips over, and run over to your fridge.

“Fuck. Do we have any of that rosé left?”

“It’s seven in the morning?”

“Desperate times, Victoria.”

She leans over, glancing at your phone, then gasps. “He’s typing!”

“Already?!” You screech, running back over to the table and hunching over your phone. Sure enough, the little bubble is on your screen, little dots jumping.

“What’s he saying?”

“I don’t know! You read it!”

Victoria snatches your phone and stares at it with the same amount of focus that you’ve previously only seen when she’s an hour deep into some medical textbook.

“Oh my god.”

“What? What?!”

She shoves the phone into your face.

Don’t worry about it, kid. Thought you might be hungover. You could always make it up to me, though.

“Oh my god,” You repeat. “Is it weird that I think it’s hot when he calls me kid?”

“Like, in the grand scheme of things? No. But probably.”

You pick absentmindedly at your hangnails. “I’m gonna text him back."

You type out a quick message and hit send before you can chicken out.

How am I supposed to make it up to you?

The dots reappear for a few seconds.

Let me take you on a real date.

You slam your hands (and phone) onto the table and whip your head to Victoria.

“He wants to take me on a date!”

The apartment becomes filled with the shrill squeals and screams of hysterical joy.

“Say yes!” Victoria screams. “You have to say yes. Please. For both of our sakes.”

“Shouldn’t I play hard to get? Don’t guys like that?”

“I don’t know. Haven’t you like, already unintentionally done that? Plus, Abbot is a pretty straightforward guy.”

“You’re right.”

When are you free next?

Tomorrow. You?

I have class until 3 :/

I’ll pick you up at 5.

You squeal again, practically jumping out of your seat and running to your room, throwing yourself on your bed.

Victoria follows a few minutes after, though in a much calmer manner.

“I can’t believe this is happening. You’re going on a date with my boss—“

“Oh my god, don’t say it like that.”

“So we’re ignoring the age gap?”

“No.”

“No judgement here, I know some people think experience is quite the kink—“

“Shut up—“

She laughs, leaving your room but leaving your phone on the nightstand by your bed.

You’re actually going to do it. You’re going on a date. With Jack Abbot. He wants to go on a date with you.

You only manage to stop screaming into your pillow when the downstairs neighbors shout for you to stop.

—

5 pm the next day arrives in a whirlwind of panic, about two million outfit changes, desperate makeup application, and way too much deliberation over what panties to wear for somebody who never has sex on the first date. Or like, ever, really.

By the time Jack has arrived (bearing a bouquet of flowers. Not roses, not the cheap dyed ones, but the kind of selection that takes time to make and time to choose) you’ve worked yourself into a frenzy about possibly being both under and over-dressed at the same time.

All Jack says, however, when meet him downstairs is a sort of winded:

“You look beautiful.”

And then you’re off.

The date itself is actually relaxing and easy, like being in Jack’s presence usually is. He asks about your schoolwork and classes and actually listens when you tell him what you’re studying. He doesn’t belittle your major or make himself seem self-important, like his job and career are better than yours. He actually says that he’s impressed that you manage to balance your health and workload so well, to which you respond by pointing at your nose stud and say “Not all that well.” which makes you both laugh.

He glares at you when you even glance at the check, which kind of makes you want to punch him and kiss him senseless.

He walks you home and, when you hesitate to initiate, pushes you against your apartment door and kisses you so hard your lips are tingling when he whispers a breathless:

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

After that, Victoria bans you from speaking about anything beyond talking or hanging out that happens on your dates, because: “I still have to look him in the eye at work, and I really don’t want to hear about how good my boss’s tongue feels in your mouth.”

You can’t exactly blame her for that.

One date becomes two which becomes three, then four, and then you start staying over at his place a couple times a week because it’s way nicer than yours anyway.

One of the adjustments of your boyfriend (can you call him that? Are you guys dating? Or just going on dates?) being a doctor, and also apparently caring about you as a human being on a fundamental level, is that he actually worries about your health. Like, always.

“Put the ibuprofen bottle down, you’ve already had five today.”

“Are you tracking my medication usage?”

“Yes. Who else is going to stop you from giving yourself liver failure?”

Or:

“What’s your heart rate average been today?”

“…One-forty?”

“So do you think having an energy drink for breakfast is a good idea?”

“…”

“That’s what I thought.”

In some ways, it’s annoying. But in a lot of other, overpowering ways, it’s so… relaxing, to have someone around to think of you. You don’t really understand why or how he gets fulfillment out of helping you manage your life day-to-day, but he does, and does anything else really matter?

There are, of course, hiccups. There is the awkward moment where a two-week long flare sends you to the PTMC because you faint at school and school protocol requires they dial 911, and then even after the paramedics arrive and you explain to them that your body just hates you, your heart rate won't lower from the low 120's so then they insist they take you to the hospital, where Dr. Robby gets to meet you for the first time. And the entire day shift. It's about as awkward as it sounds.

Sometimes Jack has bad pain days too. He gets a little waspish, a little snappy, because being the man that he is (and just a man, at the end of the day) he doesn't like acknowledging that not having a leg means he has limitations. But just like he doesn't pity you or make you feel incapable when you hate your body or get sick for the thirty-millionth time, you do your best to make sure he knows that you get it, and he's still the ridiculously hot doctor you wanted to bang even with a 100.4 degree fever.

"It was actually 101.4," He likes to correct from the bathtub, steam curling around his neck and shoulders. "Your heart rate would spike every time you looked at me."

You bear through the reminders of your own awkwardness for his sake. Plus, it's hard to hate him for it, especially when he's always coming up with new and inventive ways to thank you for taking care of him (even though you insist he doesn't have to, because he's literally been taking care of you since the day you met.)

And, you know. There are worse ways to spend one's time.

₊⊹

[goldiwrites]

read your mind

pairing: jack abbot x resident!reader

summary: jack had made it clear from the start—he was only available for casual, no strings attached stress relief. the way he acts after finding out you went on a date says something else entirely. (9.5k wc)

warnings: 18+ MDNI, porn with some plot, angst, coworkers with benefits, jealous!jack, yearning!jack, unspecified age gap, attending/resident power dynamics, jack is an ass (he gets slapped so it's chill), pet names (pretty girl, sweetheart), detailed explicit smut, mean!jack (reader likes it), dom!jack, brat/brat tamer vibes, dirty talk, dacryphilia, unprotected pnv, car sex, cowgirl, doggy, oral (f & m receiving), fingering, face sitting, chokehold, spanking (all my jack ass man believers stand up), breast & nipple play, pussy slapping, squirting, little blue pill mention, apologies & confessions, happy ending, fem!reader, reader is dana's niece, no physical description/mention of being blood related, dana haunts the narrative, no use of y/n, dual pov (i think), ending kinda rushed but fuck it we ball, briefly proofread so no doubt incorrect grammar lols

authors note: woof woof, bark bark. this is 70% filth, 20% angst, 10% fluff. i have no excuses honestly. no seriously this was only meant to be 5k. majority written at 3am in sleep deprived insanity. some of the smut warnings are just mentions, not explicit details. this is kinda toxic, if that's not your thing keep scrolling :-)

song inspo: read your mind - sabrina carpenter

masterlist

You say that you need to be alone But night and day, want me at your beck and call You say you know that you might be crossin' a line Wastin' all our time To think that we could be casual You're not my friend and, baby, you never were Why the fuss if you say you just wanna be mine?

6:55am

Abbot: Meet me at my truck in 15.

No hi, hello, how are you. If you were to scroll through your text thread with Dr. Jack Abbot, you would see that the faux pleasantries stopped three months ago. The two of you started sleeping together four months ago; it took four weeks for Jack to discern that he didn't need to use basic human greetings to get you in his truck, in his bed. That's not to say you were easy—god, no—it was just that you two had a mutual understanding for what this was.

Sex. That was all it was. Pure primal, fuck like you're going to die otherwise, sex.

It started after the night of the PittFest mass casualty. You had come in early along with your fellow night shifters to work through what was one of your most gruelling shifts to date. The Pitt only lost six patients, but the weight of that day was going to stay etched into your bones for the rest of your life.

Dr. Abbot came back to the ED around two am, checking in on how Shen was handling things—at least, that's what he used as a guise. The truth was that he had struggled to close his eyes once he got home, tossing and turning with the police scanner on, endless memories of dust and gunshots plaguing his mind.

He stayed until shift change, the act of caring for others quietening the buried memories that were crawling to the surface. He stayed to keep an eye on his staff—noticing how people were a little more quiet, how they were exchanging soft, hesitant smiles with one another instead of their usual jokes. At least, that's what he noticed about you.

You couldn't remember what exactly was said to transition from you two walking towards your cars to you sinking onto his cock in the backseat of his truck. In your memory overridden by lust, you could vaguely hear him saying something vulnerable; a response you weren't expecting after your exhausted tongue let slip how you were struggling with the events of the day.

Mutual words about feeling on edge, needing some kind of release, were whispered into the hazy dawn glow—the fusing saffron skies and coral clouds painting you both in a different light.

Mosaics of amber and olive flaked with gold stared up at you, catching every morsel of pleasure that scrunched your eyebrows and relaxed your mouth. Strong, sure hands moulded the flesh on your hips, keeping you completely at his mercy as he pounded up into you. One of your hands met the condensation slicked window, the wet glass providing no support as his every thrust bruised your cervix.

Your nails dug crescents into his sun-speckled canvas, a crescendo of moans and gasps drowning out the wet mess gushing from your core. Hands you admired while wrist deep in chest cavities clutched your ass, one rearing back to land harsh slaps to the heated and aching skin—setting the fire coursing through your veins ablaze.

Your head flung back with a guttural cry of his name, the warmth of his release coating your walls plunging you into a sea of ecstasy. A groan of your name pushed through the ringing in your ears, the thick chest pressed against yours rapidly rising and falling with pants.

The sex thick air in the truck turned suffocating in the tense aftermath—both your minds spiralling about how bad of a mistake this was. Jack's stomach curdled from his blatant abuse of power, your hands trembled in fear of fucking for special treatment accusations—terrified of tarnishing your reputation.

Jack was the first to break the silence. "This was a one time thing."

You nodded, avoiding his eyes as you straightened your scrub top, pulling your pants up while his seed continued to leak out of you. "Agreed."

Despite his unforgiving mind reminding him how badly he screwed up, Jack fell into a dreamless sleep—the ghosts that permanently resided in the back of his mind staying locked in their rooms, letting him rest alone for once.

He struggled to make eye contact with Dana when he arrived for his next shift—the feeling of betraying one of his dearest friends gripping his chest. The logical side of him reasoned that you weren't her daughter—you were an adult capable of making her own questionable decisions, and letting him manhandle you in the back of his truck was just one of them. Unfortunately, that logical side couldn't silence the guilt that invaded him when he saw her wrap an arm around your shoulder and kiss your temple.

However, that guilt vanished hours later—replaced with a sick sort of admiration, one wrapped in barbed wires of lust. He always knew you were competent—hell, out of all his residents, he would trust you the most with his life in your hands. He always knew you were beautiful—it was a fact he accepted with ease the second you set foot in the Pitt.

But now, he knew how your pussy felt squeezing his cock—knew how your hips moved the closer you got to your release, how you crumbled into a whimpering mess as you reached your precipice. Your competency mixed with this new knowledge created a dangerous concoction, one that infiltrated his bloodstream and made him drunk on the thought of you.

You tried to not let it affect your work—willed your nerves to steady with a scalpel in hand, trying to ignore the empty ache you felt since you left his truck. The ache you tried to soothe on your own but failed every time. Because Jack Abbot had fucked you better than all of your exes combined, and it pissed you off. You refused to be a cliché—the young resident who followed the older, handsome, charming attending around, basking in whatever affection and praise he discarded without a care.

You were better than that. Stronger. Evans women didn't risk their careers for silver foxes who hid behind wry quips and flirty smiles.

Apparently, you weren't as strong as you thought.

One week later, you found yourself back in his truck—your knees pressed into the worn carpet, drool dripping down your chin and neck, the air filled with the sounds of his grunts and your gagging.

He instructed you to slip a hand into your pants, to swipe your fingers through your folds and show him how wet you were from sucking an old man's cock.

"Fucking soaked," he groaned out, the slick on your hand shimmering like liquid gold as the sunrise filtered through the tinted windows. "Knew you'd like being on your knees," a calloused finger tapped your cheek, urging your glistening eyes to meet his, "always so eager to please."

The finger slid down to your jaw, tracing a line until his hand cupped the back of your neck. His grip was tight and strong, keeping your head exactly where he wanted it. His other hand encircled your wrist, yanking your hand coated in your arousal to his mouth. Eyes black with hunger penetrated yours, daring you to look away and disobey his silent command. His tongue slipped out, licking a strip up your fingers. Your responding whine was muffled by his cock thrusting down your throat, resulting in a sinful vibration that had his spine tingling.

In this moment, he wasn't your attending and you weren't his resident, weren't one of his closest friends' nieces. You were two willing adults—a man and woman troubled by their own demons, seeking release and relief.

His hand gripping your neck kept you still as he started to fuck your mouth in earnest, each hit of his tip to the back of your throat earning him a gag. Jack watched as tears breached your waterline, slipping down your cheeks to mix in with the slobbery mess glazing your neck. His eyes drifted down, taking in the sight of your wrinkled black scrubs—committing it to memory, to fuck his fist to later. The shift of your hips didn't go unnoticed, the way you were trying to grind against nothing drawing a mocking laugh from his chest.

"You that desperate, huh? Drooling all over my cock got you so worked up you're tryna fuck nothing."

You nodded your head with another muffled whine, lust overpowering your innate urge to bite back. He eased your head back, leaving his leaking tip resting on your tongue, letting you fill your lungs with oxygen before he continued his efforts to ruin you.

"Touch yourself, pretty girl."

You happily obliged, trying to pull your hand from his grasp.

"Uh-uh," he tutted, tightening his grip—just shy of leaving bruises. "This one's mine. You got another one, don't you?"

Your hand clutching his thigh for support let go in an instant, eager to please Jack and in turn please yourself.

You were so sensitive, your panties already soaked, your clit puffy from arousal and neglect. The first touch had you mewling around him, your hips humping your hand with fervour. Jack chuckled above you, gleaming eyes enraptured by your desperation.

"Fuck your fingers like you wanna fuck my cock." He ordered, heat gathering at the base of his spine when you obeyed immediately. He brought your hand back to his mouth, eagerly licking and sucking your slick off it, all while keeping his eyes locked on your hooded, hazy ones. "Taste so fucking good," he moaned, his hips picking up speed.

He came down your throat minutes later, watching your eyes roll back as you swallowed all of him down. Your own orgasm rushed up behind you, tightening every muscle in your body as you clamped down on your fingers with a moan.

Jack manoeuvred you onto the seat next to him, brows furrowed as his post orgasm clarity soured his gut again.

He kept his eyes locked on where he was twisting his ring around his finger. "That wasn't—I didn't mean to," he cleared his throat. "I didn't intend on being so harsh—mean."

You could feel the stress radiating from him, his words softly spoken and genuine.

"It's okay," you murmured, biting your lip. "I…I liked it." And because you wanted to ease his worries and silently give him permission—"I've begged for worse."

He lifted his head, shocked eyes meeting yours with a disbelieving chuckle and shake of his head.

"This is gonna keep happening, isn't it?"

You answered by pulling your scrubs and panties down your legs, pouting at him with a twinkle in your eyes.

"Need you to help me clean up my mess, Doctor Abbot."

You collapsed into the drivers seat of your car with two orgasms and a mutual agreement under your belt.

Strictly physical, no strings attached. No kissing, no cuddling, definitely no staying the night. Nothing untoward within the Pitt's walls—these two hookups in the parking lot staying as the only ones.

Never speak a word of this to anyone else.

Three nights—technically mornings—a week you found yourself pulling into Jack's driveway, parking your barely road-legal car behind his truck. His black, navy, and white minimalist interior didn't surprise you one bit, neither did the barren walls. The first few times, he led you into the kitchen with the offer of a drink, exchanging idle chatter about the weird cases that came through the Pitt's doors hours before.

The first time your skin touched his soft sheets, he had you on your back with large, calloused hands pushing your legs towards your chest as he devoured your pussy like a man starved. He made your vision dance with stars, made your ears ring from two earth shattering orgasms before he removed his face—his mouth and chin soaked with your release, a cocky smirk deepening the lines carved around his eyes. Your skin was still tender from his stubble when he sunk in deep, reaching spots you didn't even know existed—pulling sounds from your chest you didn't know you could make.

As you floated from his front door to your car, you knew that Jack Abbot had ruined you for any other man. No one had read your body that quickly before, no one else had found the switch to turn off your brain and give in to primal desire.

And you didn't even know what the simple touch of his lips against yours felt like.

By the sixth night you had learnt absolutely nothing new about him. Well, nothing that was outside of bodies and pleasure.

You learnt he was an ass man, needing to land slaps to your cheeks no matter what position you were in. You learnt he liked to talk—liked to mock every pathetic sound he wrung out of you. You learnt that he had a bottle of blue pills in his bedside drawer, learnt that he was unashamed to swallow one down in front of you and fuck you with his tongue and fingers until it took effect.

You knew exactly what Jack liked in bed. Outside of that? Absolutely nothing.

His favourite colour? Fuck knows. How he cared for his leg after a long shift and long night of screwing you senseless? That was between him and his physiotherapist, you guessed.

And he knew nothing about you. Or, at least, he didn't try to get to know you.

You stopped thinking of this arrangement as friends with benefits—friends felt too generous of a word. Coworkers with benefits sounded the closest to the truth. You worked together, spent at least twelve hours a day in the same building, exchanged the occasional witty remark under fluorescent lights. There were no lingering looks, no secret touches, no dropped voices and subtle smirks. And you were fine with it being that way.

Until you weren't.

By month two it had become impossible to ignore the pang that ricocheted behind your ribcage every time you drove away. The pang that grew to an ache every time you went to Dana and Benji's for dinner.

You adored their relationship, admired it. Your parents' messy divorce had left you skeptical of love, had you doubting if it was worth pursuing if it only ended in misery and spite. But your aunt and uncle softened that cynical side of you, reminding you that yes, love could be messy, but it could also be beautiful and fun. It could be coming home to your best friend everyday, hugging each other even after an argument because going to sleep angry never solved anything.

You tried to find what they had in your exes, putting more effort into relationships that drained you by the end. You heard too many times to count that your lives weren't compatible, that they couldn't give their all to someone who was happy to run out the door when the hospital called.

They didn't understand you—didn't understand what it meant to make a difference, to hold someone's life in the palm of your hands and safely return them to their loved ones. They only focused on the days when you couldn't save someone, when the grief held you captive and motionless. They didn't want to continue holding your hand on those hard days.

And so somewhere along the way you stopped trying—convincing yourself that you were fine with casual, that it was the most suitable relationship for your lifestyle. But every time you saw Dana and Benji, you knew that wasn't true.

They reminded you that you wanted, and deserved, more.

Jack had never slept better. Even with that little voice in the back of his head telling him that he had crossed a line—that he was risking not only your career but his friendship with Dana. He managed to silence that voice three times a week; the sounds of the pleasure he was unleashing on you drowning out everything else.

He truly believed he could keep things separate—that the beautiful woman he had in his bed wasn't the same beautiful woman he trusted and found himself proud of every shift. He could totally keep them separate.

So what if his eyes followed your ass when you walked away from the Hub, admiring how the black scrubs clung like a second skin, knowing how they looked discarded on his bedroom floor. Knowing how the globes of your ass felt clutched in his hands, the sound of his palms slapping them reverberating off his walls.

So what if he found himself craving your taste a minimum of three times every shift, the mere thought of your sweet nectar drenching his face leading to inopportune boners.

No one had to know that whenever he saw you biting back at arrogant surgeons that his eyes were glued to your lips, remembering how good they looked—how good they felt—wrapped around his cock. The no kissing clause had been his suggestion—a subconscious part of him knowing that if he felt your lips against his, he wouldn't be able to let go.

The simple act of kissing felt infinitely more intimate than everything else you did. It was a tender act, saved for the person who walked out his door in the morning only to return in the evening. Saved for the person that had left one cold, winter morning and never returned in the frigid evening.

Jack ignored the warmth that spread throughout him in your company, convincing himself it was just lust, just sexual desire. He convinced himself he didn't need to know anything new about you—he already knew what type of student you were, the doctor he had watched you flourish into from the sidelines.

He knew where to touch you, that mouthing at the spot below your ear made you putty in his hands. He knew what positions had you trembling, had your eyes rolling back as you squirted on his dick, on his face. He knew his favourite view was a tie between you above him, suffocating him as you ground your pussy on his mouth, nose, chin, and him behind you, holding you up with a bicep wrapped around your neck in a chokehold, ordering you to keep your eyes on the mirror across from his bed as he stretched your tight pussy with his thick cock over and over again.

He knew that your car was a piece of shit, knew he was worried every time he heard it sputtering out of his driveway—worried enough to demand you stop driving it, to let him drive you to and from work until you could get it fixed, or better yet, buy a new one from this century. (You compromised by getting the bus instead, saying that you two arriving and leaving together would look suspicious.)

And unfortunately, due to his close friendship with Dana, he knew other things about you. What your childhood nickname was, that you once found an abandoned kitten and tried to hide it from your parents—the kitten that was now an old cat, spending it's days curled up on the couch in Dana's sunroom. He knew your parents had an ugly divorce, one they threw you in the middle of—forcing you to choose a side, which subsequently left you in the care of Dana and Benji for a few years.

He knew more about you than he ever wanted to.

"Strip."

Oh, you fucked up.

The drive to Jack's had been dead silent, his anger rolling off of him in waves—sitting in between you two like a physical being. It had your muscles tensing, and more shamefully, had a fire brewing in your core. Because you liked when he got mad—when he barely spoke a word to you, choosing to get his frustrations out by relentlessly drilling you into his mattress. You liked when he got mean—because at least then you knew he was feeling something towards you other than indifference.

You did as you were told, stripping out of your black scrubs, leaving you in your mismatched bra and panties. From his spot leaning against the wall, Jack could already see the damp patch spreading on your underwear. He let out a humourless chuckle, a thrill running through him seeing how desperate you were already.

"Take your bra off. Lie on the bed."

Again, you followed his instructions with no complaint, no backtalk. Which was the complete opposite to how you had been three hours before—questioning his treatment plan in front of everyone in Trauma One, implying that his orders would cause the patient unnecessary problems later on.

You had a good argument, but he was not going to let your attitude go unchecked. He was not going to let you think the way you spoke to him was something you could do again.

He pushed off the wall, ignoring the pain in his leg—he would deal with it later, once you were in an uber on your way home. He sat down next to you on the bed, trailing light fingers from your ankle up your leg, avoiding the area you wanted him the most. He revelled in the sight of your breasts heaving up and down—you were so responsive, nothing more than his teasing touches starting to unravel you. His fingers continued their journey up your body, skimming over your trembling stomach and resting in the valley between your breasts.

The light touches distracted you enough that you weren't expecting his other hand coming up, slapping your tit before pinching the pebbled nipple. Hard.

"Ah—Jack!" You shrieked, your back arching away—or towards, you weren't sure—from the pain. Whimpers slipped from you as his touch eased up, his head dropping to place soft kisses around the tender skin. The fingers between your breasts trailed to the neglected nipple, tweaking it gently.

He pulled back, smirking when you whined at the loss of his touch. "Anything you want to say before we get started?" He drawled, raising his eyebrows pointedly.

You pouted, pretending to think. "Your curls looked really good today."

A rough hand dropped to your thigh, spreading them apart and pinching the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. "Flattery will get you nowhere, not in this room."

"So there are other rooms where it will get me somewhere?"

"You need to learn when to keep your mouth shut." He didn't give you time to talk back, raising his hand and landing a harsh slap to your clothed pussy. Your hips shot off the bed with a gasp, chasing the friction—needy for it. He openly laughed at you, his free hand pushing your thigh down as he delivered another slap.

He moved back to sit on the edge of the bed, patting his thigh with a warning look. He watched with sick pleasure as you crawled towards him on all fours, grabbing your upper arm once you were close enough and pulling you over his lap with force. You let out a yelp, muffled by the sheets as you failed to catch yourself on your arms.

His hands gripped your ass cheeks, squeezing and kneading them. "Love this ass, sweetheart. Distracts me a bit too much at work, though. Somethin' else you need to be punished for."

You huffed, pushing up on your arms. "How is that my fau—" you cut off with a gasp, a hard slap to your left cheek stealing your breath and jolting you forward. The heat travelled the short distance to your core, adding fuel to the flames already blazing. Your panties were embarrassingly soaked from his rough treatment, sticking to your skin and his scrub pants.

"What did I say about keeping your mouth shut, huh?" His hand rubbed over the tender spot, tsking.

"Technically," you started, voice light and breathy, "you didn't tell me to shut my mouth."

You were rewarded with three slaps in quick succession, pulling a loud moan from you. You ground your hips the best you could, trying to get the right angle for your aching clit to rub against the growing bulge under you.

"Fucking brat," Jack spat, faux malice lacing his tone. "Running your mouth in my ED, and now you're trying to get off without my permission?" He pulled the ruined cloth between your legs to the side, a light finger ghosting along the slick covering your folds. He groaned, pulling his finger back to suck it clean. "You're dripping—not much of a punishment if you're enjoying yourself, is it?"

Any response you had is stolen from your mouth, whines falling out instead as he plunged two thick fingers into you. He didn't start slow—he never did when he was like this—pistoning them in and out at a force that was bordering on inhuman, making sinful wet sounds fill his room. His other hand forced your head into the sheets, muffling your whimpers—the sheets growing damp underneath you from your drool.

He hit your sweet spot with every thrust, your clit rubbing against his leg from the force. You could feel your high rapidly approaching, the spankings leaving your nerve ends feeling raw and exposed. Jack could feel it—how your walls were fluttering and clenching around his fingers, your muffled whines and moans turning high-pitched. He inserted a third finger, stopping the thrusting and leaving them still—the pads of them rubbing oh so slowly against the textured spot.

He knew it felt like torture to you, how slow he was going—keeping you right on the edge, suspended in the air, looking down at the waves of pleasure he was denying you. Your hips moved back and forth, trying to fuck yourself on his fingers. His hand left your head, delivering another harsh slap to your aching ass—making you sob from the unbearable mix of pain and pleasure swirling in your core. "Who said you're allowed to do that, sweetheart?" He asked, mockingly sweet.

"Please," you whimpered, turning your head to look at him with glazed eyes. "Please, Jack."

"Begging isn't gonna do you any favours tonight, pretty girl."

He pulled his fingers out, leaving you empty and clenching around nothing. "Up you get," he said, helping you move until you were straddling him—your naked thighs bracketing his clothed ones. One large hand was clutching your ass, keeping your hips from meeting his—prolonging your search for sweet relief. His other hand came up to your mouth, a wet finger tapping your bottom lip. "Clean up your mess," he muttered, hooded eyes focused on your lips parting for him.

You licked the tip of his finger teasingly, moaning at the taste of yourself on his skin. Something low rumbled in his chest, and he pushed all three fingers into your mouth—watching intently as you licked and sucked your slick off of them. Your dazed eyes met his and it struck him—not for the first time—how beautiful you were, how you allowed him to see you like this. It made that annoying thing in his chest happen—the thing that felt like his heart was aching in longing, yearning.

He thrust his fingers in deeper, making you gag around them—watching in sick delight as tears slipped down your cheeks. Your hips started to rock in his hold, seeking friction that you weren't going to find. His cock was painfully hard and tenting his scrubs, making it impossible to ignore—especially not when you looked so fucking ruined.

He removed his fingers from your mouth, a string of saliva keeping them connected to your lips. He felt the overwhelming urge to kiss you—again, not for the first time—and knew that the only way to stop himself from doing so was to fuck you from behind—a position he had been favouring lately, for this very reason.

He unceremoniously shifted you onto the bed next to him—a small, surprised squeak escaping you. His lips twitched at the cute sound, and he briefly forgot what he was doing, what he was mad about. Your hand sneaking onto his lap to squeeze his cock reminded him.

Jack abruptly stood up, placing himself between your open thighs. He gripped your chin, tilting it up so you couldn't look anywhere except his eyes—his desire painting them black, amber flames surrounding the dilated pupils. "You're just making this harder for yourself, sweetheart. You sure there's nothing you wanna say?"

Your eyes dropped down to the tent inches from your face, your fingers twitching with the need to start palming him. "You sure you're not the one making it harder for yourself?" You met his eyes again, watching them narrow menacingly as your innocent smile morphed into a cheeky smirk.

His hand moved from your chin, gripping your cheeks hard and squishing them 'til your lips puckered. "Still haven't learnt your lesson." He pushed your head back, encouraging you to lie back.

He grabbed the sides of your soiled underwear and yanked them down your legs, leaving you completely bare while he was still fully dressed. His hands found your waist, flipping you onto your stomach with ease and pulling you back so your legs were hanging off the bed with your ass in the air.

Your cheeks received one more slap each—Jack really was obsessed with your ass—before you felt his tip prodding at your entrance, slipping down to nudge your clit. You whined at the teasing, pushing your ass back against him. A large hand splayed between your shoulder blades, pressing you into the mattress with force.

"Stay. Still." He ordered through gritted teeth.

Then he plunged in, sinking to the hilt in one thrust. A choked moan lodged in your throat, his size still a shock no matter how many times he stretched you open. He gave you no time to adjust, setting a harsh rhythm, making your hands scramble around on the sheets looking for support.

"So big," you gasped out.

A deep laugh rumbled from him. "So big," he mocked you. "You say that every time."

Skin slapping against skin filled the room, along with his grunts and your mewling. You could feel the fabric of his scrubs on the back of your thighs—the fact he was fucking you while fully clothed sending a shiver down your spine.

Jack picked up on the signs of your impending orgasm straight away, feeling his own tightening his balls. "Hold it," he demanded, slipping a hand under your hips and easily finding your clit. You sobbed into the sheets as he rubbed tight circles, your body locking up in effort to keep your release at bay.

"S'not fair," you whined, high and wrecked. The fire in your core was raging, threatening to set you aflame—Jack's orders be damned.

"Y'know what's not fair?" Jack grunted. "When pretty residents walk around like they own the place." His hand moved from your back, his palm resting on the sheets next to your head. He dropped forward, dragging his lips up your spine, biting down on the curve where your shoulder met your neck. Your eyes rolled back, the pain adding to the dizzying pleasure that was making your whole body ache from holding back. "S'not fair," he mocked you again, "when you make me walk around hard. All. Fucking. Shift." He punctuated the last words with hard thrusts, the force knocking breaths out of you.

"Come in me, Jack, please." You whined, delirious and in need of whatever he'll give you. "Need it s'bad, I'll be good f'you—promise!"

He groaned at your begging, pulling out at the last second to deny you what you were so prettily asking for. Even if he wanted nothing more than to fill you to the brim, this was part of your punishment. He spilled over your ass and lower back, painting your skin in white streaks.

You sobbed at the loss of him, at his hand leaving your burning clit and giving you no relief. He leaned back over you, his mouth hovering right next to your ear. "Aw, you wanna come, sweetheart?" You nodded fervently, tears soaking the sheets below you. He gripped your chin tight, turning your face until your lips were inches from his—your breaths mingling together. "Be a good girl and apologise."

"But I didn't do anything wrong." You whimpered out.

He tutted. "Try again."

His hand returned to your clit, fingers rubbing agonisingly slow figure eights—the fire blooming at full force beneath his touch. He watched the sweat beading at your hairline, the tremors running through your body making his bed shake; you were so determined to not give in, and it only made him inevitably breaking you that much sweeter.

He moved his head, nuzzling into the side of your neck—breathing in your intoxicating scent before he started nipping and sucking at the spot below your ear. And just as he predicted, that was your breaking point. Your body shook harder underneath him, a debauched moan slipping from you lips.

"M'sorry, Jack! I'm so sorry—won't do it again." You whimpered, hips rolling back and forth, trying to hump his hand. "Please—it hurts so bad!"

Satisfied that you finally said you were sorry, he moved off of you—flopping onto his back next to you and not wasting a second to grasp your waist and pull you on top of him. He positioned you so you were hovering over his face, giving you a moment to get your bearings before yanking you down and absolutely devouring you.

Your hands were quick to thread into his curls, tugging hard as you rode his face. Three fingers thrust into you again, this time curling and hitting your g-spot perfectly. The most sinful sounds he'd ever heard fell from your mouth, a sharp cry jolting out of you when his lips wrapped around your clit and sucked hard. You were so close already, the teasing and edging for what felt like hours leaving a painful knot that was ready to unravel violently.

"Jack—oh, fuck!" You shook above him, your body glistening with sweat as you climbed higher. He groaned, marvelling at the sight of you—yeah, he was never going to forget this. It sent vibrations through your pussy and your vision started to blur at the edges. "I'm gonna come—please let me come!"

He doubled his efforts, silently telling you to let go. You threw your head back with a scream, an all-consuming orgasm tearing through your core—ripping every single one of your nerves apart, a new galaxy bursting behind your eyes. You squirted all over Jack's face, his eyes never once leaving your heaving body as he eagerly drank every drop you offered him. He continued fucking his fingers into you, mouthing at your clit as you came down. You tried to lift your hips off his face but he refused, not letting up until overstimulated sobs left you and you begged him to stop.

He sat you on his chest, rubbing his hands along your thighs and hips. "That wasn't so hard now, was it?"

You returned home feeling both light and heavy—your head light from the brief sub space Jack put you in, your heart heavy because you couldn't do this anymore.

You couldn't do casual, you deserved more. And you knew Jack could never offer you what you truly needed, not when he was so adamant on being alone—which, honestly, was bullshit. He was never alone—choosing to either strap his SWAT vest on or pick up an extra shift in the ED, calling you up when he wanted company sex, refusing to sit in the silence by himself.

You didn't re-download the dating apps right away, content with accepting the fact that you were ready to start looking again. You continued your routine with Jack, albeit with a little less enthusiasm than usual. If he picked up on it, he didn't say anything—it wasn't like you two talked much anyways.

A few weeks later, you were at the Northside Farmers Market with your mom, browsing the stalls before you had to leave for your night shift. It was something the two of you tried to do every other week when your schedules lined up—an old tradition you had as a kid, every Friday going to the market to buy fresh, local ingredients for your family dinner the following Sunday. It stopped when your parents' tumultuous arguments in front of the vendors, the public, tainted something you once held so dear. Now that you were an adult, you were determined to replace those memories with good ones again.

You were at the baker's stall, exchanging idle chit-chat with Billie—the vendor—when a tall man approached the stall. Billie's face lit up at the sight of him, the older woman rounding the counter to pull him into a hug.

"Ollie," she said, pulling back and swatting his arm lightly. "I should be mad at you, y'know. You work how many blocks away, and you're only visiting your Ma now?"

You turned to the man in surprise, watching his cheeks flush red. He was older than you—most likely in his forties, if you were to guess from the few grey hairs streaking his dark beard. He was ruggedly handsome but tamed—his clothes looking like he would fit in on a farm, but the stitching on his jacket told you he would've paid at least a couple hundred for it.

Before he could respond, Billie looked between the both of you—the smile of a cunning mother overtaking her face. She placed a hand on his bicep, turning to you. "This is my son Oliver, he works at Westbridge as an anesthesiologist. If I remember correctly, you work at a hospital, don't you?" Oliver turned to you fully then, kind green eyes looking you up and down in pleasant surprise.

You smiled bashfully. "Yes, you remember correctly. I'm a third year resident at PTMC, specialising in Emergency Medicine." Oliver held out a hand and you shook it, offering him your name.

Billie returned to the other side of her stall, helping out with another customer. You and Oliver stepped to the side, falling into easy conversation about your jobs. Time passed quickly, and before you knew it your warning alarm to leave for your shift was going off. Oliver politely asked if he could get your number—saying that it's been really nice talking to you, and that he would love to get to know you more over a coffee or dinner sometime. You happily gave it to him with the smallest flutter in your chest—something in the shape of hope.

You found your mom at the books & records stall, gushing to her about the handsome man you just met.

"People hardly meet organically anymore!" She exclaimed, looping her arm through yours, the two of you practically squealing as you left the market.

Not even an hour later, you were standing at the Hub, talking to Lena about the parents in North Three with a degree in medicine from Google University, when your phone vibrated in your pocket. You pulled it out to see a text from an unknown number.

7:15pm

[phone]: It was really great meeting you today, I would love to take you out for dinner one night soon if you're interested [phone]: I completely understand if our schedules don't match up, no pressure at all :) [phone]: This is Oliver, by the way. If that wasn't obvious already haha

"I know that look," Lena singsonged, pointing an accusatory finger at your face. You looked up from your phone to see a sly smirk on her face. "Who's the guy?"

You looked away, biting your lip to suppress the smile you didn't realise had bloomed across your face. "It's no one, really. We only met, like, an hour ago."

"Ah, young love," the older nurse swooned. "Let me know how it goes, hon." Then she was throwing you a wink and calling after Vivi who was rushing past.

Luckily, you and Oliver figured out you both had the following Friday off and made plans to go to a family-owned Italian restaurant—not too intimate, not too casual. You kept the date to yourself—not even telling your mom—in fear of jinxing it. The two of you exchanged a handful of texts before your date, each one making you feel more giddy about your upcoming date.

You went to Jack's once in the week before your date with Oliver—cutting your usual three nights a week down to one, claiming that you were feeling too unwell the other nights. Which technically wasn't a lie, the guilt was starting to make you feel uneasy. You reminded yourself that you had no reason to feel guilty—you and Jack weren't dating, weren't exclusive, and you hadn't even been on a date with Oliver yet. But even with your reasoning, there was something clenching your chest and curdling your gut. You reminded yourself that you and Jack were just coworkers who used each other for stress relief; you didn't tell Shen about your date, so why would you tell Abbot?

The guilt stayed with you as you got ready for the date—feeling like you were trying to cover a cold secret with someone else's warmth. Your thoughts were briefly distracted when your phone pinged with a text.

7:03pm

Abbot: Come over to mine tonight. 9pm.

You: Sorry, can't tonight. I have plans.

Abbot: 👍

You scoffed at his response, your previous guilt evaporating in an instant. This was what you needed—the reminder that you deserved more than what Jack could give you.

You walked into the restaurant just before seven thirty, feeling like you had something to prove—to yourself or to someone else, you weren't sure.

The date went well—great, even. Oliver was charming, but also humble—mentioning his less than glamorous upbringing, how he got into med school on a scholarship, that the first thing he did with his first big paycheck was pay off part of his parent's mortgage.

You bonded over the struggle that was med school, the failing healthcare system, the weirdest cases you've worked on. Dinner continued into dessert, then another bottle of wine, but there was still a tension in the back of your head. It had you turning your head when he leaned in to kiss you, his lips brushing your cheek instead of your lips. It had you comparing the hand on your bare shoulder to another hand, one that wore a dark ring and knew exactly how to touch you.

You parted ways with tentative plans for a second date; the next time your nights off aligned wasn't for another two weeks, and you both didn't want to put too much pressure on a set date just yet.

You visited your mom the next day for lunch, filling her in on all the details about your date. She was ecstatic for you, claiming that she always knew the market was going to pay you back somehow.

Monday rolled around quickly, and you walked into your shift ten minutes early like you always did—allowing yourself a few minutes to catch up with your aunt before she went home. Dana was at the Hub as usual, complaining to Robby about the nurse shortage and the pressure it was putting on her people.

She looked over as you approached the counter, her face morphing into a smirk that you knew meant she had been talking to your mom.

"Hey, doll. How was your weekend?" She emphasised the question with a small wink. "Your mom told me you had a handsome date on Friday."

You rolled your eyes at her fondly. "I should've known she'd tell you as soon as I left on Saturday."

Dana rounded the counter and slung an arm around your shoulder. "It wasn't straight away, she waited until we had dinner that night." You laughed with a small shake of your head. "Don't leave me hanging, how was it?"

Robby was still stood behind the counter with his arms crossed, partially paying attention to you and your aunt. His face was pulled into a puzzled expression as he observed Jack standing not far behind you—clearly eavesdropping on your conversation with Dana, a small frown furrowing his brows and setting his mouth in a straight line. It wasn't really eavesdropping since you were both talking at a normal volume, any of your colleagues passing by would've heard your conversation.

What Robby found odd was that Jack had stopped walking on his way to the lockers to listen, one hand frozen on his bag strap and the other curled into a tight fist at his side. His cheek twitched in the way that meant something was bothering him, and Robby came to the chilling realisation that Jack was jealous. Over you—Dana's niece.

You started recounting the date to Dana, a giddy smile stretching your lips. It felt good to be openly wanted by someone, to not be a secret kept in the dark—to be something other than a stress relief booty call.

Robby watched in unease as Jack continued to stand as still as a statue, the vein in his forehead starting to bulge as a dark red crept up his neck.

Robby grabbed a tablet and casually rounded the Hub's counter, trying not to draw your attention. He started towards the North rooms, grabbing Jack's bicep in an iron grip and forcing him through the North Bay doors.

Once safely out of your earshot, he turned to his friend with a scolding glare.

"What the fuck did you do?"

Jack was pretty damn proud of himself. He managed to get to the end of his shift without blowing up at you once. It was due to Robby's threat ringing in his ears for the most part—having your best friend threaten to castrate you with a dead serious face tends to lower your anger to a simmer.

Jack hadn't uttered a word to Robby, the guilt and jealously written all over his face told him enough. Robby kindly reminded him that he was the least of Jack's worries—if Dana found out he so much as touched a hair on your head, losing his dick would be sweet relief compared to what she'd do.

So, Jack treated you as normal—ignoring the stabbing in his chest, the beast in his gut demanding to be let out.

There were less than ten minutes left of his shift when he caught sight of you talking to Lena at the north nurse's station.

Keep walking, he told himself. His feet didn't seem to get the memo.

"I meant to ask," Lena said, leaning her arms on the counter. "Any update on Market Guy?"

Robby had dragged Jack away before he heard the full recount of your date to Dana, which he had been both grateful for and disappointed by. He needed to know like he needed air to breathe—which was a terrifying realisation to him.

"We went out for dinner on Friday," you replied, biting your lip to hold back yet another smile. "It was really nice. He was a total gentleman, very charming, pretty down to earth." Lena nodded along, hanging off of every word. "We're planning a second date for when our schedules next align."

That was it for Jack. His vision clouded with a red fog, the beast in his gut rearing its head and breaking out. He stormed over to the two of you, gripping your upper arm.

"We need to talk," he bit out, ignoring the shocked look Lena gave him.

He didn't wait for your response, pulling you towards the only empty Central room. Once the door was closed, you struggled in his hold, trying to rip your arm free.

"Let go of me, Dr. Abbot." You demanded as calmly as you could, your heart beat quickening at the storm rolling over his face. He let go but stepped closer, crowding your personal space.

"That's why you couldn't see me on Friday? Because you had a date?" He seethed through clenched teeth.

You stepped back, anger starting to grip your chest. "I'm sorry—what?"

He followed you, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Did you sleep with him?"

"How the fuck is that any of your business?"

Unbeknownst to the both of you, the day shift had started filtering in—Robby and Dana finding their command posts at the Hub. Dana was the first to notice the two of you in Central Seven, her eyebrows drawing together at the furious look on your face.

"Hey," she said to Robby, getting his attention. She nodded towards where you and Jack looked like you were having a heated discussion. "You know what's going on with them?"

Robby followed her eyeline, tensing as he saw what he prayed wouldn't happen within the walls of his ED. He rubbed the back of his neck, shaking his head. "Uh, no, not a clue."

Dana eyed him suspiciously. "Well, do you mind telling them we have patients who could use that room?"

"I'd rather not go in there."

Dana slowly turned to him, levelling him with a glare. "Michael Robinavitch, what aren't you telling me?"

Back in the room, your hands were starting to shake from anger, and Jack's head was throbbing from holding back the full wrath of his jealousy.

"I have the right to know if you're screwing other people."

You let out a humourless laugh. "Are you kidding me right now? You don't have the right to know shit!"

Jack's cheek twitched. "Yes I do. You said no to me to see some other guy."

"Oh, what—so I'm meant to come running at your beck and call?"

His jaw flexed and he opened his mouth, but your anger and disbelief at the situation had taken over.

"This has just been one big waste of time! I don't want casual anymore—not with you, not with anyone."

Jack opened his mouth before he could think better of it. "I didn't hear you complaining when you opened your legs for me."

A crack echoed throughout the room, the sound of your palm slapping Jack's cheek filling the tension riddled air. "You're a fucking asshole, Jack Abbot."

You shoulder checked him as you rushed out the door, refusing to let him see the tears streaming down your cheeks. You hurried past the Hub, not noticing Dana and Robby watching you with shock painting their faces. Your hand was tingling from the impact, your vision blurring as you made your way out the ambulance bay doors.

Dana didn't stop to think, storming into Central Seven where Jack was staring at the ground—his hand rubbing his tender cheek.

"What the fuck did you do to my baby?" She demanded, her voice dangerously low.

Shit.

The cold morning air made the tears staining your cheeks sting slightly, the sensation grounding and stopping you from completely falling apart. You never cried over a man—it was a rule you made for yourself when you were young, after seeing how your dad would make your mom fall apart at least once a week. They weren't worth your tears.

You wanted to charge back into the ED and slap Jack again for making you cry.

You stayed sitting on the ground with your back against the brick wall until your tears dried, until your breaths evened out and didn't hurt on their way out your lungs. You tensed when you heard uneven steps approach you—there was only one person whose steps sounded like that.

Your head shot up as he sat down opposite you, glaring daggers at him. He raised his hands placatingly.

"Please don't hit me, I'm here to apologise." When you didn't make a move to leave or attack him, he slowly lowered his hands. "I'm really sorry, I didn't mean what I said—to imply that you were easy."

"Then why did you say it?" Fuck, you hated how small your voice sounded.

He let out a long breath, looking up at the sky. "Because I was mad—upset." He looked back at you, his eyes softer than you'd ever seen them. "I didn't know that's how you felt…you never said anything to me."

"How could I when you barely speak to me? You just fuck me and then push me into an uber. Really makes a girl feel special," you shook your head, wrapping your arms around your chest—starting to feel exposed. "I can't read your mind, Jack. You can't tell me you want casual one day and the next get mad because I went on a date."

He had the decency to look ashamed, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut. "That's fair. I don't really have any excuses, no good ones at least."

You sighed, your head feeling heavy and starting to throb. "I don't need excuses; I just want to know why. Why you act like you don't know me, why you won't—" your voice dropped, wobbling slightly. "Why you won't kiss or hug me. I mean," you let out a bitter chuckle, "do you even know what aftercare is?"

He started to twist his ring around his finger, his mouth moving side to side as he struggled to find the right words to say. "Kissing and hugging felt too intimate—felt like things I couldn't take back." He looked up at you again, his eyes glassy. "I didn't want to admit to myself that I had—have—feelings for you, and the thought of kissing you…I mean I've thought about it a lot—to the point it's been driving me insane." He rubbed a hand along his jaw, a huffed laugh leaving him. "I was worried that by kissing you I wouldn't be able to let go, and that terrified me. It meant you could become another photo I keep in my nightstand."

You knew what he was talking about—you had opened it while looking for tissues, finding a collection of photographs in the drawer. You tried not to snoop, but you were fairly certain one of them was his wife and a couple others were his old army buddies.

"I get that, I do. The universe has handed you more than enough grief and hardship for one lifetime." You stood up, closing the distance between you and sitting next to him. "But that isn't solely your decision to make, Jack. You've been hurting us both by keeping your feelings to yourself." You brought your knees up, hugging them to your chest and resting your cheek on them. "And, honestly? A girl needs kisses and cuddles after coming four times in one night; a sub drop can be pretty brutal."

Jack's guilt multiplied tenfold. "Shit. Fuck, I'm sorry—I didn't even think about that." He shifted slightly, turning to look at you fully. "I would like to try again, if you'll let me. No casual bullshit, no pretending like I don't think about you all the time. Lots of kissing and cuddling—and orgasms, so many orgasms."

It was then that you noticed the ice pack in Jack's hands, resting over his groin. You couldn't stop the snort that slipped out. "I see you had a chat with Dana."

"Don't know if I would call it a chat. She's got a harder kick than I was expecting."

You hummed. "Just be glad you didn't get to experience her right hook—she gave my dad a black eye when she found out he was cheating on my mom. And she won't hesitate to give you one if you hurt me again."

His eyes were shining, hope swirling around the honey gold and sunlit green. "Does that mean you'll give me another chance?"

"Yes," you replied, letting the small smile break through. "But no sex until I think you deserve it."

Jack nodded, his own megawatt smile putting the sun to shame. "You're in charge here, sweetheart." He leaned in slowly, his eyes flicking between yours and your lips. "Can I kiss you, at least?"

You barely managed a nod before his mouth descended on yours, his lips achingly tender. He moved slowly, basking in the warmth he had been denying himself of for so long. A cold hand came up to cup your cheek and you jerked away in surprise, making him laugh and apologise before diving back in, settling the hand on your back to pull you in closer.

"I was right," he mumbled against your lips. "There's no way I'm letting go now."

a/n: i'm running away now byeeee

[fangirl-dot-com]

Lacy, oh, Lacy

summary: the three times jack abbot compared you to someone else vs. the one time you were exactly who he wanted but couldn't have anymore.

tags: jack abbot x reader, angst, deep insecurities, jack compares you to samira, robby, and his late-wife (I named her alice), a few scene changes but it's for the plot, trying out [name] but if I don't like it, it's back to y/n for all of you, jack is lowkey an asshole on accident (thinks he's meaning well by complimenting others, but tears you apart in the process), medical inaccuracies, hurt/no comfort (at least for jack), eventual breakup, special end scene guest star, age gape (28-32/50), heavily inspired by lacy by olivia rodrigo (which I suggest listening to while you read) and all the feels that come with that, 18+ MDNI

notes: this hurt to write, and this better hurt y'all in the best angsty way possible! just a reminder that my requests for the hatosyverse are open, and that I'm doing smutty blurbs to build my writing abilities, enjoy!

word count: 7.4k

You didn't understand how you'd been able to score Jack Abbot.

Somehow, the universe decided that you'd be his match, the one he chose to go home to at the end of a bad shift, the one who'd been able to give him the most comfort during his darkest days. You knew what you'd be getting into: the PTSD, the depression, shifts where he felt more like your boss than your partner. But you believed you could get through it; Jack was older, and you liked to think you were mature enough to handle anything thrown your way.

For almost a year, your relationship bloomed in stolen glances across the Pitt, hidden moments in supply closets, and late-night baths spent at his house trying to bury yourself next to his heart. Jack was it for you, and you let yourself dream about a future, ring on your finger, possible children running around the house you shared. The two of you rarely fought, often choosing to apologize for anything under the sun before arguments grew too large for your feelings.

Never once did Jack make you feel inadequate, even if you had voiced early on that you truly didn't understand why he picked you. Compared to his gorgeous salt-and-pepper curls and freckled skin and large stature, you felt plain. Your hair was always pulled into a slick ponytail, makeup caused acne breakouts after 12-hour shifts, and what little time you had to yourself, you spent it at home, reading a book, instead of going out with friends and colleagues. People looked at you without so much as a second glance. Jack, on the other hand, made heads turn and nurses blush if they somehow caught his attention long enough for him to send a look their way. You couldn't remember the last time you went through a shift where a female (or sometimes male) patient failed to make a comment about the sexy, silver fox doctor.

You never made it more than it was: harmless flirting from people Jack would never think about again once they got discharged.

After, you and he had gone through the HR meetings, the contract signings, and the swearing that your relationship wouldn't get in the way of saving lives or have Jack start playing favorites. To further this, around the 9-month mark of being Jack's, they plucked you from the safety of the nightshift and dropped you right into Robby's hands. But this was how it was going to be from now on; there was no point in arguing as long as you got to keep Jack.

For three months, you persevered. Finding a groove with an already well-oiled shift proved to be harder than it looked. People talked. Nurses gossiped. Doctors speculated. You, through it all, kept your chin high. Their words didn't get to dictate your relationship. During handoffs, Jack still swept you into his arms and kissed you like a man coming back from war. He still told you that dinner was in the fridge once you got home and napped. He still continued to send updates during his shift, text messages from the separate night-shift group chat made after your departure chiming loudly while you ate. And most important of all, he still loved you.

However, nothing could have prepared you for the three times you felt the most unloved. I care, I care, I care, like perfume that you wear, I linger all the time, watchin', hidden in plain sight, ooh, I try, I try, I try, but it takes over my life, I see you everywhere, the sweetest torture one could bear "Hey, Dana," you called out while swimming through the chaos only brought on by a 4th of July shift.

At her name, Dana looked up over the thin frames of her glasses, pausing momentarily to look your way before going back to her board. "Please don't tell me that the 36 hot dog guy is back."

You shook your head, hands coming to rest on top of the vinyl counter. "Not that I'm aware of."

"Thank heavens. What can I do for ya, hun?"

Leaning in, you did a quick glance around the department. "I heard Jack was here early?"

Her eyebrows almost rose to her hairline. "Yeah; he came in with one of his SWAT buddies. GSW to the man's neck, but it looks like he's going to be okay." She reached over and grabbed a tablet. "Actually, can you find Jack for me? He wanted an update ASAP."

Your fingers drummed against the counter anxiously before you took the tablet from her. "I was just about to ask if you'd seen him."

Dana glanced over your shoulder and stuck out her chin in the same direction. "Saw him duck into Room 15. Might be taking a breather; Lord knows he needs one after that raid." She gave you a knowing look, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Maybe you're exactly what he needs."

A rush of heat flooded your face, eyes darting away from hers. "I'll see if I can find him."

You turned away before she could say anything more, hands desperately holding the tablet to your chest. Your shoes squeaked against the tile floor, steps bringing you closer to the room Jack was supposedly in. Once at the door, you raised a hand to draw the curtain away, but the sound of voices—plural—had you stopping. Saliva pooled between your teeth as you listened closely.

"—is the hospital going to pay for it?"

There was a pause before Jack clearly grumbled, "I'll pay for it."

You slowly moved to the side next to the wall where the curtain didn't completely cut the room off. Through the slot, your eyes widened at the sight of a Jack, shirt off, pale chest, wound-care swab twirling in his fingers with Samira sitting in one of the chairs. In the next beat, she stood and walked right past the curtain slot, completely oblivious that you were right behind it. She stopped near the wall and grabbed a pair of gloves before snapping them on.

His brows furrowed. "What are you doing?"

She smiled before rounding to stand behind him. "What you clearly can't."

Begrudgingly, he handed over the swab.

"Did you make a chart?" she asked while dipping the cotton end into a wound cream.

Jack crossed his arms, and his shoulders rolled and dipped. "No. This can stay off the books. Don't need the paperwork from the hospital or police department."

Samira paused. "Would you rather me go get Dr. [Name]? I'm sure she could do this much better than I could."

"No," Jack responded, shaking his head. "She'd just panic about this. There's no need to throw her off her game."

Your stomach flipped. He thought you'd panic? Sure, you'd be worried, but it wasn't like you hadn't seem him hurt before. Whatever wound he had on his back wouldn't be the worst thing he'd come home with after a SWAT shift.

"Isn't she your girlfriend?" She began dabbing at his back, the swab coming back bloodied.

"Yeah, but it's different with you. I don't have to worry about you taking your time or being indifferent about this." He winced at a deeper brush into the graze. "She's not like you, Dr. Mohan. She wears everything on her sleeve. Really, she could learn how to be more level headed like you, Dr. Mohan. I've seen the way you handle traumas. We wouldn't be so in the low if we had about 10 more of you."

He ended with a chuckle like what he just said didn't feel like a knives to your stomach.

Is that what he really thought about you? That you should be more like Samira and her ability to stay cool through anything thrown at her? With a blink, your eyes glossed over.

Jack turned his head, neck twisting to he could meet Samira's eyes. "You won't tell her about this, right? Our little secret?"

You didn't stay to hear what she said, choosing to turn around before you could watch any longer. It was incredible that you were able to stay for so long, submitting yourself to a new kind of torture. Walking back to the nurses station, your steps slowed as if molasses coated the floor, its stickiness clinging to your shoes.

At your oncoming presence, Dana looked over. "Did you find him, hun?"

You forced yourself to not look back at the closed curtain. "Yeah, but he's in the middle of something right now. I'll just catch up with him later."

The tablet gave a small thud as you placed it back into the holder, and you desperately tried to find another patient to busy yourself with, specifically one furthest from Room 15. However, before you could grab one, a hand wrapped around your elbow and tugged.

"Hey, I need you for the incoming trauma," Langdon said as he dragged you with him. "Twenty-year-old female, unconscious for an unknown matter of time."

You nodded silently, allowing him to keep walking you like a dog on a leash until he stopped in front of the ambulance bay sliding doors. Your lungs expanded in a deep, wavering breath.

Now was not the time to panic. You could do this. You could be like Samira. You could show Jack that you could handle a trauma.

During your internal pep talk, the doors slid open, giving way for the gurney and two paramedics.

"BP is 140-over-92 and climbing. No relevant medical history. She woke up once on the way over and vomited before passing out again."

You quickly followed Langdon into the first trauma room and helped transfer her over onto the bed. Immediately, numbers started being shouted while you started your initial exam.

When nothing seemed to blare any red flags, Langdon started impatient as the woman kept deteriorating. Through it all, you willed your hands to stay steady, your mind calm while you mentally went through what could be the matter. You took a step forward, body positioning near her head so you could look at her pupils one more time, and that's when you smelled it: the acrid, fruity smell puffing out of her mouth as she struggled to breath.

You jerked back quickly. "Dr. Langdon, is there a history of diabetes or hyperglycemia? Her breath smells like rotting fruit."

Langdon looked over at you before leaning toward her face. He hissed a curse before barking for a blood sugar test. Your eyes widened when the screen flashed a 450 mg/dL.

"She's experiencing diabetic ketoacidosis," you breathed.

"Let's get her on an insulin drip, now," Langdon hissed, face pinched until he looked over at you with a softer expression. "Great job catching that and staying calm." He chuckled slightly. "Never seen you like this but keep it up."

You knew his words were meant to be encouraging, but all they did was send bile up your throat. Without saying anything more, you tore off the gloves and shoved them deep into a biohazard bin. You wanted to cry, wanted to find the nearest restroom and tug at your hair.

But that's not what Samira would do your mind provided; the thought ugly and green. She'd shrug it all off and keep working like nothing was the matter.

Your teeth ground together, shoulders squaring in tandem. If everyone would rather have you calm, you'd be calm. You'd tuck your heart away rather than show it to the patients who needed someone that wore it on their sleeve. You picked up another tablet at the nurses station and got back to work.

The rest of the fourth went by in a tornado. Systems went down after a cyberattack; fireworks boomed off in the distance; you stayed busy. Each of your patients were in and out at a lightning speed, and by the start of the night shift, you were ready to go home and cry your heart out into a pillow.

You'd seen Samira every so often in between patients and a small lunch break. Like always, she smiled at you and waved and chatted when she could, but her actions made you want to wither up like a dead flower. You couldn't help but stare at her, thinking that you should be more like the woman in front of you, mind comparing your features to hers at a rapid speed you couldn't stop. She somehow looked like an angel in the middle of a place jokingly nicknamed one of the seven layers of hell, skin clear and hair somehow perfectly put in a bun. You tried your best to match her enthusiasm, but the poison had already been drank.

On the contrary, the only time you really saw Jack was at the start of handoffs. He had helped with one trauma before going to the on-call room for a needed nap, and you hadn't wanted to talk to him then, scared of how he'd act around you.

"There you are, sweetheart," you heard him say as you finished up converting with Lena about the man in Room 5. "I've been looking for you. Thought you might have left without saying goodbye."

You winced slightly. "No; I've just been busy."

Jack hummed and smiled warmly at you, but the expression was tainted by his words earlier. "I heard. Langdon's been nothing but praising you for earlier. I'm proud of you."

"Sure you are," you muttered too lowly for him to catch. Your lips thinly stretched into a smile that didn't meet your tired eyes. "Thank you, Jack," you settled on instead.

His hazel eyes scanned over your face, and his smile slightly dropped. "Are you okay, though? You look a little down."

"I'm fine," you shot out. "Today's just been long, and I'm ready to get home."

Jack nodded. "I left food in the fridge for you, so make sure you eat it after you sleep for a bit."

"Got it."

He looked at you expectantly before rolling his eyes. "Come here."

Like it had been etched into your DNA, you listened and fell into his open arms, face tucking into his chest. He squeezed you tightly before placing a kiss to your temple.

"Proud of you," he said. "You do such a good job. We need so many doctors like you, my perfect girl."

Perfect felt like a twist of the knife, because if you were so perfect, why had he told Samira that he wished you were more like her? I feel your compliments like bullets on skin. Dazzling starlet, Bardot reincarnate, well, aren't you the greatest thing to ever exist? As the weeks went on, Jack's words never left your soul, the damage irreparable in everything that you did.

Second guessing yourself had been a struggle you'd dealt with since an earlier age. Normally, Jack would be able to quiet all those thoughts; he had chosen you; he loved you. But now, as you second guessed everything you did, you also second guessed everything Jack said. You picked apart every encouragement, every compliment, every sweet promise he whispered in your ear.

What he said now couldn't be taken at face value, and you wondered if that feeling would ever go away. You'd asked him about the bullet graze a few days after the 4th, acting completely oblivious to what you knew. Like you thought, Jack assured you that he got it handled and for you to not worry about it, like that did anything to settle the rolling feelings in your stomach.

You tried your best to move on, knowing you'd only bring yourself down more if you dwelled too long about really how much Jack's words had affected you while he never said anything directly to your face. The idea that he wanted you to be like someone else made your heart clench tightly to the point you often wanted to call off work, hoping that you could just wallow in self pity for hours and hours.

But the Pitt did not care for you like that; it demanded twelve hour shifts and grueling doubles. So every day, you rolled out of bed before Jack got home and pulled up your big girl pants.

You worked through it. You'd learned how to stay calm, how to not panic under duress, and it killed you to admit that you'd become a better doctor because of it. You hardly ever hiccuped during a trauma, gaining compliments from the surgeons and Robby for your techniques that were close to flawless. For the smallest second, you would preen under their words before the ugly, repulsive reminder that they might not be real swallowed you down in a nasty gulp.

"Dr. [Name] follow me please," Robby called as he brushed past the nurses station where you were currently typing away at a chart, hands clutching a chart out in front of him to read. "Quickly."

You pushed up from the desk, chair rolling far behind you from the force of your legs. Not wanting to lose him, you rounded the counter and jumped into his long stride.

"Yes, Dr. Robby?" you asked.

As far as you knew, there weren't any incoming traumas and it was too late in the day for him to have questions about your patients that were currently waiting for a room.

Robby paused in front of an empty trauma room. "Jack just let me know that he found a man in need of medical attention and is bringing him in before handoffs, and I thought you could help him out." He handed you the tablet, already ready to go with updated information.

You took a quick glance over this. "Um, Dr. Robby, it looks like he'll need a pericardiocentesis."

"It's good that you know exactly what he'll need. What's the issue?"

Your eyes looked from the screen to his brown eyes. "I've never done one before."

He simply smiled at you and patted your shoulder. "That's why Jack's going to lead you through it. I would stay, but since he's coming in early, I'm going to head out."

You tried to quirk a smile. "Got a hot date waiting for you?"

A low chuckle shook his shoulders. "You got jokes. My bike needs some repairs, and today's the only day I can get it into the shop. But I know you'll be just fine. Your improvement in traumas will only grow if you step out of your comfort zone."

The automatic sliding doors slid open, and Jack plus a nurse wheeled a man through on a gurney. Jack's eyes lit up at the sight of you, but his brows pinched when he noticed Robby's bag slung over the taller man's shoulder.

"You leaving early, brother?" Jack questioned as he stepped past the two of you.

Robby's hand gently rested on your shoulder. "Yeah, but you two will have this handled."

You inhaled deeply, the weight of his hand and words pushing down on your chest.

Robby was counting on you. Don't fuck this up. Don't panic.

With the tablet tucked under your arm, you walked into the trauma room before pulling on a pair of gloves. Jack had already cut through the man's shirt.

"I need two 18-gage needles, one 9cm and one 15cm, a guidewire, dilator, and 8Fr pigtail catheter." He looked up toward Jesse. "Let's give him 10ml lignocaine 1%."

You quickly gather what he needed and placed him on the dressing that covered the side tray.

"Okay, Dr. [Name]," Jack said, lips twitching upwards at using your official name, "I need you to place an ECG electrode on the pericardiocentesis needle with a crocodile clip and insert. Once the tip touches the myocardium, the trace should show immediate ST elevation. Once that comes up, insert the wire to aspirate the fluid."

His words tumbled through your mind much too fast to the point that you wondered if he didn't know you'd never done this before. You pursed your lips as you tried to remember everything. In the grand scheme of things, your training provided everything that needed to be done.

Yet, there was a big difference between studying and actually doing the procedure.

You kept your breath steady as you readied the needle, clamping on a clip before turning the pointed end toward the man's chest. The first part went smoothly, and the needle went right through. However, instead of the consistent beeping that should have followed if the needle was in properly, an onslaught of alarms sounded through your ears.

You had missed something.

Jack whipped his head toward you and sneered. "You went too deep. I told you that the needle needed to touch the myocardium not go all the way through. Give it here."

He didn't even wait for you to transfer the needle over, hands already grabbing at it. His head bent down so he could see what was happening. With a practiced ease, he maneuvered the needle exactly where it should have been.

"Fuck," he whispered, "Robby wouldn't have done that. I don't know why he handed this off to you if he knew the patient would need a pericardiocentesis for tamponade."

You thickly swallowed pooling saliva to clear your throat. "Sorry."

"Just—" He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "I'll finish up here. You go home."

You jolted just a bit. Go home?

"Jack, I can still assist. You're going to need—"

"We have it covered. Catheter is in place, and you'd just be standing around. You're good."

Suddenly, a wave of anguish flowed through your body. It was happening again. Jack had just added fuel to the ever growing fire of jealousy and self-loathing. The feeling sized your chest, and you stepped back from the bed, shaky hands ripping off the nitrile gloves.

You couldn't help the stressed wheeze that pushed from your lungs.

Don't panic. Don't panic. He didn't mean it. He was just stressed. He didn't know that you'd never done that before.

Numbly, you walked back to the nurses station and sat back down in front of the computer, but your hands didn't raise to the keyboard. Your mind had already taken over, spewing rotten things about yourself that you could fix.

Be like Samira. Be like Robby. Jack won't keep wanting you if you aren't like them.

Your tongue ran across your dry lips in an attempt to wet them, but even your mouth had gone parched.

"Is charting really that bad?" you heard Dennis ask you as she sat down at a computer to your left. "You look like someone just told you they flushed your fish down the drain."

In a jerky motion, you turned towards him and did your best to compose yourself. "Oh no. I, uh, I didn't do well on a procedure with Dr. Abbot, and he asked me to leave."

Dennis at least had the decency to look sorry for you. "I bet you didn't do too bad. What was the procedure?"

"A pericardiocentesis," you said shyly.

He nodded slowly. " Shit, that's like one of the first things Robby let us do." He turned towards his own chart. "I could probably do them in my sleep by now."

Because he wasn't looking at you, Dennis missed the way your shoulders dropped and tears welled in your lash line. Jack's comment had been bad, but he just completely shattered any confidence you had left for the day.

"Right," you muttered. "Of course it'd be that easy if Robby taught you."

And you'd be right. On the night shift, patients like that rarely if not ever needed such a complex procedure. You could only think to one time that a woman came through almost needing one before they were able to use a different method to get her stable enough to be transferred to the OR.

With keys clacking loudly, you quickly finished up the chart before turning the whole thing off. You didn't even try to find Jack before you left, choosing to slip out before he even noticed you'd left without saying goodbye.

Once you were home, you stormed past the fridge and went straight to yours and Jack's shared room. Your scrubs hit the floor, and you didn't even bother to put on pajamas. The bed dipped under your weight as you pulled the duvet up over your body in a sad attempt at being comforted by its weight.

Sleep came quickly, only being interrupted by the door opening, a signal that Jack had gotten home. Blearily, you listened to him walk around the room before his edge of the bed sunk after he sat. The familiar hiss and pop of his prosthesis preceded him turning to lie down. You kept still as he scooted closer before wrapping an arm around your middle and molding your back to his chest.

"Sorry if I woke you up," he muttered sleepily. "Tried to find you before you left, but I guess I missed you. Wanted to say good job for that trauma. You helped so much."

You clamped your eyes shut, squeezing a fresh round of tears that dripped down your cheeks to puddle on your pillowcase.

After Samira, you had done your best to convince yourself it had been a slip of his tongue. But now after Robby, you weren't too sure that Jack would keep you around for much longer before finding someone better. Because there was no way you could ever amount to someone like Robby.

It was impossible. I care, I care, I care, like ribbons in your hair, my stomach's all in knots, you got the one thing that I want. Ooh, I try, I try, I try, try to rationalize people are people, but it's like you're made of angel dust. You were trying but failing to pretend Jack's words and comparisons hadn't left a giant, bleeding gap in your heart. Before everything happened, you never ever wondered if Jack loved you. Except now, you waited with bated breath for him to just drop the bucket and break up with you. You walked on eggshells around him.

Don't panic. Be put together. Keep your heart to yourself. Be calm like Samira. Don't fuck up. Know how to do your job. Be confident like Robby.

Those thought became your mantra and lifeline. No one seemed to think twice about your recent personality change. They loved the way they could count on you, the way you had an answer ready for everything. To the day and night shift, you were the epitome of composure. But behind closed doors, you were falling apart and into a pit you didn't think you'd be able to climb out of.

Jack didn't help with that either. You guessed he didn't even know what he had done to you, going on with his life like he hadn't given yours so many potholes that you couldn't continue on without falling behind. Everything you did was carefully thought out, every patient you talked to met a version of you that didn't reflect what you felt inside or outside.

You avoided mirrors the most, their reflections showing you exactly what you weren't. You weren't Samira with her lovely thick hair and clear skin. And you weren't Robby who carried years of trauma like it was apart of his body.

You were you, and you loathed it entirely.

You hated the glances you caught between Jack and Samira across the department. You hated the way they looked like they knew what the other was thinking before they spoke. You hated how you felt like on onlooker to a relationship that wasn't even happening.

You also hated the way Robby changed from a mentor to an idol. He had soon morphed into someone you wanted to so desperately be to the point you lost yourself in ambition.

And the worst part? You held nothing against them personally.

They didn't know what Jack had said. They didn't know that you were dying on the inside every time they raised you up during shifts. Bits of you crumbled away while they continued to glow.

Every morning you woke up, you wondered if the day would provide the straw that broke the camel's back with the way you felt like a stretched out rubber band waiting to fly.

A soft, savory aroma wafted through your kitchen. You absentmindedly stirred the spatula through the sauce, eyes glancing back and forth from the pan to the recipe. The instructions were written in beautiful, slanted cursive with curled letters that danced together. You'd found the card mixed in with a bunch of recipes Jack kept in his drawer. With a quick read told you that the owner of this one was his late wife, and the heart next to the title had you guessing if this was a favorite for the two of them.

Without thinking, you plucked it from the drawer and started working. After a week of back to back cases that ended in more loss than wins, a homemade meal was exactly what you and Jack needed after a day off. He was currently out getting his truck washed, and you wanted to be finished by the time he came home.

Quickly, the separate parts of the recipe—the chicken and veggies basting in the oven, the sauce on the stove top, and the wine chilling in the fridge—all came together right as Jack walked through the door.

"Hi, baby!" you called out as you pulled the pan from the oven. "Dinner's almost ready!"

You picked up on Jack's slightly clompy gate as he got farther into the house.

"Smells good," he said, walking over to stand behind you. "What did you make?"

Suddenly, you got nervous. What if it didn't taste correct? What if Jack didn't want you to make something so special between him and his wife. What if you ruined everything.

You didn't meet his eyes and poured the sauce over the top of the chicken. "Uh, a recipe from the drawer. It looked good, and we already had the ingredients."

He grabbed the card and held it up to his face, and you held your breath. When he didn't seem to get angry or sad, you counted it at a win.

"There's a bottle of white in the fridge if you want to get it out," you offered.

Jack stayed quiet. You didn't dare look even as the sound of a cork popping echoed in the room. While his immediate lack of response didn't cause concern to rise, your stomach still churned. To mirror him, you also didn't speak while you set the table.

He sat down, and so did you, your chairs facing the other like you'd done so many times in the past. Your heart pounded against your sternum as he took the first bite.

Loudly, he smacked his lips, setting his fork down at he chewed. The noise felt like nails on a chalkboard in the silence.

After a minute, he finally spoke. "Did you change anything in this?"

Your racing heart plummeted to your feet. "No. I kept it just like the card had it."

His brows furrowed. "Really? It tastes different than how I remembered it last."

You dug your nails into the fabric of the table running. "Does it not taste good?"

Jack looked up from his plate with wide, hazel eyes. "No, no, it's just different."

"But not good," you scoffed.

"I'm just trying to say that maybe you missed something. I know Alice's handwriting isn't the easiest to read."

"I know how to read cursive, Jack," you spat lowly. "I followed every single instruction on the card. It's the exact same recipe."

"It's not that big of a deal, sweetheart," he tried. "Maybe if you had a bit more practice like her, it might have come out the same. You're a good cook, don't get me wrong, but—"

Your hands slammed on the table in frustration, causing Jack's eyebrows to pinch as his words died in his mouth. He went to keep talking but stopped when he noticed the frustrated tears fall from your eyes.

"I'm done," you breathed, eyes darting around the room.

"Done?" Jack echoed. "What are you done with?"

"Everything," you hissed. "I'm done with this—" You gestured to the food with a wave of your hand. "I'm done with-with you. I'm done with it all."

You pushed up from the table and walked away, leaving Jack to scramble out of his chair and follow you.

"Sweetheart, what's going on?" he loudly asked, but you ignored him.

By the time he made it into the bedroom, you had already ripped out a suitcase from the closet and were pushing clothes into it without making them neat.

"Hey," Jack said gently. "Look, I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't think it'd upset you this much, but you don't have to leave."

You paused in a mid-throw of your shirts and spun to face him. A disbelieving laugh bubbled wetly through your throat. "That's the problem," you muttered, "you don't think."

He crossed his arms, biceps resting against his chest. A need to defend himself bloomed in his stomach. "What's that supposed to fucking mean."

You threw your arms up with an exasperated scoff. "Oh, so now you're concerned for what I'm saying. Maybe you should be concerned more with your words." You sucked in a deep breath. "Just go on and say it."

Jack took a step forward. "Say what?"

"That you'd rather me be someone else!" you screamed. "That-that I'm not enough by myself for you anymore." Pants heaved in your chest. "I'm sick and tired of standing here stuck listening to you compare me and wish that I'd be like or act like someone else."

Your words stole the breath from Jack's lungs as confusion and dread washed over him. "What?"

You closed your eyes and dropped your shoulders. "I heard you; I keep hearing you."

In another step forward, Jack was within two feet of you. He swallowed thickly, but you beat him to more words.

"On the fourth," you began to explain through tears, "I saw Samira patch you up, and I heard the way you told her that I could learn how to be more level headed like her."

A chill crept up Jack's spine. "Sweetheart—"

"Don't," you ordered. "Don't do that where you try to make it all better. I heard you loud and clear, Jack. And that's fine. I knew I could be more calm during traumas, so that's exactly what I did, but apparently—" You chocked out a laugh. "That wasn't enough for you."

He shook his head, hazel eyes swimming with guilt already.

"And I really thought that if I could be anything like Samira, your words wouldn't hurt as much. But then you had to go and tell me that you wished Robby had been there instead of me to do a pericardiocentesis." Your breath shuddered in the next exhale. "Did you even know that was the first time I'd ever been asked to do one? And instead of teaching at a teaching hospital, you threw me to the side saying Robby—the fucking chief attending—could have done the job. No fucking duh, Jack."

You threw a hand in the direction of the kitchen. "And now this? I thought that maybe I could be like Samira or study enough to be like Robby, but h-how am I supposed to compare to the woman who had your love first." You turned back toward the bed and haphazardly packed suitcase. "That's unfair to me. So, like I said, I'm done."

A pleading sound ripped from Jack's throat at the sound of your suitcase zipper closing.

"No, sweetheart, please. Let me fix this; tell me how to fix this," he begged.

"That's just it, Jack. I don't think this can be fixed. I've spent weeks with your words in my head wondering how I can be the perfect person for you. And I don't know if I can keep going on pretending."

Jack's body shook under a small sob as everything came crashing down. He absolutely had no clue what he had done to you, but thinking back, he understood that his careless words wracked irreparable damage to you and your personality.

"I'm sorry," he managed, voice breaking in a whisper.

"I know you are,' you responded, "and somehow that makes it hurt worse. Because while you were trying to compliment everyone else, you made me feel inadequate in every aspect of my life." Your fingers wrapped around the suitcase handle and tugged it off the bed. "I can't stay with someone who keeps hoping I'll be a conglomeration of all the best parts of others; that's not me. And I'll be honest, I don't even really know who me is anymore."

He inhaled sharply, eyes tearing from your face to look down at the floor. "So this is it? You're leaving?"

Another round of tears spilled down your cheeks as you choked on a sob of your own. "I don't want to, but I need to."

"But I love you," he croaked, eyes coming back up to meet yours.

"You love the best parts of me, Jack," you said, already moving to walk past him. "And that's never going to be enough to make me stay."

Your shoulder lightly brushed by his as you walked out of the room and all the way out the front door, leaving Jack behind in a house he realized he didn't want empty. You poison every little thing that I do, Lacy, oh, Lacy, I just loathe you lately, and I despise my jealous eyes and how hard they fell for you, yeah, I despise my rotten mind and how much it worships you Jack didn't truly realize what he'd done until almost six months after you left him crying in his bedroom.

Your absence in his life gave him a lot to think about, and the only conclusion he could come up with was that you were absolutely right. It didn't matter if he'd compared you to others unconsciously; he made you feel like that: worthless, in need of self change, inadequate; the list went on.

He'd seen the small changes too late.

The next shift he worked with you, Jack tracked every minuscule thing you did, and it felt like one big punch to the gut. He saw the way you constantly checked your hair, ponytail pulled tight enough to give you a headache, skin, and scrubs and the way you straightened your stethoscope so it rested perfectly across your collarbones.

His stomach dropped when he watched you pause before a trauma and gulp down air before heading inside like someone who needed to take control before it could get out of hand. Before him, you weren't like that. Yes, you could be nervous to mess up, but you didn't act like you had to be the smartest person in the room.

He did that to you. He made you feel the need to change. And it killed him. It killed him once he learned you transferred over to a specialty in orthopedics, and his mind made him think you did it just to get away from him.

He was slightly correct, but not entirely.

You needed a fresh start, somewhere where you knew no on had any high expectation of you. And somehow, orthopedics gave you just that. And you thrived in the environment, only coming down to the Pitt when they needed a transfer or second opinion. Sure, you had to accompany Park the Shark more than you'd liked to, but through your time there, the old you was coming back, the one who worked through her panic instead of shutting it down, the one who only got frazzled when she cared about patients and their needs.

It was never weakness you showed, and you had to learn that all over again.

Someone helped you see that along the way as well.

"What do got here?" Park asked while snapping on a pair of gloves, eyes predatory as he walked into Trauma Room 1.

Jack looked up with pinched brows when he realized that you didn't walk in behind the larger man. "Where's Dr. [Name]?"

Park didn't even acknowledge his question. "For fucks sake man, you didn't even pack this right."

"You should know how to put a detached leg together even if I missed the pressure of the wrapping by an inch," Jack shot back.

"Abbot, you should know that I can't fucking put your patient back together after you decided to play Barbies. It's not as easy as popping a joint back in place."

"Dr. [Name] could do it."

Except for the monitors, everyone went quiet. Jack tore his eyes away from Park and looked back down at his blood soaked gloves. Reality crashed down on him as he realized he just did to Park what he'd done to you. Even if he knew he probably didn't hurt Park's feelings at all, it sucked to know that he was still so quit to throw out words like that.

Park's shoulders rose in a shrug. "She could, but she isn't here right now. She switched shifts and won't be in until 7." He smirked. "Think she said she had plans with someone."

An ugly roar of jealousy clawed at Jack's insides, nails sinking deep in his gut.

You were with someone?

He went through the motions of his shift, mind still on the fact that you weren't on call because someone had taken your time and attention away from the hospital. His knuckles turned white around the tablet he held while going through handoffs. He didn't know if his body was still trained to look for you, forever waiting for your soft lips against his, but Jack couldn't help but keep his head on a swivel and ears open to catch the sound of your voice.

Like a laugh in his face from the universe, your laugh fluttered through the ER, and his head whipped hard enough that his neck hurt in order to find you. When he finally saw you walking in, his heart dropped to his feet, because there you were, smiling brighter than he'd seen in a long while, hand enclasped with a man's.

Jack swallowed thickly. He instantly hated the way his blood boiled at the sight. He looked back down at the tablet after your voice seemed to draw closer to where he was standing.

"Andy," you sighed wistfully, "you didn't have to walk me all the way in here. I know you're weary of the germs."

"I know," the man—Andy (you gave him a fucking nickname?)—muttered back, wide, hazel eyes looking down at you like you hung the moon. "But I wanted to."

You pouted playfully. "You're so sweet. Am I going to see you tomorrow morning, or are you working again?"

He hummed. "My morning's yours if you want it."

"You know I always do."

Jack watched the corner of the man's mouth twitch into an almost-there smile, and he had to look away when his head started leaning in toward yours.

The small smack of your lips on his made bile gurgle in Jack's stomach.

"Okay, you gotta go save lives."

You giggled again. "I just put people back together, and technically, Park's the one doing all the procedures. You know my hands start shaking."

From the corner of his eye, Jack watched him lift your hands to his lips and kiss the tops of your knuckles.

"Just breathe and know that you alone can do this. You were the one to get into the program, so they want you, shaky hands and all."

Jack's heart clenched to the point of a physical reaction to the pain. He should have been the one saying that to you, standing in your corner and building you up one compliment at a time.

But now, he had to stand on the sideline and watch a man (someone who scarily looked a bit like him) give you all the praise and love you deserved. And while Jack could do everything in his power to let people know how good of a doctor you were, it wouldn't ever be the same, forever stuck loathing the moment he lost you without knowing.

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[honey-moon-13]

baby boy, honeybee ⋆˚࿔

pairing: Boyfriend!Pope Cody x fem!Reader summary: Pope spends the day at the mall with his girlfriend, buying everything they need to turn the little beach house he bought in secret into a home of their own.  a/n: No one can convince me that Pope wouldn’t be the best husband and father in the world. warnings: (secret) established relationship, clingy!Reader, mentions of a blowjob and swallowing cum, reader touches Pope over his jeans in public once, references to murder and Smurf’s abuse, Baz hate (fuck him), past controlling relationship, anxiety and self-loathing, Pope scares a Sephora employee, these two are so sweet they’ll give you cavities!!! wc: 7962 k

I’d love to know what you thought, so please don’t be shy and leave me a little comment. Hearing from you truly means so much to me .⋆❀°

By the time you left Zara Home, Pope had six bags hanging from his hands and the receipt folded into the pocket of his jeans. You had offered to carry something twice. Both times he had moved the bags before you could reach them, so now you walked with your arm linked through his, pressed comfortably against his side while he checked the list you had written together that morning.

“Sheets, towels, bath mat,” he read, dragging his thumb down the paper while the shopping bags rustled around his wrists. “We got everything.”

You leaned closer to look at the list, although you already knew exactly what was written on it. “We got more than everything. We have four sets of sheets because somebody decided two wasn’t enough.”

“One’ll be in the wash.” Pope tapped the folded edge of the paper against his palm, as though that settled the matter.

“We only have one bed, baby.”

“Yeah, and we’re gonna use it every night.”

He folded the list before he could see what that answer did to your face and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans. You tightened your arm around his and kissed his shoulder.

“You liked choosing them,” you said, staying tucked against his side when he began walking again.

Pope shifted the bags higher on his hands. “They’re good sheets.”

“But you checked the stitching on every set.” You ran one finger along the seam of his sleeve, imitating the way he had examined the fabric inside the store.

“Because one of them was coming apart.”

“And then you spent ten minutes touching towels.”

“I wanted the soft ones.”

You slowed, making him stop with you. “For me?”

“For us.”

The answer came easily. There was none of the hesitation that usually appeared when Pope had to talk about something belonging to both of you, no brief tightening of his mouth while he decided whether he was allowed to claim it too. He simply looked at you as though us had been the obvious answer.

Your smile softened. You stepped in front of him and slid your arms around his waist, catching him by surprise. Pope hurriedly gathered the handles into one hand and lifted the bags away from your body before they could knock against you.

“What’re you doing?” he asked, looking down at your face.

“Hugging my boyfriend because he spent ten minutes choosing the softest towels in the store.”

“They had to be soft, sweetheart.” His newly freed hand hovered beside you for a moment before settling against your back.

You leaned away just enough to see him properly, leaving your arms around his waist. “That so?”

His brow furrowed slightly, as if he did not understand why you needed an explanation.

“You use all those oils and creams every night to keep your skin soft,” he said. “Wasn’t gonna buy towels that’d scratch you up.”

Your arms tightened around him. “You thought about that?”

“Yeah.” His hand moved once along your back. “Course I did.”

“You’re soooo sweet.”

“They’re just towels, baby.” Pope glanced past you, discomfort creeping into his face now that you were looking at him as though he had done something extraordinary.

“No.” You rose onto your toes, your arms slipping higher around him. “They’re our towels.”

Pope bent to meet you. His hand pressed more securely against your lower back as his mouth softened beneath yours, holding you close while the bags swayed forgotten beside his leg.

“Yeah,” he said when you pulled away. His eyes remained on yours, his thumb moving slowly over your back. “They are.”

The mall had grown busier while you were inside, pop music spilled from the open stores and people kept cutting across your path without looking. Pope’s shoulders tensed, his hand settling more firmly against you to keep you close. When you slowed in front of another window, however, he stopped beside you and followed your gaze, content to wait while you looked.

“We need to stop at Sephora,” you said, slipping your hand into his and steering him toward the entrance. “I’m out of my lip mask, I need a new blush, and there’s a lip balm I saw on TikTok that I want to try.”

Pope followed without resistance. “The little pink jar?”

“The berry one, yes.” You glanced up at him. “I’ve been scraping the sides for three nights.”

“Get two, then.” He said it immediately.

Your pace slowed. Pope took another step before the pull of your joined hands made him stop and look back at you.

“You like it.”

His eyes moved briefly to your mouth. “Tastes good.”

“Is that why you always kiss me right after I put it on?” You stepped closer, running your thumb across the back of his hand.

“I kiss you every night, baby.” Pope turned toward the store again, but you caught the slight tightening at the corner of his mouth before he could hide it.

You let him guide you forward for another few steps before leaning into his arm. “But you always kiss me twice when I’m wearing that.”

Pope did not answer, but you squeezed his hand as though you already had one. 

He had never told you what happened after those goodnight kisses, on the nights when sleep refused to come no matter how tired he was. He would lie beside you for hours with his body held rigid beneath the sheets, listening to the house settle around him while his mind returned to places he had spent the day trying to avoid. 

Every car slowing outside made him look toward the window. Every change in your breathing had him checking that you were still asleep, still safe, still there.

Some of the lip mask always transferred to his mouth when he kissed you, and hours later, when the rest of the sweetness should have disappeared, Pope could sometimes find a trace of it by running his tongue over his lower lip. 

He did not understand how something made for chapped lips could feel like a balm pressed over whatever bruised part of him people meant when they spoke about the soul. It gave him something gentle to concentrate on when his memories would not leave him alone. 

Like as long as he could still taste you, some small part of you seemed to remain awake with him, and the darkness became a little easier to endure.

“I’ll be quick,” you promised.

“You don’t have to be.” Pope adjusted the bags before brushing his thumb across your hand. “Take your time. Look at whatever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

Your previous boyfriend had never allowed you that freedom. He claimed you only wore makeup to attract other men, forcing you to order everything online and hide the packages because even entering a store like this could start an argument. The excuse had never made sense to Pope. He could not understand seeing you happy and wanting to take it away. He loved watching you get ready and slowly became more comfortable in your own skin. Makeup did not make you more beautiful to him. He simply liked the way you smiled when you felt beautiful.

Your smile softened. You lifted his hand to kiss his knuckles before leading him inside. “Then you can help me find everything.”

Pope followed you inside. “That’s why I’m here, baby.”

Inside, you headed for the Laneige display while Pope stopped beside a Benefit stand. Several testers had been abandoned along the shelf, some without their caps and others returned to the wrong slots. By the time you came back, he had already matched two lip tints to their labels and was turning each tube so the name faced forward.

“Found them.” You held up the two jars of Laneige Berry Lip Sleeping Mask before placing them in the basket. “One for the bathroom and one for my nightstand.”

Pope glanced down to make sure they were both there. “Good.”

His attention had already returned to the Benefit stand beside him. Several testers were lying on their sides, some missing their caps and others pushed into the wrong slots. Pope had matched three of them to their labels while you were gone and was turning each tube until its name faced forward.

You kissed his cheek, smiling when he barely paused in what he was doing. “How much of this have you reorganized?”

“A couple of them… They have numbers, see?” Pope showed you the small label on the tester in his hand, then pointed to the empty space bearing the same one. His brow drew together as though the system should have been impossible to misunderstand. “People just don’t put them back right.”

You picked up a lip tint that had been abandoned on its side and held it over the first empty slot you saw. “Does this one go here?”

“No.” Pope’s eyes moved along the row. “Two over.”

You shifted it one space. “Here?”

He reached across you and moved the tube one place farther to the right. “There.”

You watched him turn it until the label matched the others. Pope did things like this almost without realizing: straightening bottles while he waited in line, returning something to the exact place he had found it, wiping down a counter even when the mess was not his. You knew the impulse did not always feel gentle to him. You had seen how something left crooked could hold his attention until he corrected it, how disorder seemed to settle beneath his skin and make it impossible for him to relax.

That was not the part you loved, you loved what Pope did with it. 

Even here, in a store full of strangers who would never know he had helped, he replaced caps and returned testers to their proper slots because somebody had arranged the display and somebody would have to fix it after closing. Pope noticed that labor. He respected clean spaces, organized shelves and the people responsible for maintaining them. He would never make another person’s job harder simply because he could walk away before they saw him do it.

People often mistook his silence for indifference but you had learned that Pope cared about far more than he knew how to say.

You rested your head briefly against his shoulder while he fastened the cap on another tester. “What would this store do without you?”

“Throw everything wherever they want, apparently.” He returned the tube to its numbered space and reached for the next one lying out of place.

He fastened one last cap before taking the basket from you. When you moved toward the next aisle, Pope gathered the shopping bags and followed with his free hand resting against your back.

You stopped in front of the Summer Fridays display.

“These are the balms everyone keeps talking about on TikTok.” You picked up one of the tubes and turned it around to show Pope the label.

He studied the display before looking at the tester in your hand. “What’s different about them?”

“Mostly the scents, apparently.” You returned the tube to its slot and reached for another. “They’re not supposed to be quite as good as my olehenriksen ones.”

Pope’s brow furrowed. He glanced from the rows of Summer Fridays balms to your face, already imagining you opening one at home only to discover that it did not live up to all the videos you had watched.

“If they’re not as good, you sure you wanna risk getting one?”

The concern in his voice made you smile. 

Pope hated watching you look forward to something only to be disappointed by it. It did not matter whether it was a plan being cancelled or a bakery running out of the cake you wanted. He would remember the change in your expression long after you had forgotten about it, quietly resenting whatever had caused it as if it had let him down too.

“I think I’ll survive the risk,” you assured him, smoothing one hand over his chest when his frown remained. “Everyone says these smell much better. And considering how often you kiss me, I thought you might appreciate that.”

Pope’s attention followed your fingers before settling on your mouth. “The other ones make your lips shiny.”

“Juicy,” you corrected.

His eyes remained on your lower lip. “Same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing.” You stepped closer, smiling when his gaze followed the movement of your mouth. “But you agree they make my lips look juicy?”

“Yeah.” Pope shifted the basket to his other hand, his voice lower than it had been a moment ago.

“How juicy?”

His eyes moved slowly across your lips before lifting to yours. “You know.”

“I’d still like to hear you say it, baby.” Your finger caught briefly on one of the buttons of his shirt, waiting.

Pope held your gaze for another second, then reached past you for one of the testers. He turned it over in his hand with more concentration than the label required, ending the conversation before the heat rising into his face became any more obvious.

“Which one are you getting?”

“I thought we could choose one each.” You leaned your hip against the display and watched his fingers work the cap loose. “I’ll choose the one I like, and you can choose one you want me to wear only when I’m with you.”

His fingers went still around the tester. When he looked at you again, the caution had disappeared from his face.

“Only with me?”

“Yes.” You stepped closer and lowered your voice, although nobody nearby was paying attention. “One balm for whenever I feel like wearing it and another that belongs to you. Something I put on because I know you’ll be the one tasting it.”

Pope’s eyes returned immediately to the balms. This time he studied them with real interest, taking in every shade and label as though the display had changed while he was looking away.

“So I get to pick whichever one I want?”

“Whichever one you want.”

He looked back at you, making sure. “And you’ll only wear it with me?”

“That’s the idea.”

Pope set the basket down beside the shopping bags, freeing both hands for the decision. 

“What if I choose one you wouldn’t pick for yourself?”

“I’ll like knowing you chose it.” Nudging him toward the beginning of the display. “Besides, you know me. You’ll pick the right one.”

Pope glanced along the entire row again. The corner of his mouth lifted before he could suppress it.

You had already chosen Pink Guava before entering the store. It was the shade that had appeared in the TikTok saved on your phone, and the sheer pink stain it left across the back of your hand only confirmed that it would be coming home with you.

“This one’s mine.” You dropped an unopened tube into the basket and held out your hand for Pope to inspect. “What do you think?”

“Looks good.” He looked at the color, then at your mouth as though trying to imagine it there. “You already knew which one you wanted.”

“I did.” You stepped aside and gestured toward the rest of the display. “Now you get to choose yours.”

He read every shade name before opening its tester, taking the responsibility far more seriously than you had expected. Vanilla barely held his attention. Pink Sugar made his nose wrinkle, and he returned Iced Coffee after one careful breath.

Then he opened Cherry.

The scent was sweeter and stronger than the others. When you held out your hand, Pope drew the tester across your skin, leaving a sheer red stain beside the Pink Guava swatch. His thumb remained beneath your wrist after he finished.

He stared at the color, his mind went to your mouth first.

Pope pictured the Cherry balm leaving a faint red print on his cheek, another beneath his ear and several more down his chest as you worked your way lower. You would take your time because you knew what tenderness did to him—how quiet he became when you touched him as though there were nowhere else you would rather be.

Then you would kneel between his spread thighs.

Your glossy lips would press to the head of his cock, leaving a soft red mark against the flushed skin. You would look up before kissing him again, lower this time, your tongue following the slow drag of your mouth while one hand wrapped around the base.

Pope could already feel the restraint it would take not to push into you. He would let you set the pace, watching the neat prints blur as you worked your way back to the tip and took him between your lips.

His fingers would slip into your hair. He never knew how to let you touch him without reaching for you in return. He would cradle the back of your head, thumb moving beside your ear as your cheeks hollowed around him. When he reached deeper, a small sound would catch in your throat and your eyes would begin to water, but they would remain fixed on his.

Even in the filthiest version of the fantasy, having his cock in your mouth would be another way of loving him. There would be no disgust in your expression and no hesitation when saliva gathered at the corners of your lips. Only your warm hand stroking what you could not take, your tongue beneath the head and those soft eyes watching every piece of control leave him.

He would come with your name caught somewhere behind his teeth, his hand tightening in your hair as his cum spilled across your tongue. You would keep him in your mouth until the final pulse passed, then draw back and look up at him.

Pope would forget how to breathe when you opened your mouth.

You would show him the mess he had left there, white against your tongue and the fading Cherry tint around your swollen lips. Then, without looking away, you would close your mouth and swallow. His eyes would follow the movement of your throat, transfixed by the knowledge that something of him had disappeared inside you because you had wanted it there.

By the time you smiled, the color would have faded from your mouth.

Pope would pull you up before you could wipe your chin. He would hold your face between both hands and kiss you deeply, tasting Cherry and himself on your tongue. You would make that quiet, pleased sound he loved and settle into his lap with your arms around his shoulders, understanding that he needed the closeness as much as the release.

The thought made him hard inside his jeans.

He had spent most of his life believing there was dirt beneath his skin. He could wash the blood from his hands, burn the clothes he wore during jobs and stand beneath the shower until the water ran cold, but the feeling remained. Smurf had used his body to frighten and hurt people for so long that Pope sometimes struggled to remember it could be good for anything else.

Then you touched him and somehow, Pope had never felt cleaner.

You kissed every scar without asking where it came from. You held his face while he moved inside you and looked at him as though the pleasure he gave you mattered.Your hands made his body feel like it belonged to him again. It could give you pleasure. It could hold you without hurting you. It could make you reach for him instead of recoil.

Pope sometimes wondered whether this was the relief people felt after confession. 

They entered carrying everything ugly they had done, spoke it aloud and left feeling lighter because someone had heard the truth without turning them away. Sex with you felt like that. You saw how desperate he could become, how badly he needed you and how little control he sometimes had left by the end. Then you pulled him against your chest and kissed him as if he had confessed nothing shameful at all.

“You really like that one, baby.”

Your voice dragged Pope back into the middle of Sephora. He realized he was still holding the Cherry tester, his fingers clenched around the tube.

“It’s good,” he said, but his voice came out rougher than he intended.

You studied him. The color had spread beyond his ears now, warming his cheeks and continuing down the side of his neck. When you stepped closer, Pope avoided your eyes and pretended to examine the red mark on your hand.

“You’re blushing.”

“It’s warm in here.”

You moved behind him and slipped your arms around his waist, resting your cheek against his shoulder. “Were you thinking about where Cherry might leave marks?”

Pope swallowed. “Maybe.”

“On your cheek?” You pressed a kiss there. “Your neck?”

Your lips brushed the skin beneath his ear. Pope’s grip tightened around the tester.

“Or somewhere lower?”

One of your hands moved down his stomach. When your palm reached the front of his jeans, you found him already hard. Pope caught your wrist, but he did not pull you away. His fingers closed around you while your hand remained pressed over him.

“Baby,” he breathed.

You rubbed your palm over the shape of his cock once, feeling it harden further beneath the denim. “Were you imagining my red lips around you?”

Pope’s face turned completely red. His eyes moved toward the nearest aisle, checking whether anyone had noticed, before returning to your reflection in the display mirror.

“You know I was.”

The admission removed the last of the teasing from your expression. You kissed the back of his shoulder and left your hand beneath his.

“Then maybe Cherry should be yours.”

Pope looked down at the tube, seriously considering it, before glancing at the remaining testers.

“I still have three left.”

Your smile returned. You moved your hand back to his stomach and gave him enough room to continue. “All right. Keep going.”

Pope carefully returned Cherry to its proper slot before reaching for the next one.

Toasted Marshmallow had almost no color, only a few fine gold flecks suspended in the balm. Pope expected another scent sweet enough to make him return it immediately. Instead, he went still as soon as he opened it.

The warmth of it brought him back to the beach house after dark. He imagined opening the front door and finding the oven cooling, the scent of whatever you had baked still clinging to the kitchen. There would be something covered on the counter for him and a note beside the plate telling him which container to put in the refrigerator.

Sometimes you would be waiting on the couch with your legs tucked beneath you, looking up from your book as soon as you heard his key in the lock. On later nights, Pope would find you asleep beneath a blanket and the television playing quietly in an empty room. You always left a lamp on for him. 

Pope smelled the tester again.

Cherry had left him hard, still too aware of the front of his jeans and the hand you had pressed there. Toasted Marshmallow made him want the rest of the night. He wanted the bath you had planned, the new towels waiting in their bags and your body leaning against his chest while the water cooled around you. He wanted to put the balm on your mouth himself and taste something that reminded him of coming home.

Pope closed the tester carefully. He picked up an unopened Toasted Marshmallow and placed it beside Pink Guava in the basket, although his fingers remained curled around the tube.

“This one.”

You moved around him to see what he had chosen. “Toasted Marshmallow?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to Cherry?” The question was gentle, accompanied by a knowing smile.

Pope’s face warmed again. He kept his attention on the tube and rubbed his thumb over the printed name. “I like this one more.”

You opened the tester and smelled it yourself. The scent was warm and familiar, closer to something that belonged in your kitchen than a makeup display.

“Because it smells like cake?”

“Sometimes.” Pope shifted his weight. “Or pie.”

You looked from the balm to him, understanding beginning to soften your expression. “It smells like the house when I’ve been baking.”

Pope nodded.

“You mean that smells like home, baby?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”

You moved closer and laid your hand over his. “Then Toasted Marshmallow is yours.”

Pope looked down at your joined hands. “You meant what you said?”

“About what?”

“Only wearing it with me.”

There was something almost uncomfortable in the way he asked, as if he needed the reassurance but disliked how plainly his voice revealed it.

“Yes, baby. I meant it.”

Pope nodded, his gaze dropped to your mouth before moving back to the balm.

“You’ll wear it when we’re at the house?”

“Whenever you want me to.”

His brow furrowed. “No, I mean—” He stopped and shifted his weight again, the shopping bags rustling beside his leg. “Tonight.”

You waited, giving him time to finish.

“When we take a bath.” Pope rubbed his palm over the back of his neck. The color had spread from his ears into his cheeks again, although nothing he was asking for should have embarrassed him this much. “Could you wear it then?”

“For you?”

“Yeah.” His eyes returned to your lips. “For me.”

The quiet need in his voice made your chest tighten. Pope could walk into a room full of armed men and make them listen but asking you for something tender was different. He looked as though wanting it this badly had left him exposed.

You slipped your arms around his waist. “Yes. I’ll wear it for you in the bath.”

Pope’s hand settled against your back, but the uncertainty remained in his face.

“And…” He glanced toward the other shoppers before lowering his voice. “Can I put it on you?”

Your smile softened. “You want to?”

He nodded.

“Then you can.”

“With my finger?”

The question came out so earnest that you had to press your lips together to keep from smiling too widely. Pope noticed anyway, and his brow tightened.

“What?”

“Nothing.” You stroked your hand over his chest. “You can put it on with your finger. Then you can kiss as much of it off as you want.”

Pope swallowed. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, lingering there.

“You promise?”

“I promise, my love.”

“Okay,” he murmured, some of the tension finally left his shoulders.

You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Are you happy with your choice?”

Pope drew you closer. 

“Yeah.” He glanced once more at the balm in the basket. “I’m happy, sweetheart.”

The Rhode display stood near the front of the store. You crouched to check behind the remaining Pocket Blushes before pulling out your phone.

“The website still says they have Sleepy Girl.”

Pope looked over your shoulder. “Ask somebody, baby.”

An employee was unpacking boxes from a cart nearby. Her name badge read ALLISON. She rubbed her temple before reaching for another package.

“Excuse me,” you said. “Could you check whether you have any more of the Rhode Pocket Blush in Sleepy Girl? The website says there are a few left.”

Allison glanced at the empty slot and shifted the box she was carrying against her hip. “If it isn’t out, we don’t have it.”

“It still shows as in stock. Could there be some in the back?”

“Our inventory is wrong all the time.”

“I understand. It’s just that sometimes new products haven’t been put out yet—”

“We don’t have it,” she cut in, looking toward the clock above the register. “Choose another shade.”

Your fingers tightened around the basket. “But the others turn orange on my skin.”

“They’re all blush. It won’t make that much difference once they’re blended.”

The bags touched the floor behind you.

Pope came to stand at your side. “She asked you to check.”

Allison turned toward him. “I heard her.”

“Then check.”

Allison shifted the box higher against her hip and released a tired breath through her nose. “I’ve already explained that if it isn’t on the shelf, we don’t have it.”

“You didn’t even look.”

“I work here. I know what we have.” She reached for another product on the cart, attempting to return to her task.

Pope placed his hand over the box before she could pick it up. Allison’s gaze dropped to his fingers and then travelled slowly back to his face.

“The website says you have it,” he said.

“Our inventory is probably wrong. I still have all of this to put away.”

“Then it shouldn’t take long.” Pope removed his hand from the box, but instead of stepping back, he moved closer. “We’ll wait.”

Allison’s shoulders pulled tight. “Sir, there won’t be any.”

Pope held her gaze. “Go look. Then come back and tell her that.”

Allison opened her mouth again. Pope moved half a step closer, leaving little room between her and the cart. He kept his hands at his sides, but his voice dropped enough to make her grip tighten around the box.

“Go check.”

Allison’s eyes flicked over his face before she set the box down. “Fine.”

She disappeared through the stockroom door.

Only after it closed did you put the basket aside and take Pope’s hand. His fingers remained stiff around yours.

“Andrew, come here.”

You drew him away from the cart and back toward the Rhode display. Pope followed, glancing once over his shoulder at the stockroom.

“I love when you stand up for me,” you said, running your thumb over his knuckles. “You know I do.”

“She was talking to you like you were stupid, baby.”

“I know. She was rude.” You moved closer and rested your other hand against his chest. “But I think she was already having a terrible day before we walked over.”

“That doesn’t make it okay.”

“It doesn’t.” You explained. “I just don’t think it was about me. Her coffee’s gone cold, she keeps looking at the clock and she has half the store left to unpack. I think I asked the wrong person at the wrong moment.”

Pope’s jaw remained tight. “She still shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

“No, she shouldn’t have.” You kissed the underside of his chin. “And you didn’t have to let her.”

His hand settled against your back, though his attention stayed on the stockroom door.

“You’re not mad at me?”

“Of course not, baby.” You stroked your palm slowly over his chest. “I’m glad you came over. I only think you scared her more than you meant to.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“I know that.” You kissed him softly. “But she doesn’t know you.”

Pope looked down at your face, some of the tension finally leaving his fingers.

“When she comes back, maybe apologize for the way you spoke to her,” you murmured. “That’s all.”

He rubbed his thumb against your waist. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll apologize.”

You smiled and kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

Allison returned carrying three Sleepy Girl blushes. She avoided Pope’s eyes as she placed them in the empty slot.

“They were still in one of the shipment boxes,” she said. “They hadn’t been stocked yet.”

“Thank you for checking.” You picked up one of the small boxes.

Pope looked at Allison. His jaw shifted once before he spoke.

“I’m sorry about before.”

She glanced at him, visibly surprised. “It’s fine.”

“No.” Pope looked briefly toward you, then back at her. “It wasn’t.”

Allison rubbed her palm against her trousers. “I’m sorry too. It’s been a long day, and I took it out on you.”

You gave her a small smile. “It’s okay.”

Pope nodded toward the blushes. “Thanks for looking.”

Allison returned the nod, some of the tension leaving her shoulders.

You held up the box for Pope. “This is the one.”

He placed it beside Pink Guava and Toasted Marshmallow in the basket. “You want another?”

“One is enough.”

Pope checked your face before gathering the bags again.

“Anything else?” Allison asked.

“No, thank you.”

At the register, Pope arranged the two Laneige masks, Pink Guava, Toasted Marshmallow and the Sleepy Girl blush on the counter. When you opened your purse, he caught your wrist and guided your hand away from it.

“I can pay for my makeup, baby.”

“I’ve got it.” He kept hold of you while passing his card to the cashier.

“You already bought everything for the house.”

“These are for the house too.”

You picked up Pink Guava. “This is going in my purse.”

Pope took the tube from you, returned it to the counter and tucked you against his side. “Your purse comes home.”

The cashier lowered her head to hide a smile. You stared at Pope while he entered his PIN.

“That isn’t how house purchases work.”

“You need all of it, sweetheart.”

“And apparently that means you need to pay for it.”

Pope returned his wallet to his pocket and pressed a kiss to your temple. “Yeah.”

There was no point arguing once he had decided. You slipped your arm through his and rested your head against his shoulder while the cashier packed everything.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” Pope asked, looking down at the products before the cashier placed them inside the bag.

You laughed softly. “Yes, baby.”

You slipped beneath Pope’s arm as you left Sephora, talking about unpacking the last kitchen boxes and washing the new sheets before putting them on the bed.

“Kitchen first,” you said. “Otherwise we’ll leave everything in bags for a week.”

“Bed first.”

“Why?”

“Because I want to sleep in it tonight.”

You looked up at him, smiling. “We could do both.”

Pope drew you closer and kept walking. He had spent the entire afternoon waiting for something to go wrong. Every vibration of his phone made him expect Smurf’s name on the screen, followed by questions about where he was and why he had been gone so long. Only Deran knew about the two of you and the house by the beach, and Pope had told him because someone needed to know where to find you if he failed to come home after a job. Deran had promised to keep his mouth shut, but the secret still made Pope feel exposed because nothing in his life had ever remained his once Smurf discovered it.

His arm tightened around you without warning.

Your sentence trailed off. You turned within his hold and laid your palm flat against his stomach, feeling the tension beneath his shirt.

“Baby, are you okay?” You searched his face when he did not answer immediately. “Is it getting too loud? We can leave if you need to.”

Pope noticed the worry gathering between your brows and loosened his arm.

“No. Sorry.” He covered your hand with his, keeping it against him. “Keep talking, sweetheart.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah.” His thumb moved over your knuckles. “I don’t want to leave. Tell me what you were saying.”

You studied him for another moment before kissing his chest through his shirt. Pope pressed his mouth to the top of your head, and only then did you settle against his side again.

“I bought bath salts,” you continued, slipping your arm around his waist. “So we can unpack the kitchen, make the bed and then have a bath like you wanted.”

Pope’s hand began moving slowly over your back as he listened.

“But you’re not allowed to pour in the entire bottle of bubble bath this time.”

“It wasn’t the entire bottle.”

You tilted your face up to him. “Baby, it was nearly full when I gave it to you.”

“There was some left.”

“Enough for one very small bath, honey.” You held your thumb and forefinger barely an inch apart.

Pope watched the gesture, the corner of his mouth beginning to lift. “Still wasn’t the whole bottle.”

Then a small shop beside the exit caught his attention. A rotating stand of Jellycat bag charms stood near the door, little animals, fruit and flowers hanging from metal clips while their thin cord legs swung beneath them.

Pope stopped.

You felt his hand tighten around yours. “What is it?”

He nodded toward the display. “We need keychains for the new keys.”

Your face lit up. “We absolutely do.”

Pope let you lead him inside and set the shopping bags beside his feet while you crouched in front of the stand. You had barely turned it once before a green shamrock caught your attention.

“Wait.” You lifted it from its hook and touched one of its dangling feet. “They all have legs.”

Pope glanced at the other charms. “Yeah.”

“How have I never noticed that?”

You turned the stand again, laughing when a sun, a ladybug in tiny black shoes and several pieces of fruit swung into view. Then you found a lemon and picked it up, making its little legs walk across your palm.

“Look at him. He has somewhere important to be.” You held it beside your cheek and smiled at Pope. “Should this one be mine?”

Pope watched you, completely mesmerized.

For years, he had believed that was the life he deserved.

Smurf might have been the one who decided who had to die, but Pope had been the one to kill them. Being useful to her did not make him innocent.

Eventually, he had begun to think there was nothing inside him worth saving: no soul, no heart... 

Because a man with either would have stopped long before Pope ever did and he had put too much ugliness into the world to complain when none of the good parts reached him.

Baz had made that clear years ago.

They had been in Smurf’s garage after a job, Baz drinking and still carrying the confidence that made everyone else gather around him. Pope no longer remembered what started the argument. He remembered Baz laughing over the mouth of his beer bottle and asking what Pope thought was going to happen to him.

You think some woman’s gonna marry you? Have a kid with you? You?

Baz laughed again when Pope said nothing.

Nobody wants to wake up next to you, Pope.

Pope had hit him. Baz had hit back, and Smurf had blamed Pope for the broken cabinet without asking about the blood running into his mouth. None of it stayed with him as clearly as the certainty in Baz’s voice. Perhaps Pope had hit him because he already believed him.

Nobody would choose him.

Nobody would build a life with him.

His future had seemed like one long, cold day beneath a sky that never cleared, every morning leading back to another night inside Smurf’s house. Pope had stopped expecting anything else because hope only gave people something else to take from him.

Now you were kneeling in front of a display of ridiculous plush keychains, laughing because a lemon had legs. Pope looked at you and, for one brief moment, the store disappeared.

He imagined somewhere far from Oceanside. Another mall in a town where nobody knew the Cody name. You stood beside him, older but still laughing at everything. A little girl reached for a plush toy while Pope held her beneath the arms so she could see the top row.

She had his dark hair, gathered into two uneven pigtails he had tried to make himself. His freckles covered her nose. Everything else belonged to you: your eyes, your soft cheeks, your lips already turning into the same smile you wore whenever you knew Pope would give you whatever you asked for.

He could see himself buying the toy even after you reminded him she already had too many, he could see the little girl hugging it to her chest while Pope carried her back to the car and perhaps one day the small bedroom in the beach house would hold a crib until they found somewhere farther away.

The thought should have frightened someone like him, right?

Instead, Pope wanted it so badly that his chest hurt.

“Baby?”

You were standing now, the lemon still in your hand. Pope blinked and found you watching him.

“You went somewhere.”

“I’m here.”

You put the lemon back and came closer, rubbing your hand over his chest. “You were looking at me like you wanted to say something.”

Pope reached behind the sun and removed the sunflower hanging partly beneath it. He held one charm in each hand.

“I thought we could get these.”

Your eyes dropped to them. “The sun and the sunflower?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re perfect.” You took them from him and smoothed the sunflower’s soft yellow petals, smiling down at the two charms, making their little cord legs move against your palm before looking back at him. “Why these two, honey?”

His thumb caught beneath one of the sunflower’s petals. He had known what they meant when he took them from the display. Explaining it with you standing in front of him was different. He rubbed the soft fabric between his fingers, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Sunflowers turn toward the sun… They keep looking for it.” He shifted his weight and glanced toward the entrance, then back at the charm. “Doesn’t matter where it moves. They turn so they can still see it. They don't like the dark.”

You watched his fingers worrying at the petal. “And you want to be the sunflower?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Pope swallowed. He had already told you enough to make the answer obvious, but you waited for him to say it. Your free hand slipped into his and squeezed, giving him something to hold on to while he tried.

“Because I always know where you are,” he said. “Even when I’m not looking at you, I know.”

“And where am I, baby?”

“Here.”

His fingers tightened around yours before guiding your hand to his chest. His heart beat hard beneath your palm, each uneven thud pressing through the thin fabric of his shirt.

You had felt it countless times before. Beneath your cheek while you slept, racing against your ear when a nightmare tore him awake, gradually slowing whenever you climbed into his lap and held him until he remembered where he was. But this felt different. Pope was keeping your hand there deliberately, offering you the frantic rhythm as though it could explain whatever his mouth could not.

For one suspended moment, he felt more yours than he ever had.

He had chosen you. He had taken the parts of himself he kept hidden from everyone else, the frightened ones, the damaged ones, the ones he believed made him impossible to love, and placed them beneath your palm without knowing whether you would hold them gently.

“And if I can’t find you,” he continued, his thumb pressing into the back of your hand, “I look.”

You traced one slow stroke over his shirt. “So you’re the sunflower.”

Pope nodded. His attention dropped to the two charms, and he worried the edge of one soft yellow petal between his fingers.

“And I’m the sun?”

“Yeah.”

You waited.

His jaw shifted. He looked toward the entrance, then at the floor, visibly regretting how far he had allowed the conversation to go. Still, he did not let go of you.

“Because it was dark before you,” he said at last.

Your breathing faltered.

“In my head, I mean.” Pope frowned, frustrated with himself already. “It’s always been loud in there. Telling me this things.”

“What things?”

He rubbed his thumb against your knuckles. “That I’m bad. That I ruin everything. That none of this is gonna last because I don’t get to have good things like this.”

Your chest tightened, but you stayed quiet.

“They’re still there,” he added quickly, as though he needed to make sure you understood that you had not repaired him. “You didn’t make them go away— but they’re not always as mean anymore.”

His words were so quiet that the noise of the store nearly swallowed them.

Pope’s brow pulled tighter as he struggled to explain. “Sometimes there’s something else too. Something that says maybe I can come home. Maybe you’ll still be there when I do. That I’m…” He paused, swallowing again. “That I’m not only what they say I am.”

Your thumb stilled above his heart.

“It sounds like you sometimes,” he admitted. “Not really your voice— I know you’re not in my head.” His cheeks warmed as he rushed to clarify it, but his fingers held firmly to yours. “It just says the kind of things you say to me.”

The pressure behind your ribs became almost painful.

Pope had lived for years with Smurf’s voice buried inside him, joined by Baz’s laughter and every terrible thing he had ever come to believe about himself. You had never imagined that somewhere among them, your love had begun answering back. Not loudly enough to silence them but enough to make the darkness a little less certain of itself.

“You made everything lighter,” Pope murmured. “My life. All the stuff in here.”

He lifted your joined hands slightly against his chest.

“So I keep turning toward you.” His eyes dropped to the sunflower again. “Because you’re my sun.”

The words settled somewhere so deep inside you that you could not respond.

His pulse continued beneath your palm, hard and alive and entirely unguarded. You thought of all the years he had spent convinced that nobody would choose him, only for this man to stand before you now and confess that your love had become the kindest voice inside his head.

Your vision blurred.

Pope noticed immediately. The sunflower slipped from his fingers, swinging by its tag as both hands rose to your face.

“Hey. What happened?”

He searched your expression, alarm sharpening every feature when the first tear escaped.

“Was it what I said?” His breathing quickened when you could not answer fast enough. “It was too much— I shouldn’t have said it.”

“No, baby.”

“We can pick different ones.” He reached for the little sun in your hand. “Forget it.”

You caught his wrists before he could take it from you. “Andrew, look at me.”

“I made you cry.”

“I’m happy.”

Pope froze, his palms still cupping your cheeks. “You don’t look happy.”

“I’m overwhelmed.” You turned your face into one of his hands and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm. “Because nobody has ever given me anything as beautiful as what you just gave me.”

“I only said you were the sun.”

“You told me that loving you has made the inside of your head a little kinder.”

His mouth tightened. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that.”

“It doesn’t.” You leaned into his touch, a wet laugh catching in your throat. “It means more to me than I know how to explain.”

Some of the panic eased from his face, though uncertainty remained in the careful way he held you.

“You meant it, didn’t you?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then don’t take it back.”

“You’re sure?”

“Completely.” You kissed the base of his thumb. “But I need you to say it again.”

His brow furrowed. “Why?”

“Because this time, you’ll know the tears don’t mean you hurt me.”

Pope hesitated. His thumb swept beneath your eye, catching the wetness there before it reached your cheek.

“You’re my sun.”

Your face crumpled all over again.

He was not the collection of terrible things he had survived and the worse things he still blamed himself for.

He was Andrew.

Your Andrew.

His eyes widened. “Sweetheart—”

You laughed and threw your arms around his neck before he could panic a second time.

“Still happy, baby. I promise.”

Pope held you tightly, one hand cupping the back of your head while your laughter softened against his neck. When you finally leaned away, his gaze moved between your eyes and paused on your wet cheeks.

You kissed the worried crease between his eyebrows before looking down at the sunflower dangling from his fingers. One of its petals had folded beneath his grip, so you carefully smoothed it back into place.

“My sweet, grumpy sunflower.”

Pope frowned. “No.”

“No what?”

“You’re not calling me that.”

“But it’s perfect.” You lifted the sunflower beside his face, smiling when his frown deepened. “You’re sweet, you’re grumpy, and you just admitted that you spend your life turning toward me.”

Pope reached for the little sun in your other hand, but you hid it behind your back.

He held out his hand, palm open. “Give it back.”

You closed your fingers around the little sun and tucked it safely behind your back. “You gave it to me.”

He stepped closer and slipped an arm around your waist, trying to reach past you while you twisted away with a laugh. “I’m reconsidering.”

“That isn’t how presents work.” You turned, rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Besides, I’m going to call you my sweet, grumpy sunflower every day for the rest of our lives.”

Pope stopped reaching for the charm.

“The rest of our lives?” he asked.

Your teasing softened. “Yes, baby. That’s the plan.”

His hand settled at your waist and drew you a little closer. “Okay.”

Your smile widened. “You’re accepting the nickname already?”

“No.”

“Then what was the okay for?”

Pope looked at the sun hidden behind your back and then at the sunflower resting against his chest.

“For the rest of our lives.”

You caught his face between your hands and kissed him before either of you could become emotional again.

Pope went still beneath your palms. Then both arms closed around you. One hand spread across your lower back while the other cradled your neck, drawing you firmly against him.

He kissed you slowly. His mouth was warm and slightly unsteady beneath yours, softening each time your thumbs stroked his cheeks. The faint salt of your tears lingered on your lips, and Pope kissed it away before returning for another kiss, then another, as though the first had not been enough.

Your fingers slipped into the short hair at his temples. An uneven breath left him against your mouth, and his hand tightened at your back while the kiss deepened. His thumb moved slowly beneath your ear. He took his time with every gentle press of his lips, holding you closer whenever your fingers moved through his hair.

When you finally began to draw away, his hand tightened softly at your nape and brought you back for one last lingering kiss.

Pope kept his forehead against yours after your mouths parted. His eyes remained closed, his breathing uneven while your fingers continued moving through his hair.

You brushed your nose against his.

“I love you, my grumpy sunflower.”

“Love you too.” His thumb moved over your cheek as the corner of his mouth finally lifted. “But you’re not calling me that in front of Deran.”

You smiled. “No promises.”

taglist: @mcthsman, @pattwtf, @madisonauroraxx

[thykingdoncome]

thinking of you

the pitt x animal kingdom crossover || jack abbot x reader || pope cody x reader ||

summary: your first day at PTMC as a transferred resident was stressful enough without your entire past coming to haunt you.

|| angst, crossover fic, baran al-hashimi'sfriend!reader, SR3!reader, exbf!pope cody, resident!reader, medical jargon, this follows the pitt s2 pretty closely (scenes, patients, medical jargon that I def get wrong) animal kingdom s6 spoilers!!!!!!, grief, memories, flashbacks, one could call this a soulmate au, back in the day they might say a whump fic, age gap implied but not specific, timelines are not canon, lil bit of manhandling and tough love, slightly spiritual in the end (ghosts, spirits, parallel universes) || a/n: all credit to this tik tok that made me cry on a monday morning and some inspo from this post // last flashback inspired by pope x angela s4e11 // thank you @pearlessance for your big beautiful brain and your unending support!! a/n II: im serious guys if you haven't watched all of animal kingdom or havent had the internet spoil it for you like me, do not read :) wc: 13.8k

You know, for what it's worth, your first day had started normal.

Chaotic, maybe— but normal.

You had no reason to think it wouldn't go by like any other.

Your attending, Dr. Baran Al-Hashimi, was scheduled at a new hospital today. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center on the Fourth of July of all days. And at seven in the morning, you'd barely gotten down your iced coffee before you were being ushered into Trauma One for a left thoracotomy on a patient with a knife wound.

You followed them into the trauma bay, everyone getting prepared with surgical gowns, blue gloves snapping, masks pulled up over noses, the metal tray beside the bed already crowded with clamps and packs of gauze. In the middle of the room, the patient was being bagged through an airway, a nurse continuing chest compressions as his skin was slicked with sterile prep procedure, people moving around him like a choreographed dance. You watched from the edge, waiting for Dr. Al-Hashimi's command to join them.

You were grateful to see a few familiar faces. Dr. Samira Mohan, for one, who was calling for a chest tube while one of the nurses cut through the rest of the patient’s shirt. Dr. Mel King was there too, though she hadn't joined for the case. Both of them great doctors who had trained at the VA with you a few years ago. Different in their approaches, but just as good under pressure.

You'd known Baran for a long time now too. Before you'd even met Samira and Mel. You'd worked with her as a medical student doing your year abroad with Médecins Sans Frontières, knew her medical background with seizures—something that you kept secret through the years—even helped her for a few days at home after her laser ablation surgery.

You and Baran were tied at the hip. You knew her, and she knew you.

Which was partially why you were able to get the PD approval and would be spending the next three months following her around a very surly male attending's emergency department.

"Is the VA even a trauma center?"

You didn't like his tone.

You glanced over through your plastic surgical glasses. He was tall, older and bearded, his arms crossed over his chest, standing at the edge of the hospital bed trying not to take as much space as he did. Robby, you remembered. Dr. Robinavitch. One of the residents—a blond-haired doctor named Whitaker—had told you he would grow on you, that he really was a great attending.

You didn't doubt it. You'd known enough great doctors to also know they could still be complete assholes too. Even on their good days.

"We took walk-ins." you said curtly.

Baran tried to hide her smile. Robby’s eyes moved to you, held there for a second, then he nodded.

"We had falls, major MVCs, GSWs." she added with a much more polite tone than you had managed.

You listened to Dr. Whitaker on your left, asking the medical students questions about the procedure, differentials. Things you knew the answers to, the words sitting right there on the tip of your tongue, but you bit them back.

Teaching hospital, you reminded yourself. More specifically, someone else's teaching hospital.

"Javadi, Whitaker, glove up." Robby said to your left.

"You too." Baran said beside you. "Start on internal compressions."

Robby looked over. "I'd rather my—"

"—she is capable." Baran cut in gently. "And a good listener."

She nodded at you, jerking her chin up. "Go on."

You obeyed, grabbing your gloves from the boxes on the wall, the latex snapping at your wrists. A nurse slid the white surgical covering over your shoulders and tied it behind your back, the paper stiff against your neck. Everything smelled like betadine, blood, and plastic tubing.

The other residents began moving around, making room for the other two that crowded the table. You stepped in close, your toe brushing someone else's as you found a place near the open chest.

"Well hello to you too." one of them said, a woman to your left, her eyes narrowed, but even with the surgical goggles and mask, you could've sworn you saw a smile.

You only looked at her, squeezing yourself past, your shoulder sliding against her chest accidentally.

"Take me to dinner first, would ya?" she teased.

"Yolanda Garcia has trouble expressing her feelings," you heard Dr. Robby say to Baran across the room.

"I sure will miss you, rabbit-bitch," she called a little too loudly in your ear to him.

You saw him and Baran step closer, the two of them side by side at the foot of the bed. Not together, exactly. More like two people standing on the same square of floor and refusing to give any of it up, leaning in and almost hitting heads as they tried to look at what was going on.

There was a lot of talking around you. Samira's phone kept going off, Garcia was opening the chest cavity, her gloved fingers moving quickly through blood and tissue, clearly an OR fellow with many, many hours on the table. Whitaker was trying to explain to the medical students what was going on, his voice steady enough, though you could hear him working to keep it that way.

"No tamponade, pretty dry in here—" Garcia said quickly, looking in. "Heart's empty. Somebody start cardiac massage."

"On it, excuse me." you said, a little more forcefully as you stepped into the space between Garcia and a nurse. There was a half-second where the room narrowed to the patient’s open chest and your own hands. You placed them carefully, exactly where they needed to be, fingers closing around the heart. It was smaller than people thought. Slick, warm, a living muscle that didn't care how many times you had practiced this in simulation. A life.

You began compressions.

One squeeze. Release. One squeeze. Release.

"Okay team, I think—" Baran began, but Robby cut her off.

"Samira?" he called, "Next steps?"

Keep transfusing. Open the right chest. Find the source. Move before he runs out of time.

There would be a lot of blood.

The blood started pouring out, pouring and pouring. Thick and red under the lights, running off the drape, splashing down into the basin below and onto the floor. Your fingers kept moving around the heart. Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Your forearms began to burn beneath the gown.

"There's too much blood to suction—" Javadi said, panic rising in her voice.

Where was all of this blood coming from?

"Can't locate the source—" Garcia murmured, looking into the chest cavity.

"We need to convert to a clamshell." you said, looking up at Baran, then to Robby.

He nodded, "Exactly."

"Trauma sheers." you called at the same time as Garcia.

"Jinx, now you owe me a drink with dinner." she teased.

Someone handed them over before you could even think of a retort, not that you had one. Your brain had narrowed to the heart in your hands. The life you held there, retaining it, forcing it to continue. The metal flashed in the light before Garcia took them, cutting through the chest, opening it wider. The room shifted around the decision, everyone making space for the next problem.

More talking around you, more hands moving, more suction. Someone called for more units of blood, a second MTP. You kept your hands where they were, the heart softening and filling by turns beneath your palms, never enough to make you comfortable.

"Still bleeding like a stuck pig!" Garcia called after clamping.

You did have one idea—one thing you could do to stop this. Something that could buy the patient enough time to get upstairs. But you knew Baran wasn't exactly keen on risky procedures done because the room had gotten desperate. Better to rush to the OR in her mind. Better to control what could be controlled, to keep the steps precise, to not make a bad situation worse with a move that could tear the lung off its root if done wrong.

But Robby seemed to have the same thing in mind.

"Hilum flip. Rotate the lung one-eighty degrees."

"Like putting a kink in the garden hose." you whispered to yourself.

Everyone looked at him like he was insane, but you knew there was no time to waste.

"Gently. Very, very slow." he said, his eyes on you and nodding. "Whitaker, take over compressions."

Letting go of the heart when Whitaker's hand found yours, you reached for the lung, then looked up at Dr. Robby again.

You glanced at Baran too. Her eyes were wide behind her shield. "He could die if you rip his lung off the hilum." she said.

"I won't."

You sucked in a shaky breath, nodding, and then looked back at Robby.

You looked down and—

—slowly, slowly, you turned the lung.

There were so many bloody gloved hands tucking and moving around you, Whitaker's breath heavy beside you where he'd taken the heart from your hand a moment ago. Your fingers adjusted by tiny degrees, careful around the slick weight of the organ, your wrists stiff with restraint. The room felt close behind your mask. You held your breath for a moment, feeling Dr. Robby's eyes on you. Dr. Al-Hashimi's too.

Then Javadi called, "Blood loss slowing down!"

The words moved through the room like someone had opened a door. You let out a long breath of relief.

"Okay, we fixed the leak. Now we need to refill." Robby said, standing straighter, relief dropping his shoulders too.

You pulled away from the patient, letting Garcia take your place again, Whitaker standing tall and glancing at you with an impressed gaze. You didn't look at him for long, eyes back to the patient, to the monitor, to the line of numbers that suddenly mattered more than what anyone in the room thought of you.

Once normal sinus rhythm came back, you moved to stand back beside Baran. You hadn't realized how hard you'd been clenching your jaw until it loosened.

"Hell of a way to start the day." Robby said, disrobing the white sterile surgical covering. Baran followed suit, and you did the same, peeling the gown from your sleeves and dropping it into the bin. Your gloves were dark with blood, forearms aching.

"Unconventional. But a decent outcome." Baran agreed, every consonance perfectly crisp on her tongue.

All three of you left the bay, the noise of the monitor and raised voices disappearing with a swish of the doors closing behind you.

"Why don't we split up?" Robby said. "For efficiency."

"We can certainly discuss that." Baran answered with a smile. "I'll find you in a minute. I need to speak to my resident."

Robby made a face, but nodded. "Good job back there." he said shortly to you.

You gave him a polite smile, then threw your surgical glasses down into a bin.

Baran came in front of you, watching the attending walk away.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. The bay was still noisy behind you, people cleaning, counting, calling upstairs, stripping the room down so it could become useful again now that the patient was stable enough for surgery.

"I'm sorry… for… undermining your authority in the room." you said with a sigh. "I'd thought of it before he even said anything about the flip, I felt confident enough to—but I should've asked—"

"I have always said I admire your confidence, doctor." she said gently when she turned back to you. "Just remember, you have nothing to prove to them. Or to me. I know your work."

"But they don't."

"No," she said, and smiled, chin tipping up in pride. "But they will."

You looked down for a second, trying to breathe around the adrenaline still crawling under your skin.

"Go check your other patients," she said. "And I expect to hear some updates. And…excellent work. You saved the patient's life."

You nodded, sucking in a big breath before turning and going back to your charts.

A couple hours passed in much easier quiet—though you'd never say the Q word out loud. You hadn't worked in many emergency departments, but you knew better than that in any hospital setting.

Quiet wasn't really quiet anyway. There were still labs to chase, discharge papers to fix, scans to check, patients waiting to go upstairs and heart rate monitors beeping.

Your own patients were doing fine. A few waiting on labs, one getting ready for discharge, one still up at CT. Baran had sent you through triage for a while too, helping clear out the lower acuity cases before they stacked up. It was steady, easy work. It kept you out of the way, too.

You were just making your way across the emergency department when you saw the most peculiar thing. An entire SWAT team was rushing in beside a bed, one of their members holding a breathing bag up, cursing and calling out the trauma.

"intubated neck wound—stats not great. Is there a trauma room open?!"

You ran towards the voice, listening to the story.

Dr. Robby blocked your view as he ran toward the incoming trauma as well, already cutting toward the bay, calling out orders to his residents and students.

You heard something about a high-velocity gunshot wound, the bagging not working on him. Warehouse robbery gone sideways. That piqued your interest, a flicker of memory tugging at your brain, making you smile a little as you pushed the trauma doors open.

They were putting him on the table as you pulled on a surgical gown again, blue gloves and glasses going on quickly. Your heart rate was climbing, eyes wide as you took in the victim. His shirt had already been cut open, blood running out of his mouth, over his neck, soaking into the collar bunched beneath his shoulders. Someone was calling for suction, another trying to get a pressure. The other SWAT team members filed out of the room, making space. But still one of them stayed.

"Thought you left us for the open road—" the remaining team member said from the bed as the nurses got the patient hooked up to the heart rate machine.

You couldn't quite place why his voice sounded so familiar.

"And miss seeing you in uniform?" Robby shot back as he rushed beside the bed.

"Should've seen me as a flight attendant." the other man whispered.

You had half a mind to laugh as you pushed forward toward the patient, not looking up. You moved to the side of the bed instead, checking the tube, the blood around his mouth, the barely there rise of his chest beneath the bagging. Not enough movement on the left. The wound at his neck was still pooling blood and soaking the gauze someone had pressed there, bright blood slipping between gloved fingers and down into the sheet.

"You do this intubation?" Robby asked the man.

Why was this SWAT member still here?

You needed room to work, to get closer to the patient. You stood across from the uniformed man, not bothering to look up as you reached for the suction tubing and cleared blood from the corner of the patient’s mouth. You wished he'd leave so you could see clearer around all the nurses and students, wished his vest and elbows and radio weren't taking up so much of the narrow space by the head of the bed.

"Under active fire, yeah."

Your eyes flitted up to him.

Only for a second, or what you meant to only be a second, to see if he was serious.

But for that second, your brain did something very strange.

For the first time in 7 years, you were looking at Andrew Cody.

But… not Andrew.

Andrew wasn't here. Andrew was… he was…

He was dead.

As the man turned to glance over his shoulder, it was Andrew's hair you were looking at. Graying now, still curly. The freckles on the nape of his neck you used to trace like constellations.

Your hand stayed on the suction tubing, but the room had slipped somewhere far away from you. Voices kept moving around the bed, Santos, Robby, Garcia— all of them thinned out beneath the monitor and the hard thump of your pulse in your ears.

The SWAT member was still turned slightly, glancing back at the bullet graze across his left shoulder. The fabric there was torn, dark with a splotch of blood. He looked at it like it was nothing.

He was saying something, but it joined with the rest of the voices around you—muffled in your buzzing ears. You heard something about the SATs going down, about causes of respiratory failure in intubated patients. Things you'd have answers to if you weren't looking at your dead ex boyfriend.

And he looked back at you.

It felt like someone had taken you by the shoulders and plunged you underwater.

But this man was Andrew. Older, for sure. Older than time would've allowed in those 7 years anyway. There were marks of it around his eyes, in the set of his jaw, in the heavier shape of his shoulders beneath the tactical vest. But those were Andrew's eyes. Those were his lips—lips you knew, lips you'd kissed, lips that whispered secrets in the dark, lips that had curled back and bared at you the last time you spoke.

You heard the talking around you, but you were frozen. Completely frozen as he smiled at you—this SWAT member, this stranger who wasn't a stranger. Your brain was trying to catch up to the uncanny likeness.

You wanted to cry. You felt like you might faint.

You opened your mouth, lips dry, voice tight, and said:

"Pope?"

seven and a half years earlier

"I'm nervous."

It was dark—sometime around two or three, you thought. The only time Andrew could sneak in through your window without your parents hearing the latch of the gate, the scuff of his boots on the siding, the soft creak of your floorboards when he walked across the room to sit beside you on the bed. You hadn't turned on the light, maybe some part of you thought if you did it would all be too good to be true.

"Me too."

"What do you have to be nervous for?" you breathed a little laugh that felt stale in the darkness, your hands a little shaky around the envelope.

You felt the thick sleeve of his jacket rise and fall as he shrugged, "Dunno."

He was sitting very close, his right shoulder tucked behind your left, his palm flat on the bed behind you as he leaned into you until his chest pressed against your shoulder. His jacket was rough against your skin, still cold from outside, but underneath it he was warm, the heat of him coming through by degrees.

You sucked in a shaky breath, "Big envelope usually means good news, right? Right?"

"I have no idea."

"You're so helpful."

"M'here, aren't I?"

You nodded, and then realized he might not be able to see it. "Yeah."

Shifting the envelope in your lap, you turned it over, then back again. The seal caught a thin line of moonlight from the window, your name looking so neat on the front, printed by someone who had never met you. Someone who didn’t know about the hours spent at Smurf’s kitchen table filling out applications beside J, or Andrew grabbing cash from a rubber-banded stack in his glove compartment to pay for the application. You hadn’t asked where it came from, though you'd already had a good idea.

"Are you gonna open it?" he asked.

"I'm scared."

"Do you want me to open it for you?"

You shook your head, "No, no. It's okay."

"So…"

"It's just that… my whole world is in this envelope right now." you said quickly. Admitting it felt surreal, it gave weight to the paper in your hands. You let your fingers trace over the parchment, the white address sticker peeling up a little as you picked at it. It felt as if maybe it would come up, and someone else's name would be under it. Like it wasn't meant for you after all.

He stayed quiet, waiting for you to go on.

"If this letter says I didn't get in… I don't know what my life looks like. I mean, what would I do?"

"You can stay with me." he said softly, just breath against your jaw as he leaned into you. "We would figure something out."

You nodded. "I know. But… if it says I did get in…"

"It will."

You looked over at him. You could see the outline of his face, the barely there moonlight catching the pretty light in his eyes. You leaned in further, pressing your forehead to his temple, letting out a long sigh.

His skin was warm there. A little damp near his hairline from the hood of his jacket, from the climb, from the summer night still caught on him. Your grip shifted around the envelope, paper dragging against your cotton shorts. When you spoke again, it was hardly a whisper.

"How can you be so sure?"

He rolled his head against yours, gently, sucking in a breath with you before letting it out. The smell of pine soap and minty toothpaste moved over your face with it.

"Because this is what you're meant to do. I know it. I just do."

You licked your lips, smooth with your bedtime lotion and chapstick already applied, leaning into him a little more, pausing there. You felt close enough to feel his breath touch your mouth before either of you moved.

He closed the distance, gently pressing his mouth against yours, breathing you in through the kiss.

His hand found your face—rough palm, calloused fingers, the careful cup of his touch beneath your jaw. It always did something strange to you, how gentle he could be with hands that had evidence of so many split knuckles past. His thumb moved over your cheekbone, soothing.

When he pulled away, you almost followed.

His eyes moved over your face in the dark. Searching, maybe, or checking. He said he never had the right words for this sort of thing, not really, but you didn't need them. Because he looked at you like he was trying to make sure you were still there with him. And that was more than anyone else had ever offered.

His other hand came up, fingertips light as they cupped your skull, turning your face just enough for the moonlight to catch it. To one side, then the other. It should have made you laugh, the seriousness of it, the way he studied you so intensely.

Then he leaned in one more time, pressing a featherlight kiss to the tip of your nose.

"Open it." he whispered.

You pulled in one last breath before sitting up straight, crinkling the corners of the manila envelope before flipping it over. You took your time, carefully unfolding the wire clasp, gently slipping your finger between the closure before the sound of tear of paper filled the room.

Pope's hand lifted from the bed behind you to wrap around your body, squeezing you close.

Slowly, you pulled a stack of papers out.

Your eyes immediately dropped to the first line below the greeting of the first page:

On behalf of the Committee on Admissions, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted to the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.

Even in the dark, there was no second guessing it. The words were there, black and perfect on the page, and your whole body seemed to understand them before your mind could.

Your vision narrowed, your world opened up, a future you had no idea how to take part in but knew you'd be there anyway. Something changing in your own chemical makeup, the feeling of Andrew's arm around you, squeezing you tighter, whispering something.

When you turned towards him, he was already looking at you—so close in the dark, eyes bright and mouth pulling wide like he couldn’t help it.

You smiled back, big and toothy and disbelieving, your throat burning as tears began to gather. The papers slipped from your hands and scattered to the floor as you threw your arms around him, pushing him back into the bedspread with a burst of hushed laughter.

now

"Pope?"

The man who looked like Andrew's lips pulled into a little smile, his head tilting at you, inquisitive.

"You know," he said, voice touched with amusement, "I never pay attention to that stuff. Can't even remember the guy’s name. He's from Chicago, right? I grew up Catholic, so really I should know."

You blinked.

"Dr. Abbot is an attending here," Robby said as he came up beside you, peeling back the soiled gauze around the patient’s throat and revealing the displaced trachea beneath.

You looked down at the patient again, and the transected trachea snapped you almost back to the present. Almost. Your hands were still shaking, your brain still scrambling to separate the man across from you from the dead one in your memory, but you had to get yourself together. The patient could die if you didn't focus.

"Baby—I need a baby—"

The SWAT member—Dr. Abbot, if you remembered right, looked at you a little funny. You shook your head sharply as if to dislodge your running thoughts and organize them with a quick jostle just as another resident moved in beside him with an air bag. The breathing tube was out now, the open wound exposed, blood spluttering from it.

"I mean, a neonatal mask. I need a neonatal mask! He's not getting any air."

You looked around, everyone was still looking at you a little weird, but Robby only nodded his head, agreeing. "Santos—go!"

"Neonatal?" she asked.

"YES!" you barked, and you were surprised to hear Robby's voice overlapping yours.

She was only gone for a moment, but it felt longer than it should have. Too many seconds with the monitor complaining, too many hands hovering over a body that had no usable airway.

The moment the mask hit your palm, you pressed it over the open wound, sealing it against his neck while someone squeezed the bag.

The monitor began to settle down to a steadier beat.

"Neo-natal mask is working," Dr. Abbot said, his voice lighter than before, almost impressed. Dr. Santos continued the EFAST while the patient was stable enough, and Abbot injected lidocaine with epi to help with the bleeders. Things felt almost normal again, or at least close enough to pause and figure out the rest.

You kept looking up at him though.

Not on purpose, and not for very long. Your eyes would lift, catch on the curve of his mouth or the set of his brow, and then you’d force them back to the patient, to the wound, to the monitor, to anything with a number attached to it. Your brain kept trying and failing to separate memory from present.

He and Robby were talking, discussing next steps around you.

"I could do a Shiley?" you offered.

"I don't like the curve of a Shiley." Dr. Abbot teased.

"Didn't know you were so picky," Robby answered. You almost had the nerve to smile.

This was turning into a very weird day.

When you looked back over to Dr. Abbot, he was looking at you. Your skin lifted in goosebumps.

"You must be Gloria's new hire," he murmured.

"One of them." you answered.

He tilted his head to the side, his eyes skating over your features. You wondered what he saw when he looked at you. Your presence didn’t seem to have the same effect. He was calm, collected, nothing like you felt.

Robby answered before he could say anything, "We were lucky enough to get two." he introduced you by name, then explained, "R3. "

He didn't sound like he felt very lucky, but you ignored that.

"Pleasure to meet you." Dr. Abbot said. You could swear there was a certain tone to his voice. Cheeky, almost. Your skin felt tingly.

Just then, you heard Baran's voice enter the room, "What is going on here? You have a field medic assisting?"

"Dr. Abbot is an attending and also a SWAT physician." Robby explained again to her.

"Transected trachea, we're working on an airway." you explained.

Dr. Abbot was moving in with his tube, explaining it to Dr. Santos, but Baran had shouldered her way between you and the resident.

"We can do this." she said stiffly.

"No, no," he said easily. "I got it. You must be Gloria's second hire. I'd shake your hand, but my tube is ready."

You felt your lips twitch in what could've been a smile if you didn't feel like you'd lost your breath entirely.

"Keep an eye on the SATs," she told you over her shoulder.

You backed away, holding your hands up to keep them from touching anything or anyone.

"What, you're gonna take away the only helpful person in the room?" Abbot asked as he inserted the tube into the retracted trachea while Robby pulled it up with forceps, Santos taking over on the air mask.

"Hey," Robby protested. "I'm the one holding this open for you."

Dr. Abbot smiled, focusing back on the patient, "I'm gonna sew this in, 2-0 silk, please?"

"End tidal, good wave form." you called out, eyes flitting from the attending to the screen.

Robby let out an impressed whistle from in front of you. "Not bad, Abbot."

You moved away, feeling a little hazy, like you were walking through water as you began stripping off your sterile surgical gear. You took in a few deep breaths, focusing on the movement. Glove off. Gown untied. Mask flicked off. Glasses lifted from your face. One thing, then the next.

But you couldn't help the way you kept wanting to look back at him.

It felt almost like you'd been transported. You weren't sure if it was back in time or forward, or to some strange parallel universe that had split open in the middle of Trauma One. Andrew Cody was standing in the room. Graying hair, stubble grown out, blood on the back of his SWAT uniform, his hands busy at a patient's throat.

Not Andrew—Dr. Abbot.

Your brain offered the correction, but it didn’t settle right.

He looked up as if you'd called his name. Those eyes followed you across the room, curious, wondering. It was the same steadiness that would study you from across the kitchen counter, the one that would sneak glances at you from the driver's seat of a car, beside you in your bed. Your stomach dipped as you remembered the last time you'd seen them.

You turned away, unconsciously reaching up to grasp the necklace that adorned your throat between your fingers as you pushed the doors open.

The ED had gotten busier than before, and you inhaled the hospital air steadily into your lungs as you looked around. Your hands still felt like they were trembling, all that adrenaline and unease working its way through your bloodstream. Epinephrine, norepinephrine, cortisol. You recited it just to have something you knew. Something that was real. Adrenal medulla. Sympathetic nervous system. Hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal axis.

Your body was doing exactly what it was built to do, flooding you with chemicals and tightening your muscles, preparing you for danger.

But instead of danger this time, it was a ghost.

Time passed strangely after that, in pieces easily measured. A CBC resulted. A urine sample collected. X-ray called to say they were ready for the wrist in triage. You'd gone back out there to let your thoughts collect, and maybe to avoid the main trauma center too.

Usually work helped. Even when you'd had bad days before, or days where you felt helpless and tired and worn out, the hours of helping other people could usually quiet whatever was wrong with you. There were orders to put in, pulses to check, nurses asking for discharge plans. There was always something that needed your hands more than your feelings did.

But now… this was different.

In every patient checked, every lab sent, you thought of Andrew Cody.

A broken wrist came in at some point, swollen at the joint and held tightly against the patient's chest, her fingers moving but stuff. Her skin was puffy where it began to swell by her apple watch she hadn't taken off. You touched two fingers to her radial pulse, asking her to wiggle her fingers, then pressed along the snuffbox until she hissed.

"Sorry," you'd murmured. You'd ordered the films and ordered a splint until ortho took a look at her, simple and easy enough.

Except as you were doing it, you felt twenty years old again in a sunken living room in Oceanside, Craig Cody's wrist tucked against his own lanky chest while Deran paced behind you, agitated and barefoot as he tried to call their doctor in Mexico.

Andrew had been standing stiffly behind your chair, one hand gripping the back of it so that when you sat up, his knuckles brushed the top of your spine.

You'd been googling how to make a splint for a broken bone while walking to the fridge for ice. You remembered Craig looking at you funny when you'd returned with one of Smurf's magazines from the bathroom and a roll of duct tape from the junk drawer, wrapping his arm with more confidence than you actually felt.

It had healed fine in the end.

Mostly.

There was a man with split knuckles from a bar fight. Typical day drinking incident for a city like this. But while you cleaned his wounds and bandaged his hand, you thought of Andrew's blood rinsing from his hands in your bathroom sink, quiet while you sat on the closed toilet seat with a towel in your lap. How he would never admit how badly it hurt. Or how badly he hadn't wanted to do it.

There was even a pair of twins, both with fevers. A boy and a girl, maybe four years old, sitting side by side while their mother tried to keep them from touching every surface in the room. They had the same flushed cheeks, the same damp hair at their temples, the same tired little lean toward each other whenever one of them started to cry.

You hadn't known Andrew that young. You hadn't even been alive. But seeing them staring up at you with those big fever-bright eyes made you think of him anyway. Andrew and Julia. Inseparable, but both destined for a tragic end.

You checked their ears, listened to their lungs, pressed gently under their jaws while they blinked up at you. Viral, probably. Nothing too bad. Tylenol, fluids, return precautions. A normal childhood illness on a normal terrible day.

On your way back into the trauma center, you sent a little prayer up that the story of Andrew and Julia would never happen to them.

By the time you made it back to your workstation that had you seated around the edges of the charge nurse area, you felt a little refreshed from your earlier encounter. You hadn't seen the SWAT member—or attending, or whatever his title really was—anywhere yet. That helped too.

You took your seat and pulled the keyboard closer, the plastic keys worn smooth under your fingertips as you brought up the charts that needed finishing. A coffee you'd grabbed on the way over sat beside the mouse, lid half off, the surface already cooling. You began finishing your charts, trying to keep your eyes on the screen and your thoughts inside the room you were in.

"You've been gone for a while."

You looked over your shoulder to see exactly who you'd expected: Baran, standing straight, looking over your shoulder, her perfume faint against the hospital smell.

"Just making myself useful in triage, I guess." you said, looking back at the screen, but you felt her eyes on you anyway.

She let the silence sit there for a moment, the way she always did when she thought you might fill it if she waited long enough. You didn't. You clicked into the next chart and pretended the cursor needed all your attention.

Finally, she sighed.

"Are you ever going to give my generative AI a chance? You could be seeing other patients right now. You could be enjoying a small break in the lounge."

You huffed a little laugh. "When I'm ready to wipe out all the wildlife for data centers, I'll let you know."

She shook her head, a little pressed smile catching at the corner of her mouth. And then, after a moment, she said: "You've been avoiding me."

You paused, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Damn her for being so observant. It made her a great doctor. It also made her an annoyingly keen boss. And a wonderful friend.

You turned on the rolling stool.

"I"m sorry. It's…"

"Did you know him from somewhere?"

Your eyes widened, heart dropping. Feigning ignorance, you asked: "Who?"

"The patient," she said, watching your face. "The one with the transected trachea. He's in surgery right now. I can call for an update if you'd like."

You let out your breath quickly, almost too quickly. "Oh. No, no. I didn't."

Her eyes narrowed a little, that brown gaze searching your face with a steadiness you had watched study patients, consultants, nervous interns, men who thought they could talk over her.

"Okay." she said.

You could hear the tone of disbelief under it, the things she wanted to say but wouldn't.

Clicking your tongue softly against your teeth, you looked down at your lap, at your hands folded there, at the faint red mark across the back of one finger from where one of the twins had held onto you tightly as you took their blood.

"Well…" she continued. "I trust if it's something that needs discussing, you would—"

"—Yes, yes, I promise." You looked back up at her. "I just… I needed to clear my head. I'm good. I'm back."

Baran held your gaze.

It wasn't like a typical attending, not harsh or deciding whether you were fit for work. More like Baran the friend, the one who had once shared a bowl of popcorn and Raisinets on her couch with you as you watched Love Island after her surgery. She knew what you looked like when you were lying. She knew what you looked like when you were telling only half a truth too.

"Okay." she said at last, a smile twitching back to her lips. "You can help me with a middle-aged woman with sudden-onset blindness. Mel is heading up for her deposition soon, and I need someone in there to observe."

"Sure, yeah." You nodded, turning back toward your chart before she could keep looking at you. "Give me a few minutes to finish this, and I'll be over."

She tapped two fingers against the counter beside you, then walked away. "Room 15."

You watched her reflection move across the dark edge of your computer screen before you started typing again.

The words came slower than they should have, and eventually you gave into the notion that you'd probably be spending an hour after your shift catching up, just like the rest of the residents anyway.

You closed out of the charts, and headed over.

Only, halfway across the department, you realized Baran hadn't said where the patient was. Room 15, yeah. But there were 3 different fifteens in this god damn maze. North, South, Central…

You slowed near the charge board, coffee still in your hand, eyes scanning the names too quickly to make sense of them. Looking for anything resembling blindness or vision loss, neuro, consult pending. You found none of it fast enough. You felt the department going on around you, noisy and distracting.

You gave up and walked a few steps away, looking around the different doors, and just decided you'd try all three.

Central Fifteen was closest, and the curtain was pulled all the way across, so you approached, trying to plaster on your best bedside smile.

You pulled it open.

The sight inside hit you so fast you gasped, nearly dropping your coffee as your other hand tightened around the curtain, wrenching it closed again.

Your heart felt like it had catapulted into your throat, your stomach falling the opposite way onto the floor.

Not Andrew, not Andrew, not Andrew, you kept chanting it as you squeezed your eyes shut, forcing your breath in and out of your lungs.

"You… can come in." the voice said from the bed. It was low and careful and quiet, startled too. His hazel eyes had been wide, flickering up when you'd scared him too. Those broad shoulders bare, thick muscled chest plain as day with his shirt in his hands.

You sucked in another breath and opened it slowly this time to see Dr. Jack Abott sat on the exam bed before you.

seven and a half years earlier

You weren't sure what had gotten into Andrew that day.

It had been a sunny Friday afternoon, the place already loud with music and vices carrying throughout the house. Andrew had asked you to come, and he'd sounded so serious over the phone you hadn't even hesitated.

But now he'd locked you out of his room.

At first you weren't sure if it was just because he needed a minute, or he was messing with you. But Andrew didn't mess with you like Craig or Deran did. He didn't tease just to tease or make you chase him around for the fun of it. If Andrew was making something difficult, there was usually a reason.

You knocked on the door softly at first, a gentle little C'mon, Andy, open up, before you'd started really knocking, practically shouting for him to answer you. The house went on behind you, the day drinkers enjoying summer out by the pool, drinks being poured in the kitchen, a game of kings in the living room. Music carried all through the house. It was why you'd thought maybe he'd just been overwhelmed. Usually an hour or so into a party, the both of you would retreat to the company of only each other in a quiet room.

You leaned your head against the wooden door, and listened.

He was pacing. You could hear him mumbling to himself too, what it was he was saying, you had no clue.

What was his problem?

You were lifting your head from the door, about to go join the party outside when suddenly the bedroom opened up.

"What the hell, Andr—ah!"

You squealed as he grabbed your wrist, pulling you inside roughly. Then, just as abruptly, he stood away from you, breathing hard, eyes moving over the bed, the nightstand, the floor by his shoes, anywhere but directly at your face.

"Sit." he said simply, pointing to the bed.

"What the hell is going on with you?" you snapped, folding your arms over your chest.

He was doing that thing—the puppy dog eyes, rubbing of his palms together, the eye contact flitting around to anywhere but you. It would have been irritating if it didn't make your stomach twist. You knew him angry, you knew him quiet. And you knew this version too—nervous, child-like.

Andrew could scare other people with all his silences and hard staring, but you knew the difference. This wasn’t anger. This was him getting stuck somewhere in his head, turning a thought over and over until it wore a groove.

"Hey…" you said, and then again, softer: "Hey."

He looked up at you. His big hazel eyes were wide in the afternoon light that came through the bedroom window, softened and yellow by the drapes.

"What's going on?" you murmured, stepping closer and reaching out to take the sides of his hoodie in your hands, fisting the fabric so you could pull him closer.

The fabric was warm under your fingers, the pocket stretched out where he always hooked his thumb. You could feel his breath move through him, uneven under the cotton. He stared at your hands.

"Andy…" you said, quieter.

His eyes flicked to the bed.

"Sit."

You sighed, let go of him, and obliged.

You bounced a little as you landed on the mattress, his unease making you fidget. You could smell the detergent from the perfectly made bedspread, the old wood of the house, the smell of your sunscreen wafting around you.

"You're making me nervous." you murmured.

His eyes finally landed on you and stayed there, "M'sorry. I'm sorry."

He sounded so genuine as he sat beside you finally, the mattress dipping under his weight. His knee brushed yours before he pulled it back, and his hand flattened over the seam of his jeans. You watched his thumb press into the denim, rubbing at the same spot, the skin around his nail going pale.

"Just…tell me what's goin' on." you said, laying your hand gently over his.

He was fidgeting too, pursing his lips, his eyes down turned again. Then he leaned toward his bedside table, opened the drawer, and pulled out a leather pouch. There was a gold cord wrapped tightly around it, leather softened and expensive. He held it out while not even looking at you, taking in a long shaky breath.

You took it carefully, setting it in your lap with two hands. "What's this?"

He didn't answer.

"Andy—"

"It's nothin'." His eyes stayed on the floor. "Just—well, not nothing."

"If this is what I think, I can't accept."

"Yes, you can."

You rolled your eyes.

He leveled his gaze very seriously on you, his brow set, his hands suddenly still. "Will you just open it?"

You looked at him for a long moment, and then sighed. Fighting him was futile when he had something on his mind.

You looked back down at the leather pouch and untied the gold cord. The knot had been pulled tight, and it took you a second to work it loose with your nail before you unfolded the worn pieces of leather.

Something glittered beneath.

"Oh—" you gasped.

Inside was a diamond necklace.

A white-gold chain connecting to a bejeweled bail that held two small circles stacked above an oval stone, the whole pendant ringed in more diamonds, so bright that it threw little cuts of light across the inside of the pouch.

You were almost certain it was worth more than anything you had ever owned.

You looked up at him. "Andy…"

His jaw shifted, but he was looking at you differently now—those big hazel eyes stayed on you, waiting, nervous, still, but changed with a softness that often was reserved for only you.

"I wanted to get you something," he said, voice low, "for getting into the program. Do you like it?"

"Andy, I can't accept this—"

"Yes you can." he corrected. His tone was soft, hoarse like he was telling you a secret instead of trying to hand you what had to be a five-figure diamond necklace. You wondered if his brothers knew what you were given. If Smurf had any say.

"Wh—why are you even giving me this? Aren't the cops gonna be looking for it?"

He tilted his head at you and whispered, "Don't worry about that stuff. I'll handle it."

You shook your head in disbelief, fingers toying with the white gold chain in your lap. For a moment, you didn't know what to do about him. About his kindness, his generosity, the over-the-top gestures he often made without understanding they were over-the-top at all. To him, it was direct. You loved someone, so you gave. You celebrated.

You loved him for it, for him wanting to give so much. The way he made sure you understood how much you meant to him, never questioning or second guessing.

Still, you wondered if he'd taken it from under his family's noses when they weren't looking. You were almost certain you knew the job it came from, too. The mansion you'd visited under the guise of a decorating crew with a little black dress on, hair pinned and proper, clipboard to your chest while you smiled at a woman who had no idea you were memorizing the hallway behind her.

"We could've gone out for a drink to celebrate!" you said under your breath, though it wasn't mean.

He shook his head. "You worked hard to get in. You deserve more than a round of shots at Deran's shitty bar."

You stared at the necklace. He whispered your name, and you looked up.

He leaned in closer, making sure you heard every word as he said, "You deserve to be celebrated."

You pressed your lips together, your eyes moving over his face—the freckles across his nose, the little scars near his brow, the old nick at his cheek you still remembered touching the first week you knew him. You'd never seen someone flinch like that before. You thought of how he hasn't flinched from your touch in years now. It makes your chest warm as you look at his cheekbones. They were sharper than they had been a month ago, his eyes darker underneath, like he hadn’t been sleeping well.

"Do you like it?" he asked again, quieter this time, his voice losing some of its edge.

You let out a breath, smiling despite yourself. "Yes."

His shoulders eased, a small shift under his hoodie, but his eyes stayed fixed on you. Then, he smiled. Small, almost hidden at first, just the corner of his mouth lifting. And then his whole face split, his cute toothy grin, dispelling all the tension in his muscles. Your own smile grew before you could stop it.

"You do?" he asked.

"Of course I do."

He leaned in slowly, as if unsure if you'd pull away (you never, ever did) and kissed you gently. His mouth was warm against yours, chapped where he'd been most likely biting at it all day before you got to the house. You held the kiss, lips slotting together, and his hand came up to your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw, keeping you close.

Your tongue dipped out to trace the underside of his top lip, and he opened for you, eager enough that your breath caught. His tongue slid against yours, and the kiss deepened, both of you breathing heavier as your hand moved up his chest and around his neck, fingers curling into the brown hair at his nape.

Before you could get as carried away as you wanted, he pulled back. Neither of you let go. His forehead nearly touched yours, his hand still at your face, your fingers still in his hair, both of you panting into the small space between your mouths.

"Let me put it on you." he said.

You smiled a little, leaning forward to push your forehead into his before giving in, "Fine, okay, yeah."

He straightened with the necklace in his hands, the chain flashing between his fingers before he stood and crossed to the dresser. You followed him, still breathless from the kiss, the leather pouch left open on the rumpled bed behind you.

The mirror leaned against the wall by the window, catching the softened sunlight through the curtains and spilling it warm across your face, your neck, the front of your shirt. Andrew came in behind you in the reflection, shoulders broad around yours, head bent as he lifted the necklace.

His fingers brushed your skin as he worked the clasp, so careful that you barely felt them. The chain settled cool against your neck, and the pendant rested heavy at the base of your throat, glittering in the mirror each time you breathed.

Andrew leaned into you from behind, his chin hooking over your shoulder. "There." he murmured.

It was beautiful, you had to admit. Glittering in the golden warm light.

"It's perfect, Andy." you murmured.

"You're perfect." he whispered, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck.

Heat rushed to your face, and you lifted a hand over your shoulder, pushing your fingers back through his hair as his arms wrapped around your middle. His mouth stayed at your neck, kisses soft at first, then heavier, his teeth catching lightly at the sensitive skin beneath your jaw.

"Want you to wear it," he said between little nips. "Nothing else."

"Oh, yeah?" you giggled.

"Mhm," he hummed.

He turned you around in his arms and kissed you harder, one hand going to your hair, the other low at your waist as he walked you backward toward the bed.

now

He even had the same freckles.

There was a mole on his right pec, and your eyes dropped to it before you could stop them. Andrew had one there too. You used to kiss it when he'd lead you to bed, when he'd let you kiss all his marks—scars, moles, freckles, the places violence had touched him and the places he’d simply been born with.

You blinked hard and made yourself look away.

This wasn't Pope. It wasn't Andrew.

It was strange, seeing a body you knew so well shaped by time and some other life. There was a time Andrew had started boxing because he thought it would help get out his worst thoughts, and for a while, it had. He’d built himself for muscle and strength, for something to do with his hands besides hurt people, or himself, or anyone who got too close on the wrong day. Even after he quit, he kept the shape of it, strong through the shoulders, leaner when he forgot to eat, his body always carrying whatever his mouth couldn't say.

Jack Abbot seemed similar, though broader now, thicker through the chest and middle, less carved by violence and more by age, work, routine. The same kind of body built to carry too much. The same kind of shoulders that looked like they were holding a door shut from the inside.

You wondered if he was trying to outrun scary thoughts too.

"I'm… sorry." you said, breath uneven as your eyes went back up to his face.

There, some of the freckles were different. Less sun maybe, no California sunshine out here in Pennsylvania, no Oceanside glare to leave burns on the skin year round. But still. There were too many similarities, the kind your brain kept trying to make sense of and failing. Your blood thrummed in your ears again, warm and rushing.

"I was just… looking for a patient."

Jack looked at you funny again, his eyes scanning you, trying to read the messy thoughts behind your eyes, you figured. You probably looked insane.

"It's okay."

"Are you okay?" you asked, jutting your chin up toward his shoulder. Focusing on something you could see, understand.

He glanced back at it as he opened the kit on the medical tray in front of him. "Yeah, bullet just grazed me."

"Jesus."

"S'nothin'." He picked through the supplies with one hand, tearing open a packet with his teeth before thinking better of it and using his fingers. "Geniuses thought it was a good day to rob a goods warehouse. Didn’t think about how much time it would take to load everything up."

You nodded, your throat beginning to burn. You wondered who the kids were, if they were another crew like the Codys had been, sitting around a kitchen table with beer bottles and a map, thinking through cameras, doors, exits, timing. Or if they were idiots with guns and no plan, chasing the rush before they’d learned how much a bad one could cost.

"Did… you catch them?"

"Yep."

You huffed a little laugh despite yourself. "Well… I should probably—"

But when you looked up, he was trying in vain to reach the wound, his shoulder rolling forward, arm lifted awkwardly behind his head. The graze sat high along the back of his right shoulder, too far around for him to clean well. He tried anyway, jaw set, antiseptic swab pinched between two fingers, his back arching a little to reach.

Your mouth was opening before your brain could stop you, "Give me that."

"I'm fine."

"I'll start your chart, then."

"No, no. Don't need the paperwork."

You held out your hand, "Our little secret then?"

He looked up at you, stalling, those hazel eyes searching your face again. So familiar, so steady. Your hand stayed out between you.

"Who are you?" he asked.

Goosebumps rose along your skin. You gave him your name.

"No, I mean…" his eyes narrowed, but he shook his head, sighing.

He handed over the Qtip with the antiseptic.

"Promise I won't tell." you said gently, stepping around him.

"Better not." he huffed with a half smirk.

You moved behind him and set the supplies in order on the exam bed: saline flushes, gauze, chlorhexidine swabs, a small packet of bacitracin, nonadherent dressing, tape. This would help. It had to. Simple stuff, cleaning a wound, knowing the steps. Just doing the work. The exam light above him hummed softly, casting a flat white square over his shoulder and the metal tray.

Both of you were quiet, but you saw his eyes slide around to you every once in a while.

You started with saline, flushing the graze from the cleanest edge outward, watching diluted blood run over his shoulder blade and into the gauze you had tucked beneath it. The wound was shallow, ugly more than dangerous, a raw red track through skin with darker bruising already starting around it. No embedded fragments that you could see. No active bleeding beyond the surface ooze. You wiped the skin around it with gauze, then cleaned wider with chlorhexidine, careful to keep most of it around the wound instead of scrubbing straight into the open line.

You hadn't realized you'd begun to cry until Jack turned his head over his shoulder, his brows drawing together.

"Hey," he said, quieter now. "What happened?"

You shook your head, trying to swallow the burn in your throat as the sting in your eyes flooded down your face with tears. "Sorry—I'm sorry."

You took the nonadherent pad from the tray, too quick, grateful for something to do. Your fingers pressed the dressing into place over the graze, then layered folded gauze over it for a little pressure. All you could think about was a familiar freckled shoulder. A familiarly thick neck with the same curls at the name. The man you loved turning his head in your bathroom to tell you a job had gone bad like he was telling you dinner ran late. Blood on the sink. Blood under your nails. His face pale, and you had felt scared enough for both of you.

"Who…" Jack Abbot began, but bit his lip, and you saw the infinitesimal shake of his head, before he was looking up at you, and trying again. "You lost someone."

Your eyes found his, and held your breath.

He nodded, "I know that look."

You wiped your cheek with the heel of your palm, then reached for the adhesive. Jack tore off two strips for you and handed them back without looking away.

"I'm fine." you said. "It's nothing."

He sighed, hands coming together in his lap, and you saw him twist the gunmetal wedding ring on his left hand.

"I lost my wife," he said after a moment. "A few years ago."

You stared at the side of his face. "I'm sorry." it's all you knew to say in that moment.

He nodded, eyes on his own hands. "Not a day goes by I don't think of her. But today…" He looked back at you, and you stood very still with the tape half-smoothed over his dressing. His eyes moved across your face, knowing and far away. "Today I saw you and it was like she was there. In the room."

You sucked in a little breath.

"I don't know why." His mouth pressed to one side. "I guess you—"

"— look like her?" you whispered.

He nodded.

You let out the breath you'd been holding in. You finished taping the dressing, smoothing the adhesive edges against clean skin because your hands still needed something to finish. The pad sat flat over the graze, the gauze beneath it catching what little blood was left.

"You… you look like my…" you weren't sure what to call him. An ex? Dead boyfriend? "Well. He… died, a long time ago." you went on anyway. "And when I saw you, it felt like…"

"… like you'd seen a ghost."

You looked back up at him with wet eyes, voice cracking, "Yeah."

For a second, neither of you moved, neither of you spole. The exam room felt small around the two of you, the curtain drawn tight, the overhead light buzzing, the metal tray with torn packets and pink-stained gauze piled on it. His shoulder was warm under your fingertips where you hadn't yet pulled away.

How could this be happening? You kept asking yourself over and over, but you couldn't understand the cosmic irony—the idea that somehow…somehow, Andrew had lived on. Maybe not in this timeline, but another. So that you would be here. Now. With Jack.

Out of all the lives you could have lived. Out of all the turns you could have missed and the ones you chose. Your parents and your childhood home. Andrew and all the ways he had been the sweetest soul you'd ever known and the most volatile man in any room. The acceptance letter. The way you'd wanted nothing more than to go but couldn't bear to leave and…the last time you saw him. And then, after years of hard work, of trying to forget, you met Baran overseas, half a world from Oceanside, pulling you into her orbit. Then to the city, to Pennsylvania. The VA. The PTMC on the Fourth of fucking July in the middle of humid Pittsburgh.

All of it. Every terrible, ordinary, impossible thing.

"You were so calm." you said quietly. "How were you so calm earlier? If you felt—"

He shrugged, and the dressing tugged a little at the movement. "I thrive under pressure, I guess."

"That explains the SWAT thing," you murmured.

"My therapist said I needed a hobby." he said dryly.

You stared at him for half a second before a smile caught your lips, as if a string was tied to the corner, pulling it up into your cheek.

"You were great today." he said softly, turning his face toward you so that even with his chin dipped, he could still look up at where you stood beside him.

"Thanks." you murmured.

"I can tell this is…" he paused, nodding a little, like he was feeling for the right words before they left him. "This is something you were meant to do."

You squeezed your eyes shut, your lungs hitching over what little breath you'd pulled in.

It was not only the words. It was the way he said them, low and careful with his eyes moving off yours right after, his top teeth catching his bottom lip, his hands rubbing together with the black shirt bunched between them. He looked so much like Andrew then that your chest went tight and your throat thickened.

You pressed your lips together, shutting your eyes against the threat of more tears, and nodded. You wanted to say something back, like thanks or you're not bad yourself!—but the words wouldn't come. They were stuck behind the lump in your throat, and you had to swallow them down before you choked on the grief.

You moved away from him to begin cleaning up the room, taking the trash from the metal tray, feeling his eyes follow you around in silence.

When all was done and cleaned up, he was standing back up with his shirt back on, his hands shoved in the tan camo cargos, shoulders straight.

"I should… go check on my patients." you said, reaching for the curtain. "Baran is probably waiting for me."

He nodded, fidgeting a little where he stood.

You pulled the curtain, but then heard him call your name.

His head was ducked again, eyes down at his boots, one thumb moving against the seam of his pocket. Then he stood straighter and looked at you.

"We should grab a drink sometime."

Your eyebrows shot up before threading together. "Like… swap war stories, or?"

"Or." he shrugged.

You licked your bottom lip haphazardly. You weren't sure what to say. It felt like a terrible idea. Giving in to whatever weird prank God was pulling on the two of you. A man who looked like Andrew asking you out in a curtained exam room with a bullet graze under his shirt. A man who had seen his dead wife in your face and still somehow looked at you like there might be something to do with that besides run.

"I don't know…"

"If it's too much, I understand." he said softly.

"It's just—" you paused, searching for the right words as you fisted the curtain beside you tighter, looking around like the answer was in the room, "s'kinda weird, right?"

"Very weird." he agreed. "But I see no reason why we shouldn't give in. If it doesn't work, it doesn't work."

You stared at him a long moment, before he was stepping forward, his voice low. You had to hold your breath.

"One drink." he murmured. "What're you doing after your shift?"

The three B's came to mind. Bath, Book, Bed, truthfully. Maybe crying in said bath if the day kept going the way it had been and falling asleep with wet hair and waking up with sore eyes tomorrow to whatever PTMC had waiting next.

"Nothing." you said instead.

His eyes moved between yours, then down to your mouth, to the necklace at your throat, then back up again. The diamonds sat heavy beneath your scrub collar, hidden from most people, except the chain had shifted at some point while you were dressing his wound. A little flash of white gold against hospital black scrubs.

"Aren't you just… a little curious?" he asked, barely above a whisper, "About what the fuck this all is?"

You couldn't help the little huff of laughter that escaped you. He smiled back, just a twitching of his lips.

"Okay." you said. "A little."

"Then meet me at Redbeard's." he said, tipping his head. Then, after a second, quieter, "Please."

You gnawed on your bottom lip, looking past the curtain into the ED. Dana was picking up the red landline again, her other hand already reaching for a pen. A tech pushed an empty stretcher toward the elevators, the wheels clicking over the seam in the floor. Across the hallway, Robby stood in front of Santos with a chart in his hand, listening with his head tipped down while she talked.

The whole department kept moving, loud and bright, as if nothing was amiss. As if your world wasn't folding over itself, different timelines coexisting together in this strange space where time and grief took no pity.

You let out a long sigh.

"Yeah," you said, bringing your hand up to clench around the diamonds of your necklace, "Yeah, okay. Fine."

He smiled a little wider, and looked out into the same sea of chaos as you. "Okay. Go. I'll see you tonight. Redbeard's."

You looked back at him and smiled a little. "See you."

Because when you looked at him, all you could see was Andrew’s face, open in that rare way he never let last long.

seven years earlier

The house already felt out of control when you arrived. The bass rattled through the open slider and the large floor to ceiling windows as you made your way through the sea of bodies in the kitchen, the floor wet under your bare feet where someone had spilled. Beer, maybe. Something sticky that pulled faintly at your skin with each step. You made your way to the fridge anyway, pulling out a beer, the cold neck of it relieving to the touch in your hand.

When you turned around, about to open it, you saw Andrew.

He was sitting on the couch in the living room, sitting up from his laid back position, his arm coming off the back of the couch to stand up. His attention had snapped to you too quickly, and you saw his face change. Confusion first, then relief, but then something much, much harder. Something that shut everything else down.

He was up and beside you in less than ten seconds. "Why are you here?"

You blinked, but turned to walk away. “Hi to you too.”

He reached out quickly, pulling you by the arm to turn towards him. You squeaked out a little hey!

“Why are you here?” The second time was lower, meaner, his head ducking as he said the words.

Your smile faltered a little, but you tried to pull it back. “It’s Craig’s birthday, isn’t it?”

“You’re supposed to be gone.”

You swallowed hard. Your bags were packed. Sitting in the trunk of your car. You'd meant to take the exit going east but… but you couldn't. So, you shrugged as averted your eyes from his, beer pressing coldly into your palm, condensation slicking against your fingers. “Yeah, well. I’m not.”

You could feel his piercing stare on you.

The party kept moving around you, but it felt farther away now, muffled under the rush of blood in your ears. People were shouting by the pool as usual, music blaring and scores being called as idiots jumped from the pool house roof into the water. You watched Deran do a backflip, the crashing of the water making you jump.

When you looked up at Andrew finally, you were surprised to see how uncertain he looked. You could see the thoughts moving through his brain, the cogs trying to make sense of why you were here, if he'd gotten something wrong. But you knew, and you knew he knew, that you should be crossing state lines by now. As if you'd said it out loud, face went hard and strange.

Blank, almost.

“So no med school.” he said darkly. It wasn't even a question.

You rolled your shoulders, trying to make it look easy. Trying to make any part of it feel easy. "No med school."

Andrew's eyes only narrowed more, his jaw tightening.

“I’ll call tomorrow,” you said. “I’ll tell them something came up. Or I’ll defer, maybe. People do that, right? They defer.”

His hands tightened into fists at his side, fingers curling in slow, controlled increments.

“It’s fine,” you said, talking faster now because he wasn’t saying anything, and the silence was getting worse the longer he held you under his stare, no matter how loud the house was around you. “I can work. I can help more. I already know half the shit you guys need before you even ask me. Have you talked to Deran about the mattress warehouse off the 23? Because I was thinking if you hit it before—”

And then he was reaching for you, a hand closed around your wrist, and he was moving.

You stumbled one step after him, your shoulders bumping into strangers. You didn't have time to apologize because he was pulling you so quickly, his broad back making a path ahead. You set your beer down to not add to the drinks already spilled on the floor, tugging at his strong hold.

"Andrew—"

He didn't answer, nor did he stop.

"Andrew, please—wait—" and then you saw he was bee lining for the back gate, and you dug your heels into the concrete of the pool deck, the rough edge of it catching under your flip flops as you tried to hold yourself in place.

He whirled around to glare at you, his grip tightening just enough to sear your skin. You had half a mind to be a little scared, but you just looked at him back with the same iciness, refusing to give him that.

"Stop, let's stay." you said, and then, a little softer, "Let's have a drink and go hide in your room."

His lip curled, and he was reaching out to grab you again, but you slipped free.

You ran back to slip into the house, to maybe weave through the crowd and lock yourself away, but he was on you when you met a road block of bodies, his arms going around your waist, locking in before you could twist away.

To anyone else, this probably looked normal. Playful roughhousing with one of the Cody boys and their girl. And besides, no one stopped Pope Cody when he was in the middle of something. No one even really questioned it.

He manhandled you into his arms, even as you squirmed, his hold already set, already decided.

"Andrew—get off!" you yelled, trying in vain to push him. "Get off!!"

But it was no use, he was breathing heavily, his eyes a mix of muddled color and pain, something too tight behind them, like he was making himself do this, no matter how badly he didn't want to be rough with you. His hands were so big, his muscles bigger, and in no time your gravity was being lurched off its axis, and you were being flung over his shoulder.

You slammed your fist into his lower back, his hand coming over the back of your thighs to stop your kicking.

“Put me down!” you shouted, hair falling into your face, blood rushing to your head. “Andrew Cody, put me down right now!”

“No.”

You shrieked in humiliation, in frustration, and he was walking out the back gate. He carried you across the driveway while you hit at him, furious, mortified, trying to twist enough to get a knee into his chest, his side, anything. Pavement blurred beneath you. The hood of your car flashed in the moonlight. He shifted you higher when you nearly slipped, palm pressing hard into the back of your thigh, his breathing heavy but controlled, like he had shut every other part of himself off except the part that knew how to move, how to get this done.

He came around to the front of the car, and opened the driver's side door.

Gravity whirled once again and the world tilted as he brought you back upright, only to push you off balance again and into the front seat.

"No!" you exclaimed, hands hooking at the door edge.

He didn't say anything, only was shoving your limbs into the seat, hands at your shoulders when you tried pushing back, firm, unyielding, not giving you an inch to work with.

"Andrew—stop!"

"No."

"Fuck—" you tried to push him away, "—off!"

You shoved at his chest and tried to duck under his arm, but he caught you again and again, both hands closing around the caps of your shoulders, pushing you down into the seat.

“You’re going.” he finally muttered.

“I’m not!” you spat back.

“You’re going.”

You wouldn't give in, twisting in the seat so your legs were half out the car door. Trying to stand again, he stepped between your knees, his body blocking the open space, boots planted in the ground, one hand catching both of your wrists when you swung at him.

“Andrew!”

“You’re going.”

The words came out of him like he had to force them through his teeth. Like it was all he could say.

“I want to be here!” you shouted. “Why is that so fucking hard for you to understand?”

His eyes burned into yours.

He didn't say anything else, the two of you a tangle of limbs until his hands snapped over the joints of your wrists, holding them tightly between you. You were heaving in breath, your muscles aching, the hair at your cheeks sticking to your face with what you realized then were tears.

“I love you.” you croaked.

He paused for a moment, looking down at you.

“I love you,” you said again, louder, like maybe if you said it hard enough he would stop looking at you like that. “I want to be with you. I want to live with you. I want to work with you. I want this.”

Your tears began to pour hot and fast, slipping down before you could do anything about them.

“Say it back,” you begged, trying in vain to push at his chest with the hands he held firmly in his grip.

He didn’t answer. But he'd had the worst frown on his face you'd ever seen. His eyes hard, brows drawn, as you begged—

“Say it, Andy.”

His mouth pressed into a line.

Your wrists twisted under his hand, but there was no real fight in it anymore. Your whole body had gone loose in pieces, anger draining out and leaving behind a panic so raw and ugly you felt almost humiliated.

“Tell me you love me,” you begged.

His face changed.

“Say it back.” you cried.

He looked down at his feet, his mouth twisting, his brows threading.

“No.” Your pleaded, hands trying to grip at him, but he held you too tightly. "No, look at me. Tell me you love me.”

He was breathing hard through his nose. His eyes were wet and mean with the effort of keeping it in, and that hurt worse than if he had screamed at you. You wished he'd just say something.

“Please,” you said again.

His hands dropped from your wrists as fast as if they'd been burned, and came to your face instead, both palms catching your cheeks, rough and too fast, his fingers curving harshly into your hair. He pulled your face up to look directly at him, his thumbs slipping through your tear tracks.

“Of course I love you,” he snapped, voice cracking. “Of course I do. What do you think this is?”

“Andy—”

“You have to go.” His voice split again, and he looked furious, whether it was at you or himself, you couldn't tell. But it was terrifying. The tears were beginning to blur your eyes. “You have to. You’re meant to do this. You’re meant to be a doctor. You’re not meant to be here with me and this—this shit.”

"I don't care—"

"You deserve a chance at a normal life." he said tightly, more a whisper than words. "I didn't. You have to go. You have to."

He stood there, shoulders rigid, mouth flat. It was his turn to beg.

“Please, sweetheart. You have to."

You threw him off of you, shoving him away, and he let go this time. You reached for the keys where he had thrown them into the cupholder at some point. You didn’t remember him doing it. You didn’t remember anything except his face, his hands, the sound of his voice telling you no.

You slammed the door and put the car in reverse with your whole body shaking, not looking at him. The tires screeched as he stayed where he was, his chest heaving as he watched you, his face crumbling entirely.

At the end of the driveway, you took one final look back in your rearview mirror.

You could just make out the tears falling down his face, his hands in his hair, elbows flared. Panic there, in his eyes. But relief too.

Relief in watching you leave.

now

Redbeard's was a dingy thing in downtown, thankfully close to your apartment, though you didn't even stop home. As badly as you wanted—hell, needed— to wash off the day, you knew once you made it through the door the fear would keep you from walking out again. And you hadn't gotten Jack's number. Picturing him waiting alone at the bar… on his only night off… you couldn't do it. To him, to you…to Andrew.

You found him outside, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone close to his face as he read something on the screen. It was like he sensed you coming, whatever strange sixth sense the two of you had for one another prickling up his spine to make him look.

You still had to stifle the gasp that threatened when his eyes found yours.

Jack Abbot, you told yourself again and again. Jack Abbot, not Andrew Cody.

For one brief, insane moment, you wondered if Andrew was with you there. If he was standing somewhere beside Jack on that gum spotted sidewalk, looking him over with that severe set to his mouth, suspicious of the warm little smile pulling at the man's face. Or maybe he would have been looking at you instead. Maybe he would have been smiling too, pleased in that way he got when you were brave.

You didn't even believe in ghosts, or spirits, or heaven or hell. Of any afterlife in which Andrew Cody's spirit would be there that night. You believed wholly in science. In blood and oxygen and a heart and a brain to keep a person alive… And you believed that when those things stopped, when there was no blood flowing to the brain, when the cells began to starve, there was no secret door opening somewhere else.

But that night, standing outside a bar in humid Pennsylvania while fireworks whistled and cracked and died somewhere distant over the water, you felt something too strange to dismiss.

Because… what if… what if there was something? What if there was some universe in which Andrew Cody and Jack Abbot's wife could see the two of you exactly as you were. Lonely, sad people who still carried their ghosts around. Maybe they knew. Maybe they had found each other out there, wherever it was, and maybe Jack’s wife had told Andrew about the man she left behind. How good he was, how he needed you and you needed him.

What other explanation was there?

When you approached Jack, there was an awfully familiar twinkle in his eye that had your lips pulling up into a real smile.

"Hey." you sighed.

“Hi,” he said, then cleared his throat a little. “Thank you for… coming out.”

You shrugged, shoving your hands into the pockets of your jeans to mirror him. “Guess I was curious about 'what the fuck this all is',”

Jack’s smile widened. His head tipped back for half a second before it ducked, his eyes dropping toward the sidewalk.

“Yeah,” he said finally with a nod. “Me too.”

You tilted your head at him. “Shall we?”

His eyes moved over you then, from the top of your head to the toes of your shoes, then back up to your face. It wasn’t the kind of look that undressed you. It was stranger than that. Softer. As if he was trying to make sense of the person standing in front of him, alive and still somehow carrying the woman he had lost.

How two lives could run so far apart and still end up here, on the same humid night, grief and curiosity braiding curiously through the two of you like some invisible red thread.

He nodded, then turned and opened the door.

“After you.”

I’ll be honest I looked over this maybe twice before posting so please excuse any inconsistencies or grammar mistakes! ilysm and THANK YOU FOR READING 🤍

[mariasont]

GOOD GRACE OF THAT GODLIGHT ༄.°

a no-touch rule sounds smart on a beach vacation with your secret boyfriend, especially when he happens to be your brother's best friend and twenty years your senior. unfortunately, neither of you is very good at keeping your hands to yourselves.

MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX

PAIRING jack abbot x robinavitch!reader

WARNINGS 18+ MDNI explicit smut, age gap (reader is late 20s), girly girl reader, reader is robby’s little sister (and reader and jack play in this man's FACEEEE), reader wears sunscreen but no mention of burning/redness/etc, jack applies sunscreen to reader, jack and reader just tease each other all day every day, reader and jack take a shower together!, brief inspection kink mention, flirty!jack abbot, flirty!reader, sexting, lots of pet name usage (baby, doll, sweetheart, honey, etc), munch!abbot, oral (f receiving), reader wears a dress, jealous!abbot, someone mistakes jack for your dad, reader goes along with it soooo lowkey dad!bf jack??? but not really it’s more of just a joke, alcohol mention, tipsy!reader, lowkey some angst, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it b4 u tap it folks), twinkie (creampie is a banned word in this household), light breeding kink, kitchen sex, jack gets punched

WC 9.5k | REQUEST here!

You had no ill intentions when you sought Jack out on the beach. Truly. None whatsoever.

Your conscience was pristine. Clean enough to eat off of, if a person were inclined toward that sort of thing. And Jack would more than likely be inclined toward that sort of thing.

Which is neither here nor there and definitely not the point.

The point is that he happened to be the first available person you spotted who wasn’t elbow-deep in the cooler, manning the grill, hauling folding chairs closer to the water or otherwise occupied in some way that would’ve made your request an imposition.

He happened to be seated in the shade, sand-dusted calves stretched out and both hands conveniently free. You happened to wander over with your sunscreen and your very normal, very defensible need for help reaching the center of your back. 

Never mind that your eyes tend to find him first everywhere.

Your first choice, always. In the hospital, in crowded rooms, in Friday-night bars, and now here, on a stretch of beach sand full of towels, melting ice cubes and boozy coworkers.

If Jack is there the geometry of the universe settles. 

Noise levels drop. Potential catastrophe politely steps back in line. Statistically, things improve by, what, twenty percent when he’s within arms reach?

The only time Jack’s presence ever seems to tip from reassurance into danger is when Robby is nearby.

Your brother, his best friend, currently planted beside the grill with a pair of tongs in one hand and a beer sweating in the other, wholly unaware of just how intimately you know the man sitting a few yards away from you reading a book. 

No idea that you even know Jack beyond hospital stories and holiday small talk. No idea that you’ve counted the freckles on Jack’s torso the way other people count blessings. No idea you know the small mole just above Jack’s hip because you’ve watched it disappear beneath the push of his own thigh when he’s folded you open beneath him. No idea you know how his forearm looks when it flexes beside your head, that raised vein appearing when your heels hook into his back and he grunts your name into his mouth. No fucking idea you know the pale scar on his ribs that becomes your personal tactical obsession whenever he cages you against a doorframe and breathes against your ear, quiet, sweetheart, unless you want your brother to ask questions. 

You slip into the little wedge of shade cast by Jack’s umbrella, hip brushing the arm of his chair. 

It takes half a second for Jack’s gaze to lift. First to your face, because he is decent, or because he has spent forty-nine years perfecting the performance of decency and can probably do it under sedation.

Then his eyes dip lower, catching on your chest and the heroic and doomed labor of your bikini top, the poor thing doing its absolute best with limited resources and no meaningful administrative support, and for one brief, gorgeous second, Jack Abbot’s whole face goes blank. 

You unscrew the sunscreen cap with the patience of a saint and the moral character of someone much worse, pretending you don’t see a thing. It’s easy. You’ve been playing dumb your whole life, and Jack happens to make it especially rewarding. 

“Hi, Jack.”

He blinks as though dragged out of a dream he has no intention of describing in mixed company. 

The paperback folds around one finger; he swallows civility into a single neutral “Hey,” though his ears are flaming traitors. 

You bounce once on your toes just to watch his eyes track the up-and-down movement. “Mind helping me with my back?”

A phantom movement ripples down his arm, the muscle memory that usually ends with his thumb sliding up the tender inside of your knee.

Half-second later he remembers the clause you made him swear to the night before you left, the one you recited while sitting on the edge of his bed in nothing but your earrings and a very serious expression: no contact during this trip. Not in front of Robby. Not in private. Not even the little absent-minded touches Jack was so fond of giving and so terrible at pretending were accidental. 

He had listened with the patient, faintly amused face — oh, of course, let’s discuss boundaries — all while his hands were already easing your thighs apart, palm spanning half your quads. “That’s smart, sweetheart,” he had murmured, barely out of his mouth before he fucked you so hard you spent the first two days of this trip remembering him every time you sat down, crossed your legs, climbed stairs, breathed wrong, existed.

Day one started with Robby squinting at the careful, not-at-all-in-pain way you eased into the passenger seat. 

“Pull something?” he asked, suspicion crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

Jack, loading your suitcase into the trunk, had only said, “She’s fine — just overdid the beach volleyball warm-up.”

Now, beneath the umbrella, he eyes the bottle in your hand.

“You’re asking me to put sunscreen on you while I’m currently under express orders not to touch you,” he clarifies, mouth twitching. “Little contradictory, don’t you think?”

“It’s medicinal, Jack. Doctor-ordered sun safety. That puts it squarely under the ‘acts of basic care’ exemption we definitely agreed on.” 

There is, of course, no exemption. But you say it with such polished confidence, such gorgeous little liar convocation, and Jack’s eyes keep distractedly slipping to your cleavage, you figure you might be able to gaslight him into believing otherwise.

Jack tilts in, voice dropping to bedside-manner dark. “Preventive exams are also acts of basic care, sweetheart. I offered to give you one last night. Head to toe. Very thorough. You didn’t seem to keen on the idea. Funny how selective you are with these exemptions.”

He knows perfectly well keenness was never the issue.

Keenness had been present and accounted for, actually, sitting upright in bed with a racing pulse while Jack spent nearly forty minutes vibrating your phone off the nightstand at one in the morning, apparently deciding the no-contact was less a boundary and more a diagnostic puzzle he could brute-force with persistence, semantics, and an irresponsible number of filthy hypotheticals. 

How firm is the rule?

You had answered, Very.

Define very.

Jack.

I’m serious. Are we talking legally blinding or more of a strong suggestion? 

I can’t sleep knowing you’re down the hall.

I keep thinking about your ass in that tiny fucking bikini.

And your mouth.

And the noise you make when I’m tasting your pretty pussy.

So if "very" has any flexibility, now would be an excellent time to disclose it.

You had flushed at that, instinct dragging your hand south, fingertips tucking beneath the elastic of your pajama shorts, privately checking how much trouble you were in.

Spoiler: a lot. Still, you forced your breathing steady and tapped out the grown-up response you promised yourself you’d give him.

Too risky. Robby’s awake. 

Riskier to ignore symptoms.

You seemed flushed at dinner, baby. Could be heat exhaustion.

Standard protocol is immediate evaluation. Full tactical assessment of any sensitive areas.

Better I handle it now than you collapse tomorrow, right? 

“The walls here are paper thin. I just didn’t want everyone to hear you,” you murmur, eyes flicking toward the grill where Robby still holds court. 

Jack’s gaze drags over your face, patience fraying.

His head cants. “Me?”

An accusation rather than a question.

You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning too hard.

It’s bullshit.

Jack makes sounds in bed, sure, these low rough little things he tries to swallow down into silence, but you are, historically, the problem. You are the one who forgets walls even exist, who gets whiny and breathless, saying his name too sweet and loud.

Still, riling him up is half the fun.

“Mhm. All those grunts you do? Very compromising. You really should work on that. I was just protecting your reputation.” 

His mouth tugs into that bare-bones smile, parched and cutting, like a fence post bleached under Georgia sun. 

“That’s interesting, doll, because I seem to remember you nearly getting us thrown out of that hotel in Atlanta.” He pauses, eyes steady on yours. “Had to clamp a palm over your mouth halfway through just so the folks next door would quit pounding on the wall.” 

You make a thoughtful, entirely disingenuous sound. “I don’t recall.”

Liar, you think, but only to yourself, because the scene is seared onto the backs of your eyelids: big palm, slick with sweat; your own pulse popping under his thumb.

“Convenient,” he says. “Concerning, too. Memory loss at your age.”

The urge to fire back — your age, grandpa — sparks under your tongue, but you swallow it, knowing you’ve already won.

He’s picturing that night, too. You can see it in the way his jaw resets, in the way his fingers flex like they’re aching to reprise the role of impromptu gag. 

“Memory loss and melanoma.” Your fingers skim your collarbone, then your shoulder, making a tiny show of your poor exposed skin. “That’ll be on your conscience, and you have so many sins already, Jack.” 

Jack’s glare fractures, concern muscling past amusement. 

“Turn around,” he orders.

His palm resignedly lands on your back and the first sweep of cool lotion is an instant balm, a hush in every raw, sun-tight cell that’s been screaming since day one of this self-inflicted separation.

Water to a dying flower. Oxygen after a held breath.

The peppermint chill kisses the nape of your neck, then fans outward in broad strokes, each pass ironing the ache right out of your skin. 

Three whole days without his hands, seventy-two hours of pretending you didn’t need this, and now his thumbs slip beneath your bikini straps like they own the territory, tracing the warmed skin that’s been begging for him with every salty breeze. 

“Missed you,” you murmur under your breath, words a little wobbly and petulant.

He huffs a soft laugh and bends to brush his mouth against your shoulder blade. “Yeah, missed you, too, angel.”

He smooths another cool ribbon down your spine.

You angle yourself towards the grill to allow him better access only to see Robby nudging the spatula at Mateo like a relay baton. Take over, man.

Mateo blinks, grabs the grill tools, and Robby wipes his palms on a dish towel as he starts striding across the sand.

Panic sparks hot in your belly. Abort, abort —

Jack’s fingers press reassuringly at the base of your neck. “Easy.”

Robby arrives, squinting against the glare. 

Jack doesn’t miss a beat, straightening just enough to greet him over your head, palms still settling the lotion. “Need a second set of tongs, man? You were talking about that pineapple glaze.” 

“Yeah, figured you could baste while I flip,” Robby says, oblivious.

“Sure thing.” Jack rubs the last of the lotion on your shoulder before flicking the cap back on the bottle. 

Robby tips his chin at you, hooks an arm around Jack’s neck like a big brother claiming turf. “And watch it, man. Give her an inch and she’ll have you painting her toes next.”

Jack shoots you a wink. “Wouldn’t put it past her, bit on the spoiled side, isn’t she?”

You don’t get to be alone with Jack again until later that evening.

After a twelve-hour gauntlet of being herded from one little duty to the next, karmic punishment apparently being less fire-and-brimstone and more Robby glued to your elbow, Samira asking about plates, Dana hunting for towels.

The house had stayed swollen with noise, doors opening, voices carrying, bodies constantly moving through every room, leaving nowhere private enough to breathe, let alone get a second with your secret boyfriend. 

And you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like torture, spending the whole day brushing past Jack close enough to catch bits and pieces of him but never close enough to keep it, catching his stare across the deck and breaking first because if you hold it too long, even for one more second, your face will say everything your mouth has forbidden to.

By the time you get into the shower, you’re wound so tight you feel one wrong move might split you straight down the middle. Steam flattens the bathroom, fogging the mirror in milky layers while condensation beads along the floor beneath your heels. 

The water comes down nearly scalding over skin still balmy from the sun, rinsing the day off you in slow, glittering streams. Salt, sunscreen, sweat, sexual frustration, little crescents of sand, all of it spiraling together toward the drain. 

You brace both palms against the wall and hiss when the spray finds the tender knot tucked between your shoulder blade and spine.

You don’t have time to decide whether the sting is pleasure or pain because suddenly the door latch is clicking.

You spin, palms crossing over your breasts, ready to apologize for… something (what, exactly? You’re not sure, because last time you checked you weren’t the person barging into an occupied bathroom.) 

But then the silhouette resolves into Jack and the apology dies on your tongue.

He shuts and locks the door with a soft snick, arching a brow through the haze.

You hiss under your breath, “What — Jack, what are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks. His gaze drags leisurely, like a hand down your body, over your breasts, the water-glossed dip of your waist, the slick shimmer on your thighs, then hovering at your bare pussy before climbing back to your face. 

He looks utterly unhurried. A man content to feast with his eyes first and speak when the hunger becomes unbearable. 

Fire pools low in your belly and you shift, thighs pressing together in a useless bid for modesty. “Seriously, what if someone saw you come in?”

He closes the distance until your breath clouds a small circle on the glass pane between you.

“Just grabbing my razor,” he says, offhand, like you’re the one overreacting as he tips his head toward the shelf behind you. “Promise I’ll be two seconds. In, out.”

You give him a long, squinting once-over, as though you can spot the lie on his skin. He just wiggles his fingers — see? Harmless — so you huff a tiny laugh and shift aside. 

“Fine. Two seconds,” you mutter, watching him carefully.

You pull the slider door open.

The instant rush of cooler air leaves gooseflesh in its wake, and Jack’s shoulders seem suddenly much broader than you remember as he steps through. 

“Appreciate it, honey.”

He ducks under the spray, and the stall feels two sizes too small.

Jack plants himself in front of you, torso filling your peripheral vision, trunks plastered to powerful thighs.

He doesn’t touch you, but the warmth radiating from his body seems to crowd every spare inch of space.

When his chest rises you feel the ripple in each breath through yours.

“You okay?” His tone drips false innocence as he reaches around you for the razor, the damp fabric of his trunks gliding over the sensitive swell of nerves between your legs in a feather-light pass.

You suck in a harsh breath.

He straightens as if nothing happened, twirling the razor between his fingers, eyes glinting with pleased mischief.

Dick-Face.

Your vision goes momentarily starry, the lost friction leaving you empty.

You rally with a shaky grin. “‘M fine.”

“Mind if I shave in here, then? Better water pressure and keeps the sink hair-free. Know you hate that.”

You squint up at him, water streaking your lashes. 

“Jack…” One elongated syllable loaded with I know exactly what you’re doing. 

“Relax, angel. Two seconds,” he reminds, though the slight tilt of his hips say otherwise. 

He angles the razor at his jaw, drawing the first careful stroke. You watch the silver path he leaves on skin, the way tiny beads of water race after the blade. His face, stripped of stubble in increments, is almost too handsome. Straight nose, freckles you could count, lips made for kissing yours. 

He catches you gawking and smirks. “Gonna nick myself if you keep staring like that.”

You tilt your chin, droplets collecting at the curve of your collarbone, mustering your usual sparkle, “Then focus, doctor. I won’t be held responsible for self-inflicted injuries.”

He lets the razor dangle forgotten at his side as he studies you a beat longer. His hand slides forward, knuckles skimming the silky bloom of your hip, then dipping inward to follow the hollow where muscle meets bone.

A shiver flutters through you. He feels it and grins, this slow, predatory spread of lips.

“Focus is a tall order,” he says, thumb brushing a streak of water off your stomach. “Pretty as you are.”

Your breath stutters as his thumb skims lower, and you grab his wrist. “Uh-uh. Hands to yourself, remember?”

“Don’t make me beg, sweetheart.” The husk in his voice slips through you from head to toe. “Because I will, if that’s what you want — say please a thousand times, just to prove how badly I need you.”

Before you can answer, he sinks to his knees.

Once again he doesn’t touch, free hand splayed on the grout, but his mouth hovers near the crease of your hip, close enough that every exhale fans liquid fire over your pussy. 

His eyes flick to yours, desperate, waiting for the single syllable that will break every rule you set.

“I can keep my hands to myself, if that’s the rule. Just let me use my mouth, please. Need to taste you, angel.”

“I — Jack, we said —” 

Your grip on his wrist feels fragile, ceremonial.

“That a yes, baby? Gotta hear the word.”

Steam curls between your bodies and it’s almost suffocating now, filling up your throat and nose and ears until you start to feel a little dizzy.

Rules clang in your skull — not here, not now — but the week-long ache in your belly chants louder: need, need, need.

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, eyes slipping shut.

When they open again, the answer is already there, shining in resignation. “Yes. Please — yes.”

He doesn’t waste another second.

He dives in like a man reprieved from drought. Three days and three nights and water turned to wine in his tongue. He presses it flat, dragging through your folds until your knees threaten to buckle.

The first targeted flick to your clit punches a helpless cry out of your throat and the second has you clawing for purchase on the handlebar to your left.

Jack mumbles something that feels like so sweet against you, vibration sparkling up your spine, then seals his lips and sucks hard, alternating pressure in prodding intervals.

You don’t think you’ve ever gotten to that blissful edge so fast before, seconds away from splintering, vision tunneling as pink and blue stars flare behind your lids.

It all comes crashing down when a brisk tap-tap-tap cuts through your near-climax.

Jack freezes, mouth still full of you and hot on your cunt but now motionless, eyes snapping up to meets yours. Beautiful eyes with pupils blown.

Santos’s voice filters through: “Whoever’s in there, hurry up!” 

The pulse that was about to break erupts into silent, aching stasis instead. You bite your fist, whole body trembling on the cliff-edge he’s left you hanging from. 

You choke back a whimper and call, “Be out in a sec!” 

And like you said, you would find some sort of humor in it all if it didn’t feel like pure fucking torture.

Jack tries to remind himself that he has, by every measurable standard, survived worse things than this.

War, for one. Heat that cooked straight through the soles of his boots, nights sawn open by rotor blades and gunfire. The terror of deciding who needed his hands first when everyone needed them at once.

He lost a leg and learned how to walk again, then somehow went back to medicine because apparently nearly dying had not cured him of the instinct to run toward other people’s emergencies. He has cracked chests, led resuscitations, talked shaking interns through their first patient death, spent his free time embedded with SWAT because golf had always seemed both dull and something he wouldn’t thrive at. 

He knows pressure. He understands discipline. He has built an entire life around refusing to be governed by fear, pain, adrenaline, or lesser impulses. 

None of those facts seem to feel reassuring right now as he watches you from across the bar.

You’re burrowed into the center of a brand-new constellation of people you just met, telling one of your well-worn stories with the same sparkling conviction you gave it the first time, chin tipped up, bracelets chiming as your hands sketch the scene into the air.

Jack knows every beat.

Knows when your eyes will widen, when your mouth will pull into that scandalized little O, when you will pause just long enough to make everyone lean closer before delivering the line that sends the table into laughter.

And they do lean closer. Even the bartender’s polishing rag pauses mid-swipe.

That is the thing about you. You make strangers feel chosen. Make a whole room feel handpicked, lit from within, as if you opened the door just for them and meant it. Then you’ll drift away, leaving them there in the aftershocks, still facing the space you occupied like worshippers after the god has already one.

Jack knows exactly how dangerous that is because he has made that mistake himself.

More than once.

Sat across from you and read too much into every smile, every soft little lock of your focus, every gooey, honey-thick stretch of your attention. Mistook being seen by you for being chosen.

And then life, perverse as ever, let him be chosen after all. Let him earn the real thing. 

Which only makes watching other men bask in the counterfeit version feel worse.

The feeling metastasizes when one of the men catches the opening after your final line and moves into it, all expensive veneer-looking teeth and effortless posture, bending toward you as though the room has naturally made space for him there.

He says something Jack cannot hear over the bass, punctuates it with a small, self-satisfied shrug, and wears the expression of a person who thinks being near you is already a kind of accomplishment.

Jack studies him. 

Young. Smooth. Unscarred, at least where the world can see. A body that has probably never needed to be negotiated with before something as simple as walking barefoot across a beach. No prosthetic to strap on before dawn, no phantom pain flaring where flesh ends, no inventory of what still works and what must be accommodated. 

He looks right beside you. No one would glance twice, no one would do the math. Robby could clap him on the shoulder, laugh at his jokes, maybe even approve.

Certainly wouldn’t have to excavate a grave under the rental deck. 

Jack counts that as strike three.

“Jack.” Robby’s voice breaks across the table, dragging him back by the collar. “Tell ‘em I’m not making this up.”

Jack blinks, wrestles his gaze off you, and pretends he’s been part of the conversation all along. Dana and Baran blink back at him.

“You’re usually making something up,” he says and it earns Victoria’s laugh, though he hasn’t the faintest idea what improbable tale he’s just failed to corroborate.

It seems to be enough of an answer for Robby though, because he laughs too, his hand thumping Jack’s shoulder hard enough to slosh the liquor.

Jack drinks anyway, holds the bourbon like a tongue depressor to his worst instincts. Swallows. The burn chars every jittery nerve that wants to turn around and see if Mr. Linen Shirt is still siphoning oxygen out of your orbit.

But he wants to know. Wants to know whether the man has moved closer, whether you’re still smiling, whether Jack is about to make a decision that leaves the bastard sipping his own drink through a wired jaw. 

He shouldn’t go that far. Healing hands and all. But he can make exceptions.

He lets boredom rasp across his tongue as he clears his throat. “Your sister know those guys?”

Robby looks over on reflex. Jack doesn’t move. Doesn’t need to. Robby’s face will tell him everything. “What guys?”

“Dunno. Thought one of ‘em looked familiar.”

Robby squints past the crowd.

“Nope. Don’t think I recognize any of them.” Robby decides, pushing a tired breath through his teeth, knuckles rasping over two-day stubble. “She does this everywhere she goes. Draws attention like wildfire. I swear, half my blood pressure medication is because of her.”

Jack’s arteries would corroborate that, but he lets the confession smolder unheard behind the rim of his glass. 

“Well, can you blame ‘em? She looks like that.”

And Dana’s comment is the invitation he’s been waiting for. Lets him gorge on the sight without raising suspicion.

The little dress, the glossed-up lips, the endless stretch of your legs under the bar light. Your hair falling loose around your shoulders, your face animated as you talk, every feature sharpened by laughter into something almost indecently alive.

A cherry-red straw clacks against your teeth when you sip your rum punch, each drag leaving a perfect lipstick crescent on the plastic rim.

You are beautiful in every standard category and several highly specific ones Jack suspects may exist solely to inconvenience him. 

“Don’t mean she needs a swarm,” Robby grumbles, waving his bottle at the cluster around you. “She treats everybody like they’ve known her ten years, then acts shocked when half the room starts trailing after her. And somehow I’m the prick when I tell ’em to give her some space.”

“I don’t mind being the asshole,” Jack pipes up. Across the table, Dana’s attention narrows, and Jack realizes, half a beat too late, that he may have sounded a little too willing. So he adds, “If you’re tired of the job, I mean.”

Robby snorts. “You’d scare the hell of ‘em.”

“That’s generally the point.”

He lifts his bourbon before the thought can show on his face, lets the rim conceal the faint tightening at the corner of his mouth.

Robby, thankfully, is already smiling, visibly seduced by the prospect of outsourcing his least charming brotherly obligation. 

“Be my guest,” he says. “Tell her I sent you.” 

Jack tips his glass, drains what remains, then taps the rim against the tabletop.

Signal received. Assignment accepted. He doesn’t need to be told twice.

By the time he is halfway across the room, you’ve already noticed him.

Your eyes flare with a brightness he can feel from here, and whatever polished little nothing Mr. Smooth is feeding you dies unattended between one word and the next. 

He keeps talking anyway, poor guy, unaware that you’ve left the conversation without moving an inch. By the time Jack reaches the bar rail, your attention has funneled to one point, him, and nothing else.

It stirs something dormant in him, the same dark pull he felt in the shower, his pants suddenly tighter, less cooperative. He sees exactly what he would do without the table of coworkers and one eagle-eyed best friend behind him. 

He would hook a hand around the back of your neck, pull you flush to his chest, and kiss every little thought clean out of your head. Kiss you until the gloss smeared, until your lipstick feathered over his mouth, until your lips went swollen and every polished stranger nearby understood, without needing it explained, who had put that dazed look in your eyes. 

Instead, he leans one forearm against the bar and says, pleasantly, “You drinking enough water, sweetheart?”

“I could be persuaded to drink more.” Your lips curl around the straw again, eyes fixed on Jack with a private little shine.

The younger man follows your attention to Jack and gives him an affable nod. “Man, your dad’s on top of it. Mine would’ve let me dehydrate out of spite.”

Jack nearly coughs up his previously swallowed drink.

He can feel every one of his years arrange themselves in descending order between you. The gray at his temples. The scars. The apparently paternal concern over your fluid intake. 

Fuck’s sake.

He parts his lips to correct the record, a dry little execution already waiting on his tongue, but you beat him to the trigger. 

“Oh, he’s the best,” you gush, peering at him sideways. “Always checking on me. Sunscreen, hydration, curfew. Super over-protective.”

Jack gives you a long, level look, one that says he knows exactly what you’re doing and plans to deal with it later.

“She keeps me busy. Full time job, most days,” he finally says, playing along.

And it is a full-time job.

Just not remotely in the way this poor kid is imagining. You are a twenty-four-hour on-call position with no protected sleep and an astonishingly generous benefits package.

You need to be kissed before he leaves the room, touched whenever he passes within arm’s reach, listened to with grave concentration while you explain some internet drama involving some show he’s never watched and a man named Sincere he will never meet.

Then there is the other hunger, the one that wakes beside him already stretching toward his body, that has you squirming into his lap after dinner or whispering again against his mouth when any reasonable person would be asleep.

Jack is always on his toes with you, anticipating needs you have not articulated yet, figuring out whether a pout means hungry, horny, tired, or all three braided together.

It is exhausting in the way a life worth living is exhausting.

He has never minded work when the work matters, and taking care of you has become the most selfish labor he has ever loved.

The younger guy clears his throat, trying to recapture the momentum. “Anyway, like I was saying about the jet-ski tomorrow —”

“Actually,” Jack interrupts, “we’ve got to get back. Curfew, you know.” He aims a polite nod at the man, who now looks decidedly dejected, then drapes a guiding hand along the back of your stool in perfect over-protective-father form. “Appreciate you keeping her company.”

Your mouth twitches around the straw. Jack can already tell you’re going to make him suffer for this. The prospect improves his mood considerably. 

He starts to walk you back to the table, when he spots Robby, who’s laughing much too loudly at something the new intern just whispered in his ear.

The girl is angled toward him, smiling with that shy, pleased little tilt people get when they think they’ve successfully surprised him, and Robby, miracle of miracles, looks genuinely interested. 

That is information worth preserving. Worth interrogating later, too.

But for now he takes that opportunity for what it is and herds you into a corner out of view.

As soon as you’re tucked between a stack of surfboards and the dim EXIT sign, his fingers close over the curve of your backside, giving a quick pinch.

A startled “hey!” pops out, alcohol-loose and breathy, and you bat at his knuckles.

He catches your wrist, holding it against his chest as amusement darkens his gaze. “You’re testing me, angel. Missed me so much you had to start getting other men’s attention just to see if I’d come take you back?”

“Missed who? The pervert or the overprotective dad?”

Jack clicks his tongue and leans in until the tips of your noses nearly touch, crowding the joke right back into your mouth. 

“Hated every damn second of that. Couldn’t lay a finger on you while that kid flirted his ass off. And you knew exactly what you were doing. Wanted to see how fast you could make your old man lose his cool?”

“Thought you liked being challenged?” You tilt your chin, lashes dipping. “Besides, you’d been ignoring me all night. What was I supposed to do, sit there looking pretty for no one?”

“You know that isn’t how it is. I’ve been following the rules you set, angel. Your rules.”

“Yeah, well, last night kind of blew those up, don’t you think?” You lean closer. “The line’s already smudged. Seems silly to keep pretending we can still see it.”

“Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve got no attachment to that line. I’ve wanted my hands on you from the second I saw that dress.” He leans closer, voice dropping into something meant only for you. “But you’d better mean it. You don’t get to rile me up all night and then act surprised when I collect.”

Your eyes flick toward the neon Restrooms sign, then back to him, lashes heavy. “Meet me by the bathroom in sixty seconds. If you’re late, I’m starting without you.”

One quick sweep confirms the coast is clear.

“Bought and paid for, angel. Be there in fifty-nine.”

You giggle, turning on your heel with a bounce that sets your dress fluttering. He tracks every inch as you stroll off, head cocked like you know he’s staring; the last thing he sees is the curve of your ass rounding the corner.

He waits just long enough not to make it obvious, then starts toward the hall, pulse already ticking off the seconds.

Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven.

“Jack.”

Shit.

Dana catches him mid-stride. When he turns, she is watching him over one lifted brow, empty glass raised loosely in her hand. “You getting another round?”

His gaze flicks toward the corridor before he can stop it. Mistake. Dana follows it, then looks back at him.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says.

“Could’ve fooled me. You look like you’re on a mission.”

And what can he say to that?

Yeah, Dana, good eye. I am on a mission to follow my girlfriend into a seedy beach-bar bathroom and fuck the living daylights out of her before Robby notices either of us are gone. By the way, she is his little sister and young enough that, from a distance, strangers apparently assume I helped raise her.

So Jack does what any sensible man would do under pressure.

He lies. 

“Just gotta take a leak.”

Dana lets out a low hum, the kind that says she believes exactly none of him. “Sure.” And Jack thinks that’s it, but suddenly she shakes her head. “Just do yourself a favor and be careful.”

“Careful about what, exactly?” Irritation flicks hot across his scalp, mostly because it coats the thin, unfamiliar ache of fear. 

She tips her chin, eyes dull with shift-long exhaustion, offering him nothing but that tired little smile that says You already know. 

“Don’t make me say it out loud.” Her gaze dips toward the restroom sign, subtle enough that anyone else would miss it. Jack doesn’t. “I don’t care about the sordid details. But secrets like this don’t stay contained forever. People get hurt when they come out.” Her expression softens by a fraction. “And she has more to lose than you do.”

He doesn’t get the chance to answer before Dana slips past him, already lifting two fingers toward the bartender and calling for another round. 

She has more to lose than you do.

Jack knows that. Or at least, he should’ve.

He is established. Difficult to shame in any lasting way. People already know who he is, have decided what sort of man he is, and most days he can live with that. 

You, meanwhile, are still being decided. Every room you enter is another jury, every mistake fresh evidence for peers and others alike. 

And men tend to survive a scandal differently.

Jack might lose Robby, take a hit to his reputation, become the subject of a few whispered conversations at work. Then the weeks would pass, another crisis would arrive, and people would remember he was useful. 

The world permits men to outlive their mistakes.

It does not extend women the same courtesy.

You would be remembered through it, reduced to it. People would search backward through every bright smile and short skirt as if the proof had always been there, call you foolish where they called him weak, promiscuous where they called him lonely.

Even the people defending you would talk as though you needed defending from your own decision.

Jack suddenly feels sick because Dana is right, and because somewhere along the way he let himself pretend the risk belonged equally to both of you.

Half his, half yours. Fair.

It never had.

Jack lets the sixty seconds expire and stays exactly where he is, rooted with his hands by his sides and the first honest understanding of what protecting you might actually require.

Tonight, when you go looking for Jack, your intentions are not merely ill.

They are terminal. Premeditated. Your conscience is nowhere to be found, certainly not sparkling, certainly not clean enough to eat off.

Whatever small moral voice usually lives in you has been smothered beneath a white-hot blend of anger and a bruised ego, two things currently holding hands and skipping merrily through your bloodstream. 

The house has only just begun to settle after several hours of drunk postmortems, everyone still riding the bar’s momentum and apparently determined to delay sleep through sheer noise pollution alone. Somebody had thrown up in the upstairs toilet, although nobody was admitting to it and Whitaker had somehow staggered into Jack’s room and passed out starfished across his bed, fully clothed, one shoe still on, leaving Jack exiled to the downstairs couch.

It’s almost completely dark when you creep down the stairs.

A small lamp glows beside the sofa, casting a little island over Jack and the book open in his hands.

The rest of the room dissolves into shadow, cluttered with the aftermath of everyone else’s good time: cups lined along the coffee table, half-empty glasses, plates abandoned with crusts and smears of dip.

You ghost past him without a glance, feet soundless on the hardwood.

Only when he murmurs, “Can we talk?” do you pause, but only long enough to throw a breezy, “Later — busy,” over your shoulder.

Jack pushes off the sofa, trailing you a step. “Busy with what, exactly?”

Busy making your life a living hell, you think, scrubbing dried food from a plate. Busy returning the favor. Busy ensuring he experiences even a fraction of the private humiliation you swallowed in that bar bathroom, standing beneath a flickering light panel while sixty seconds stretched into two minutes, then five, your invitation curdled into foolishness.

And when you had finally emerged, Jack was back at the table with the others, but every stiff line of him betrayed where his attention really was. Fresh drink in hand, barely touched. Shoulders set. Gaze locked on the corridor.

He had chosen not to come, but he had not stopped watching.

Jack would sooner lose his other leg than abandon you tipsy in a strange bar, and even furious, you knew that. He had been keeping vigil over the door, tracking who went in, who came out, waiting for your face to appear. But that garnered no brownie points from you.

When you approached, confused and annoyed and still stupidly hopeful, he had only leaned close enough to breathe, “Later,” against your ear.

As if it were of no significance. You were of no significance.

You snatch up another abandoned cup and tip its watery remains into the sink.

“This,” you say. “Some of us respect shared spaces.”

“Mm. At two in the morning?” Jack leans one hip against the counter, arms folding over his chest. When you dont stop, he adds, “All right. Scoot over. I’ll help.”

Jack has never encountered a mess, emotional or otherwise, that he did not believe could be improved by putting his hands on it. A wound, a crisis, a woman mad enough to scrub ceramic like she means to erase the glaze. Same instinct. Reach. Steady. Fix.

You turn before he can.

Dishwater slips from your fingers in clear little tracks, the oversized sleep shirt grazing high over your thighs as you square yourself toward him. 

“No, thank you.” Your gaze stays fixed on his. “I’ve learned I can manage without help.” 

He comes closer, and closer still, until your damp fingers have nowhere sensible to go except flat against the edge of the sink. 

“That’s very independent of you, honey,” he says. “Always loved that about you.” His hand lands beside your hip, bracketing you in. His gaze searches your face, lightening at the edges. “But I don’t think we’re talking about dishes anymore, are we?”

You tip your chin up, refusing to let the gentling in his eyes sand down your irritation. “No, we’re not. We’re talking about you saying one thing and doing another. Apparently promises are more of a loose suggestion when they’re coming from you.” 

“Give me a chance to explain, sweetheart.” The words slip out on a breath, softer than the rattle of the faucet.  “You can be mad after. Hell, you probably still will be. Just hear me out first.” 

You do not want to hear him out.

Explanations are unpredictable things, doors that open both ways, and you already have the sickening suspicion that whatever is waiting on the other side will hurt worse than not knowing. 

Because yes, objectively, Jack failing to follow you into a bathroom means very little.

No fidelity breached, no grand betrayal, no concrete proof of anything beyond bad timing and worse communication.

But the small flutter in your stomach does not care about what your mind tries to litigate away. 

It knows this feeling. Knows this small retreat before someone leaves, the subtle cooling, the moment affection starts becoming obligation. 

Maybe he has simply had his fill of you. Maybe the novelty wore off and now you are no longer the bright, entertaining little thing he wanted to sneak around with, only a woman who talks too much and needs too much and has begun expecting permanence from something built in shadows.

And maybe now he has seen enough of the real thing to know he cannot imagine building a life around it. 

So you do not give him the chance. 

“Nothing to explain,” you say, seizing the sponge and escaping the cage of his arms for the opposite counter.

You start cleaning with theatrical diligence, collecting bottles, stacking plates, wiping crumbs into your palm as though the fate of the rental deposit rests entirely on you. 

But you did not come downstairs to rescue countertops. You came because you need proof that Jack still wants you.

Any kind of proof. Emotional, physical, desperate, selfish. You would take whatever he gives you.

And if you cannot bring yourself to ask whether he still sees a future with you, then you can at least find out whether he still wants to put his hands on you.

So when you bend to retrieve a fallen fork from the ground, you let the hem of your sleep shirt climb unchecked over the backs of your legs until it bares you completely, exposes that you are wearing no underwear, your thighs parted just enough for Jack to see every soft, private inch you left uncovered for him. 

Cool air brushes your pussy.

His stare burns hotter.

“Jesus Christ, honey.” The words leave him rough and disbelieving, dragged up from the well below his throat. Behind you, the counter creaks faintly beneath the sudden weight of his hands. “What the hell are you doing?” 

You count to one before straightening. 

You turn with the fork still balanced between two fingers, arranging your face into its sweetest approximation of confusion.

“Don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

“Right,” he murmurs. “Must’ve imagined the whole thing.” 

You drop the fork into the sink with an accusing clatter. “Probably. Memory goes with age, remember?”

He steps in behind you before you can turn away, chest brushing your back, one palm flattening over your stomach while the other slides beneath your shirt.

His knuckles skim the soft inside of your thigh, then settle exactly where you’re naked. 

“Yeah,” he growls against your ear. “Didn’t imagine a damn thing.”

A whimper threatens and you bite it back so hard your jaw aches. In that stilled heartbeat the fight drains out of your muscles and your body answers him first, arching back, begging in the only language it trusts. 

But the panic bubbles back up in fiery waves.

“Please don’t,” you say, and the plea is not the one he expects.

Jack’s hand freezes.

You close your eyes. 

“If you’ve changed your mind about me, just say it.” Every word hurts your throat. You turn your face just enough for him to see what the anger has been hiding all night. Fear. “If you don’t want me anymore, then don’t touch me like you do. Don’t make it harder than it already is.” 

Jack’s hand vanishes so abruptly from beneath your shirt, your knees dip with the loss.

Then he’s turning you, big palms framing your cheeks, thumbs parked just under your cheekbones. Your own slick glosses his knuckles. He tips your chin up so you can’t look anywhere but straight into the brown storm of his.

“What the fuck are you talkin’ about, baby?”

Your mouth opens, but what escapes first is a wet, hitching breath.

The tears rise fast, flood-waters breaching the levee before you can blink them back, Jack’s outline smearing into watercolor.

“I don’t know,” you hiccup, which is not true at all. You know too much. “You left me there. And then you acted like I was being dramatic for expecting you to show up when you said you would.” Your fingers curl around his wrists, not pushing him away, just holding on. “And maybe it’s not about that. Maybe it’s about how easy it would be for you to wake up and realize I’m not… serious-person material. I’m fun, I know that. I’m pretty and I make you laugh and I’m good in bed, but that’s not the same as being someone you actually want a life with.” Your lips tremble. “People always like me better at first.” 

Immediately his face caves, all the structure in it imploding: brows hitching, mouth parting, a stricken slackness that makes him look ten years younger and infinitely more breakable.

“Don’t say that,” he says, too sharp at first, then immediately dampens. “No, sweetheart. I’m sorry. Say whatever you need to say. I’m just…” He shakes his head, jaw tight, eyes shining with something close to a fear that matches yours. “I hate that I made you feel like that.” 

His hands slide from your face to your shoulders, holding you there as if he needs you to understand this with your whole body. 

“You are serious to me. More serious than anything I’ve let myself have in a long time.” He exhales shakily. “You think I don’t picture a life with you? I picture it constantly.” 

You just stare, lungs cinched tight, tears marooned mid-cheek as though gravity’s on pause. The room narrows to the pulse thudding in your ears. 

“You’re… you’re serious about me?”

Jack makes a quiet, wounded sound. His hands come back to your face, thumbs stroking the wet tracks beneath your eyes. 

“Christ, baby. Yes. Of course I am.” He bends closer, as though proximity might help drive the truth into you. “I don’t know how I let you believe otherwise… I didn’t follow after you tonight because I got scared for you, not of you. I should have told you. I should have found you, explained, apologized. Instead I left you alone with your worst thoughts. That was cruel, even if I didn’t mean it to be. Please let me fix it.”

Another hiccup rattles through you as you try to process the words at face-value. “Scared for me how?” 

“Because if this blew up, I didn’t want you caught in it.” He says it simply, like there is no question which of you matters more. “I don’t give a damn what people think of me, baby. I care what it does to you.” 

You shake your head inside the cradle of his hands.

“I don’t care what people think either. I don’t care about any of it.” Your voice snags, but you push through. “I love you, Jack. That matters more.” 

His eyes close for half a second, like the words are almost too much to take standing up.

When they open again, he kisses you senselessly soft, both hands still holding your face as though you might vanish.

He kisses you once, twice, a third time, each one a little messier than the last.

“Love you too, baby,” he whispers, lips brushing yours. “Love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”

The brine of your tears slick the seam of your mouth. Jack doesn’t flinch, drinks it in like proof of living.

You surface for one ragged sip of air, barely enough, your lips still grazing his, fists knotted in his shirt like ballast against weightlessness. 

“You mean it? You’re really serious about me?” you whisper again, softer this time, almost shy with it. 

Jack lets out a low, guttural sound and grazes the corner of your mouth. 

“So serious, honey.” Another kiss, deeper now, his hands sliding from your face to your waist, pulling you flush. “Want to put a ring on that pretty little hand. Want a house with your clothes everywhere and your shoes in places I’m gonna trip over.” His mouth finds yours again, swallowing your gasp before he adds, rougher, “Want a kid, if you want one. You want a baby with me, angel?” 

“Yes, please, Jack.”

The words are still warm in the air when he fits his mouth to yours, a groan vibrating through both of you.

His palms squeeze your waist, then lift, your stomach swooping as he sets you on the cleared stretch of counter. Cool laminate kisses the backs of your thighs, shocking against the furnace heat of him stepping between your legs.

Your sleep-shirt scrunches between his hands, creeping, creeping, until the hem gathers at your hips and you’re bared to him again.

“Yeah?” he murmurs against your lips. “You’d give me that?”

You nod so eagerly the room tilts, fists in his collar, yanking him closer. “Anything.”

“My perfect girl,” he breathes, kissing you again, softer now, as if the tenderness makes what follows any less filthy. 

His hand slips beneath the gathered cotton at your waist, fingers gliding south until one settles between your folds. He drags the wetness up in a lazy sweep, humming appreciation that burns brighter than the touch itself.

“And what’s all this, hm?” he asks, studying your face while his finger toys idly with your clit. His eyes darken, attention dropping to where his hand disappears between your legs. “You sittin’ here imagining me filling you up with a baby, sweetheart?” 

Your hips lift helplessly into his hand, chasing pressure he has no intention of giving you yet. 

“No teasing,” you whimper, breath breaking around the words. “Please, Jack. I need you inside me.” 

Jack swears under his breath, hand leaving your clit only long enough to undo his pants. The zipper drops. Fabric loosens. Then he is back between your thighs, dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds once, twice, gathering the wetness you have made for him.

The sight of him nearly makes you stupid.

It has only been a few days, which is nothing, really, barely enough time for a normal person to miss anything, but your body has become accustomed to him, used to the heavy stretch of his cock at least once a day, sometimes twice when neither of you has somewhere to be. 

You’re practically drooling, inner muscles fluttering around emptiness while he takes his sweet, sweet time wetting himself in what you’ve made for him. 

You shift on the counter, thighs widening of their own accord, a needy sound slipping free when the head catches against your entrance and pulls away again. 

“I know, honey. I know.” His voice roughens as he traces the head up your inner thigh. “Should’ve given you what you needed hours ago.” 

Then he finally does. 

He braces one hand at your hip and pushes forward in one long, steady stroke, the thick head breaching you first, then every heavy inch following.

Your cunt flutters, welcoming, molding around him until there’s no space left unexplored. 

The counter shudders with the low sound that tears out of both of you. 

The inexorable pressure sutures the empty ache that’s haunted you, stuffing it full until there’s no room for jealousy, no space for worst-case scenarios.

There is only Jack.

Your thighs cinch hard around his waist, heels gouging into the backs of his legs like spurs demanding more.

He doesn’t stop until pelvis meets pelvis, forehead thunking against yours while both of you gasp as if you’ve sprinted a mile in the sand. 

He retreats a heartbeat’s width and your walls seize around him, possessive. He curses under his breath.

“This tight little cunt missed me, didn’t it?” he asks, already driving back in.

He starts pumping into you at a saint’s tempo, each drag of his cock thick and thorough, his hips grinding flush against you at the end of every thrust.

Your arms lock around his shoulders as your body rocks with him, bare thighs trembling against his sides. 

Pleasure gathers everywhere at once, starting at your pussy and climbing until your whole body feels tuned to the rhythm of his hips.

You try to tell him that. Try to say yes, missed you, feels so good, but what comes out is a breathless spill of syllables, half his name and half a sound you would be embarrassed by if your brain were still capable of embarrassment. 

His hand slips between your bodies, two fingers finding your clit. 

“You’re mine, aren’t you? All mine,” he growls, cock still working inside you. “And I’m yours. Never gonna be anybody else’s, you hear me?”

Your answer is a helpless chain of nods and breathy mewls, but he isn’t satisfied with that.

He catches your jaw, thumb pressing your cheek until your eyes snap to his. 

“Look at me. Hear me.” 

“Y-yes, Jack… yours — love you, love you s’much,” you babble.

“Love you, angel.” He presses a kiss to your trembling lips. “Want me to fill this pretty pussy up? Want me to leave every drop inside where it belongs?” 

“Yes, please. Need it — need you — m’so close.”

The first warning licks up your spine. A trembling in your calves, nipples pebbling hard against your shirt.

Pleasure stacks in breath-stealing layers, so heavy it feels like quicksand pulling you under. 

Jack’s tells flare with yours. His hips snapping hard, hands tightening on your waist until his knuckles blanch.

Sweat beads at his hairline, drops down to your skin, and your walls clamp down in greedy pulses, each flex beginning for the flood he’s a second away from letting go.

“Keep looking at me,” Jack pants, curling a hand from your waist to the back of your neck. “Need to watch you fall apart.”

“Can’t — can’t hold it,” you whimper, thighs shaking.

“Don’t hold a damn thing,” he growls. “Give it to me, come on, baby.”

The quicksand finally liquefies and the world folds to white noise.

Jack breaks with you, a strangled — fuck — on your lips, thrusts turning short as he empties himself in thick bursts.

You cling to one another, quake for heartbeat after heartbeat, until the tremors fade into breathless, boneless warmth. 

When Jack’s breathing finally steadies, his mouth roams in slow increments. First your collarbones, up the column of your throat, over the quiver of your lips. 

He eases back only to reach for a paper towel, thumb already swiping at the mess seeping down your thighs. 

“Don’t,” you plead, catching his wrist. “Wanna keep it.”

Jack huffs a low laugh before moving to kiss away your protest. “Sweetheart, you’re not making it five steps up those stairs with that sliding down your legs.” 

Even as he says it, he dabs gently between them.

The light friction has your hips ticking forward, little whimpers breaking free. 

“Sensitive, huh?” he tuts. 

“Thought you wanted to put a baby in me?” you argue.

Jack’s thumb circles your thigh. “Oh, I plan on it — but not until there’s some extra hardware shining on your hand. One thing at a time, yeah?”

Old-fashioned as he is, you probably should’ve expected that.

Jack Abbot is the kind of man who still opens doors, calls restaurants instead of booking online, and apparently requires jewelry before intentional procreation. There is probably a proper sequence filed away in that stubborn head of his: ring, vows, house, baby. 

You find, to your own surprise, that you do not mind the order at all. 

You tap his chest with a teasing finger and dopey smile. “I can live with that. I do love shiny things, after all.”

What he does not tell you is that the shiny thing already exists, hidden in his sock drawer, waiting for the right moment. 

You won’t find that out for another two months, until after the two of you finally sit Robby down and tell him everything, until after Jack takes one clean punch to the face without even trying to dodge it, because fair is fair, and until after Robby’s anger burns itself down into something survivable. 

By the time Jack slips the ring onto your finger, his lip is healed, your brother is calling him Jack instead of Dick-Face (you can’t be sure where he learned that insult from), and the future no longer feels like something borrowed.

It is yours. 

MARIA NOTE this lowkey was supposed to be like 1k words and the ideas just kept flowing and it turned into a full psychological case study on why making ur brother's best friend jealous is both a terrible idea and, unfortunately, very effective. also jack saying ring first, baby later made me briefly black out. hope u enjoyed!! <3

YOU CAN FIND MY JACK ABBOT MASTERLIST HERE ⭑.ᐟ

[fru1t4fr0gs]

Three Years

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

Summary: You and Pope have loved each other since you were teenagers. And then he went to prison, and cut you off. No apology, no explanation, nothing. Just a sledgehammer to your heart and utter radio silence.

Three years later, he's out, and he wants you back.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI: Swearing, Mentions of drugs, Mentions of violence, Alcohol use, Gun use, It's Animal Kingdom there's a little bit of everything, Character death (not a main/canon character), Vague descriptions of mental illness (it's Pope), Smut!! Unprotected pinv (wrap it up guys!), Loss of virginity in a flashback, Brief Craig/Reader (they're besties though), Age gaps/timelines might be a little wonky but oh well, Mentions of abuse (reader’s dad is a bad man), Please let me know if I forgot anything!

Author's Note: I hope you guys enjoy this one! I wanted to experiment with flashbacks, and then this exploded out of my brain. Special thanks to @flowersforbucky for proofreading and dealing with my indecisiveness on the pictures and layout because she is the best!! Please let me know what you think!!

Word Count: 21k

-

The bar is dimly lit. Sticky. Loud.

The guy sitting across from you has nice eyes. Pretty, even. They’re a light blue, crinkled a little in the corners and looking at you with something like adoration. You try to appreciate it, you really do, but all you can see is naivety. Maybe you’re too cynical. More likely too damaged. Whatever.

You prefer brown eyes, anyway.

Warm brown eyes looking into your own. Large fingers tucking your hair behind your ear. The ghost of warm breath against your lips and a small curve of a shy smile as he leans closer and closes the distance between you-

You blink, and force a smile.

The guy across from you, Ethan or something, clears his throat. “So, do you wanna maybe-“

A beer hits the table, loud enough to make the man - though you should really call him a boy, with that collared shirt and combed hair and those innocent eyes - jump nearly a foot in the air.

“Move it, pal.”

Craig Fucking Cody stands above you, and you bite back a groan.

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

You suppose you have time for two things today.

[hotdocsandcowboys]

Ultimate Revenge

Titus Danforth X Le Domas Bride!Reader

Follow Up to: The Loophole: Dark Wedding A Solstice Sacrifice The Debut Little Bite One: Spend. His. Money. Mating Rituals Little Bite Two: The Nightmare A Danforth Wedding Tradition Little Bite Three: The Twins, 2000 Little Bite Four: White Feather Hawk Tail Deer Hunter

Summary: Titus takes you on a private Babymoon to his family's England estate, the place where the Danforth's first met Mr. Le Bail. But in the dark corners awaits an old foe ready to get what they think they're owed.

Tags: age gap, pregnancy talk (not explicit but i know not everyone is into that), graphic violence, attempted murder/threats on reader's life, Priscilla gets her own warning lol, murder!, so much blood!, stabbing!, sex in the woods!, choking!, sex covered in blood (again lol), slapping, rough sex, daddy kink!, subby titus, and then kinda dommy titus lol, mommy stuff mentioned but explicit, mentions of other sexual situations, non-con voyerism idk how to describe it but priscilla is a creep who watches...., so i guess also stalking, idk!, fluff!!!!, HAPPY ENDING!!!

A/N: guys this is the FINAL PART!!!!!!! :((((((( but it's been such a fun journey, i love all of y'all for coming with me!!!!! Now let's kill Priscilla lol that's not really a spoiler y'all know it needed to happen ;) almost 19K words...

AO3 Link if that's your preference.

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Priscilla Cavendish is not used to being rejected. 

Her family, though not members of the High Council, has been given a relatively privileged life thanks to the gifts of Mr. Le Bail, and she has spent her whole existence reaping those benefits.  

She got every car, horse, designer dress, and vacation her heart desired. She wanted to go to a prestigious school? Her parents bought a library and she never had to fill out application. She wanted to be head Cheerleader? No other girl would dare challenge her anyway. Boys and Men? She’s tall and gorgeous and thin and rich, why would anyone ever say no to her? 

They didn’t. That’s the thing. She got everything and everyone she ever wanted. 

Titus Danforth was not an exception. For many years, he was not an exception. Sure, there were times where even she got tired and bored of his bratty behavior, times where they’d break up and she’d find some other toy to play with, but she was always able to grab his attention again. 

This last break up was a little more...definitive than others, sure. Annoyed at his lack of commitment, as she usually was, Priscilla decided to try her luck with Ignacio El Caido instead.  

He was a widower who lived the fast life, and was on the High Council as well, so she figured he’d be an easy mark. They hooked up a few times, he bragged to Titus about it, but instead of awakening any sort of jealousy in the man, Titus Danforth simply laughed and wished them both good luck. 

Needless to say Priscilla was livid. He didn’t care at all. She’d spent so much time trying to get her hand on the Danforth name, and he only ever saw her as a hobby. The things she did for him too, sexually. She lived up to almost every weird appetite of his, in ways she knows his other flings would never dare to, and still he threw her out. 

And then came you. 

First, you encroach on Francensca’s territory by stealing Alex Le Domas, and you don’t even have the decency to die during Hide and Seek. Then, you fucking steal Titus Danforth right out of bachelor life because? What? You’re young and pretty and in a desperate spot? 

Priscilla will never understand what he sees in you. Sure, you suffer from some similar mental psychopathy that he does, but you’re...you’re an outsider. Mr. Le Bail tried to kill you twice. 

Maybe you’re some sort of witch and you’ve cast a spell over Titus. Whatever you are, she will never accept that you’ve won. In her mind, you haven’t.  

This is just a pause. Time to recover after hours of plastic surgery to prevent scarring from where you’d smashed her face with glass, like some deranged gremlin. She’s waited patiently, face bandaged until her beauty returned, holed up in her family’s old country estate in England. 

She read that article about Felicity and Fitz’s deaths, anger rippling through her chest. A drunk driving accident? Sure. She knows what happens after a Danforth wedding. Priscilla just knows you’re the reason she’s lost another ally in that family. 

And now you’re with child. A halfway unworthy spawn of a girl with no important name, no important family, will one day rule this world?  

No. Not if she can help it. 

Not when she finds out the two of you will be coming right to her. 

+ 

+ 

+ 

They call it a Babymoon. 

From what you’ve read, most people save it for a month before the baby is due, but of course Titus Danforth has to go above and beyond for you. 

After all, you are carrying the next set of Danforth Twins. 

So, at only just under four months along, he whisks you away on the private jet to the family’s oldest home in the countryside of England. The little castle where everything began.  

You told him he didn’t need to take you on any trips yet, he’d already given you enough gifts to celebrate your pregnancy. From an entire new yet-to-be-released designer maternity wardrobe, to an in-house personal chef to specially make all of your meals, to a revamped 1960 pink Cadillac, Titus has not been stingy on spoiling you. 

Your morning sickness has mostly subsided, so the travel wasn’t so bad. You have a little soreness, but so far everything is going easy. Titus doted on you the whole ride over, giving you orgasms and kisses to your little bump. 

“Sorry to interrupt, sir, but we will be making our descent in just under an hour,” the captain’s voice said over the intercom. 

You sat up from where you’d been laying on Titus’s lap, a pout graces your face as you look at the door, like you’d be able to frown at the pilot through it. At least this jet had a private bedroom for you to enjoy your flight at all. 

“Darn, it was just about to get good,” you sigh, “Well, good again.” 

Titus looks up at you with a smirk. “He said an hour, Baby, that’s plenty of time to go one more round.” 

“Hmmm, I guess we should enjoy our free time while we can,” you purred, laying your body back down over his, grinding your hips down into his lap. Titus’s hands fly to your ass, grabing you hard and moving you at a slow pace. “Once they arrive, we might be too busy for each other for a while.” 

“I’ll never be too busy for you, Little Lamb,” Titus grunts, breath coming out in short huffs, cock already stirring again. “We’ll hire a nanny just to look after them whenever I need to fuck the shit out of you. You know, so we’re not disturbed.” 

You snort. “That’s ridiculous,” you say as you giggle into your next kiss. 

“You’re right, we’ll make Ursula do it,” Titus says, flipping you over onto your back. His hand slides down to your tummy, then past your bump to pull at the bottom of your dress. 

You shiver as his thick fingers press to the skin on your inner thigh, and you grab onto his shoulders to steady yourself, eyes closing and mouth dropping open. Your voice is breathless and higher when you continue teasing him. “You wouldn’t let them be left with some stranger, anyway.” 

“Fuck no,” Titus grunts, teeth grazing your neck. 

He wasn’t raised by nannies, not really. Violet and Chester paid for the best tutors and coaches that money could buy, but the Danforth children were never left to learn their important life lessons from random European women. 

Not until Violet died, but by ten years old they didn’t need to be watched all the time, and were old enough for boarding school. So that’s what Chester did. He sent them off to school, and when they were home he made sure to be the one instilling his believes and life lessons in them, no matter how cold those lessons were. 

“Of course not,” your voice breaks into a whine when you feel his fingers at your folds, and your legs spread for him. “They’re going to be all yours,” your voice is light, “just like me,” and you nudge him into a kiss.  

His breath is swallowed into your moans, as his fingers enter you slowly, thumb rubbing circles on your clit. Titus’s warm body ruts against yours, cock rubbing deliciously against your thigh. “Yeah, Baby, ‘d do anything for you, for all of you.” 

“Hmm, I know,” you sigh, rolling your hips down onto his fingers, the wet squelch sending a rush of pleasure up your spine. “You’ll be such a good Daddy.” 

Suddenly, Titus lets out a low, stuttered groan, and his movements stop as his eyes roll back. “Shit, Baby.” 

You feel a patch of wetness against your thigh and your eyes go wide with a shocked smile. “Did you just...” 

Titus doesn’t even have it in him to be embarrassed. “Okay, you can’t ever call me that in front of other people.” His fingers are still inside you, and he flexes them in that way that drives you crazy. “Gimmie a minute, Baby.” 

You start to giggle, laying kisses to his cheek. “Or what, Daddy?” 

“Fuck,” Titus groans, dick twitching slowly back to life in his pants. “Keep going like that and I’ll be able to fuck you again real soon...” 

When he’s finally able to get it up again, he lasts all of two minutes inside you. After the first “Fuck me so good, Daddy,” he’s a goner. 

+ 

The Danforth Castle, which has been in Titus’s family for centuries, sits along a river, hidden away in a vast wood, in Suffolk England. The area is remote and quiet, but almost never empty, various members of the Danforth family staying in its expansive halls throughout the year. There’s also live-in staff, of course, some grounds keepers, and minor security. 

None of the family are going to be staying there right now, however, and the staff has been briefed already on staying hidden. Titus wants you to have your privacy, with absolutely no stress from nosy family. 

The halls of the castle are made of old dark grey stone, which have been finished and refinished over the decades to accommodate updating technology, electricity, and all that. They’re lined with old paintings, family portraits, weapons, taxidermy animal heads, and statues of armor. You feel like you’re on some movie set about Tudor era England. 

There’s a cold air that passes around you, not eerie but rather an echo of how old the building is. Your feet make a clacking sound that bounces off the stone as you’re led into a great foyer, brightly lit by tall stained-glass windows that arch all the way up to the ceiling. 

You’re not looking at Titus as he watches with a proud smirk the way your eyes go wide and your mouth drops open. A row of butlers whisk passed you with your bags, and three maids wait at the bottom of a winding staircase with warm smiles. 

They’re the ones who’ve been here the longest, the ones who have watched Titus grow up, the ones who have been at the mercy of his brutish ways and attitude many times, and the ones who were relieved when they heard he fell in love with someone who apparently tamed him. Of course, you haven’t really tamed anything, just given him something to channel all obsession into, a reason to be just a little nicer. 

“Master Titus, it’s so lovely to have you back here,” one of the maids, and older woman with short white hair greets. She smiles at you, bowing her head just slightly. “And you must be Mrs. Danforth, it’s wonderful to finally meet the new Mistress, I’m Winnie, the head of the house.” Her eyes fall to your belly, where your bump is a just barely visible swell under your dress. “You are simply glowing.” 

“Thank you, Winnie, it’s so nice to meet you,” you say, shaking her hand. 

She introduces you to the other maids, and then leads you two up the stairs to the Master Suite. It hasn’t been stayed in by any other members of the family since Chester’s last visit, but now it is rightfully yours. 

Again, a movie set comes to mind. Where your old fashioned Estate in Rhode Island looks like a classic americana turn of the century mansion, the Master Suite of this Castle looks like something Queen Elizabeth would live in. 

Winnie and the other maids roll in a cart and pour you some fresh tea, something to settle your stomach and calm the babies after the flight, and then leave the two of you to decompress. 

Titus helps you out of your coat, and you let out a relieved groan as you flop down on your back on the bed. You stare up at the ceiling, arms outstretched on the satin sheets, as you breathe in the scent of old wood. 

“So...” you say, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at your husband. “Just how haunted is this place?” 

Titus snorts, shrugging off his own jacket to leave himself in just a white button up, and he starts to roll up the sleeves as he approaches the bed. “Pretty fucking haunted, but I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen any ghosts.” 

“But you’ve heard them?” you ask, scooting over to make room for him to lay at your side.  

His hand goes to your stomach, fingers softly spreading out. “Oh sure, all kinds of creaks in the floorboards and wind moaning through the walls. Winnie used to bust me sneaking around at night trying to catch a specter.” 

You let out a small giggle. “I can picture it. Little baby Titus with crooked teeth and mischievous eyes, hiding in all the dark corners...you probably just scared the staff half to death.” 

“Hmm, well, I was just practicing,” he says. “You know for later when I’d have to hunt down and kill all these people who try to get into our family.” 

Or, even better, the ones he now hunts down to sacrifice for each season. The Spring Equinox hunt had been especially riveting, since the chosen sacrifice was the Priest who’d told Felicity your business about the mating ritual. Titus had taken immense pleasure from breaking each bone in his body before bringing him to the Black Temple for the sacrifice. He even cut out the man’s tongue and burned it in the fire. 

Titus shifts down the bed, lowering himself so he can kiss your stomach. One of your hands immediately goes to his hair, twisting your fingers into his soft, silver curls. “You know,” he starts, “This is where it all began for my family. It wasn’t always a castle, though, it started as a small cottage. It’s said Mr. Le Bail walked out of the darkness of the woods, while our ancestor was hunting down a bear or a wolf or something, and he asked if he could join in on the fun.” 

You haven’t actually heard this story before, even though you assumed Mr. Le Bail had been a patron of the family for a very long time. 

“They caught the creature together, killed it, slit its throat and all that, and Mr. Le Bail had such a fun time, that he offered The Deal. Our family would sell their souls to him, play his games when needed, and he would give them all the riches and the power in the world. They didn’t have much, so they agreed. Built this up, expanded into High Society and all that, and here we are. 

The part of the woods they met in is still marked off, my great grandfather or whatever had some stone memorial made for it.” 

“I want to see,” you say. 

Titus smirks as he presses his lips to your belly again. “Of course you do, and you should. Mr. Le Bail’s favorite should get to see where it all began.” 

You squirm a little at the comment. There had been a short time where you didn’t think Mr. Le Bail cared anymore about the one person who outsmarted his games twice. But then you remember how his hands had been on you, how his eyes had seared into yours from where they appeared in flames, how soft his lips were when he kissed your face...Titus has no idea just how favored you are. 

“Tomorrow, will you take me on a tour of the grounds then?” 

“I don’t want to tire you out, you shouldn’t be on your feet for too lo—” 

“Titus,” you whine. “I’m not that far along, I’m still perfectly mobile. At least take me to the memorial, or I’ll just run out there and take myself.” 

His body freezes up, hand tensing where it lays on your stomach. “Little Lamb...I’ll take you, but you need to promise me you’ll be good, don’t exert yourself.” 

“Oh, okay,” you say, rolling your eyes. “So it’s okay to exert myself on the jet while you make me come like, ten times in a row, but I can’t just go on a nice walk in the woods anymore? How does that make sense?” 

“Are you saying you didn’t like that?” He asks slyly, shifting his touch down your belly, to the hem of your dress. 

Your breath catches and your eyes widen just slightly, legs subtly spreading on instinct. “N-no...” 

“No? You didn’t like it?” he asks, as his body moves again, settling comfortably between your legs, hands more boldly pushing at your dress. “So, I should stop?” 

“I-I,” you stutter, sucking in a deep breath when you feel him grab your thighs hard, and pull them apart even more. You can barely make a sound as he lowers himself down, nosing along the hem of your panties, humming into the fabric. “No, no don’t stop, please—ahh!” 

A high-pitched whine cracks through your words as he kisses along your already soaked panties, licking his tongue over them to suck up what juices he can. “That’s what I thought.” 

Titus pushes your dress up passed your stomach, pulls your panties down over your legs, and goes to town. He licks and kisses and moans into your dripping pussy like a man starved. You try to hold in your sounds, not wanting to scare this household staff on your first day, but it’s hard when he knows just what you need, knows how to make you feel so good your brain goes fuzzy. 

You’re late for dinner. 

+ 

You can’t sleep. 

All that jetlag and Titus keeping you up for the flight has your mind completely alive in the middle of the night.  

So naturally you beg Titus to take you on that tour of the grounds right now under the stars. You’re both so used to being out in the dark anyway. 

The forests of the English countryside are so much different than back home. Maybe it’s because the spirits that fill them are so much more ancient, the trees have witnessed the violent actions of man for so much longer. You feel like they all have eyes watching you as Titus leads you through the dark path, his hand laced in yours. They loom over you, blocking out most of the stars in the sky, the light of the moon cascading down in clear rays through their deep branches. 

The path he takes you down is written with old cobble stone, lined with a stone wall about three feet tall. It twists and turns deep into the wood, the same path Titus’s ancestor had taken the day he met Mr. Le Bail. Every turn is a surprise, winding deeper and deeper, until the orange light of the Danforth castle is just a small fleck when you turn back to it. For the first time in a long time, you feel unsettled in the wilderness. 

But still... 

A familiar chill runs through your bones. Shadows dance in the corners of your mind that you feel like you’ve seen before. Even the sounds of animals, from owls to distant howls of wolves, sound like you’ve met them at some point already. 

The path ends, and Titus walks behind you, a hand on your lower back to lead you into the trees, and he takes you a few feet into a clearing.  

Your heart nearly stops as you take it in. There’s a circle of trees around a small boulder and a tree stump. You know you’ve been here before, and yet it’s impossible to be true. 

“That is where they met,” your husband’s gravelly voice rumbles close to your ear, lips caressing your skin.  

He points to the boulder, where a small message has been etched onto a gold plate. There’s a small goat carved into the metal, at the center of a pentagram. A Latin phrase lines the top, one that translates to Loyalty Through the Fires, and below that a message in English: 

THE MEETING PLACE OF A TRUE GOD TO MEN, THE BEGINNING OF A BEAUTIFUL FRIENDSHIP. SWORN THROUGH BLOOD. FOR ALL BRANCHES OF THE TREE. 

You don’t remember this being here last time. You don’t know why you should remember it at all. 

“This is where it all began,” Titus continues. His head rests on your shoulder, unaware of the nerves that have overtaken your body. “Two men meet in the woods, and now I stand here with you, someone I wished for, my perfect equal...” his hands slide over your sides until they rest on your belly. “Mother of my children, the next leaders of our family line.” 

You hum softly, eyes closing as you let your body fall into his, the cold of the night can’t reach you here in his arms. You’re about to say something about the weird feeling, but Titus continues speaking. 

“I’m so glad I could take you here while it’s just us,” he mumbles, kissing the low end of your neck. “It’s so isolated out here, nobody to bother us, nobody to stick their nose in our business.” 

A soft laugh escapes your lips. Anyone else, any other circumstance, and it would sound like he’s brought you here to kill you. 

“How far is the closest neighbor, anyway?” you ask, eyes open again and scanning what you can through the dark tree line. 

Titus shrugs. “About five miles up north are the Whitmore’s, they’ve got a nice little hunting ground and cabin. East is the water, when you finally hit that there is a small fishing village. Ten miles west is the Pembroke Mansion, they’ve been here almost as long as we have, but they’re not in the organization. And then south is—" 

Titus stops suddenly, body tensing as he backs up from you, and you hear him swear under his breath. Your arms cross over your torso as you turn around, suspicious frown on your face. “What’s wrong?” 

“Shit,” Titus lets out a long sigh, running a nervous hand through his hair. He looks up at you with uncharacteristically worried eyes, lip bit between his teeth. “Okay, don’t be mad at me.” 

“Why would I be mad?” You ask slowly, keeping your voice even. 

“Well...” Titus groans. “Listen, Baby, it’s no big deal, their property is miles away and the woods are very dense here...” 

“But...?” 

“But...” he exhales, grabbing your hands and squeezing them tightly. “Well, six miles south of here is the old Cavendish estate. That family acquired it in the mid-nineteen hundreds from some down on his luck lord or whatever. I’ve probably only been there a handful of times, years ago.” 

“Okay?” You say, pursing your lips. “Cavendish?” 

“As in...Priscilla Cavendish.” 

You immediately drop his hands with an angry gasp, backing up a foot as you laugh incredulously. Your hands come to your face, ignoring Titus’s repeats of your name as you continue to back away from him. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.” 

Titus’s voice is tight and desperate as he approaches you, “Baby, it’s not a big deal—" 

“Not a big deal?” You spit. “Your ex, who hates me, who tried to hook up with you and steal you back in our house, who was friends with your piece of garbage cousin, lives right next to your family estate, and you think that’s not a big deal?” 

“She doesn’t live there, her family owns it. She may not even be at the estate,” Titus says.  

“The last we heard, she was in Europe! I doubt her family owns as many houses as yours does!” You groan and look up from your hands, hormones causing a well of tears to bubble behind your eyes. A chill surges through you as you finally realize why this place looks familiar, and you cover your mouth as your gaze darts around the trees. “Oh my god, this is just like my dream, my nightmare. Th-this is where she...where you.” 

Titus quickly gathers you into his arms at the look of fear on your face, “No, no that wasn’t real, Little Lamb, nothing is going to happen to us.” 

One of your hands flies down to your stomach, and you think if it weren’t for the twins you’d already be sprinting the six miles to the Cavendish estate to finish this once and for all. “Y-you don’t know that. If she’s there, and she finds out we’re here...she’s going to do something, I just know it. W-we can’t stay! We have to go home, we—" 

“Stop, stop it!” Titus hushes, placing his hands on your cheeks and forcing you to look up at him. “We are not going anywhere. I am not going to let anything happen to you.” His hand joins yours on your tummy, pressing down comfortingly. “None of you. I’ll call in extra security, and we’ll send someone to the estate in the morning to see if she’s there.” 

“And if she is?” 

Titus lets out a long, frustrated sigh. “Then...then we’ll go to London instead, to the Townhome in Westminster. I’m not letting her ruin our trip.” 

“Titus, I don’t know if I can stand being in the same country as her.” 

He chuckles, kissing your hair. “Well, I can call Ursula and see what we can do about getting her kicked out, but that still might take a day.” 

“Titus, that’s not funny.” 

“Yes, I wasn’t joking.” 

Of course he wasn’t joking, you should have known they’d have influence in all world governments. “Let’s just...let’s just wait until we know if she’s there.” 

“Alright,” Titus says, tightening his grip around you. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, I wasn’t thinking...I was too excited to bring you here.” 

“I know,” you sigh. You stand up on your tip toes to kiss his cheek, and you let him capture your lips instead.  

There’s no way your jetlag is going to be solved now, and as you make it back to your room and lay down in the bed, Titus’s arms are wrapped around you as your eyes stay wide open, staring at the wood ceiling. 

+ 

Outside the Cavendish Estate is a gravel horseshoe-shaped drive, surrounded by a line of prickly pink rose bushes. A black sedan drives up to the house, observed by the doorman, who is smoking a cigarette. 

He’s completely unmoved by the large security agent who exits the passenger side sporting a very large machine gun strapped to his chest.  

The doorman throws his cigarette to the ground, stomping it out under his boot. “Can I help you, sir?” 

The security agent looks past the doorman and up to the windows of the estate instead, surveilling what he can through the dark glass. There’s no movement inside, from what he can see. “Are there any members of the Cavendish family staying at the estate currently?” 

“I don’t think I have to answer that,” the doorman snorts. “Who’s asking?” 

“Titus Danforth.” 

The doorman’s eyes go a little wide, but he keeps his same dry tone. “No. We are not expecting any family until after the summer season is over. I believe most of them are at the Hamptons.” 

“Is Priscilla Cavendish currently staying at the estate?” The security agent asks. 

The doorman sighs. “No. Like I said, no members of the family are expected until after summer. You are welcome to come check the home and the grounds, if you feel the need.” 

“We do, actually.” The agent looks over at his shoulder and nods to the other guys in the sedan. Three more men and big guns join him at the door. “Lead the way.” 

The doorman takes them inside, leading them men all through the house, stopping at every corner for them to point their guns around in case of an ambush. He takes them upstairs, opens the doors to every bedroom, bathroom, closet. Takes them to the lower level where the wine cellar is, into the food storage, the regular storage. Takes them through the kitchen and out the backdoor, where the small garden waits. He waits while they follow the treeline and check in the small shed. Nothing. 

He shoos away any maids, cooks, groundskeepers (of which there are very few) that comes across them. Every single one of them is ID checked, in case Priscilla is trying to get away with a disguise. But they’re all just the servants. 

When every single inch of the estate has been checked over, the security agents join the doorman at the front of the house once again. 

“Like I said, the Cavendish family is in the Hamptons,” the doorman says, pulling out another cigarette. “Can I do anything else for you boys?” 

The head agent gives the doorman a stern look, before shaking his head and leading the group back to the sedan. 

The doorman watches, craning his neck to make sure the car gets all the way up past the gate, before putting out this cigarette and running back into the estate. He heads to the small library, and pulls out one of the sconces from the wall, releasing a secret opening behind a set of bookshelves. 

“Miss Cavendish, they’re gone,” he calls into the dark room. 

Priscilla emerges with a wicked smile on her face. She pets at the man’s cheek, long perfectly manicured nails scratch softly at his skin. “Thank you, my darling. You’ve done a very good job for me.” 

+ 

“So, she’s not here?” you ask.  

You’re sitting at the end of a long dining table, poking at your breakfast and morning tea, as Titus receives the report from your security.  

“Correct, we searched the whole grounds, and then had our guys in the states follow up in the Hamptons. It appears her whole family is at their beach house. There is no photo evidence of her being there, but that is on parr with her behavior since, um, well last year.” 

Titus and you share a smirk. Yes, she’s been in hiding from the public for several months, ever since you busted her face up. 

“We have no reason to believe she is in this country.” 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, sipping from your tea with a little more energy. 

“Get me pictures, however you can, just in case,” Titus instructs, before waving them out so you can have your privacy again. “See, Little Lamb, I told you there is nothing to worry about.” 

“Fine, but you still should have told me about her house before bringing me all the way to a foreign country. You’re gonna have to do something big to make it up to me.” 

Titus licks his lips, hand reaching for your thigh under the table. “Think I can come up with some equitable solutions.” 

Before you can respond, your phone goes off from where it sits on the table. You hold up a finger to silence him when your husband’s mouth drops open to protest, as you pick it up to check the text. 

“Do not answer a text from my sister while I’m trying to fuck you,” Titus says, staring at you with bewildered, annoyed blinks. 

“It’s Ursula updating me on the babies’ suite. She said the painting should be done by the time we get home, so we won’t have to worry about fumes or anything. Isn’t that nice?” 

“I guess,” Titus mumbles. 

You shoot him a stern look before sending a thank you in reply. As a gift to you and Titus, Ursula is having an entire portion of your wing of the house torn out and rebuilt to the ultimate nursery for the twins.  You told her what you wanted theming and coloring wise, but you’re letting the end result be a complete surprise from her. 

“Maybe we should go down to London to do some shopping for the suite ourselves, you know? Ursula is going to have most of it covered but we could find some little stuffed animals or decorations we like,” you say, putting your phone down and running a hand into Titus’s hair, soothing the annoyance out of him. 

His lips twitch and he smiles, gently grabbing your hand to kiss your palm. “How about this weekend? We’ll look for gifts for the babies...go to the designers’ show rooms and get something nice for yourself...but just one night, okay? The point of this trip is to keep you to myself.” 

“You always keep me to yourself,” you joke. It’s not that true, anymore. You’ve made a couple friends in the organization, you’re much more social than you used to be, but also you’d be the last to complain about being tucked away in the giant Danforth Estate with only Titus’s attention. “What plans did you have for us here, anyway?” 

“Well, we have horse stables, you can still ride if we take it slow,” he licks his lips and you roll your eyes at the double entendre. He wraps his foot around the leg of your chair and jerks it towards him, pulling you closer. “We can get in the pool, send the staff away to do some skinny dipping...or I can just take you skeet shooting or something boring like that.” 

You burst into a fit of giggles. “Skeet shooting? Seriously? I thought that was something rich people only did on like TV shows.” 

“Yes well, I think you know real rich people do all that kind of shit. Father used to make us do it as part of training.” 

“Of course he did,” you say with a frown. 

Titus stares at you, lips pressed together in a stressed line. “What?” 

He’s told you about his father. Emotionally distant for most of his life, raised him and Ursula to be ruthless killers, everything you know about Chester Danforth makes him sound like a monster. “Your father...I don’t understand him. I don’t understand how you can...” 

“Love him?” Titus asks, voice quiet. His expression is pulled in, brow furrowed and eyes worried, looking so young like he always does when he’s stressed. “It’s complicated, but he wasn’t so bad. We aren’t like normal families, we couldn’t be. He needed me and Ursula to be ready for this part of our life. The part where he’d be gone and we would take over the High Seat. And I wish he...” Titus’s voice trails off, eyes growing distant. He wishes his father would have seen him more, would have treated him equally to Ursula, prepared him and trusted him in the same way. “He was my father and I loved him. It’s too late to care about everything else.” 

You crinkle your nose, running a hand softly over your husband’s cheek. “I’m sure it must have been terrible, having to kill him.” 

“It had to be done,” Titus says. “He was old and weak. And if we’d let him fight for the High Seat, he would have just died anyway. And you...fuck, Little Lamb, who knows what would have happened to you, to me?” Titus reaches a hand onto your belly. “Everything happened the way it was supposed to.” 

You give him a small smile, placing your hand over his. “Still, I don’t want to raise them like how you were. I don’t mind the training and all that, I want them to be fighters, I want them to know how to survive. But I’m going to love them for whoever they turn out to be.” 

“We will,” Titus insists. “I want to be a better father than mine. I want our children to know for sure that they’re loved, just as much as I love you.” 

Your smile grows brighter as you bring his hand to your lips and kiss his palm, before sliding out of your seat to stand above him. “So, skeet shooting?” 

“You really want to try it?” Titus asks with a smirk. 

You shrug, “Sure, it always looked fun in the movies. Besides, I think I’m a pretty good shot already, you’re going to have very stiff competition.” 

+ 

The day passes slowly, sun bright in the sky, birds singing, creatures running through the trees around the two of you. Titus showed you how to shoot, but his teaching was wasted considering you’d been forced to have plenty of practice in your past hunts. He did his best to hide his frustration at losing to you. 

After the skeet shooting, the two of you relaxed poolside, enjoying tea under the sun and just sitting in each other’s company. Ursula called to video chat before dinner, taking the two of you on a virtual tour of the work in progress on the nursery suite. You sat by and giggled as Titus and Ursula argued over one of the babies being named after her. 

“Should we just name them Titus and Ursula two? Both of them? That’s incredibly stupid.” 

“No, just name the girl Ursula, the boy doesn’t need to be named after you.” 

“They’re my children! Not yours! Your name shouldn’t come in at all!” 

“I’m going to be their favorite aunt—" 

“You will be their only aunt!” 

This went on for some time, and you giggled at them the whole time, until finally you broke it up by reminding them that you actually get the biggest say, and you haven’t even begun narrowing name options down.  

Dinner was held in the dining room, just like at home the two of you sat together at the end of the table, catching each other up on gossip, making plans for the next couple days. Instead of an after dinner cigar, Titus has done what he’s had to do the last couple months and have an after dinner glass of whiskey, while he waits for you to finish your night time routine. 

But also like he has the last couple months, he gets impatient and lures you out of the bathroom with sweet words from his smooth voice, gets you on the bed so he can worship you the way he knows you deserve. 

And after a couple of orgasms, you’d fallen asleep almost instantly, left Titus with the task of carefully cleaning you up, dressing you, and tucking you into bed. He fell asleep not long after with you in his arms, the smell of your freshly cleaned hair seeping into his nose.  

Which is why his heart nearly stopped when he woke up at about 3 AM, cold and arms empty, you nowhere in sight. “Baby? Where did you go?” 

His calls cannot reach you as your feet carry you away. In your mind, you’re wandering into the woods, sun shining above you, morning doves cooing in your ears.  

Your dream has you following Titus’s voice in the opposite direction, down the hill, across a stream, and slowly in and out of a winding path. You think he’s just up ahead, but every time you make a turn, it’s like you’ve just barely missed him. His teasing laughter comes from the trees, and you just sigh as you call back to him. 

“Titus! You’re not being fair!” You say as your feet start to hurt. You’re wearing your flowy white nightgown, which is now stained green at the bottom from the grass. 

Beams of sunlight part through the trees, guiding your way as you continue to chase your husband’s voice. You stumble down a hill, just barely keeping your balance once you reach the end, and you spot another clearing just up ahead. The sound of his laughter is closer now, as the trees seem to part for you to enter. 

You hear Titus call your name, over and over, both in the distance and right in your ears. Your face scrunches in confusion at the different levels, but as you enter the clearing, you see him only feet away. Your hands reach up as though to embrace him... 

When suddenly he’s right in front of you, yelling your name right in your face, and your whole body jolts. In an instant, light changes to dark, the smile on your husband’s face turns to a concerned frown, the beautiful trees morph into dark, painted walls, and the warmth of the sun dulls into the chill of night. 

Your head hurts and your eyes feel strained as you blink them, Titus’s hands gripping hard at your arms as he shakes you awake. 

“Little Lamb? What are you doing?” He asks, voice filled to the brim with worry, eyes darting all around your body. 

Your mouth drops open and you shiver, vision adjusting to the dark as your head shakes. You look down at your bare feet, your completely clean white nightgown. “I-I don’t...where am I?” 

“You’re downstairs, my love, almost out the back door,” Titus says slowly, looking over his shoulder at the grand wood door that leads to the back garden. 

“H-How did I get here?” You ask, voice shaking as you begin to hyperventilate.  

“You were sleepwalking,” Titus concludes. He doesn’t miss the stress and worry on your face, and pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping tight around you as you press your face into his warmth. “You’ve never done that before, have you?” 

“I-I don’t think so...” you whisper, eyes wide as you look at the back door. Something inside tells you that your real destination lies far beyond it. “I was dreaming that I was following you into the woods.” 

“Like your nightmare?” 

“No...no it wasn’t like that at all,” you say, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “It was day time, and you were laughing, and nothing bad happened, but you were leading me somewhere...I think.” 

You watch as his face twists through confusion and worry, studying your face and your words. He’s never encountered anything like this, not from you anyway. Maybe mother experienced something like it when she was pregnant with him and Ursula? Did she ever tell him a story like this? Did Ursula? He can’t think of anything. He can’t remember reading anything about it either, not in any book about any ritual or family member. 

“M-maybe...maybe because we’re far from home. We’re in a sacred place for the family and Mr. Le Bail...” his voice trails off. Why would Mr. Le Bail try to trick you into going anywhere with Titus, especially when you carry the heirs to the High Seat? 

“Yeah...maybe...” you say, though you sound just as unsure. “It wasn’t a bad dream. I-It must be some weird side effect or something.” 

“Right,” Titus sighs. Neither of you are confident in your conclusions. But he kisses your cheek and scoops you up into his arms to carry you back up the stairs, your own wrap around his neck tightly. “Let’s just get back to bed, Little Lamb. I’ll lock the door in case it happens again.” 

“Okay,” you respond, voice small, as you keep your eyes on that back door the whole trip up the stairs. 

Titus tucks you back in bed, arms tighter around you this time. He stays awake to listen to your breaths even out until he knows you’re back asleep, and then he remains awake for the rest of the night. 

+ 

Mere meters into the woods, far enough that she won’t be seen from the home or security, but not so far that she cannot cast her control, Priscilla huffs out her frustration through gritted teeth. 

The white smoke of the totem she lit fades away, as the time limit for the hex runs out. You were so close to the door. She almost had you.  

Her jaw clicks as she throws the totem to the ground and stomps it under her foot, before burying it under a large stone. 

She knows there are no protections over the home, but Titus being able to wake you from the Hex Sleep was an unforeseen obstacle. He must really love you after all. 

No matter, she thinks to herself, I’ll just have to try a stronger spell next time. 

+ 

After another nervous and quiet morning breakfast, Titus and you try to shake out of the looming dark thoughts from your sleep walking by taking the horses out. 

The Danforth’s have a long history of breeding horses in England, and have even worked with the former Queen on creating prize winning racers. There is a branch of cousins who specialize in it, and spend the most time at this family home out of the year to take care of the horses, but of course a few are especially raised for Titus and Ursula to ride. 

The twins’ horses are, naturally, two twin black stallions, with white hair on their ankles and tails, named Azazel and Nyx. The only difference between them is the little white star shaped spot in the middle of Azazel’s forehead, which is why Titus had chosen him. 

Now, Azazel comes with a mate. For some time, the trainers say about a year, he has refused to breed with any other horse but a beautiful grey and red mare named Lilith. 

And Lilith took to you so quickly. 

You’d taken one look into her eyes and you could have sworn there was understanding looking back. She’d let you pet a hand down her hair without any hesitation, and when you climbed onto her saddle, she stood extra still to give you no trouble. 

“Do they have any foals yet?” You ask the trainer on hand. 

“Not yet, but she’s in month eight right now, so you’ll both have to treat each other gently.” 

You give Titus a bright smile as he mounts Azazel, and leans over to give your cheek a kiss. At the same time, you watch as the horses lean their own faces towards each other, nuzzling at each other’s necks. 

“They’re precious,” you coo, patting Lilith’s side. 

“She’s perfect for you,” Titus says. “When the babies are here, we’ll come back so you can really ride her around the land. I hear she’s a real spitfire.” 

“Is that horse trainer code for pain in the ass?” You ask with a smirk. 

Titus winks, then snaps his reins to direct his horse out of the stable. He keeps the pace slow as he leads you and Lilith through the forest path, until you hit a clearing to a long field over some hills. It’s a bright day, warm but not too hot, clouds covering most of the sun, and the grounds look extra green. Titus’s silver hair shines as the sun reflects in it, and you can’t stop thinking about how beautiful he truly is. 

You two ride all the way into the small town, where Titus pays for you to have full privacy in a little pub for lunch. It’s dark and old and the food is amazing, and the owners leave you two in a corner to your own devices until you decide you’re ready to go. 

This happens all the time, Titus and you renting out an entire space for just the two of you, part of the perks of being the richest and most powerful family. The magazines and tabloids have tried to follow you, tried to get some sort of scoop on the most elusive Blue Blooded, Old Money family in America, but Titus buys his way into full privacy. 

Times like now it feels more romantic and overprotective. 

You ride the horses back the same way, as the sun begins to set in the sky, turning everything orange and pink and picturesque. Any worries you have about ex-girlfriends and sleepwalking completely leave your minds. 

Before dinner, you video chat with Penelope, who has been going a little overboard with buying baby presents. She shows you every single designer outfit she’s already collected, from newborn to toddler. 

That night when it’s finally time to sleep, Titus locks the door again, and holds you tight again, but he falls asleep a few hours later when it’s clear you won’t be trying to go anywhere again. 

The sleepwalking doesn’t come back for the next couple days, actually. And Titus accepts that maybe it was just a weird one-time thing. He has the security around the estate reduced so your privacy can return...mostly so he can go back to fucking you by the pool or in the woods without having to worry about the security agents as an unwanted audience. 

+ 

The trip goes by without any other weird incidences for you.  

A doctor comes by to check in before your weekend excursion to London, and everything with the babies is perfectly healthy. Titus makes him do extra tests on you, but everything appears to be normal, so his anxieties finally settle. 

The flat in London is just as beautiful as the country home, if less private, but you imagine none of the neighbors are going to argue with Titus Danforth of all people over his wife being too loud in the throws of wild sex at midnight. 

He takes you to designers’ show rooms during the day, and you buy a whole wardrobe for the babies, as well as maternity clothes for yourself. You even make Titus pick out things for himself, and he’s so adorably annoyed when it’s you who treats him like a doll to dress up for once. 

But secretly you know he loves to be doted on. He loves that he has your attention constantly, loves when you go to fix his hair or his suit jacket, in ways that when Ursula used to do it made him feel like a child, from you it makes him feel loved. From you it’s not about having to put on a show or not embarrass the family, but rather because you want him to look his best for you.  

The same way you love to look your best for him. The same way you love to sneak into a high-end lingerie store while he’s finalizing a new car purchase, just so you can pick out some sets to show off to him later that night. 

And oh boy, he loves the surprise from you after your shower, when you come into the bedroom in nothing but a silk robe, which is promptly dropped to the floor to reveal a gorgeous red lacy set. Titus’s mouth waters at the sight of heart-shaped cut outs around your breasts, and a matching heart over your already dripping pussy. 

His heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest when you climb onto his lap, rounded tummy pressed to his, and you push him down roughly on his back. 

Your voice is low and sultry when you start to whisper about how protective he is, how safe he makes you feel, how he takes such good care of you, and you bite the shell of his ear. Your hand reaches between your bodies to rub at his bulge, and he moans as he kisses your neck, grabs your jaw to keep you still to look right into your eyes. But you slap his hand away before slapping his cheek, and you grab his jaw instead. 

Your fingers carefully free his cock from his boxers, as your wet tongue licks up the side of his face, and you moan in his ear, “Lay back, Daddy.” 

A full body shiver climbs through Titus as he moans and his eyes roll back, cock twitching fully to life in your hand. He does what he’s told, laying back on the bed, eyes still intensely on yours the whole time. Your start to inch of his body, and his eyes widen with sheer excitement as he realizes your destination. 

“Fuck, yeah baby, gonna sit on my face?” Titus says, hands flying up to your thighs. He licks his lips, tilting his chin. “C’mon, Little Lamb, use me.” 

You whimper at the first feeling of his tongue on you, at the hungry groan your husband lets out as you ride his face.  

By the time you’ve come twice on him, and Titus is able to take back control to bring your cunt down on his cock instead, you’re pretty sure the neighbors had to have put noise canceling headphones on. There’s no way they’d be able to sleep through all the cries of pleasure he brings out of you. 

+ 

Getting back from London, in a different car than what you’d left in, feels like coming back home for you. Already your mind and body have adapted to ownership of places you’re barely familiar with that hold the name of your husband’s family.  

It’s nice coming back to the quiet, and for the next week, things continue on peacefully. Titus teaches you how to use every old weapon in the family’s arsenal, you take the horses out a few more times, you spend peaceful afternoons around the pool to escape the hot sun, and you indulge on everything you could possibly want from food to jewels to insatiable sex with your incredibly hot husband. 

It’s just the break from everything you’d needed. Back home, you’re still working with Ursula, still tending to Violet’s garden, still keeping up with responsibilities. But here on this quiet hideaway, Titus treats you like the princess he always refers to you as. 

The fact that the staff of this house are good about actually leaving you two alone, and there is no chance of interruption from Ursula has been incredibly freeing for both of you. 

Back at home, Titus never lets you skinny dip. His whole hang up about people seeing his wife’s naked body gets in the way. 

But here...there really are no prying eyes, so he doesn’t put up a fight when you throw your bikini top at him. He’s trying to read the paper poolside, and it gets completely ruined by your wet suit. Titus isn’t exactly mad though, when he sees your tits, already growing from the babies, wet and welcoming, nipples peaked, as you wade towards him in the water. 

“Come on, Ti, get in here with me,” you call with a pout. “It’s too hot to stay out there all by yourself.” 

He looks like a giddy teenager as he tosses his paper aside and climbs down into the water with a toothy smile. “Aww, my baby, you don’t have to beg.” 

You watch him closely as he climbs in, sun shining on his freckled body. You bite your lip and you feel a warm tightening between your legs, as your eyes follow a line of scars down Titus’s torso. He’s so...thick. Everywhere. All that muscle. You’ve seen his body a million times by now, but something about having him in the sunlight just accentuates every piece of it.  

His body is strong, hard, a wall of warmth when he’s got you under him, or up against a wall, or a tree...wherever he can get you. His body is littered with grey scars from hunts and fights over the years, and fresher ones from you, especially your nails and teeth. His body is...decorated with sprinklings of grey hairs, but that’s the only indication of his age, with the way he takes care of himself he manages to have the body of a much younger man. 

You float up on your back and swim backwards away from him, and Titus follows you through the cooling water, all the way until he has you backed into a corner. The water splashes around you when he grabs you hard by the hips and pulls you into him, and you giggle into the kiss he lays on you. 

Your hands reach between your bodies and under the water, where you make quick work of undoing the tie on his swim trunks, swallowing the vibrations of his moan into your mouth. 

“So fuckin’ needy, Little Lamb,” Titus chuckles, lips tracing down from your mouth to your neck.  

“We gotta enjoy it while we can,” you whine, tossing his trunks out of the pool. You feel his cock under the water, already half hard, and you wrap your hand around him, giving it a few tugs. “You just look so good, want you all the time, Daddy.” 

“You got me whenever you want, Baby,” Titus groans, tongue licking into your mouth as his hips buck into your hand.  

He reaches down and rips your bottoms off, letting them float away as he hoists you onto his lap. Your legs wrap around him as your kiss deepens. Titus’s fingers dip between your folds, and you whimper as he starts to rub circles on your clit. Titus wraps an arm around your back, using it to cushion your body against the side of the pool, as your hips start to roll down against his fingers. 

You pull back from the kiss with a gasp, mouth dropped open as stuttered breaths escape your lips. You look into Titus’s eyes, met with his usual determined hunger, the look at sends excited shivers surging up your spine. Water circles around you from the movement of Titus’s arm, and your eyes fall to the rippling muscle of his bicep, before rolling back in your head. 

“Ti, oh god, Titus I’m—” you gasp, heat pooling in your belly. 

“Yeah, yeah, Baby, come on,” Titus goads you on, leaning down to bite at your neck, heat of his body encasing you. 

Your legs shake and your hips buck as white sears your vision and you cry out his name, splashing water around as you come on his fingers. “Titus! Fuck, oh god, thank you, oh fuck—" pleasure ripples through you, but you’re not done yet, your legs tighten around Titus’s waist. “Fuck me, fuck me, please, Titus!” 

“Fuck, gonna fuck you hard, Baby, don’t know how long I’m gonna last,” Titus grunts, jerking his cock under the water, rubbing the tip up and down your folds. 

“Don’t care, want you inside me now,” you plead, eyes opening wide, wet at the corners with tears. “Just fuck me, Daddy.” 

“Christ,” Titus swears, shoving his cock in you in one go, before grabbing onto the edge of the pool for leverage. “Definitely not gonna last, so fuckin’ tight, baby, so perfect for me, always.” 

Water splashes all around you and out of the pool as Titus fucks you, no thought and all haste. Neither of you are interested in this moment in dragging this out, lost in the spontaneity and heat of the afternoon. No matter how long, every time you and Titus fuck it reassures and reinstates the love and connection between you. It’s spiritual, and beautiful, and fills your heart with pure love. 

You can’t stop the rambling of Titus’s name over and over through your whines and whimpers, which grow louder and louder with each thrust of Titus’s hips. He moves fast but deep, fucking into you hard, cock kissing your cervix. He lifts you more against the side of the pool, just enough to get his mouth on your tits, and he whines from somewhere deep in his throat as his lips wrap around one of your nipples.  

Your head is thrown back and you wrap and hand into his damp hair, breathy moans escaping your lips as he fucks you. The sunlight glistens on your wet skin, birds fly overhead, but the only thing you can feel is your husband all over you. 

And you feel so free. 

You’re distracted enough, isolated enough, that neither you nor Titus notice the pair of dark, rageful eyes staring at you from beyond the trees. 

She’s getting sick of catching you two like this. Her stomach is in envious knots at the sight of his hands on you, his lips and tongue leaving marks on your body, your cries of pleasure from his touch. If there was one thing she could always count on with Titus Danforth, it was to be the best fuck of her life. 

The fact that she’s been out here long enough to watch this little tryst from the start, from the moment your slutty, pathetic, attention seeking, gold digging hands threw your top at him, to now as you scream like some overzealous porn star, only tells Priscilla one thing; 

Titus sent away the security, and you two are finally vulnerable enough.  

Enjoy that sense of security while you can, she thinks with a terrible smirk on her face, as she slips into the darkness of the forest. 

+ 

The moon is full, big and orange in the sky. The stars twinkle around it like little fairy lights. There’s barely a cloud in sight. 

You and Titus are sleeping soundly in bed after a romantic, candlelit dinner and then about an hour of fucking on the dining table and the floor and the stairs on your way back up. 

You only have two more days on this babymoon before it’s time to go home, and Titus doesn’t plan on wasting any second of them. As soon as you’re home it’s back to working and running the world, and Ursula pushing her way into baby prep, and you won’t be only his anymore.  

These couple weeks of just the two of you have been paradise. 

The door to the bedroom has been unlocked for the last couple nights. Titus believed the sleepwalking really wasn’t going to happen again. There was no reason for it to happen in the first place. 

You have been sleeping soundly, especially tonight, tiny breaths on Titus’s neck lulling him into his own peaceful slumber.  

In your dreams, you’re tending to the garden at home, watering the flowers and digging up weeds, rearranging the pots in the greenhouse so your carnivorous babies can get equal sunlight. You’re wearing a red sundress, that rides up to the top of your thighs, and gives a peek of your cheeks when you bend down or reach up high.  

There’s a cool breeze around you as you carry supplies from one end of the garden to the other, and you smile as you spot Titus waiting for you up ahead. 

“Going to actually help me, or just enjoy the view?” You playfully ask. 

Titus answers with a smirk, but there’s something...uncanny in his smile. From far away, it almost looks too wide, too toothy, and you can’t see his eyes behind the shades on his face, but you can tell that the smile isn’t reaching them from the lack of crinkles. 

“How about you take a break a join me over here? Got a surprise for you, Little Lamb.” 

You’re pretty sure you answer verbally but your mouth feels like it’s full of marbles, and the words come out in a gurgle. The smile on Titus’s face doesn’t fade at all, hands reaching out to beckon you to him. 

“Come on, my Baby, this way.”  

Your feet carry you before your mind catches up to the action, and before you know it, you’re placing your hands in his. With a gentle tug, Titus guides you down the path and into the woods. You try to pull him closer, to take his sunglasses off and look in his eyes, to kiss him, but he moves like smoke wisping out of your grasp. 

“Where are we going?” Your voice comes back again, but it sounds distant even from your own lips. 

“Somewhere special,” is his only response, voice warped.  

It causes your smile to fall just slightly, and you hesitate before stepping into the woods. There’s a darkness just beyond the first line of greenery, shadows fading to black nothingness, and all your movement stops. 

Your head starts to hurt, and your neck twitches, as a buzz starts to form in your ears. “W-wait.” 

“Come on, no need to be afraid, Little Lamb. You don’t ever need to be afraid again.” 

His voice is syrupy, low and gravely like usual, but something is just off about it. You try to back up, the tiniest bit of motion away from him, but he yanks you forward.  

With a gasp, you shove Titus away, and you stumble back as he disappears into the darkness of the trees. “N-no, this isn’t right. Y-you're not—” 

“Not what?” Titus’s voice appears right in your ear, breath hot on your skin and it sends a shiver up your spine. You feel hands wrap around your waist, strong, tight, but still wrong in some way. Where Titus normally grabs you tight to connect to you, to make you feel him and his weight, these hands are trapping you, caging you. “It’s alright, Little Lamb, I’m right here.” 

But something in the way his voice warps sets off all alarms in your brain, and you turn with a fist raised, but as you take a swing your hand meets nothing but air. Your feet catch on the ground and you trip in your effort to run away, landing hard on the ground. 

The impact jolts you, and suddenly you’re surrounded by darkness and cold. The light daytime breeze replaced by the wind chill of night, owls hooting and crickets chirping in the sky. 

Your home garden path is replaced by the forest path Titus had led you down the other day, the one that leads to the place his ancestor first met Mr. Le Bail. Your eyes adjust to the lack of light as your chest heaves, breaths coming out hard, sweat forming on your brow in your panic.  

“Wh-what the fuck?” you gasp, head darting around in every direction to try to figure out how you got here. 

It must be the sleepwalking. 

But the doctor said it wouldn’t come up again...Titus said you hadn’t even tried to leave the bed since that night. 

Titus had left the door unlocked. 

You look down at your body, white nightgown glowing under the moonlight, feet bare and already a little cut up from rocks and sticks that you’d stepped on during your journey. Your hand instinctively flies to your stomach at the sound of a twig snapping behind you, and you whip your head around in its direction. 

“Who’s there? What the fuck is going on?” You shout, voice cracking frantically, disoriented. 

Another crack echoes from your side, and you turn to it, breathing deep to stop yourself from hyperventilating. Then another from the right, from behind you, all around, and you turn to each of them, twisting your body around, biting your lip to keep in any panicked sound you might make, heart racing so fast you think it might burst right from your chest. 

“Show yourself!” You scream into the void of trees.  

Everything goes silent for a few moments, until the sudden sound of cold, hollow laughter emerges from behind you. 

You feel the blood drain from your face as a sick knot twists from your stomach and painfully up through your throat. You know that laughter. 

“Good god, little girl, enough of the fuss,” Priscilla’s icy, reedy voice says through her laughter. 

You quickly turn around, backing up as you swallow that knot and replace any hint of fear with anger. “You have got to be kidding me. You’re not supposed to be here!” 

She’s wearing a white gown similar to yours, her long black hair slightly disheveled, black rings under her eyes. There is just the slightest hint of scarring on her cheek from your last encounter. Her smile is crooked and wild, the loss of her sanity shining through it. 

“Hmm, no?” Priscilla mocks. “Why? Because the servants who have loyally worked for my family for decades said I wasn’t? Because they showed your idiotic security an empty house? I mean, they certainly showed them most of the house, but these old mansions have so many hidden passageways, it’s very easy to get confused and miss things.” 

You suck in a breath, eyes widening just slightly. When you get back to Titus, you’ll have to tell him to add that head of security to the list of future sacrifices.  

“Doesn’t matter, I was being nice before when I fucked up just your face last time,” you spit, fist clenching at your side. “Come any closer and I’ll make good on my promise to fucking kill you, I swear—" 

A flicker of light at Priscilla’s side catches your eye, derailing your train of thought. Her smile only widens, sharp teeth glowing pearly white, as she lifts a long knife with a bejeweled handle up.  

In an instant, Priscilla catches up to you, pressing the sharp point of the blade into your chest. “Did you think I’d lure you out here without being prepared for you? You’re a fucking savage monster who caught me off guard last time, but you’re not the only one who can fight.” 

“L-lure me?”  

Priscilla laughs again, loud and maniacal, shooting dread up your spine. 

“Darling, you live in a world of Satan worshipping and rituals, and you never considered other dark magic might be out there? Sleepwalking hexes are so easy to put together.” 

She twists the knife as she steps closer, not pressing hard enough to break your skin, but it doesn’t stop the bile from forming in your throat. You know the Danforth’s have all kinds of ritual books and grimoires in their collections, and you curse yourself for not looking further into them before.  

She’s got you cornered, but you’ll be further damned if you let Priscilla sense your fear.  

“Doesn’t matter, Titus will notice I’m gone any minute, and he’ll—” 

“Come save you?” Priscilla says, cutting you off. She grabs you by the shoulder, dipping the knife down to your stomach as her boney hand digs into your skin. The knife is pressed right to the middle of your bump, and you flash back to that nightmare, to Priscilla plunging it into your womb, and you freeze. “That’s what I’m counting on, little girl.” 

+ 

The sudden sound of his phone ringing lurches Titus out of his slumber and the very first thing he notices is that you are missing. 

His arm reaches out to your side of the bed, frantically feeling around but coming up with nothing, and his body sits upright in an instant. 

He shakes himself out of his confusion, rubbing sleep from his eyes as his phone continues to ring from the bedside table. 

Unknown number. 

“Hello?” Titus grumbles, voice raw from waking up. 

“Ti?” 

“Baby?” All feelings of sleep drain completely from him, and the hot, liquid feeling of dread seeping up his throat replaces it. “Baby, what’s going on? Where are you?” 

“I-I’m at the place... Le Bail’s clearing.” 

He’s already on his feet, throwing on his sweatpants and white undershirt, “What are you doing out there, sweet girl?” 

His voice is far too gentle, far too even, but the hair standing up on the back of his neck, and the bumps overtaking his body tell him something is deeply, terribly wrong, and he has to remain calm. 

Titus rushes to the duffle bag he’s kept on the other end of the room, one hand pressing the phone to his ear, while the other rummages through. He grabs his gun, shoving it in the back of his pants, and a long, serrated hunting knife. 

“S-sleepwalking again—”  

“Fuck’s sake, you’re taking forever! Tell him to get his sorry ass out here!” 

Titus freezes, face going pale. He’d know that frigid voice anywhere, been on the receiving end of that ire many times. “Is that?” 

“Yes,” you cut off quickly, a shake in your voice.  

He swallows. She must be threatening you for you to sound so scared. His girl doesn’t scare easy, not at all actually. “Did she hurt you? The babies?” 

“We’re okay for now. But you need to meet us here—" 

“Fucking hell, give me that,” there’s a rustling on the other end of the phone, and Titus winces when he hears the sound of something thudding against skin, and your soft groan of pain. “Titus, Darling, we need to talk, now, or I’m going to carve your little bastard spawn from your whore’s belly and feed them all to the wolves.” 

“Priscilla if you lay a hand on her—" 

“Already have, idiot. Her pretty face just took a nice hit, not nearly close to what the little monster did to me, of course.” 

“Priscilla, I swear on all the fires of hell, if anything else happens to her, I’m going to make you regret it.” 

“Promise?” She mocks. “Don’t take too long, I’ve got a newly sharpened blade just begging to rip into Mrs. Danforth’s skin. Ta ta!” 

Titus yells through the clicking of the phone. He grips the knife tight in his hand as he darts down the stairs, not bothering with socks or shoes.  

His heart pounds as he runs into the dark of the night, the black void of the trees. He hasn’t felt this helpless since the night of your hunt, when he desperately chased after your path of carnage throughout the resort grounds. Just like then, all his thoughts are consumed by his need to get to you, to protect you. 

+ 

Your hand cradles your cheek, a slight bruise already forming from where Priscilla had punched you when she snatched the phone. You still look at her with a dark scowl. “He’s not coming unarmed, you know.” 

Priscilla clicks her tongue and traces the knife up and down your belly. “I don’t care. I’ve got the advantage no matter what, little girl,” she says as she slinks around your body, keeping the blade pressed against you. Her cold hand wraps around the back of your neck, as she secures her position behind you, and she yanks your neck back. “Just feel lucky I’d rather he watch while I gut you, or you and those things growing inside you would already be food for rats.” 

Your breath hitches, but it’s not panic that runs through your veins. No, the adrenaline of a fight is surging through you, fusing with your blood cells as your mind races for a way out of her grip. You’re not some helpless thing, and you will not let this pathetic hag outsmart you.  

If it weren’t for the babies, you’d already be risking a piece of your body against her blade. It wouldn’t be the first time you endured the highest pain, and you doubt she’d be anywhere worse than the Le Domas’s. But your hand stays firmly on your belly, where you can feel the softest fluttering under your skin. 

You take in a deep breath, anything to keep your heartbeat even, so they don’t feel the danger you’ve walked them into. You can only hope Titus gets here soon to give Priscilla a good distraction. 

+ 

Titus’s heart is racing, hot and big, thumping so hard in his chest it feels like it’s going to burst right out. His feet sting from the cuts he gets running over rocks and sticks, but he stamps down the feeling, not allowing himself to register it. The only pain that matters is the sting in his heart, the sick bile that burns his throat, as he runs to you. 

His vision is in a tunnel, zeroed in on the path he’s walked hundreds of times in his life, the one that goes to where all of this began for his family. The place that used to bring him so much proud and truly connect him to his family’s power, now feels like a distant grave, haunting and heavy as he gets closer. 

A beam of light shines down from where it reflects off the moon, and just ahead Titus can see the clearing, like a twisted version of his recurring childhood dream. Your laughter isn’t waiting for him beyond the trees, just dead silence. 

He slows down his steps and raises his gun, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. He takes smooth, methodical steps as he approaches, readying himself for anything he could find. 

The first thing he sees is you, beautiful in your white gown under the moonlight, fingers tapping your tummy, almost angelic in the way you glow. The light catches through the fabric, and he can see your bare body underneath, wishing more than anything this was just a romantic moment for the two of you. But there is a fire in your eyes, a caged smolder as your lip is bitten between your teeth, face scrunched in anger and frustration.  

You’re holding back, Titus knows, because his girl would never back down from a fight so easily. 

Priscilla is behind you, hand around your neck and knife firmly pressed to your stomach, using your body as a human shield. Titus swallows a lump as the two of you make eye contact, your brows raising just slightly in relief that he’s here. 

“Oh, Titus, so nice of you to join us,” Priscilla says, licking her lips. “I was beginning to think you finally came to your senses and realized the little thing was too much trouble.” 

You scoff. “You haven’t begun to see trouble—" 

“Shut it!” Priscilla hisses, squeezing down on your neck. “You stupid—" 

“Hey!” Titus barks, clicking the safety off his gun. “Enough! Priscilla you’ve gone too fucking far, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

Something in her face cracks, every muscle twitching at once, and Titus has never seen her like this. She’s completely deranged, gone completely mad, and when she speaks it's with an uneasy whine. “I’m taking what should be mine! You were supposed to be mine!” 

Titus keeps his gun up, and his eyes quickly dart to you as you both share a look of understanding. There isn’t going to be any reasoning with her. Your body starts to buzz, the need inside to tear apart begins to wake up, that gnawing voice in your mind that wants to kill starts to sing. But the knife is still at your belly, and even though you can’t actually read his mind, you know Titus wants you to wait until he can open an opportunity for you to attack. 

“You’re doing all this for my attention? To get me back?” Titus asks, voice softer than he’d ever thought possible. At least, he’s never spoken this softly for anyone but you. 

“Yes,” she whines again, nails digging into your throat, but she’s not blocking your airway. “I-I’m sorry, Titus, I should have never let you go. Nobody is more perfect for me than you, and I was made for you. I always did everything you wanted, Ti, you remember? The amount of times I let you mutilate and defile my body, and I always wanted more, always gave in to your appetites.” 

You watch as your husband’s jaw clicks, and your lips quiver into a frown. You know those appetites well, you’ve fed into them so many times, and craved them for your own body. You know he’d certainly tried to unleash his most sadistic fantasies completely on her, but he’d told you he could tell she wasn’t as into it. Not the way you are, his perfect, sick match. 

“I can do all of that again, whatever you want. You want to tie me up in the ropes? You want to hit me with a paddle until I bleed? Choke me?” her voice drops in a tone more desperately seductive with each suggestion. “I’ll pet your hair while you suck on my tits and call me mommy. Or I’ll let you fuck me in the ass and call you Daddy, whatever. I just want you back. I want that life back!” 

“And you thought this was the way?” Titus asks, doing his best to put on an air of pity to disguise the disgust he feels at her words. Sure, there was a time where her promising all of those things would have made him putty in her hands, but not anymore. Not when he has you. 

You wish you could laugh at how easily she’s falling for his act.  

“O-of course,” Priscilla sniffs, hands starting to shake. Her grip on you loosens subtly, and you know your chance to break away is coming soon. “I-I know you, Titus. I know your soul. I know what you need. You want someone who could be worthy of Mr. Le Bail? Someone who would do what needs to be done? That was always me.” 

“Cill,” Titus coos, taking a step toward her. He pauses, then continues when she doesn’t try to back away this time. He looks to you for a moment, a pain flashing in his eyes at what he has to do, and your chest burns seeing him be gentle with someone else, especially her. “I know that. I know all of that.” 

Priscilla gasps, lip wobbling as she pouts, “Th-then why...why are you bothering with her?” 

Titus clicks his tongue, stepping into both your spaces. The hand that’s not on his gun subtly brushes your stomach, a movement so small Priscilla doesn’t catch it. She stands up straighter, looking up at Titus with wide eyes as he stands right in front of you. 

“You know how I like to play my games, Cill,” Titus says. “Are you going to tell me you really forgot how I love to torture the mind just as much as the body? Look at you, look at how badly you want me, what lows you’ve stooped to, to get me.” 

His face is so close, but his attention is all on her behind you, as he raises his gun and holds the barrel of it right to your head. A tear runs down her cheek as she sobs, “You’re so cruel to let it go on this long.” 

“I know, Sweetheart, but it’s time to finish this, don‘t you think?” Titus whispers, and for just a split second, you can see a flash of revulsion in his eyes, before he dips his face down and presses a kiss to her lips.  

She finally drops her hold on your neck. 

At the same time, he carefully brings your hand to his pocket, where you feel the hard metal handle of his knife. That’s your signal. 

You scream as you swing at her, and Titus drops his gun to back away with his hands up, smirking as he watches you nail her right in the face. Priscilla cries out in pain and lifts her knife to try to cut you in any way that she can, but you manage to dodge it in time, kicking the knife from her hand.  

The force of it knocks her further to the ground, and you jam the heel of your foot onto her hand for good measure, crushing the bones with a delicious crunch. 

“Ahh! You fucking bitch!” Priscilla screams in agony, broken hand clutched close to her chest.  

She tries to go for the knife again, but you kick it away from her, turning to grab Titus’s from his pocket instead. She tries to get up in the one moment you take your eyes off her, but you’re back in time to hit the hilt of the knife onto her forehead, jamming it onto her skull several times while she falls to the ground, moaning and crying. 

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You spit down at her, grabbing her by the shoulders to yank her body off the ground.  

“I deserve the life you’re living! I put all that fucking time in! You just walk in some broke, no-name, no-life, pathetic loser orphan, and think you get to be handed it?” Priscilla cries, the tears mixing with blood as they trail down her cheeks, and a huge gash oozes from her forehead. “Titus, baby, please, look at what she’s doing. She’s a fucking animal. You can’t bring children into the world with someone like—" 

“SHUT UP!” You scream at her, punching her in the face, breaking her nose. The metallic smell of the blood has you licking your lips. “Do you know what I’ve done to earn my place? How many people I’ve killed?” 

She tries to look behind you, to plead with Titus again, but he only stares hungrily at you. She knows that look, the ravenous, desperate starvation he would get when he had her tied up and seconds away from defiling her body in ways she’d only let someone of Titus Danforth’s status perform. 

The things she let him do, only to lose out on all the power in the world to you. 

And now he looks at you like that, the hunger coming from anticipation of violent acts you’re going to perform.  

Still, she tries. “Titus!” 

Desperation drips from her cries, but when he finally looks at her again, it’s with an emptiness of feeling. His eyes are indifferent to her, like she’s some object in the way of his goal. Like she’s a rotten fruit he has to waste time throwing in the trash. He wipes the taste of her from his lips with the back of his hand. 

You’re tired of her looking at him like she has any entitlement to his soul. You own that soul, signed in blood. 

You grab her by the jaw and force her to look at you, nails digging into her skin until it breaks, and the blood stains under your nails. “I told you, if you ever tried to destroy my family again, I would fucking kill you.” 

Her eyes go wide, and she opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, as if there were any more arguments she could make that would actually convince you to spare her life. 

All the wind is knocked out of her when you plunge Titus’s knife into her chest. A bright splatter of red flies through the air as you rip it from her, and her mouth drops open in a shocked, silent scream. 

Time freezes, for just a moment. You stare into her terrified eyes, your heart beating so loud it’s the only sound in your ears, and you feel your body fill with a sick sense of strength. That fiery need to act, to attack until your limbs give out takes over. You felt it the first time you’d smashed Mrs. Le Domas’s head in with that stupid game box. 

Senses flood back into real time, and you enter a trance as you raise the knife and lower it into her again. 

You stab her over and over, eyes never leaving hers, blood flying all over your white nightgown, your face. You can feel the muscles of your cheeks twist and contort into a smile, and you hear yourself start to laugh, as the light fades from Priscilla. 

Her body falls to the ground, lifeless and pale from loss of blood, the sound it makes it heavy as it lands. There’s probably about a hundred stab wounds from her chest to her lower belly, and this time you didn’t black out. You felt and saw every single one of them.  

Behind you, Titus is absolutely rocked. His mouth is dropped open from heaving breaths, eyes blacked out, hands sweaty and twitching from the need to touch, to grab.  

His eyes trail down from you to Priscilla’s body. Her eyes are blank, mouth opened in a scream, but completely baren. Her soul has already been ripped to hell, and he wonders if Mr. Le Bail smiled when he took it. 

Titus remembers a moment they had very early in their...entanglement. He wasn’t sure at the time what they were, nor what he truly wanted from her, and he’d asked if she could love someone like him. 

Priscilla had laughed. 

“People like us don’t have any use for love.” 

That was when he’d cut off any chance of trying to feel something for her. Their time became transactional almost, because she was one of the very few who could scratch an itch with him and come back for more. He knew why she would, he knew it was because she thought one day she’d sit next to him at the top of the world. 

How wrong she was. 

He looks back at you, the woman who loves him. The woman who is bringing his children into the world. 

The woman who gives it to him just as good as he gives it to her. 

Yes, Titus has great use for love. 

You’re covered in blood, drenched in it so much that most of your white gown is stained pink. And you’re fuming, chest rising and falling quickly with deep, loud breaths, eyes looking wide and angry and wild. 

Without a second thought, Titus practically floats over to you, caught in your trance as he takes you in his arms and kisses you. 

You drop the knife and wrap yourself around him, whining into the kiss, eyes closed desperately tight. Priscilla’s blood coats Titus’s skin as you run your hands all around him, clawing your way to ripping his shirt off, so you can scratch down his chest.  

He tastes that same blood on your lips in your kiss, and he resists the urge to lick up your face, clean you with his tongue. His lips trace down your neck, biting and moaning, reclaiming your skin, as you push your body flush up against his warmth, as though you could fuse to him. His cock is hard against your tummy and it sends an aroused thrill right to your core. 

“Oh, my terrible little Lamb, my baby,” Titus whimpers pitifully, as he yanks down the straps of your nightgown, freeing your blood covered breasts. Your nipples are peaked from the cold air, and he looks at you with wide eyes, mouth dropped open and drooling from his need to latch onto them. “Such a fucking monster, so strong and so fucking sexy. Need you so bad, wanna fuck you hard.” 

He tears down the dress the rest of the way, and it pools at your feet to reveal the rest of your naked body into the moonlight. Titus licks his lips at the sight of the glistening between your legs, the act of the kill has you dripping.  

Before he can get his mouth where he really wants it, you grab onto his jaw hard, enough that your fingernails leave crescent shaped indents in his freckled skin. You force his face back, make him look at you, and he yields his control as you slap him on the cheek, the crack echoes loud through the night. 

“You want to fuck me, Daddy?” You sneer at him meanly, grabbing his face again.  

He nods his head and whimpers again, dick twitching in his pants. “Yes, baby, want to so bad.” 

“Show me,” you say, voice low, seductive, pulling him closer to you. Your hands snakes around to the back of his neck, and you bring him in for another violent, biting kiss. It’s messy and wet and you don’t know who’s more desperately needy in their moans, but Titus dips his tongue into your mouth and you suck the mixture of blood from it willingly. Your grip moves to his shoulders and you push him back with both hands, eyes blown dark and wild. “Get on your knees.” 

Titus smiles wide, white teeth shining like blood covered fangs as he drops to the ground, arms out and ready for your instruction. You think about the things Priscilla had offered to him, the ways she’d let him use her. All you think about is how you’ve done each of those, not just for his pleasure to appease him, but because they are all things that make you feel worshipped. 

That’s all you want right now, a reminder that he is obsessed with you above all else, even the devil himself. 

“I hated seeing you kiss her,” you say, pouting as your hand grazes down his cheek. “I know you had to, but you need to show me how you love me. Show me how you worship me.” 

Titus already knows the way to show you, as he grabs you by the back of your legs and brings your body to him, kissing along the small swell of your belly. His fingers dip between your legs, and he moans at feeling of your slick seeping around his fingers. He takes a moment to rub the tips of those fingers along seam of your pussy, before dipping them between to slide into your entrance. 

You moan, high and sudden at the way the fill you, so thick, and your mouth drops open. He’s looking up at you, eyes sparkling from the stars in them, lips pressed to your belly, fucking you slowly.  

“I’ll worship you, my love,” Titus whispers, nuzzling his cheek to your skin. He lifts one of your thighs over his shoulder, and you grip into his silver curls for balance. “As long as I get to fuck you, but I already worship you for all time.” 

"Make me come on your tongue the way I like,” you whine, “and you can fuck me as hard as you wish, any way you want. Be good for me, Daddy.” 

And with a hungry grunt he’s on you. His fingers start to fuck into you hard and fast, curling up to that spot that drives you crazy, as his tongue dips between your lips to lick circles around your clit. 

His moans are ravenous and low, vibrating into your pussy as he eats like a man starved. Eyes closed and lost in it, drowning in your juices as he works little whines and mewls from your lips. He uses all his strength to hold you up, as your balance starts to falter, while your head falls back and you roll your hips into his mouth, chasing that growing feeling of pleasure that pools in your belly. 

“Fuck, oh fuck, that’s it Titus,” you moan, mouth dropped open, breath coming out in little catches. “Yeah, Daddy, just like that.” 

Your legs start to wobble and your moans quickly shift into high pitched whines, chest rising and falling. Your fingers press harder into his hair, keeping him against you as he alternates between sucking on your clit, and rubbing with his thumb so his tongue can dip inside your pussy to drink you up like nectar.  

His hand that grips your thigh is already leaving bruises, stained from Priscilla’s blood that covers both your bodies. He holds you tight to keep you up when there’s a turn in your breathing, and you let out a loud cry of his name into the night.  

“Fuck, fuck, just like that, good boy,” you moan, as your pussy clenches around his fingers, and gush down his hand. 

You quickly lose your balance, and collapse down onto his lap, legs on either side of him, where he easily catches you into another kiss. Your heart races, hands grabbing his cheeks, and you lick your slick from his mouth, the mixture with blood sweet on your tongue. 

Below, you can feel Titus’s cock hard, twitching and aching to be buried inside your tight cunt. He’s holding you so hard by the hips, subtly moving you back and forth on his lap as the two of you make out on the cold ground.  

“Baby, little lamb, so fucking good for me, all fucking mine,” he grunts into your mouth, voice cracking on almost every word from how desperate he’s grown. “Lemme fuck you, please.” 

“Yeah, Ti, were so good for me, fuck me like you want.” 

His muscles ripple as he quickly maneuvers you onto your back in the dirt, while he holds your wrists down with one hand. He doesn’t bother taking his pants off all the way, just shoves them down enough to get his cock out. 

You scream out as he guides himself into your warm cunt into one hard thrust, smiling as he starts to fuck you roughly, no frills. He throws one of your legs over his shoulder as the other wraps around his waist, thrusting his hips in and out of you at a brutal pace.  

He’s holding your wrists down above your head with both hands now, looking down at you with a dark, voracious intensity. “Look how deep you take me, Little Lamb. Pretty pussy just made to be ruined by me.” 

“Yeah, Daddy,” you moan, fingers clawing at the ground below where they’re trapped. Your back arches up to him, and you can feel where the nature has scratched you up. 

Titus lets out a long groan, eyes shutting as he tries to hold back from coming too soon, “Fuck, baby, c-can’t call me that, want this to last, shit. Doin’ so good for me.”  

You smirk, but you hold to his request, also not wanting the moment to end too soon. It’s been so long since you’ve really been able to unleash on each other, and even now you can feel him holding back for the sake of the babies.  

Still, the snarling and the growling and the moaning the mixes with the slap of his skin against you, the screams you release, and you know you must sound like animals. 

Titus finally lets go of your wrists and you tug him down into a kiss, tugging hard at his curls as your pussy clenches around him. His hands are everywhere now, painting even more of your body in blood and bruises, covering you in his touch, erasing any sense of someone else on your skin.  

"All mine, all fucking mine,” Titus repeats, whining frantically like he’s trying to remind himself more than you. He can’t shake the feeling of almost losing you again. His need to claim and to feel you, to keep you close and tangible, to make sure you both know that you’re still here, you’re always his. 

His head dips down to your chest and he bites at your tits, sucking on your pert nipples, moaning and whimpering around them, while you beg him to fuck you harder.  

“Say it, Little Lamb, say you’re mine,” Titus begs pathetically, sitting up to look at you. 

You whine at the loss of his heat, and you bite your lip as your eyes go wide, nails scratching hard down his chest. You cover the angry marks from earlier with fresh lines, and roll your hips down into him, pussy pulsing from need. 

Titus grabs you by the neck, stilling your movements in an instant as his own slow down. He fucks into you with slower, harder thrusts, cock hitting deep, and forcing the air from your lungs. “Tell me, Little Lamb. You already know I worship you. You know my soul is owned by you, nobody else, my sweet girl.” 

His hand squeezes down for a second, and your head goes a little hazy as you smile. You hope his handprint is able to stay till the morning.  

When he releases, you gasp for breath and choke, but your eyes are filled with a wild joy as you whimper, “’m all yours, Titus. My soul is yours, my body is yours, it’s all for you. Please, come inside me, fill this pussy, it’s all for you.” 

“Shit,” his eyes roll back and he goes back to his rough pace, body collapsing on yours again. He can feel it building, that ball of pleasure that starts in his heart and climbs down, and he kisses you through it. “That’s it, Little Lamb, that’s right. My girl, come for me, my good girl.” 

He brings a hand between your legs and rubs your clit, cock twitching inside you, body begging for release. 

An entire night’s worth of adrenaline hits you all at once, white hot pleasure sparks through every nerve ending, and you let out a scream of his name again, back arching up into him, so you can feel his entire being consume you all over.  

“Titus! Fuck!” your pussy clenches down hard, gushing around him as you come again.  

You’re alive, truly alive, no matter what anyone has tried to do to you, tonight or all the nights before, and you feel it all the most right now, with your husband’s cock deep inside.  

And Titus feels it too, biting down on your neck and crying, tears falling as his cock releases inside you. “Shit, baby, god you feel so fucking good.” 

Both of you shake through it, coming down slowly as pleasure runs through both of your veins, energy passing between each other. Titus’s hand wanders down from your breast to your stomach, where his fingers spread possessively on the bump. You both take in deep breaths, as your hand joins on top of his, thumb running circles on his skin.  

You kiss his cheek, drinking up the tears that fall. “Oh, my love, I’m still here.” 

“Could have lost you, I’m a fucking idiot,” Titus mumbles, voice shaking like he’s a second away from sobbing. “Don’t know what I’d do with out you in this world. Can hardly remember who I was before.” 

“I know,” you say, because you understand. Too often you have felt exactly the same. “But you haven’t lost me. You came for me, for us.” 

You press down on his hand to make your point, and you feel his gasp on your neck when your tummy flutters under his touch. His babies, all three of you, are right where they are meant to be, here with him. 

You lay together quietly for a few more minutes, your hands petting through his hair to calm him, his fingers tracing shapes on your tummy, until the bodily fluids that have covered both of you finally start to feel foul. Titus pulls out slowly, licking his lips at the sight of him leaking out of your cunt, one of his favorites to watch for as long as he can. 

But quickly you tell him to get you into a bath, and who is he to argue with you after all he’s put you through? 

He doesn’t bother to try to redress you, the dress will have to be burned anywhere, so he just stands up and scoops you up into his arms. He holds you like a new bride as you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss his cheek, before he begins to make the trek back through the woods toward the estate.  

For just a moment, you turn back, looking at the place where his family’s legacy began, and where yours could have ended. Well, if that bitch had been just a little smarter. 

Priscilla’s body lies cold, vacant eyes staring off into space in your direction, and you scrunch your nose in disgust at the sight of her.  

“What do we do with that?” You ask, tapping on Titus’s shoulder. 

You feel him shrug as he carries you up the path. “Leave it. The wolves will consume her, and our people will clean up what’s left in the morning.” 

You plant a satisfied kiss to his cheek, finally relaxing in his arms. “So, do you think there will be any other family members or ex-girlfriends that will try to kill me, or are we finally done with all that shit?” 

Titus snorts. “Baby, you know there’s always going to be family to contend with, but I promise she’s the only psycho ex I have. Not that you couldn’t handle them anyway.” 

“You’re hiding them so you get to watch me kill them again, aren’t you?” you ask with a suspicious frown, eyes squinted.” 

“Ha!” Titus laughs, shaking his head. “Little Lamb, I promise I would not let you get into the this situation again, no matter how fucking hot it is when you kill someone for me.” 

You roll your eyes, but nuzzle closer to his neck anyway. “Seriously Ti, I thought I was done fighting. We’re about to have children, I can’t go through this again.” 

And a sick, guilty coil forms in Titus’s stomach. “I know, and I know I promised you wouldn’t have to fight again, but I mean it this time. You’ve really proven yourself enough. No more games to play.” 

There’s an air on hurt and pain in his voice that makes you believe him. You know he doesn’t actually want to see you in danger, no matter how much you can handle it. You’re the gift brought to Titus Danforth by Mr. Le Bail, the Devil himself. You’re something just as precious as you are dangerous. 

A monster whose heart was designed to match his. 

+ 

+ 

+ 

Four Years Later. 

The sun is shining down on the garden, warm and orange from the afternoon, while butterflies flutter around the new blooms. A soft breeze whisps through the grass, creating a gentle shaking sound from the blades. It’s a perfectly peaceful, quiet day. 

At least, it would be quiet if it weren’t for the pair of screaming, laughing toddlers running through the grounds while their father chases them. 

“Ahhhh! Daddy no!” a little voice screeches happily into the air, as she attempts to escape the strong arms of Titus scooping her up and tossing her into the air.  

“Gotcha!” Titus shouts back, cackling wildly. 

It’s quickly followed by the sound of high-pitched laughter, and you lower the book you’ve been reading to find your husband twirling your daughter around in the air, as she giggles so hard her face turns pink. Her red hair, pulled into pigtail braids that curl at the end, is starting to come undone, and you’re pretty sure you can see little twigs and leaves stuck in the strands. 

“What are you doing?” You ask with an amused shake of your head.  

“Daddy chased us through the bushes!” Your boy piped up as he runs up to Titus with a big smile, tugging on his pants leg. 

“Mhm, even though we have a very important and fancy lunch to go to in an hour?” You ask, but it's more of a very stern reminder statement.  

Titus cringes, looking at the mess he made of his daughter’s hair, and he carefully puts her back on the ground. He kneels down with her to straighten out her little navy dress, gives her a kiss on the cheek, then sends her over to you to get fixed up. 

She walks over with her head hung low, arms behind her back, and apologetic pout as she climbs into your lap. “Sorry, Mommy, but It's all Daddy’s fault.” 

Titus makes a soft, offended sound that you ignore, and you give her a soft smile as you start to pick the nature out of her hair. “Oh, I don’t doubt that, Daddy is very naughty.” 

“Hm,” Titus scoffs again, but when you make eye contact he simply smirks, as though to point out you’ve never complained about his naughtiness before. “Yes, because you’re always on your best behavior. Should I remind you about two weeks ago when you got them to play that prank on me during a work call?” 

You smirk at the memory of dressing the twins up in creepy masks you found in the attack, and having them run at Titus with fake knives. In your defense, he’d been working nonstop, and nothing you were doing could distract him from it, so sadly, yes, you did have to use the kids. Ultimately, he found it to be completely hilarious, even if he spanked your ass raw that night in revenge. 

Dahlia Violet and Prescott Chester Danforth were born just after midnight, the morning of Halloween. It was dark and stormy, lightning striking through the sky when you gave birth in one of the lavish baths of the Danforth Estate. Absolutely the perfectly way to bring your twins into the world.  

They both came out crying, with striking red hair and big eyes, and both instantly calmed as soon as they were passed into their father’s arms. You’ll never forget the look on Titus’s face, the awe and wonder that someone like him could make two tiny things so beautiful. He’d been filled with the instant love he hadn’t felt since the first moment he saw you. 

Even with time passing, his love for them hasn’t changed. Many a critic in your lives, the people who always misunderstand Titus, have said that his interest in all of this would pass. Titus Danforth can never be held down by a family, he’s too wild. 

They simply don’t get it. They may know he has a monstrous side, but they do not know his heart. 

You see his heart as Prescot reaches his hands up with a small, face-scrunching frown, and Titus pulls him up into his arms. Your boy has always been the more quiet one, not sensitive, but smart and inquisitive, always watching and studying any situation. He knows how to express anything he feels, very directly, and Titus has joked that he’s just like you and Ursula. 

“You shouldn’t make Mommy mad,” Prescott says, pressing his little face into Titus’ cheek. 

“Yeah?” Titus asks with a soft laugh. “Why’s that?” 

Prescot shrugs. “Because she’s in charge.” 

You snort at the same time that Titus lets out a raucous laugh and kisses his son’s cheek. “Smart boy, but what about me? You want to make me mad?” 

“Daddy, you’re never mad!” Prescott proclaims. 

Again, you can’t stop the snort that comes out, and you bite your lip to not laugh any louder. 

Titus shakes his head at you as he walks over to the little patio area, and he sets Prescott down carefully in one of the seats. He straightens out the boy’s blazer jacket, and tips his face up to look at him. “I’m never mad at Mommy, or Dolly, and I am never mad at you, sweet boy. No matter what. Unless we get so messy we’re late to Mommy’s lunch.” 

“You’re also going to make us late to stay with Auntie Ursula!” Dahlia whines.  

Where Prescott stops at being calm and collected, Dahlia takes after her father, a little girl of action. She’s always buzzing to do things, to find new adventures, and to get into trouble. Spending a long weekend away in the city with just Ursula is exactly the kind of adventure she’s been needing. 

“That excited to get away from us, Dolly?” Titus asks with a faux pout. “My little princess trying to escape the castle.” 

“Auntie Ursula said her house is on top of the world!” Dahlia exclaims, clapping her little hands together. “But I’ll still miss you, Daddy!” 

As soon as you release her hair, she hops off the seat and runs over to snatch her brother away from Titus, and you both smile as you watch them run, shouting something about racing to the town car. 

Your heart has never been so full. 

Titus comes over to help you up, and you pull him in for a quick kiss, enjoying the brief moment where the twins won’t interrupt you. You pull away to rub the lipstick from him, and his crinkly eyes never leave yours. He’s only gotten more handsome with age, still in that same shape you met him, still covered in freckles, with the same silver hair, only a hint of age from the last few years you’ve known him. 

“Excited for a weekend all to ourselves?” he asks, wrapping your arm around his to walk you to the car. “Not that I won’t miss them.” 

“No of course, I’m going to miss them every second,” you say. Still out of earshot of the twins, you stand up on your tip toes to whisper into Titus’s ear, licking the shell and tugging on the lobe, “You'll have to come up with some pretty big distractions for me.” 

He cocks his brow at you and smirks. “Little Lamb, you have no idea what you’re in for.” 

Before you can tease each other more over the promise of your first child free weekend in so long, the anticipation of being able to dabble in your old ways of running through the woods like animals heat, Titus is off to scoop the twins up again. 

He gives you a sly wink over his shoulder, shouting, “Love you, my baby!” 

“Yeah, yeah, love you too,” you say with an amused shake of your head. And you can’t help but smile as you watch the three of them together, still a little in disbelief that this is your life. 

Off in the distance, in the shadows of the tree line, your eyes catch sight of the shadow of a man. He smiles at you and gives you a nod, before disappearing with a whisp of leaves in the breeze. 

For a moment you pause, then still looking at where you could have sworn he just stood, you smile, and nod back. 

FIN. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A/N 2: again, thank you to everyone who has been reading this series!!! i have had sooooo much fun with Titus, and I'm glad you all have too ! PLEASE comment and REBLOG!!! reblogs do more than likes!!!

[oxalaia-quilombensis]

snowed in

word count: 8.1k

summary: you hated jack, and you were positive he hated you too. two broken down cars and one blizzard bring the truth to the surface.

warnings: no age gap :(, med student!jack and med student!reader, I'm imagining they're both 26 and in the last year of med school, forced proximity, one sided e2l, there's only one bed! oh no!, cuddle or die, jack is kind of a dick , reader thinks jack is gonna kill her, don't worry he's just hopelessly in love, jack calls reader a bitch, love confessions, getting together, wearing jack's clothes, spooning, grinding, fingering, kissing, hickies, accidental somnophilia, dry humping, unprotected sex, big dick jack, belly bulge, creampie, mating press, sex in a strangers home

author's note: idfk what time period this is set in, im just here to sexualize this man

we're playing fast and loose with how both med school works and jack lore. I'm back to spreading my 'jacks legal first name is John' agenda. also, I barely know how undergrad works, since I am a drop out! suspend your disbelief, my more educated mutuals

There’s no way the universe should be this insistent on fucking you over.

Your shitbox of a car died a day before you were set to present your research at a conference in upstate New York in the middle of January. It was the biggest opportunity of your medical school career so far, and was going to secure your residency. But you couldn’t afford to fix it or buy plane tickets and there was no bus that could get you from Pittsburgh to Syracuse in time.

So when your program advisor called you into his office to say he found another student driving to the conference that would be willing to carpool, you nearly jumped for joy. Until the next words out of his mouth put a bullet in the brain of your newfound hope.

“-Jack Abbot! You’ve met him, right? You’re in the same year.”

Yes, you had met Jack Abbot. Several, miserable times. 

Every interaction you’d had with Jack ended with you seething and him smirking. He seemed to be addicted to pushing your buttons every chance he could.

But you didn’t have a choice. And you’d definitely made sure to verify that Jack was your only option. You must have asked every other student you had classes with, but they were either flying or not going at all. So you were stuck with him.

Stuck in the confined space of the cab of his small truck, side by side on the bench seat, for five and a half hours.

Everything about him pissed you off. His perfect curls were irritating, especially since you were sure he used 15-in-1 soap to wash it, the woodsy scent of his aftershave made every breath feel agonizing, and the way his legs were spread wide was obscene. It was his car, you had no right to complain that he was taking up so much space. But god did you wish he was cowering against the door like you were. You wished he put more space between the two of you, but the small cab left about a foot between you, even with you folding your body into the farthest corner your seatbelt allowed. It was entirely too close for comfort.

You’d made it a point to avoid looking at him as much as possible since this disastrous ride had begun 2 hours ago. So far, you’ve managed to mostly succeed, focusing on the falling snow and the freezing scenery outside. But you felt his eyes on you every few miles. His gaze was hot whenever it landed on you. You could feel it, even through your thick sweatshirt and jeans. 

But Jack didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said a single word since you’d met him in front of your apartment building at 1 pm and loaded up your bags into the covered bed. It was unusual for him. Normally, he liked to goad you into a reaction, sending barbs your way constantly. So the silence unnerved you. You didn’t know how to exist in a space with Jack Abbot when you weren’t on the defensive.

And then the universe decided to fuck you even harder.

The snow was falling even harder as Jack pulled off the freeway and onto a smaller back road. You wanted to question him, but you didn’t want to be the one to break the silence. Plus, you didn’t know where you were. For all you knew, Jack had driven through this area a thousand times before. 

But the farther you got down the road, the heavier the snow was getting and the slower Jack was driving. You hadn’t seen another car or building for the past 30 minutes and the plows clearly weren’t running out here. 

And then - truly the cherry on top- the engine started sputtering.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jack braked hard, the tires slipping slightly as he pulled off the road onto the shoulder.

“What the fuck?” You looked over at him for the first time in an hour.

Jack threw the truck in park before he was grabbing his coat. “Stay here.”

Where the fuck did he think you were going to go? You were in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a snowstorm. The cab of the truck was pleasantly warm, and the burst of cold air when Jack opened his door convinced you even more that you were not going to get out.

You watched him round the front. He popped the hood of the truck, hiding him from view. What the hood didn’t hide, though, was the cloud of smoke that billowed out.

“Oh fuck me,” there was no way you were making it to the convention. You checked your phone. No service. Of course.

The hood slammed shut and you jumped, looking up to watch Jack walk back around to the drivers side. He slid back in, shutting the door hard behind him and scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“We’re fucked.”

“What are we going to do?” You chewed on your bottom lip as you looked at the land around you. “I do not want to die of hypothermia in your shitty truck.”

“My truck isn’t shitty,” he sounded like a petulant child.

“It just fucking died on us,” you leveled a glare at him. “I’d say that makes it shitty.”

He grumbled something under his breath.

Both of you sat in silence for a moment.

“We need to find somewhere to shelter,” Jack was looking out the windows.

“There is nothing out - ”

“There,” he was pointing into the trees at something that you could not see. Everything blended together in the dim lighting and haze of falling snow.

“What?”

“There,” Jack started gathering a few things scattered around. His phone, his water bottle, and the keys made the cut, all being stuffed into the pocket of his heavy duty coat. “There’s a cabin.”

“Bullshit there's a cabin. I don’t see anything,” you really didn’t. All you could see was a mass of black and gray and green.

“There is,” he opened his door again. “Are you coming or are you going to freeze to death here?”

There wasn’t much of a choice. You could already feel the chill creeping in through the thin glass of the windows now that the engine was dead. You could follow Jack into the woods and either find shelter or freeze to death in the snow, or stay in the truck and freeze to death in the carcass of his shitbox.

No matter what, the threat of hypothermia was real and, even though you weren’t officially a doctor yet, you knew the risks. So you gave one last long suffering sigh, and opened your door. 

You were immediately thankful you’d put leggings on beneath your jeans that morning. The temperature change slapped you in the face as soon as you stepped out into the ankle deep snow.

Jack was rifling through the bed of the truck, pulling out his duffel bag. You watched him hesitate for a minute, before abandoning the garment bag containing the suit he’d packed. You tried not to think about just how good he’d look in a formal get up.

“Grab your shit,” Jack was pulling on a pair of gloves. His cheeks were already rosy from the freezing wind. “We’ve gotta get there fast.”

You gathered your things, yanking your own gloves and coat out of your bag. You left your own garment bag containing the gown you’d thrifted for the final banquet in the bed alongside the covered poster board for your research. It was going to be ruined if you and Jack ever made it back to the truck alive, given that there was not a chance you’d be making it to the conference, you didn’t bother trying to save it.

“Lead the way,” you slung your bag over your shoulder, pulling the hood up over your head to try and shield you as much as possible from the chill.

Jack led you across the frozen road and down into the treeline. The snow came up to mid calf, soaking your feet through your boots. Very quickly, you started to shiver, trying to curl into yourself as you walked.

You were both grateful and pissed to see the shape of the cabin come into view. You needed to get warm, but you did not want to admit Jack was right. 

It took about 20 minutes for you to reach the front porch. By now, the snow was falling so hard that you couldn’t see the road or the truck through the haze.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Jack tried the door handle, sighing with relief when it swung open. 

The inside of the cabin was simple. About the same size as your studio apartment back in Pittsburgh. It was dark, but you could see a fireplace against one wall, across from a full sized bed. There was a small kitchenette and a small bathroom you could see through a half open door. The whole place was dusty and looked like it hadn’t been used since last summer, but it would have to do.

Both you and Jack tumbled in. It was cold, but at least the sturdy wooden walls kept the wind chill out.

“You got a lighter?” Jack was already moving towards the fireplace, inspecting a few of the logs piled next to it. He seemed to approve of a few of them, piling them up.

“Yeah, here,” you fished a lighter out of your jacket pocket, tossing it to him as you set your bag down on the bed. 

You watched him for a moment. He shed his coat, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up as he set a few scraps of newspaper alight. With a gentle few breaths, he grew the flame before placing it under the pile of logs he’d formed in the fireplace. It took a moment, but gradually the flames grew until there was a bright, flickering fire lighting up the small room. 

You could feel the warmth it was putting off starting to seep into you, but it wasn’t enough. Your coat was still on, but you were shivering beneath it. 

Jack noticed, doing a double take over his shoulder when he saw you still standing by the bed.

“Come over here.”

“I’m fine,” your voice was unsteady.

“You need to get warm,” Jack was untying his boots, digging through his bag for a new pair of socks as he discarded the damp pair he’d been wearing. “You’re gonna get frostbite.”

“No, I’m not,” but you were moving towards him, crossing the small room to stand beside him in front of the fireplace.

“Take off your clothes.”

You looked over at Jack like he’d grown a second head, ready to tell him off. But the words died in your throat when you saw he was stripping his shirt and hoodie off, leaving him bare from the waist up. You froze for a moment, eyes wide and brain buffering, until his hands grabbed for the zipper of his jeans.

“What the fuck?!” You spun around, trying to will your blush away.

“We need to get into dry clothes and get warm,” the shuffling sounds of his clothes hitting the floor was tempting you to turn around. You wanted just a little peak.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t.”

And then Jack’s hands were at your waist, pulling up your sweatshirt.

“Woah!” You spun away from him, putting distance between you and begging your heart to slow down its rapid beating.

“I’m not letting you blame me when your toes fall off,” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. He’d changed into a plain black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and thick wool socks. God damn it, he looked good. “I won’t look, but you need to change.”

“Fine,” you walked back towards your bag. “Don’t look.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack’s eyes raked over you once before he was turning back to face the fire.

You moved quickly, stripping out of your layers. You’d been planning on being in a nice, cosy hotel and convention center, tucked safely away from the cold, so you’d only brought jeans, slacks, and your comfortable sleep shorts. Tight, spandex shorts that left very little to the imagination. The leggings you wore under your jeans were soaked up to the thighs with melted snow and unwearable.

So you grabbed your most modest shorts, although ‘modest’ was a stretch. They were tight and short, covered completely by the oversized crewneck you pulled on after. You didn’t have too many options for socks, stuck with a relatively thin pair of white ankle length ones. Your nice, insulating ones were soaked from your trek through the snow.

“Is it safe yet?”

You glanced over at Jack, silhouetted against the fire. His shoulders looked a hell of a lot broader than you’d realized, the muscles of his arms standing out. God fucking damnit.

“Yeah, it’s safe,” you cleared your throat, looking away from him as you moved your bag away from the bed, setting it on the floor by the nightstand.

“That’s what you’re wearing to not freeze?”

His judgmental tone made you bristle, reminding your traitorous mind that you did, in fact, hate this man.

“I didn’t have a lot of options,” you unnecessarily straightened your duffel, looking anywhere but at him. “I didn’t plan for you to get us stranded in the fucking woods. I packed for a fancy hotel and a conference, which is where we would be if you didn’t try to kill us.”

“I didn’t try to kill us,” he scoffed. You risked a glance at him. He was digging through his own bag. “I took a shortcut to go around the traffic on the interstate. Here.” 

He wadded up a pair of flannel pants and threw them at you. You caught them, trying not to take a deep breath. They smelled like detergent and that addicting smell of his cologne.

“These are fucking ugly,” the idea of wearing his clothes and being stuck in such a small space with him triggered your fight or flight instinct. Seeing as flight wasn’t a reasonable option with a blizzard outside, you decided to fight. 

“By all means,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Freeze to death because my pants are ugly. I’d finally get some peace and quiet.”

“The fuck do you mean ‘peace and quiet’? I didn’t say a fucking thing the whole car ride!”

“Yeah, and it was fantastic.”

Grumbling to yourself about what a dick he was, you gave in. You were fully aware he was trying to get you to wear the stupid pants. You could sacrifice your pride to put them on and deny him the satisfaction of you going silent.

“Maybe if I’d said something, we wouldn’t be stuck here,” you tugged the god awful pants up over your shorts, having to double know the waistband to keep them up around your hips.

“Oh so you agree, this is your fault,” Jack looked smug. He sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace, his legs spread out before him. His feet were blisteringly close to the flames. You hoped his stupid socks caught on fire.

“How is this my fault? I didn’t tell you to drive off the main road in the middle of a snowstorm. This is your fault,” begrudgingly, you made your way towards him. You sat down 3 feet away from him, relishing the wave of heat that greeted you once you were close to the fire. The rest of the space was slowly warming up, but the cold still seeped in through the fogged over windows and wooden walls.

“Well I wouldn’t be stuck out here if I didn’t have to drive you to this stupid convention,” Jack leaned back on his palms. He looked calm and relaxed, and that made you even more irritated.

“Oh, so you only took this backroad because of me,” you stretched out your hands to warm your frigid fingers. “Glad you admitted this was attempted murder.”

“‘Attempted murder’ my ass,” he shook his head, narrowing his eyes. His gaze scanned you from head to toe. You told yourself the shiver that ran through your body was from the cold. “I would be nice and cosy in my apartment if it wasn’t for you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I only agreed to go to the conference because you needed a ride.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed. That didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would Jack do that? He’d been a massive dick since you met him. Every group project or hospital rotation you ended up on with him was hell. He pushed your buttons, poking and prodding at you with sharp little quips until you snapped.

Jack didn’t say anything. He turned his face back towards the fire, focusing on the flickering flames.

“Jack…?”

He stayed silent. 

You didn’t know what to say. You were confused. He hates you, so why would he agree to be locked in a car with you for an extended amount of time. Maybe he truly did want to lure you out into the woods and kill you. 

But why? Sure, you were classmates, both competing for residency spots in a technical sense, but that wasn’t strictly true. It pained you to admit it, but Jack was in a league of his own. He was smart. Annoyingly so. He was constantly at the top of your class, leading test scores by a mile. You weren’t stupid, not at all, but Jack was something else. You weren’t competition for him.

“Did you…” How do you ask a classmate if he planned to kill you? You swallowed hard, suddenly very nervous. “Did you bring me out here to - to get rid - ”

“Jesus Christ, [name],” he finally looked at you again, sitting up and resting his elbows on his outstretched legs. He looked horrified. “You think I agreed to drive you, took a shortcut, and sabotaged my truck to - to what? Kill you?”

“Then why did you agree to drive me?” You couldn’t wrap your head around it.

“Just drop it, ok?” He scrubbed a hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw and looking away.

“Just doesn’t make sense,” you were mumbling. You scanned him, reading the tension in his shoulders.

“Drop. It.” This was the most emotion you’d seen him exhibit in all four years you’d been in school together. His jaw was clenched.

In the flickering light, it was hard to tell if his cheeks were flushed from the rising heat of the fire or if he was actually blushing.

“No, I’m not going to drop it,” you finally had a chance to push his buttons, but you also wanted to know why he’d go out of his way to drive 12+ hours round trip if he wasn’t presenting or trying to network at the conference. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I like you, alright?” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ve liked you for years. I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to spend time with you. I like being near you, I like talking to you when you’re not being a bitch - ”

“Don’t you fucking dare call me a bitch, Jack Abbot,” you were still trying to process his confession, the wheels in your brain turning at a snails pace.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, I’m fucking this up,” Jack took a deep breath, lifting his head to look at you. His expression was pained. “I like talking to you when you’re not trying to piss me off, and even when you are, I still enjoy it. You’re smart, you’re gorgeous - incredibly gorgeous. And we’re about to graduate soon, we’re both leaving for residency in a few months and I couldn’t - I couldn’t not say anything.”

You didn’t know how to respond. Jack paused for a moment at your silence, but then he carried on like he couldn’t stop.

“I practiced this whole little speech for the gala at the end of the weekend,” he laughed sardonically, running a hand through his curls. “I was gonna pull you to the side, somewhere pretty and romantic and tell you how amazing I thought you were, how beautiful you looked in whatever dress you brought. I was gonna ask you out on a date when we got back to Pittsburgh. And then I fucked it up. I swear, I didn’t know my truck was going to die.”

He was definitely blushing now. “And I didn’t take a shortcut. I went the long way around to get more time with you since I knew you’d ignore me as soon as we got to the hotel. But I really was trying to avoid traffic on the interstate! I just didn’t expect it to start snowing so hard.”

For a second, you were quiet. You still didn’t know how to respond, but words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

“The car ride back would have been awkward as fuck if I said no.”

Jack laughed, eyes crinkling as he shook his head. 

“Yeah, it would have been,” he sobered up, hope sparking in his eyes. “But I was willing to risk the humiliation if there was a chance you’d give me a shot.”

Would you have given him a shot? You didn’t know. For years you’d been so insistent that you hated him, but you couldn’t deny that you’d been attracted to him since day 1. You’d noticed him immediately at orientation, but you hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him until the first randomly assigned group project in your cadaver lab. He’d been a know-it-all, correcting your technique with a scalpel, raising one of those condescending eyebrows and judging every move you’d made. It rubbed you the wrong way, and clouded your perception of him.

You’d written him off after that, but the two of you kept being forced together. Same professor assigned group projects, similar friend circles, same hospital rotations. Every interaction just reinforced your view of him. It pissed you off every time you caught him staring at you, every time he sat next to you in lectures, asked to share your notes, when he poked and prodded and teased you.

But everything looked very different with the knowledge that he’d been into you since the beginning. Now, he looked less like a piece of shit that wanted to torment you and more like a lovesick puppy that wanted your attention. Either way, it wasn’t a flattering look for him, but the latter option was much more forgivable than the former.

“So?”

You jumped, ripped out of your thoughts to find Jack staring at you again. 

“So…?”

“Do I get a chance?” He looked terrified of what your response would be.

“I - ” you didn’t know. Your mind was spinning, trying to parse out your feelings and figure out exactly how you were feeling about the situation.

“It’s ok if you don’t feel the same way,” his hand ran through his hair again, tugging at his curls as he went. “I get it, I’ve been a dick - ”

“No - I mean, yes you have been, but,” you took a deep breath. “I - I don’t know. I had no clue you felt this way. I’m just… trying to process this.”

“Ok, yeah, yeah that’s ok,” Jack was nodding, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah, I mean, you don’t owe me an answer. And you can say no.”

He laughed again, but it was gruff and self deprecating.

“I swear I’m not going to kill you if you say no.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”

Both of you were quiet for a moment, and then you burst out laughing. A real laugh, not the sad imitation Jack had let out previously. You felt hysterical, the situation did not call for the intensity of the laughter spilling from you, but it did help to diffuse the tension that had been rising in the confined space.

When you were able to calm yourself, both of you gasping for breath and staring into the flames, your thoughts turned back to everything. You were hesitant to just accept, still struggling to reframe the last 3 ½ years now that you had more context. But you were curious. 

“If we live,” you broke the silence that had fallen over the room. “If we make it out of this fucking murder cabin, I’ll give you a chance.”

Jack snorted, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Then we better survive.”

The two of you sat there in front of the fire for a few more hours, passing bags of chips and candies back and forth, trying to make the time go by and conserve the batteries of your phones. You drifted in and out of conversation and silence. Surprisingly, you found yourself enjoying talking to him. For the first time since you’d been introduced, you had a pleasant conversation. Neither of you brought up his confession or your tentative acceptance.

Instead, you asked about him. And you learned a lot, shockingly. You knew the basics; he was a few months older than you, he was too smart for his own good, and he’d sold his soul to the Army and would be doing his residency at a military hospital. You almost envied the fact that he got to skip the stress of match day. Almost. You would absolutely not trade that stress in exchange for the next 10 years of your life.

Jack was from Maryland, and he was getting to go back to do his residency at Walter Reed. You saw his eyes light up with hope when you told him your first choice for residency was John Hopkins, but he didn’t say anything. You’d be pretty damn close to each other if you got lucky, but you didn’t dwell on that.

His first name was actually John, and he looked disgusted by it, but his expression softened when you laughed after he revealed he was actually John Andrew Abbot III. You pretended not to notice that, too.

You shared information of your own, also. Jack smiled when you told him about your childhood pets. He laughed when you told him silly stories from undergrad. He stayed quiet, letting you speak when you shared about struggling to make ends meet while still in school.

It endeared you but also pissed you off that he knew just how to react. He was empathetic and sweet when he wasn’t pushing your buttons.

You liked talking to Jack, you realized. You liked getting to know him.

The two of you had started yawning about an hour ago, but neither of you were ready to stop talking. It was only when the conversation finally lulled and you found yourself fighting against your increasingly heavy eyelids.

“We should get some sleep,” Jack was pushing himself up from the floor, dusting off his hands and sweats as he went. He extended a hand to you, and you found yourself not hesitating to take it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. His hand was warm and steady, and you found yourself fighting off a twinge of disappointment when he let go. “You can take the bed.”

“What? No,” there was only one bed in the one room cabin. It was so small, there wasn’t even room for a couch. The only other furniture in the space was a small kitchen table and two chairs, and a beaten up armchair covered by a thin white sheet. “Where are you going to sleep?”

He shrugged, shifting his duffel closer and moving the clothes in it around until he seemed satisfied with the shape. “Here, in front of the fire. I can make sure it keeps going all night.”

“No,” you grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving towards a small linen closet neither of you had bothered to peek into so far. “No, you’re not sleeping on the floor. We…” 

He raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking between your face and your hand still holding onto his bicep. You let go, taking a step back.

“We can share the bed,” you glanced over your shoulder. The bed was small, probably full sized. Just barely big enough to fit the two of you, although you’d have to scoot pretty close to the edge to avoid touching. 

“I’m not complaining about sharing a bed with you,” Jack looked at the bed too. “I think I’ve made myself clear about that - ”

You swallowed hard. You hadn’t let yourself think about that aspect of his confession. In fact, you’d beaten it back into the shadowy corners of your mind as aggressively as you could. You wouldn’t survive however long your confinement was going to be if you let yourself think about the more physical implications of Jack being into you.

 He looked down at you. The light from the fire was dancing across the planes of his face, knocking the breath out of your lungs with how ethereal he looked. He was handsome everyday, but he looked unreal in this lighting. 

“ - but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You haven’t told me how you feel, and you haven’t agreed to go out with me - not that that means you have to… y’know…” he seemed to be struggling to find the words. He was blushing again. “Be… be that close to me.”

“I - ” you paused, searching for the right words. You really were starting to be willing to give him a chance, especially with how well your conversations had gone. And yes, fine, maybe you’d been physically attracted to him from the beginning, but when you’d found yourself in moments of weakness before, you’d imagined any sort of physical or intimate encounter being… well, not nearly so emotionally charged. In those late night fantasies, it was rough, aggressive, something born out of hate and frustration. But now, he looked nervous, his eyes soft and apprehensive. You once again didn’t know how to handle this type of interaction with him. 

So, you decided to be an adult about it. For fucks sake, you were 26. You could share a bed with a man who just confessed he’d been in love with you for years and who you’d been fantasizing about for just as long.

You cleared your throat, taking your hand off his arm. “We can share a bed without… without it being anything more.”

“Right, right, of course,” Jack let out a breath. “As long as you’re ok, then yeah.”

“Yeah,” you were a big fat liar. “It’ll be fine.”

So the two of you got ready for your doom. You gathered your toiletries as Jack threw a few more logs on the fire to hopefully keep it going all night.

The bathroom thankfully had running water, even if the rest of the cabin had no electricity, so you were able to take turns brushing your teeth. You went first, taking many deep breaths and giving yourself a silent pep talk in the small, dark room. 

“All yours!” Your smile and chipper attitude felt forced when you let him have his turn. You sat on the side of the bed with your bag, digging through it, searching for nothing to give your anxious hands something to do.

“You ready for bed?” 

Jack came out of the bathroom, crossing to the other side of the bed and starting to pull back the covers. You stook, giving him a nod and pulling back the ones on your side. Both of you slipped in silently.

“Good night,” Jack rolled over, his back to you, facing the front door.

You followed his lead, turning your back to him and trying to snuggle in underneath the thin blankets. “Good night.”

Jack’s pants and the residual warmth in your clothes from sitting in front of the fire for so long helped lull you to sleep, and quickly, you found yourself falling under.

When you woke, it was to a warm presence at your back and freezing air nipping at the exposed skin of your face. It was completely dark in the room, no light coming in through the windows or from the now extinguished fireplace.

You pushed back, chasing the heat behind you. That’s when you became aware of several things at once. 

That warmth behind you was Jack. The entire length of his body was pressed against yours and his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, one above and one below, keeping you firmly in place. Those arms were underneath your sweatshirt, one palm resting just below your breasts and the other right above the waistband of your borrowed pants. His face was nuzzled in the crook of your neck, breath hot against the sensitive skin.

You tried to shift, to move out of his hold and restart the fire so that you didn’t have to confront exactly how hot the skin on skin contact was making you deep inside.

Jack didn’t let you move, though. His arm tightened around you, tugging you back against him even more firmly. That was when you really felt him. The hard length of his cock was pressed against your ass.

He was still asleep, but that didn’t stop his hips from grinding forward. You gasped, clenching your thighs together. Involuntarily, you pressed back against him again. His hand shifted up, sliding over your breast and loosely squeezing the flesh.

“Jack,” your voice was quiet and broken around another gasp as he pushed his length against your ass again.

He mumbled something incoherent, before squeezing your breast again. The hand on your stomach dipped lower, his fingers just beginning to slide underneath your bottoms.

You were existing between sleep and waking, half convinced this was some sort of extremely vivid dream.Your pulse was racing, hips pushing back to meet his at every sleepy movement. Both of you were breathing harder, the cold seemingly beaten back by the rising heat between you. 

“[Name],” you could just barely make out the slurred groan of your name breathed against your neck. It sparked even more heat in your core to hear him say your name.

“Jack?”

God, you sounded fucked out already. Jack’s hand was pushing even farther into your pants and under the shorts you wore beneath.

The first brush of his fingers over your folds had you whining, and that was when Jack finally woke up.

You felt him freeze behind you, his hands tightening on reflex, dragging his fingers through your folds and against your clit. It ripped an embarrassing moan out of you, your hips pushing back against his cock in response to the jolt of pleasure.

“[Name]?” Jack’s voice was sleepy and confused. 

“Jack,” you whined in response.

“Oh fuck,” he pulled back, hands leaving you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Wait - ” but Jack wasn’t listening

“Fuck, I told you I wouldn’t try anything, I’m so fucking sorry. That - I can’t believe I did that. Fuck.”

“Jack, stop,” he was sitting up, elbows on his knees and hands in his hair. The heat in you died when you saw him so upset. “Jack, look at me.”

“I’m sorry - ”

“Stop apologizing,” you pushed him flat onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips and leaning over him. Your hair created a curtain, closing the two of you into a little bubble.

“But I - ”

“Shut up!”

And then you kissed him. He froze for a moment, but he quickly melted into you, his hands coming up to grab your waist. He let you lead for a moment, his lips following the slow, languid rhythm you set.

Until your tongue swiped over the seam of his lips. Then, his hold on you tightened and with a firm buck of his hips, he was rolling you onto your back. He settled between your legs, grinding his length against you as his tongue stroked against yours, licking into your mouth and swallowing the noises that leaked out of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.

“Fuck,” Jack pulled back, gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours. “Are you sure - ”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” you bucked your hips up against his, tugging on his hair as you did. He groaned, meeting your thrust. “Wanted this for a long time.”

“I thought you hated me,” Jack’s hand was slipping back underneath your sweatshirt to push it up. His thumb dragged over your newly exposed pebbled nipple.

“Yeah, I did,” your back arched, pushing your chest even further into his hand. “Doesn’t mean you’re not hot, though.”

“Yeah?” He was smirking, his lips ghosting over yours. “I’m just that irresistible?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you pressed your lips against his, drawing him into a filthy kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him back down so you could chase your own pleasure with his body. One of your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging your nails down over his chest and abs.

He moaned, grabbing your hand on his chest and pinning it to the mattress beside your head. He broke the kiss, nipping at your lower lip as he went.

“Unless you want this to end way too soon, you better fucking stop that,” his voice was low and ragged, fingers flexing against your wrist.

“Stop what?” You wanted to both know exactly what was driving him crazy, and to play dumb and rile him up.

“Touching me,” he ducked his head, nipping and sucking at the skin of your neck. “Looking so fucking good underneath me, all of it.”

“See,” you bit back a whimper. “I don’t think you really want me to stop.”

Your back arched and your hips bucked up again as he sucked a dark mark into the skin below your jaw.

“I don’t, but I don’t want to cum in my pants, either,” he moved lower, to a new, unblemished patch of skin. “So either take your pants off or tell me to go take a cold shower.”

“Gotta let go of my hand first,” your teeth dug into your lower lip as he licked a stripe up your neck.

“Are you gonna keep it to yourself?” Jack pulled back to look down at you. You grinned back up at him and he rolled his eyes.

“No.”

He laughed, releasing you and sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. His hands came down to the drawstring, undoing the bow at lightning speed, pushing the pants down your hips. Jack groaned as your shorts came back into view.

“These little fucking shorts,” he stripped the pants off you, lifting your legs into the air as he did. “Made me hard earlier.”

His hand trailed over your hip, brushing across the fabric until he was stroking a finger over your covered slit. Your teeth bit into your lip even harder to smother the whine that he was drawing out of you.

“You’re fucking soaked,” that little smile tugging at his lips was smug and self satisfied. He pressed into you a little harder, circling your covered clit through the spandex. “Is this all for me?”

“You’re an ass,” your teeth were gritted. Every circle he made had your hips twitching up, little sparks shooting from the light touch.

“I think you like that about me,” Jack’s hand left you for just a minute, long enough for it to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts. For the second time tonight, the first with both of you fully aware, his fingers dipped below your soaking folds.

Jack leaned forward, his unoccupied hand braced against the bed by your head. His eyes fixed on yours, chest heaving as he watched every shift of your face while his hand moved. He was exploring, teasing, fingers wandering through every soaked inch of you, the tips just barely dipping into your entrance and then moving back up to circle your clit.

“Fuck,” you were panting, trying to move your hips against his hand, guiding him to the right spot. But every time his fingers found where you needed him, he’d move them away, smiling as he worked you up.

“Jack, I swear to god, I’ll - ”

“You’ll what? Hmm?” He slowed to a stop, his index and middle finger sandwiching your clit between them, pressing down to keep you from rocking into them and chasing your pleasure. “C’mon, tell me what you’ll do.”

“If you don’t make me cum in the next 2 minutes,” his cocky demeanor made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. You hated it, but it fueled the heat and desire curling low in your stomach. Judging from the hard length of him you can just barely make out through his sweats, he was enjoying it, too. “I’ll never let you touch me again.”

His face fell, hardening into determination. “Is that so?”

“Yes - ”

Jack’s fingers pressed directly against your clit, rapidly drawing tight circles around your clit. It was like an electric shock to your body after so much of his teasing. Your back arched, eyes falling shut as your moans filled the air.

“How’s that? Is that what you wanted?”

“Shut - fuck - shut up!”

You were impossibly close, already wound so tightly that you were dangerously close to snapping beneath him.

“I thought you liked it when I was a dick?” Jack leaned even farther over you, his lips closing around your nipple, flicking the bud with his tongue and scraping over it with his teeth. 

“Stop fucking talking, Jack!” You felt him laugh against your skin, sending vibrations through your breast. 

Your hand tangled in his hair, yanking at the strands. He groaned, switching to your other breast and sucking hard.

You cracked, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand and hips. He didn’t let you, pushing his body even farther into yours to keep them open as he worked you through it. Your legs shook and your hips jerked against his fingers that were still going, drawing even more tremors and cries out of your lips.

You writhed beneath him, forced to let each wave crash over you as Jack held you through it.

“Fuck - no more,” it was nearly impossible to get air into your lungs, but as the sensations died down and overstimulation, Jack backed off.

He pushed back up, easing his hand out of your shorts. He let you breath for a moment, his hands rubbing over your thighs until their trembling slowed to a stop.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” your voice was breathy.

“Can I fuck you now?” 

You cracked your eyes open to look at Jack. There was a small wet patch on his sweats, right over the head of his cock. Fuck, he looked long and thick.

“Yes, please,” your hands found the waistband of your shorts, pushing them down.

Jack laughed, his hands joining yours to help remove the shorts from your legs. 

“I should have made you cum 3 years ago,” he threw the shorts over his shoulder once he got them free from your ankles. “So nice and polite.”

“Shut up and get naked, asshole,” you sat up, reaching for his sweats, tugging them down his hips. 

Suddenly, you were face to face with his cock. He was bigger than you though. The flushed length of his cock slapped against his stomach when it was freed, the leaking head smearing clear fluid against his abs.

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned forward, licking a stripe up the length from base to tip. The skin was smooth and soft, his cock twitching beneath your touch.

“Fuck!” Jack’s hand grabbed your hair, pulled your head back and away from him as he hissed. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Isn’t that the goal of sex?” You smiled up at him, straining against the hold he had on you to try and get your tongue back on him. 

“Yeah, but I’m trying not to embarrass myself and end this way too soon,” Jack guided you by your hair, easing you down onto your back again. “You can blow me later, right now, I think I might die if I don’t get inside you.”

“Then hurry up,” you lifted your legs, hooking them around his waist and pulling him down onto you.

“Alright, alright,” Jack slipped a hand between your bodies, grabbing himself by the base. You forced yourself to breathe as his tip swiped through your folds, coating his cock in your fluids before he was lining himself up. He pressed in slowly. You felt yourself part around him, your walls stretching around the crown of his head. You were impossibly full, and he was barely in you.

He kept pushing in, both of you panting and looking down, eyes locked on where you were joined. You didn’t think you could take anymore, but he kept going, your walls sucking him in and pulling him into your depths.

“Fuck,” your head dropped back when he bottomed out. He ground forward, staying fully seated inside you and letting you adjust.

“Oh shit,” Jack sat up between your legs, hands gripping your hips, keeping them pressed fully against his. The shift in angle had you keening. “Look at that.”

Your eyes cracked open, trying to figure out what he was talking about.

“Can fucking see myself, holy shit,” one of his hands left your hips, tracing around the very visible sight of his cock outlined in your lower stomach. You were transfixed, watching with bated breath as his fingertips brushed against your skin. Goosebumps broke out across your body at the sensation.

“I wonder…” Jack trailed off, eyes still focused on your stomach. His hand moved, gently laying over the outline of his cock. He let it sit there for just a moment, palming his length through your skin.

And then he pushed down. 

Both of you cried out at once. You’d already felt full, but the added pressure of his hand made his length feel even bigger. He was everywhere, completely consuming you from the inside out.

“Holy fuck!” His hips jerked into you, snapping against a spot deep inside you that had you arching in his hold.

“Oh fuck, Jack!”

“Yeah? You feel that?” Jack started moving, his hips withdrawing and punching back into you, rapidly working his way up to a punishing pace. You couldn’t answer with words. He was pushing the breath out of your lungs with every thrust. “God, you’re so full of me, baby.”

And then Jack hiked your legs up over his shoulders, releasing the pressure on your stomach in exchange for keeping your thighs pressed tight to his chest. It opened you up even more to him.

“Oh my god,” Jack bent forward, burying his face back in your neck, pushing your legs into your chest, folding you in half. He was rutting into you, groaning as he chased his pleasure.

You were getting close again, too. Every thrust had the neatly trimmed hairs at the base of his cock grinding over your clit as his tip slammed home against your g-spot. Your eyes were closed, lost in the pleasure. You couldn’t move, completely pinned beneath him and forced to take the overwhelming pleasure.

“Jack! Please!” Your hand tangled in his hair again, holding the strands tightly. It was your only lifeline and you used it to tether yourself to reality. 

“Oh fuck,” Jack was panting into the skin of your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m close. C’mon, cum for me. Please, need to feel you.”

You were so close, only a hair's breadth from your peak.

When Jack bit down on your shoulder and his hips stuttered, you came again. You clamped around him, walls spasming and squeezing while he rutted even deeper into you. Jack was groaning your name while he spilled deep inside of you. The hot pusles of his release propelled your own, the two of you pushing each other even higher.

He finally let go of your legs, helping to ease them down until they were resting on the mattress on either side of his hips. He didn’t move to pull out, though. The two of you stayed wrapped around each other, his softening length buried inside you, until the cold was too much to bear.

“So,” Jack gingerly climbed off of you, the cold air rushing in. “Can I take you on a real date now?”

“If you get me a washcloth to clean up with and get the fire started, I’ll marry you as soon as we get out of here,” you were shivering now.

Jack grinned, leaning back down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Promise?” 

another little note: I'm trying out a new reader insert format. usually, I just keep it vague and don't use any form of y/n, but we're gonna do something a little different. my dear friend @fangirl-dot-com asked her followers how they felt about y/n and y/l/n, and someone in the comments said they prefer [name] and [surname] and I like that. its not really used here very much, but I wanted to give it a try. lmk if you hate it but, like, I like it so ill probably keep using it. unless all of you hate it

[not-neverland06]

Love for Sale

𝖠𝗇𝖽𝗋𝖾𝗐 ‘𝖯𝗈𝗉𝖾’ 𝖢𝗈𝖽𝗒 & 𝖿𝖾𝗆! 𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝖾𝗋 𝖾𝗌𝖼𝗈𝗋𝗍!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

Overview: You used to be one of Smurf's girls. Always at her beck and call- until Deran helped you escape. But when she decides Pope needs to blow off some steam, she's got just enough dirt on you to have you right back in the palm of her hand. (wc: 31k)

. mdni: 18+ implied sexual assault (not explicit, not done by Pope) one smut scene containing p in v, fem!receiving oral, rest is plot

. basically all of the smut is courtesy of my amazing beta reader @thebugsfollow— this whole story is also her idea so let’s all say thank you

Third act pregnancy- childbirth isn’t part of the story

a/n: I’m Your Man by Leonard Cohen is literally Pope Cody’s song, and no one will ever change my mind

Smurf has a few key uses for her girls. Honey pots to seal a deal with a prospective business partner. Easy ways to gain dirt on those she’s trying to hurt. Strangely, though, her most important use for you all had been with Pope. 

Personally, you’d always been kept for the clients. You were never one of those girls with her heels tossed over her son’s shoulders. She uses you all as a way to provide releases for the men in her life. You’re tools, barely even toys. Something good to be abused and tossed aside. 

It was Deran who had gotten you out from under her thumb. He’d helped you get clean, scraped together what little of your life was left, and convinced his mother you’d lost your touch. 

It didn’t take much to convince her. She’d been getting bored with you, anyway. You suppose you should just be happy that Deran got to you first, that you didn’t die with a needle in your arm like so many other girls before you who had “lost their touch.”

You never questioned why her rotation of women was so quick, why their employment was so short-lived. But you all knew. Smurf didn’t make mistakes; she didn’t leave behind messes, and she had no room in her life for other women. Especially not when it came to her sons. 

Her fragile hold over Deran is already tumultuous, though. She knows it's not you that poses a threat to that tether. It’s the fact that her emotionally fucking her sons’ heads when they were kids didn’t stick with him. His pendulum swings the other way. 

It always brings a little smile to your face in those rare moments you catch him and Adrian together. Just one instance where Smurf hadn’t gotten what she wanted. You’re sure that's why she never bothers coming by the bar. She doesn’t like the reminder of her failure. 

And you certainly appreciate having one aspect of your life free from that woman. 

Letting out a low sigh, you bend down and grab a rag to wipe down the bar. The little bell above the door chimes as someone walks in. “We’re closing,” you call out. Bootsteps still come closer, and you frown, glancing over your shoulder. “I said– oh.”

Pope pauses for a moment, surveying you. “Deran’s in the back,” you tell him, offering a strained smile. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, rounding the bar and making his way through the kitchen to the back office. You continue with your closing duties, gnawing your lip as you think. 

You’re not scared of Pope, not really. You know what he’s capable of, but it’s Smurf that calls the shots. It’s always her that you have to look out for. The old lady’s a lot smarter than people want to give her credit for. 

You never knew why she didn’t let you have Pope. You’re certain you would have enjoyed it. There’s something about that intense look in his eyes– emotions so shadowed over, his gaze is almost empty. 

But Smurf never offered you up, always kept you hidden away. She knows how easy it is for you to get attached; maybe that’s why. You always struggled separating the act and the paycheck. 

In the back of the bar, you can hear Deran and Pope’s voices growing louder. Your head shoots up as the kitchen door swings open, banging off the wall. Pope storms through, jaw clenched as he stalks past you, muttering something to himself. 

You tilt your head as you consider him. The broad line of his shoulders, the strength of his body you can make out even under his loose shirt. He lets out a short huff, storming out of the bar. Yeah, you could definitely see yourself getting attached to that one in all the wrong ways. 

Deran comes out of the kitchen, and you jump, ripping your eyes away from the door. “Don’t let any more of my family come through,” he barks out. 

“You guys fight?”

He shoots you a sharp look that has you biting back a smile. “What the fuck do you think?”

“You know I don’t like your family, anyway,” you defend, scrubbing at a stubborn stain on the counter. Deran goes quiet, and you roll your eyes, glancing back over at him. He’s giving you a knowing look that has you huffing. 

“I don’t like most of your family,” you amend. Throwing his hands up, he shakes his head, storming back to his office. You glance back at the door, almost wishing Pope would walk through again. He’s certainly more intriguing than the other Codys. 

Parties at Smurf’s place only have two directions they can go. High and low. High, of course, is when she brings out the good stuff, and everyone’s floating two feet above their bodies. Head lost somewhere in the clouds of smoke. Low is when some asshole, usually one of her sons, gets too drunk and starts a fight. 

It seems to be going high, this time, a good sign for you, considering you want nothing more than to relax tonight. Deran had been kind enough to get you a job at his bar. A handout, honestly, considering how much he already helps you out with. Turns out, the opening week of a new bar is hell on your back. 

You’re lounging back on one of Smurf’s pool chairs, lazily smoking a blunt Deran had handed you, as some girls flock around him. You’re certain they’re aware he doesn’t swing that way, but he's the tamer boy of the Codys. They probably just hope he might cut them a deal on whatever little baggies Smurf has him handing out. 

You don’t blame the girls. You’d rather take something from Deran than his brother Craig. You wouldn’t trust Craig as far as you can throw him. Especially not with that sleazy grin he always shoots you. 

A shadow falls over you, and the low tittering of the women goes quiet. You frown, lifting your sunglasses and glancing over at them. But the throng of women have scattered. Glancing up, you let out a little laugh, finding the reason standing over you. 

Pope has emerged from the house, arms crossed as he hovers at your side. You doubt he even realizes you’re beside him, or the effect he’s had on the partygoers. Honestly, you appreciate his presence for the quiet it provides. He’s got a good dampener effect on the rowdy parties that go on around here. 

“Having fun?” you try, not expecting much back from him. He glances down at you, brows raising. He probably just realized you’re there. 

“No,” he tells you bluntly, eyes narrowing on the blunt in your hand. You tap the tip of it, shaking some ash off by his feet. He lets out a little sigh that almost makes you feel bad for teasing him. 

“Really? You seem like the life of the party.” You shift higher up on the chair, back bowing slightly as you try to get comfortable. His gaze lingers on the top of your bikini before he looks away. His shoulders stiffen, arms tightening as he glares out at the rest of the party. 

“You’re too easy,” you mutter, flicking your glasses down and closing your eyes. 

The skin of his hand is rough, but his touch is barely there as he snatches the blunt from between your fingers. Your eyes shoot open as he gives you a sharp look. “Don’t fall asleep with this in your hand. You’ll burn the chair,” Pope quietly chides. 

You snort as he storms off, tossing the blunt into the trash as he goes. You wonder if he knows how often your stare lingers on him. How easy it is for you to seek him out in every room you walk into. You doubt it. And you really doubt he’d ever want used goods, as Craig so often calls you. 

You sink back into the chair, trying to get comfortable again. 

The universe seems to be flipping you one giant middle finger today. 

“Comfortable?” a rasping voice asks. 

You suck in a deep breath, mentally prepping yourself. “Yep,” you grit out, flicking your sunglasses up and offering a smile to Smurf. You’re certain it comes off more as a grimace than anything else. 

She offers something sickly sweet in return. It’s meant to come off as motherly or nurturing in some way. It does nothing more than set your nerves on edge. You don’t know why she tries any of her tricks with you. You know her intimately and have already seen past her many masks to the bitch below. 

She hums, laughing slightly to herself as she perches on the chair beside you. “Talking to Pope?”

“No,” you answer quickly. God forbid she think you’re trying to steal one of her precious boys out from under her. 

“Really?” She hums, sucking her teeth as she surveys the rest of the party. “Looked like you were the only girl who could stand being near him.”

You consider your response, wondering what constitutes her thinking you’re a threat. “He’s not so bad,” you finally settle on. 

Smurf says nothing for a while, and you begin to worry you’ve messed up. She knows that you're Deran’s friend. And, in no way, are you a threat to her already fragile claim over him. But Pope’s different than the others; she’s much more unpredictable when it comes to keeping her guard dog close. 

“Pope’s been having a hard time lately,” she finally tells you. “His mind isn’t where I need it to be.” 

Is it ever? You just nod, not voicing your skepticism aloud. 

“You know how it works with him. Usually, the girls I send in help soothe those fragile nerves.” Smurf lets out a low chuckle and shakes her head. 

You tense up, muscles locking as you suck in a fragile breath. Yeah, you know how it works with him. You know all about the girls she sends to him. But there’s no reason for her to be bringing any of this up to you. Not now. 

“Pope…” she lets out a low breath, shrugging. “Pope’s different, you know that.” Everyone knows that. “It doesn’t work for him when he knows the girls are being paid.”

You hum, lips pursed tight as you struggle to think of a way out of this. “Interesting,” you whisper. 

Smurf lets out a little laugh, shooting you a sharp smirk. “Interesting,” she mocks, her tone cruel in its intentions. “You know what I want, don’t you, kid?”

You suck your teeth, arms winding tight around your stomach. You feel too exposed now. Body on display just like she wants. “I don’t do that anymore,” you bite out, forcing some sort of strength into your voice. 

“Please,” Smurf barks out a laugh, sitting back up and leaning in toward you. You can’t find the strength to meet her eye. But her stare is branding into your skin. “I know women like you. You’ll do anything if the price is right. Besides… don’t forget what I know about you.”

For a moment, the world goes quiet. There’s no party, no throng of people getting high and drunk in front of you. It’s just you, small as you’ve ever been, and Smurf. With that god damn smirk on her face, always one step ahead of everyone else. 

“You said you were done with me,” you whisper, tears clawing at the edge of your voice. 

Smurf shakes her head. “No, I said I was done for now. And now, I need you again. I’ll even be nice and pay you, sweetheart. Four hundred a session, not hourly.”

Your eyes fall shut, nails digging into your arms as you realize you have no choice. You can keep fighting her, but all that’ll do is take away your pay. You’ll be forced to do what she wants, and you won’t even make anything off it. “What am I doing?”

“Just… entertainment.” She reaches forward, touch cold as she slides the falling strap of your top up. “And Pope doesn’t know about our little arrangement.”

It’s Smurf. You don’t have a choice. Not with the dirt she’s got on you. At the very least, it’s Pope, not someone like Craig or Baz she’s asking you to sell yourself out for. 

“Okay,” you whisper, eyes watering as you stare down at your lap. 

Smurf gets up and pats your head. “Good girl,” she mutters, laughing as she walks away. One day… She’ll be dead. Buried somewhere six feet deep, and you’ll be there. 

Dancing on her fucking grave. 

You let yourself in with the key Smurf had given you. Just like she used to, she sent you a time to show up. Normally, that was accompanied by a name and place. But you already knew who she wanted you to take care of. And since they’d sold his house, there was only one place for him to be. 

Heading into the kitchen, you drop your purse on one of the chairs. There’s a low murmur in the living room, something playing softly on the TV. Sucking in a sharp breath, you fix your shirt and adjust your hair. 

It’s not typical of you to be nervous before one of these appointments. But you haven’t done this in a long time. And you already know none of your old tricks are going to work here. Pope isn’t anything like the clients Smurf used to toss you to. 

They had been looking for something carnal. Something quick that they could wrench pleasure from and then toss aside. Pope’s already a hundred times different from them just for not wanting his girls to be paid to be with him. 

There’s another factor you’re worried about. At least, when Smurf pays the girls, Pope knows they’re coming. He knows what’s coming and how he’s expected to perform. He’s not been briefed for you, and you’re barely ready for him. You’re not sure you want to know what it would feel like to be rejected by him if this goes wrong. 

Rolling back your shoulders, you force yourself to move. Rounding the corner into the living room, you stop short. “Oh.” The plan was to feign surprise, pretend you had been looking for someone else. But you don’t really have to feign anything right now. Not with Pope sitting on the couch in nothing but his boxers, watching… a bird documentary?

Clearing your throat, you blink a few times, trying to recover from the sight of him being half-naked. He seems just as taken aback, clearly expecting to have the house to himself today. His brows furrow as he watches you, hand twitching on his lap. 

“Sorry. Is Deran here?”

“No,” his voice cracks slightly as he shifts against the cushions. You feel a little bad. You don’t think you’re making him nervous, but he certainly isn’t confident. “He’s at the bar,” he explains, jaw clenching. 

“Oh,” you wave your hand and step into the living room. “My mistake,” you dismiss airily, shrugging. “Mind if I wait for him here? He shouldn’t be long.” Pope doesn’t say much or invite you closer. But you move forward anyway, not like you have much choice here. He drags a pillow over his lap as you take a seat beside him.

You’re decent enough to give him a few inches of space between you both, though you doubt that helps much. 

You can’t confidently say that Pope is nervous. But he certainly seems affected right now. Your eyes narrow on the way his leg bounces slightly, the wrinkles at the hem of his boxers. Smurf left, the house is empty, and he’s been on edge lately. Maybe he’d been expecting one of Smurf’s girls. 

He was right, in a way. But he didn’t get to know that. 

Your skirt hitches as you tuck your legs under yourself. You shuffle for a moment, trying to get comfortable and “accidentally” slipping too close to Pope. He jerks away from your touch, not hastily, but carefully. You catch a sidelong look from him before he redirects his attention to the TV. 

It’s easy to tell, just from the tautness of his shoulders, that he’s not hearing a damn word Attenborough is saying. 

You settle back against the cushions and let out a little sigh, thighs flexing as you slip just a bit closer to him. It’s harder with Pope. You can’t get this started the way you would with old clients. They had been expecting you, and in turn, they’d been expecting a quick release. 

Smurf made it clear that Pope isn’t allowed to know a damn thing about this arrangement. You’re terrified of what she would do if you messed this up in the first session. 

You’ll have to ease him into this. 

Sadly, that means suffering through an hour of a documentary that has you biting your tongue to keep from passing out from boredom. You spend the time creeping ever closer to Pope. Letting your thigh accidentally brush against his and pulling back quickly. Watching the sharp intake of breath in his chest from the contact. 

Having your fingers graze the back of his hand as you stretch. You watch these little reactions flash across his face, making you wish you had a better understanding of his body language. You keep up this little game until he stops flinching from your touch and starts leaning into it instead. 

You move closer, thigh brushing his leg, arm nearly pressed to his. He doesn’t move, just sinks a little deeper into the sofa. Your arm stretches along the cushions as you let out a low sigh. 

“Pope?” you mutter, voice low as you lean in closer toward him. 

“What are you doing?” He tilts his head toward you, eyes narrowed, a little quirk to his lips as his gaze drops to your mouth. 

You’re slightly taken aback and resist the urge to pull away. “What do you mean?” you whisper, trying not to break the tentative bubble around you. He doesn’t answer, just watches you, eyes running along your form as you stretch closer. “I mean, I thought I was being kind of obvious.”

When he doesn’t say anything, you let out a breathy laugh. “I like you, Pope. But you know… I just can’t tell with you.”

He grabs the remote, turning off the documentary before tilting his body toward you. The pillow shifts slightly off his lap and you inch closer. “Can’t tell what?”

“Well…” the arm draped behind him shifts, and you let your fingers brush against the nape of his neck, teasing into his hair. “I’m usually much better at reading people. But I just don’t know with you. Do you like me, Pope?”

His voice is rough as he speaks, and you don’t miss the way his gaze drops to your lips. “Why do you care?”

You let out a little laugh, “I just said–”

His hand comes up, taking your wrist in his grasp. It’s not rough, but you can’t slip away. Your eyes widen slightly as you back up. “Did Smurf put you up to this?” His expression hardens; whatever reaction you might have been eliciting out of him is gone. 

“What?” Your lips part as you shake your head. You let your eyes go wide with surprise, faux hurt, leaving them open until a little bit of water builds at the edges of your lashes. “No, I just–” You cut yourself off, putting on a proper show as you try to move away from him. “I’m sorry, this was so stupid,” your voice cracks around the words. 

Maybe you’re laying it on a little thick. But Pope is sharp, sharper than you’re comfortable with. He couldn’t have caught onto you that quick… could he? 

Maybe you’ve lost your touch. 

“I’ll just leave.” You get on your knees, trying to pull away. His hand tightens imperceptibly around your wrist, and you lift your eyes, meeting his gaze once more. “Pope?” you whisper, leaning just a little closer to him. 

He lifts off the cushions slightly, and you almost smile. You’ve still got it.

Tilting your head, you let your lips brush against his. Just barely, at first, hesitant like you really are nervous. And maybe, you are, just a bit. He pulls back for a moment, eyes darting along your face, gauging your honesty. 

After a moment, he tilts his head, nose brushing yours as he presses his lips to yours. There’s more force behind the kiss than you’d like. His body is stiff beneath you as you slide your leg over his lap, straddling him. There’s too much teeth in the kiss; it’s aggressive in a way that reminds you of your old clients.

But there’s something else that’s off. It’s like he’s simply not used to this. To something that hasn’t been paid for and wasn’t premeditated. His hands hover over you, uncertain. 

You let your palms drag along his broad shoulders, cupping his neck as you pull back. He stares up at you, lips parted and expression vulnerable in a way that makes guilt itch in your throat. 

He’s used to fucking and being done with it. He doesn’t understand intimacy like a man his age should. That’s no fault of his own, not really. 

“Slow,” you whisper down at him, waiting until he nods to kiss him again. His hands drop to your hips, squeezing once before settling there. You do your best to guide him into something soft, slow in a way that lets him follow your lead. He’s a quick learner, pulling you closer to him as he finds his own footing. 

You get more comfortable, settling in his lap as you kiss him. Something begins to press up between your thighs, his boxers growing tight as you let your fingers tangle in his curls. His hips buck, and you let out a little gasp at the bold move. His tongue darts across the seam of your lips, and you tilt your head, letting him deepen the kiss. 

His arms shift, wrapping tighter around your back as he tugs you closer. Your knee slips along the cushions, bumping into the remote. You both jump apart as a loud infomercial suddenly comes alive on the TV. “Shit,” you mutter, laughing as your forehead falls against his. 

He lets out a rough sigh as your thumb lightly traces his bottom lip. Pulling back, he leans further into your touch, following you. He’s staring up at you, waiting for… something. 

“Maybe we should take this to the bedroom,” you suggest quietly. The magic words, apparently, as he gets up from the couch. His arms are thick, secure around you as he carries you over to his bedroom. 

You lean down, pressing soft kisses to his jaw, trailing down his neck as he walks. You’re easing him into the idea of you. But you’re also trying to placate yourself. It’s a poor attempt to calm the racing beast in your chest. 

Your heart has been pounding against your ribs for the past few minutes. You know, in his own way, he’s not really a client. Certainly not like any you’ve ever done business with before. But your last experience…

Well, it had been your last for a reason. 

It’s hard to forget the kind of pain you’ve gone through, shoved into similar situations like this before. Always at the hand of the same woman. But it doesn’t have to be like that again. Not with Pope. 

He kicks the door shut behind him, turning and pressing you up against it. Your nails bite into his shoulders as he presses his nose to the crook of your jaw. He rests there a moment before slowly making his way back to your lips, just waiting. His shallow breaths fan across your face as you move forward, just enough to finally connect with him. 

Rough hands flex around your thighs before he turns you around, walking you both back to the bed. Your legs slip from around his waist as he lays you down. Your hand trails up into his curls, tugging as his touch skates down your body. Pulling at the zipper of your skirt. You break apart, just long enough for you to peel your shirt off. 

His fingers drag up along your bare skin. Goosebumps break out at the soft touch as he pulls back enough to get a good look at you. You would laugh if it weren’t for that look in his eye, slightly panicked and overwhelmed. 

You’d made the choice to forgo a bra, knowing what you were getting up to today. His attention is unmoving on your breasts, and you let out a little huff. “I don’t bite,” you tease, taking his hands in yours and guiding them up to your chest. “Usually.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, barely even moves. His gaze drags back up to yours, and you give him a little nod. Slowly, he cups your breasts, cold hands making you shiver. It’s been a lot longer than you’d ever tell anyone since you’ve been intimate. 

But… you’re liking this with Pope. For once, you’re not at the mercy of someone else. If anything, it feels like you’re holding the power here. His pleasure is only given if you will it. It’s certainly a feeling you could get used to. 

Your hands drag up his arms, resisting the urge to squeeze those thick biceps, and you draw him back down into another kiss. He’s already learning, softer with his approach, less aggressive. His palms skate down your body until he’s squeezing your waist. You try to pull him closer, legs closing around his hips, and his hands fall to the sheets. 

They flex at your sides as his body tenses. Pulling back, he won’t meet your eye, and you frown at the way his jaw clenches. There’s something sharp in his gaze that has your breath stuttering. You’ve seen the look before. In exes who knew what you used to be. 

That niggling question of whether you were clean? If you were still seeing your ‘clients’? You can’t blame him for thinking it, especially knowing his inclination toward cleanliness. But the hurt never lessens. That slight edge of rejection never gets any smoother. 

“We don’t have to do anything,” you whisper, slowly releasing him. He says nothing, and you sit up on your elbows. “Pope,” you tell him, voice firm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“You want to,” he mutters, finally meeting your eye. Your lips purse as you fight back the ache in your chest. You know that look too. The sudden fear that if you don’t give this person what they want… they’ll leave too. 

You reach up, cupping his cheek, and he falls into the touch easily. “Come on,” you urge, moving up the bed and pulling the sheets back. 

He hesitates, hovering over you and still wondering if he should just do what you want. You pat the spot beside you, and he finally crawls under the sheets. You settle into the pillows, opening your arms to him. 

Pope watches you for a moment, eyes narrowed, before slowly sinking into your touch. Your hand settles in his curls as his head falls against your chest. It doesn’t take him much longer to melt completely against you, not as you play with his hair, nearly falling asleep yourself. 

It’s comforting, in an odd way. Being pressed into the sheets by someone’s weight– but, for the first time in a while, they’re not expecting anything else from you. It’s a man you actually want. Not one that’s paid to own you for a few hours. 

You lean back, drawing him closer as the sun sets through the window. 

Pope is long gone by the time the sun rises again. Letting out a low sigh, you get out of bed, pretending you don’t miss the warmth he’d provided. Your skin is more chilled than you care to admit as you get dressed. 

It’s not as if you’d expected him to stay. Smurf always has him out running errands for her or doing the odd jobs no one else will. For someone who wants her attack dog close, she sure hates having him in the house with her. 

As you slip out of his room, the rest of the house is quiet, save for some clinking coming from the kitchen. Walking in, you grab your purse off the counter. There’s an extra weight that hadn’t been there the night before. 

Smurf stands by the kitchen island, stirring her coffee with that smirk you’d love to carve off her face. “Fun night?”

Sucking your teeth, you straighten your skirt and nod. “It was nice,” you grit out. 

She shakes her head and nods at your purse. Looking inside, you see a thick wad of cash rolled up and tossed carelessly inside. “Good girl,” she mutters, brushing past you. She gives your ass a little pat as she heads toward the pool. 

You bite back something venomous, nails digging into the soft skin of your palms as you take in a fortifying breath. It’s not worth it. 

You storm toward the front door. The anger inside you begins to dull as you start heading back home. You feel dirty. It’s the first time you’ve left a job of hers without someone else's fluids drying between your thighs. Or new bruises on your body. 

Still, you feel cheaper than you have in a long time. 

You want to convince yourself that you needed to do this to survive. You can’t survive off the shitty tips you make at Deran’s bar. And she could ruin your life with the knowledge she holds over you. 

That doesn’t stop you from feeling like scum. 

You’ve gotten better at noticing him before he makes himself known. It’s his stare, you think. It’s so heavy, so intent, it’s almost impossible to miss the weight of it on your back. His gaze is still something predatory to you– not that you don’t enjoy it. But you know better than to think of it as something empty, or compare it to the blind hunger of a shark, like you used to. 

Lifting your head, you offer Pope a small smile as he stalks into the bar. There’s not really another word you can think of for that unique stride of his. 

He brushes brusquely past the customers who are leaving. It doesn’t take long for people to simply make room for him. It's incredibly impressive– and attractive– how he can take control of a room without ever saying anything. Maybe people are just scared of his general energy, but it works. 

He sits at the corner of the bar closest to you. “What can I get ya?” You toss your towel over your shoulder as you make your way toward him. 

Pope fishes out his wallet, tossing too much cash on the counter. “Just a beer,” he tells you, turning to survey the rest of the people here. 

He’s leaning against the bar, but his posture still remains stiff. His eyes never stop watching everyone around him, looking out for possible threats. It’s hard to tell if that’s a result of his time in prison or just a skill inherent to the Codys. 

His mannerisms make you think of a man who should hate eye contact. But talking to him is intense enough to make you short of breath, sometimes. He never takes his eyes off of you, as if he’s one slip up away from being stabbed in the back. You wonder who the last person he trusted was. His sister, probably. 

The longer you meet his eye, the more you see, the worse it gets. Those little flecks of emotion hidden among the hazel, it’s too much for a man who's meant to keep his cards close to his chest. You look away first, reaching for his cash and counting out his change. 

“Keep it,” he dismisses when you try to hand it back to him. 

Your eyes narrow, but you can’t afford to argue. Pocketing the cash, you nod, going to retrieve his beer. “Deran isn’t here,” you let him know, placing the bottle in front of him. 

He wipes at the condensation before fetching a napkin, slipping it under the bottle. “Did you want to leave a message for him?” you ask. 

Pope looks up from the beer and shakes his head. “No,” he tells you. “I didn’t come here to see Deran.”

A smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “No?” you hum, pretending to wipe down the bar so he can’t catch that look in your eyes. The one that will give away too much, too soon. “Just came here for the shitty beer?”

“Exactly,” he mutters, taking a deep swig. Your eyes narrow as he plays along, a slight laugh huffing out of you. His idea of humor is so dry that it almost circles right back to not even being a joke anymore. 

Shaking your head, you move down the bar to top off some drinks. He lingers in that corner, nursing the beer. He owns that section of the bar, even as business picks up and more people shuffle in. They don’t take the stools on either side of him. 

There are these burdens, like shadows, ever present around him. It’s not something everyone can see, but they can feel the energy that radiates off him. That sort of ‘stay away’ warning that you’ve never been particularly good at following. 

It’s rare for you to get through a shift without at least one shitty pick-up line or a drunken slap on your ass. But, with Pope’s stare burning over your shoulder, you have a pretty good night. 

It’s interesting how quick he was to give in to your whims. How fast he now seeks out your company. You wonder: without Smurf’s prodding, would you have been able to lure him in like you had last night? Would he have given in to you the same way?

All this time you could have had him. But you’ve never been particularly good at taking what you want. 

Pope remains in his seat the rest of the night. It takes a herculean effort not to simply close the bar early, knowing what's waiting for you after your shift. His stare is heavy with intent. Still, you control yourself, letting the anticipation drag out for him too. 

“We’re closing,” you tell him, going around the bar and collecting the last of the beer bottles. Pope straighens up and slides from his stool. 

“I’ll wait,” he tells you simply. You linger by the kitchen door before shaking your head with a scoff. You carry the recycling to the back, and when you come back, he’s wiping down tables with the cleaning solution from behind the bar. You don’t object, getting your closing tasks done in half the time with him. 

“You know,” you start, as you count out the cash in the register. “If you wanted to spend time with me, you could have just asked.” He goes still where he’s standing. You offer him a wry grin. “I like being around you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before letting out a low huff. “Most people don’t.”

Your hands freeze as you shoot him a severe look. “Most people are idiots,” you tell him sharply. The corners of his lips twitch, and you sigh. Walking the envelope of cash to the back, you leave it in the safe under Deran’s desk. Out front, Pope waits for you by the door. 

Grabbing your purse from the bar, you catch up with him. He holds the door open for you as you step outside. “So,” you hum. “Your place or mine?”

Pope tenses up beside you as you lock up. “What?” he asks as you turn to face him. His eyes dart down to your lips and you grin. He’s not as subtle as he thinks. 

“Are we going to your place or mine?” you ask again, leaning against the door with your arms crossed. 

You almost expect him to back out or change his mind. He knows who you are, what you were. You haven’t forgotten that moment of hesitation from the other night. You’d be honestly surprised if he wanted anything to do with you. 

“Yours,” he tells you, voice so sure it takes you aback. 

“Alright,” you mutter, slipping past him with a surprised smile. 

Pope drives you to Deran’s place. You live in the apartment above his and Adrian’s home. A fact that you now realize you’ve never shared with Pope. But it’s not like you’ve ever had a reason to invite him over before. 

You lead him up the stairs, his hand in yours as you let him inside. He toes off his boots as you toss your purse on the entryway table. “Want a tour?” you ask, raising your brows. He nods, and you squeeze your hand around his, guiding him through the tiny apartment. 

It’s a decent enough place for somewhere that doesn’t charge rent. You’ve got your own little kitchenette and a depressingly small shower. It’s honestly not all that interesting. Lacking all of the personal touches that make a place home. You’ve learned to live small. 

You lead Pope past everything and take him straight to your bedroom. “Not much of a tour,” he tells you, rough voice teasing. 

You narrow your eyes at him. “Are you really complaining?” You step closer, pressing your chest to his as you wind your arms around his neck. He shakes his head and you push up, lips just brushing against his. “Are you sure you don’t want a better tour?”

He cuts off your teasing with a kiss. For a moment, it’s too harsh. But then he’s remembering what you’d shown him. He backs off, grip loosening around your waist, his touch softening. You take his hands in yours, dragging them down your body and directing him to the button of your pants. He makes quick work of it, helping you out of them.

You’re pushed up against the doorway, his rough palms squeezing your hips while you work on the buckles of his belt. The second you’ve got it undone, he’s kicking off his jeans, pulling away from you to rip off his jacket. Your hands drag down his torso, greedy as your fingers find the hem of his shirt. Lifting it, you eagerly palm the soft muscles of his stomach. 

Pope shudders beneath your touch, and you grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips. He searches for more, but you dart out of his reach, whipping off your shirt and flitting toward your bed. You beckon him forward with a small crook of your finger, and he follows obediently. 

You turn down your sheets, crawling onto your bed and waiting for him to do the same. He climbs over you, lips pressing against yours before drifting along your jaw, moving down your neck. He kneels before you, touch greedy as he palms your thighs. 

It feels like he’s teasing you as he moves lower between your legs. His eyes never leave yours. Your breath hitches at the intensity of his gaze. His fingers play with the band of your underwear before he slowly moves back up your body. 

You let out a soft breath, almost relieved he hadn’t traveled farther. You’re not sure how much of him you can handle at once. It’s been so long since you’ve let yourself be open with someone like this. And even now, you’re hiding things from him. 

You can only take so much at once. 

“Can we do what we did last night?” he whispers, tone hesitant. As if you would say no to that. 

You just nod, reaching up and letting your hand scratch through his curls. You sink back into the pillows, and he follows you. He seems more sure of himself as he sinks into your chest, arms winding around your torso as you both get settled. 

This seems to be becoming a tradition of sorts. You hold him until his breath settles and he falls asleep. Rolling over, you curl tighter around him, letting out a low, sated breath. 

The bed is cold when you wake up. There’s a dip where his body used to be, but he’s gone. Rolling over, you scrub a hand down your face, suddenly aware of how naked you are. Uncomfortable at the AC nipping at your bare skin, you tug the sheets up. 

Glancing over at your nightstand, you see a notification lighting up your phone. A part of you hopes it's Pope. But your heart sinks when you realize it’s a notification from Smurf. A wire transfer of $400 and a little ‘good girl’ memo, just so you don’t forget whose in charge. 

With a low huff, you sink back into your pillows, stomach twisting. How could Smurf possibly know what happened last night? Did Pope tell her? Had Smurf sent Pope to you?

You hadn’t gone home with him last night with a paycheck on your mind. You’d just wanted to be around him. 

Glancing back at your phone, you realize you finally have enough money to go grocery shopping for the first time in a while. 

No going back now. 

You have a tendency to follow Deran along wherever he leads you. Usually, you’re bored and looking for something interesting to occupy your time with. Most of the time, though, you have this feeling of obligation to him. For helping you more than he ever had to or even should have. 

Ultimately, that habit puts you right back at Smurf’s place. No matter how hard he tries–how hard any of them try–they always find their way back to her. There’s something magnetic about her that pulls the boys right into her orbit, even if they know they should have left years ago. 

Deran lounges by the pool while you get some water out of the fridge. You survey the area outside. The party is smaller this time. Likely thrown so Smurf could do business with someone, though you never have much clue what she gets up to. 

The sliding glass door opens, and you straighten up. The devil herself walks through, that familiar smirk on her face. “What’re you doing in here, baby?”

“Just getting something to drink,” you answer, moving out of her way as she gets some food she’d made out of the fridge. “I wanted to talk to you, actually.”

“Oh,” she hums, brows lifting as she motions you on. 

You lick your lips, swallowing roughly. It’s hard to string the right words together. To find that magical combination that will keep you looking like prey in her eyes, rather than another competitor. “You don’t–” Huffing, you start over, forcing yourself to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to keep paying me.” 

She shakes her head, feigning cluelessness and your nails bite into the plastic of your water bottle. “For Pope. I don’t mind keeping him entertained for you, but I don’t want you to keep paying me.”

“Now,” she chuckles, leaning against the counter. “Why would I stop? It’s not like you’re dating him, sweetheart. You’re just doing me a favor.”

Because it's wrong. Because every goddamn person in his life is using him in some way. And you can’t let yourself be someone like that to him. 

“Right, well, I don’t need to be paid for it.”

Smurf smiles, tilting her head as she swaggers up to you. She drapes her arm around your waist, leading you outside. “C’mon, I want you to meet someone.” You want to dig your heels into the floor and stop her, but you don’t have a choice. 

She leads you over to a balding man in an ill-fitting Speedo. There are already three girls surrounding him, each in skimpy bikinis with eager smiles. But that doesn’t stop him from turning his lecherous gaze onto you when Smurf brings you over. 

“Honey, this is Robert. We’re working out some business right now. But I thought I’d introduce him to the girls.” She sets her chin on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear. “Do I need to introduce you to him, too?”

You jerk out of her grip, stomach turning as you take in the other man. “I’ll take the money,” you hiss out, meeting her eye with a sharp glare. 

“That’s what I thought,” she grins. “Go on, enjoy the party,” she urges you along, and you run off to find Deran. You can hear that man objecting behind you. His arms are already full of beautiful women, but he’s still a greedy pig. 

Your throat tightens with nausea as you throw yourself down on the pool chair beside Deran. Why would you have ever thought that would work?

If Smurf stopped paying you, that would be like admitting defeat. She’d be accepting that Pope actually has someone stable in his life. Someone who wants to be with him and around him. It would be admitting that she made a mistake. She had given you permission to enter his life and had given him access to the affection and care she weaponizes against him. 

It’d be like his leash was switching hands. And she couldn’t have you cutting him free; of course she couldn’t. 

You can’t believe you were stupid enough to think she’d conceded so easily. 

“Everything okay?” You jump, the sound of Deran’s voice catching you off guard. 

You force a smile onto your face, shoving down your discomfort. “Yeah, of course.” You motion toward Robert and redirect the conversation. “So, what’s she got planned this time?”

“Fuck if I know,” Deran scoffs. He takes a hit from the blunt in his hand. “She doesn’t tell me shit until she wants something,” he mutters, smoke billowing out of his mouth. 

You hum, but you’re barely paying attention now. Something else has begun to occupy your thoughts. Well, someone else. Glancing over your shoulder, you see him. 

Pope is lingering. That feels like an ill-fitting word for him. Lurking, brooding, stalking, those all fit him much better. Lingering seems so meek for him. Still, you can’t deny, that’s exactly what he’s doing. 

He’s standing just at the perimeter of your space. Not approaching, just quiet in the corner of your vision. As if you might wave him away if he gets too close or takes up too much space. 

It’s a silly worry, but you can see it clearly on his face as his gaze keeps darting back to you. He crosses his arms, pretending to be watching the rowdy partygoers. A smile pulls at your lips; you can’t judge him. You used to struggle keeping your eyes off of him, it’s easier now that you don’t have to pretend. 

Deran lets out a rough sigh, and you force your attention back to him. “What?” you chuckle at the aggrieved look on his face. 

He nods toward his brother. “What do you think? He’s weird but never this fucking weird.”

“Watch it,” you scold, shooting him a playful glare as you toss a sidelong glance at Pope. He’s only a few feet away; you’re sure he can hear his brother being a dick. It’s funny, though, how he acts like he hasn’t been waiting to talk to you since the moment you showed up. 

“Have you guys fucked yet?”

You jump, head whipping back toward your friend. “Jesus, Deran, you make me sound like some sort of whore.” He shoots you a look that makes you laugh. “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

“Oh, are you a lady now?”

“Thin ice,” you warn, shaking your head at him. He holds up his hands, but that shit-eating grin doesn’t leave his face. 

It’s dark by the time Deran passes out on the pool chair. The party has grown louder, and more people have shown up after sunset. You groan as you stand, shooting Deran an amused look as you leave him. He lets out a particularly loud snore as you brush past. 

You glance around the pool for your shadow. He hasn’t gone far. Just retreated into a quieter corner, eyes never leaving you as you approach. “It’s getting pretty rowdy out here,” you whisper conspiratorially as you move to stand beside him. 

He nods, eyeing the party before his gaze inevitably drifts back to you. “Are you not cold in that thing?” He nods toward your bikini, and you scoff. 

You place your hands on his bicep and prop your chin on his shoulder. “Maybe. Do you wanna help warm me up?” 

He swallows thickly, jaw clenching as he watches you. For a moment, you think you’ve finally got him. Then he looks away, rolling out his shoulders so you’re forced to let go. The rejection stings as you back up. “Don’t you have business to attend?”

Your brows furrow as you frown. “What?”

Pope just nods over toward the man Smurf had threatened you with earlier. You let out a disbelieving sigh, a stiff smile on your face as you shake your head. “Seriously?” you demand. Pope says nothing. “I’m not fucking him if that’s what you’re getting at.”

Before he can say anything else, you continue. “And I don’t do your mother’s business anymore. But you can go ahead and say what you’re thinking, Pope. I’m just another whore, right?”

Shaking your head, you move away from him and back toward the house. Somewhere inside, you know that this is irrational. Smurf is paying you. Not just that, but Pope is now your business. He wouldn’t be, if you had one fucking iota of control over your own life. 

But you’re certainly not leading him on with this idea that you’re exclusive just to be fucking someone else behind his back. It hurts that he would think that lowly of you. That after the time you’ve spent together, you’re still nothing more than a prostitute looking for a quick buck. 

You hear footsteps rushing up behind you before someone’s taking your wrist in their hand. Whipping around, you see Pope. He says nothing, just starts pulling you through the party. People part for him; they always do. 

“What are you doing?” you hiss, not making much of an effort to break free. 

He leads you to his bedroom, letting the door close behind him. You can see it, as the sounds of the party fade, his shoulders lose that stressed hunch. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, staring down at the ground, unable to meet your eye. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

Crossing your arms, you shrug. “Whatever. I can’t exactly blame you for not wanting to be with me.”

His head lifts, and he frowns. “That’s not what I meant. I just–” he cuts himself off with a sharp breath. His shoulders roll back as he takes a step closer to you. “I want to be with you. But I don’t share.” 

It took him a second to find the right word before settling on share. You doubt there’s a word succinct enough to say he doesn’t like his women sleeping with other men for cash. “I can’t stand it when you’re around other men. I just–” his eyes are wide with this slightly panicked look, as if he’s afraid of saying the wrong thing. Of pissing you off and having you run, again. 

You surge forward, dragging him down into a kiss. You like this more than you should. That little bit of insecurity in his voice. The slight possessiveness as his hands squeeze around your waist. It’s nice to be wanted rather than scorned for situations far out of your control. 

Your back is pushed gently against his door, and his hands cup your cheeks. Your hands drop to his wrists, flexing around them as he pushes you higher up the door. His thigh slots between your legs as you throw your arms around his shoulders, desperate for some leverage. His leg flexes, and your hips grind down, a soft gasp escaping you as his grip flexes around your waist. 

This is different. More rushed than what you’ve done with him before. There’s intent behind this kiss, especially behind the way his palms drift. He cups your ass, lifting you until your legs are wrapping around his hips. He shuffles you higher up his body, dragging you away from the door. 

Your hands find their way into his hair, grip tightening around his curls, trying to anchor yourself in whatever way you can manage. He lets out a low groan that makes nerves spark beneath your skin. “Pope, what’s gotten into you?” 

You let out a low sigh as he bends, placing you carefully on the bed. He surveys you for a moment, jaw flexing as he debates answering. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs his shirt off, arms and stomach flexing as he does. You reach for the string of your bikini top, tugging it loose. 

You let it sit on your chest, beckoning him closer and guiding one of his hands to the thin fabric. His lips drag down your neck, calloused palm eagerly ripping away your top. He tosses it somewhere behind him, and you sink back onto the bed, letting him take the lead. 

He hasn’t seemed confident in initiating much with you; you don’t want to discourage him now. 

His rough palms travel down your body, lingering at the band of your bottoms. When his wide eyes meet yours, you give him a little nod. He pulls, slowly, until the flimsy fabric dangles  from one ankle, then he settles back over you. 

His fingers skate across your stomach, touch barely there, but just enough to leave goosebumps in his wake. His lips marks a slow, intentional path down your body. He lingers at your chest, careful as he slowly mouths at your breast. 

His eyes dart between yours, like he’s waiting for you to scold him, push him away. You thread your fingers through his hair, nodding. You’re afraid of saying anything, of spooking him out of the moment. 

He sucks once and you tug at his hair, letting out a low whimper as his free hand tweaks your other nipple. “Pope,” you gasp out, spine arching into his touch. 

It’s so faint, so hesitant, you can’t stand how much of a tease he is. His eyes close as his hand wanders, searching. He wants to know how much you want him. Wants to feel it. 

Slowly, he parts from you; you have to stop yourself from reaching for him. His mouth descends until  he’s lingering  between your thighs. You spread your legs wider, making room for his broad shoulders. 

Just like everything else he’s done tonight, he’s tentative at first. A shallow dip of his tongue has you holding back a groan of frustration. You’re not trying to rush him; you want this to be good for him. To feel real. 

But it’s hard. You’ve wanted him for so long, and he’s right there, kneeling between your thighs, and there’s nothing you can do but be at his mercy. 

You tighten your grip around his hair, inching your hips ever closer to his mouth. His large arms wrap around your legs, keeping your back pressed flush to the bed. The corded muscles of his shoulders flex as he finally leans forward. You’re struck by the sight of his thick body pinning you down, the sudden urge to sink your teeth into him overwhelming. 

Instead, you tilt your head back, resisting the need. Your heart thumps fast, anticipation pushing you closer toward the steep edge of desperation. 

Something is flickering inside you, smoldering. A small flame sparked alive by the heat of his breath, catching like wildfire when you finally feel his mouth on you. He doesn’t hold back, ravenous as his hands flex around your thighs. 

A rumbling groan tears from deep within his chest, low and desperate with every swipe of his tongue. The vibrations leave you keening; your hips twitch, but his heavy arms keep you in place. He pulls away, ignoring your wanton mewl.  His hand pinches at your thigh and you look up. The second your hazy eyes meet his, he’s dipping back down. 

You could swear there’s a smile on his lips as his tongue thrusts into you, mouth greedy as he devours you. 

You wonder what he’s like with the women Smurf hires. 

You shouldn’t be thinking about her, not right now. 

But… does he take what he wants? Shove into them and take them until he finds release? Or is he tender with them, too? Reaching hopelessly for some sort of connection, one they’ll give him right up until the cash is in hand. 

You don’t want to be that; you want this. Want him. Want that desperate edge in his eye as he eats you like all he’s ever felt is hunger. Your hand tightens in his hair, a broken moan crawls up your throat as something inside you burns. The heat pools low, spreading to your every limb. Your muscles jump and contract as you squirm beneath his iron grip. 

The jerk of your hips, the sounds that splinter then shatter the moment they touch your lips, the closeness you demand with your fingers threaded through his curls— it all seems to spur him on. He buries his face deeper, tongue relentless as he burrows inside you, and the only thought your mind can conjure is Pope Cody. 

“F-Fuck— Oh, God,” you let out a sharp gasp. Losing all manner of control, you begin to writhe, grinding down on him until the fire burns so hot, it becomes cold. Pleasure crests over your body in waves, leaving you shivering. Your legs twitch, thighs practically closing around his head as his fingers dig into you, ten crescent moons carved into your skin. He doesn’t stop until you tug weakly at his hair. 

He’s panting slightly as he finally lets you go. When he pulls back, loosening his grip, your slick shimmers on his chin, though he doesn’t seem to care. His eyes are dark and dazed, but no less intense, as he watches you struggle to catch your breath. 

Following your gentle pull, he crawls up your body, letting his lips mark a trail as he goes. His rough hands knead and soothe your spasming muscles. 

You drag him into a lazy kiss, palms smoothing down his back as you wrap your legs around his waist. His length sits heavy in his boxers, you can feel it pressing against your hip, the wetness that grows as he flinches away from the pressure. 

Carefully, you push at his shoulders until he’s sitting on the bed. You follow once he’s settled, sliding into his lap.“You don’t have to,” he murmurs, hands hovering over your hips. Like he’s waiting for permission to touch you, despite the scent of you still on his breath or the messy sheen that’s drying on his chin.  

“I want to,” you promise, cupping his cheek and luring him into another soft kiss. Slowly, but surely, his palms find solace on your hips, and he nods into the affection. You rise on shaky legs and help him work his boxers down. 

He notices the slight quiver in your hands and guides them to rest on his shoulders as he lines himself up. You let out a shuddering sigh, lowering yourself onto him. Your breath catches as he fills you completely. He groans when you take a moment to adjust and it’s dizzying. All you want is to hear more. You want to know every pretty sound he can make, so you push him back, your hands sliding down to his chest as you lift your hips. 

It’s tentative and barely anything, you’re still slightly weak from before, but you can feel the anticipation tightening his grip into something almost painful. His fingers flex, like he’s trying to remind himself of control. 

“There we go,” you whisper, more to yourself as you find a steady rhythm. You peer down at him, noticing the clench of his jaw, the white knuckles of his hand. He won’t look at you. His gaze is far-out and set on the languid roll of your hips.

You let your nose trail along his flushed cheek as you wander lower,  pressing an open-mouthed kiss to his jaw. Your lips brush his ear, teeth just barely grazing. “You can touch me, Pope,” you promise. You settle back on his thighs, taking his heavy hands and dragging them to your breasts. “I’m all yours,” you whisper, enjoying the way his jaw loosens, wide eyes finding your own. “Only yours,” you swear.

That severe look softens as you slowly begin to circle your hips again, setting a steady pace. You let go of his hands, falling forward onto his chest as you brace yourself. Pleasure begins mounting again, the feeling of him inside you overwhelming as you pulse around him. 

Your body trembles as you begin to lose your rhythm, walls still fluttering from the feeling of his tongue. You’re too sensitive for this. It’s been so long since you’ve genuinely been with someone without performing that you’ve almost forgotten the right moves. 

Hesitantly, his hips buck, and you choke on your breath, sliding until your lips are pressed against his once more. Your hands drag up his chest, stroking his cheek as he winds his arms around your back. You set the pace, decide the rhythm, but his hips move in time, taking only as much control as you allow him. 

“There you go, just like that,” you pant, breathless as your stomach tightens. The encouragement seems to spur him on, his thrusts speeding up slightly. 

You pull back, biting your lip as you stare down at him. “God, that f-feels good.” His eyes light up, glimmering in a way you haven’t seen before. There’s a low, rumbling sound you quickly realize is coming from him, but it soon fractures into something softer, needier. “You’re doing so good,” you whisper, observing him intently. 

Your jaw drops open when you hear his voice, weak and wanton, stretching thin around a single word, over and over: “Yeah, y-yeah, yeah.” You gasp as he ruts up into you, reaching deeper than before. His movements are rushed, his brows furrowed; you can practically see his control fraying like old twine.  

He hits that spot inside you that has your vision going blurry and your nails biting into his chest as you cling to him. Your moans grow pitchy, drowning out his soft noises. Your attempt at keeping pace falls apart as you curl into him, your eyes shut so tight you begin to see spots whizzing around in the darkness. 

Despite the way you tighten and convulse around him, he keeps moving. Your spine arches, frozen and bowed in his unyielding grip. A drop of sweat rolls down his temple as his hips buck wildly. He’s speaking, you notice, muttering so quietly, your hazy mind can’t latch onto a single word. The only thing you can hear is the tide of raw desperation that rushes through and hollows out his tone. Then, his muscles pull taut; he holds you as close as he physically can, whining brokenly when he can’t drag you any closer. 

Chest-to-chest, you feel the heat of his breath rush over your face as his hips jerk, losing all coordination. Warmth. All you feel is his warmth as his head burrows into the crook of your neck and his length flexes helplessly inside you. 

With his heart thumping rapidly against yours, your fingers carding through his damp curls, you realize you broke your own rule. You hadn’t even thought about using a condom, let alone asking him to pull out. You wanted him. All of him. And now you have it. So you let him soften inside you as he carefully moves you under the sheets. 

You relish the ache in your body, succumb to the exhaustion in your bones. You’re pulled from a dreamless sleep when you feel the wet warmth of a washcloth between your thighs.

After a few moments, the bed dips beside you. Your hand wanders blindly, brow furrowing as you pat at the empty space. You don’t say a word as you grab his wrist, dragging him into your arms, closing the gap between you. He huffs softly—maybe a laugh, maybe a begrudging complaint, you’re not sure. It’s merely a rasp of breath, but it hitches, like it’s caught on something in his throat the second your fingers start to soothe the angry red marks on his freckled skin. Like a vow of surrender, he presses a kiss beneath your jaw, and you sigh. “Thank you,” he mutters, speaking the words into your skin, and you can only hum, pulling him closer. 

Your laughter wakes him up, echoing from the kitchen and just barely reaching his room. It’s a light sound, without the baggage that he’s grown so familiar with. Frowning, he scrubs his hand down his face and sits up. 

Sun spills in through the windows, marking the spot you’d been lying in the night before. His hand runs across the sheets. It’s cold enough that he knows you’ve been gone for a while. It’s an uncomfortable feeling that settles in his chest at the realization. 

It’s probably a sensation you’ve grown familiar with, considering how often he leaves you alone in bed. He hates that every time you’ve woken up and seen the indentation where his body was, he’s left you with this. But staying would be admitting to an attachment that’s dangerous for both of you. 

He throws the sheets back, getting up and dressing quickly. He’s interested in whatever's got you laughing so hard this early in the morning. When he steps out of his room, he shouldn’t be surprised to find his brother sitting with you. 

You and Deran are seated at the kitchen island, cereal shared between you as you laugh at something Deran’s said. His brother has that bored look on his face, unaware of how rare the sight of you smiling like that is. 

Pope’s never elicited a reaction like that from you. The thought makes something sharp and ugly curl in his gut. He grimaces, shaking his head. It’s not like he’s ever said anything worth laughing at. 

Humor’s never been his talent. Most people don’t recognize his attempts; they just stare at him with that look in their eyes. Like they’ve been waiting for him to leave since he walked up. 

You’ve never looked at him like that. 

Pope storms up to the kitchen, and your laughter slowly fades. Something in his chest tightens at that. Your eyes widen at the look on his face, and he sucks in a sharp breath. He snatches up the milk and shakes it at Deran. “Why don’t you learn how to put things back?” he snaps, glaring at his brother. 

Deran shoots him an offended look. The moment’s broken by your laughter. It’s the light kind of sound that usually only his brother earns. Your eyes narrow, and you give Pope a funny look. 

“Did someone wake up on the wrong side of the bed?” you tease. Pope lets out a huff, shaking his head as he puts the milk away. 

“Yeah, with you on the right side,” Deran mutters. Pope glances over his shoulder, whatever he was going to say gone as he realizes you’re dressed in nothing but his shirt. 

You kick Deran under the counter and scoff. “Fuck off,” laughter still lingers in your voice. Pope can appreciate the sight of you like this. Happy, uninhibited. Usually, when you’re over at the house, you always look like you’re one good scare away from running out the door. The work of Smurf, he’s sure. 

He wants to think he contributed to your mood in some way. But he’s never been good at improving moods, just learned not to make them worse. He likes the thought of one day being the reason you have a smile on your face, but he knows it’ll probably never happen. There’s a reason he’s got a poor track record with dating. 

You jump up from your seat, dropping your bowl in the sink. When Pope moves to put it in the dishwasher, you intercept. You throw your arms around his shoulders with a small smile. “Morning, you grump,” you tease, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

His hands hover over your waist, nearly returning the hug, but you’re already moving away. It’s so simple with you, isn’t it? Holding and knowing how to be held. It’s not such a foreign idea to you as it is to Pope. 

He wants to be comfortable with it, with you. But it’s hard to get rid of that feeling, like he’s ready to strip off his skin anytime you touch him so softly. Rougher is easier; it’s familiar. This just doesn’t make sense to him. That you’re around him willingly, that Smurf isn’t just paying you off to keep his head on straight. 

Pope’s still not sure how much he trusts this whole arrangement with you. He knows what you said, about not working, about only being with him. But he’d seen how Smurf had taken you aside last night, that terrified look in your eyes when you’d run off. 

A part of him is worried about what he’ll find if he digs much deeper than the surface. 

Deran lets out a disgusted sigh at the affection and moves outside. He leaves his bowl at the counter for someone else to clean. Pope glares at his brother’s back as you jump onto the kitchen counter beside him. You steal his attention easily. 

Pope could certainly get used to this feeling of someone being so eager to be the center of his attention. 

“What do you want to do today?” you ask, a lazy smile on your face. He knows he's greedy when he wishes he could keep that smile just for himself. To have you in a way no one else does, not even Deran. 

A part of him resents his brother for getting to you first. For being your friend first and making that unofficial claim on your time and presence. 

“You wanted to go to the boardwalk,” he reminds you, even though the idea sets his teeth on edge. He’d hate to be out in the sun surrounded by rowdy tourists and louder locals. But he knows you’ve been wanting to go, and you’ve been doing too many things he’s wanted to do.

Besides, he wants to hear you laugh again. Or get a real, genuine smile out of you. Not that teasing look that's ever-present on your face. 

“Seriously?” you scoff, tilting your head. “Don’t you hate that kind of thing?”

Yes. Pope just shrugs, focusing on cleaning up the mess Deran left behind, hoping you don’t notice the stiff posture of his shoulders or tight look on his face. “How about,” you slip off the counter and sidle up behind him, hand resting lightly on his back. 

“We catch a movie? It’s too hot to be outside, anyway.”

The weather’s perfect for a day out on the boardwalk. But he knows you’re lying for his sake. He should make the sacrifice to make you happy. But it’s surprising how easily you’ll switch your plans to accommodate him. It’s hard to say no to that. 

“Yeah, alright,” he agrees. You smile, turning off the sink and taking his hand in yours. You offer Deran an absentminded wave as you lead Pope outside. He relishes the eye roll his brother sends you. 

Maybe you’d had plans with Deran today. It didn’t really matter, though, because you’d chosen Pope. He’s almost tempted to gloat, but you’re still dragging him along behind you. 

Pope helps you up into his truck. Your phone lights up, and you glance down at it, the smile on your face fading. It looks like a notification that someone’s sent you money, but you’re closing the door before he can get a good look at it. 

He gets inside and watches you carefully. You bite at the skin around your thumb, leg bouncing as you type something out on your phone. His mind shouldn’t immediately go to the thought that it's a client paying you. 

You’d told him last night there wasn’t anyone else. And he knows Deran does his best to keep you away from all that, now. 

His knuckles go white around the steering wheel as he backs out of the driveway. 

Pope has no claim to you; he knows that. Even after all the time you’ve spent together, you still aren’t technically anything. But that doesn’t chase away the barbed feeling of possessiveness in his chest. He told you he doesn’t share, and he meant that. 

He can’t stand the idea of someone else being with you the way he had been last night. It makes something hot burn up in his stomach. The corners of his vision go dark as he glances over at you. 

“Everything alright?” you ask, frowning at him. 

He just nods, sucking in a sharp breath as he turns back to the road. You haven’t given him a reason not to trust you. 

The bell above the door rings out, and you already know who it is without looking. Pope takes his usual seat at the bar, and you grab him a beer. Just like he has the past few weeks, he’ll wait out the last hour of your shift with you and drive you home. You’ll turn on a movie, and Deran will still complain he can hear what you’re getting up to with his brother tomorrow morning. 

You smile at the thought, leaning against the bar as Pope watches you. “No plans tonight?”

He shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. “Smurf wanted me home for dinner.” He purses his lips, glaring down at the bar. “I don’t want to deal with that tonight,” he mutters, meeting your eye again. 

“I feel so special,” you tease, forcing the smile to stay on your face. 

But your heart is racing, adrenaline spiking in your blood. You do actually feel special that he would choose you over Smurf. But it’s worrying. You’ve never been a threat to her before, not really. 

All bets are off when it comes to Pope. She’s so terrified of what he could do if he stopped idealizing her in his head. If you begin posing a threat to her position with him, she won’t hesitate to take you out. 

Trying to distract yourself, you go back to topping off drinks and wiping down spills. You head into the kitchen to fetch a customer’s food. By the time you come back, there’s someone else waiting by the bar. 

It’s a tall man in a pressed suit with the posture of someone who holds themself in high esteem. Cop, you figure. Spend enough time with the Codys or working the jobs you used to, and you get good at sniffing them out. This one’s probably a detective based on that expensive watch he’s wearing. 

He’s eyeing Pope warily, probably well aware of his place in the Cody family. You’re sure they’re a hot topic at the station. “What can I get you?” you ask, walking back behind the bar.

A fool’s hope that he’s here for a shitty beer. He’s not even sitting down. Probably afraid to get a stain on his pants from Deran’s secondhand stools. The detective offers a smarmy grin and says your name. You hum, nodding. 

“I was wondering if you’ve seen this man?” He digs around in the inside of his blazer and pulls out a picture, sliding it across the bar. You bite your lip, innately aware of the stare burning into the side of your head. It takes all your self-control not to look over at Pope. 

Your stomach drops so violently that you worry you might throw up as you stare down at the picture. You recognize that face. Green eyes framed by wrinkles from a life filled with laughter. Blonde hair that had been going gray the last time you’d seen him. Tears line your eyes as you stare down at the image. 

You suck in a sharp breath, blinking a few times before looking back up at the detective. “Can’t say I have,” you tell him, plastering on a smile. “Should I be looking out for him? Did he do something?” You play the “concerned citizen” role well, but not well enough. 

He’d caught you off guard, sent you stumbling from that reminder of the past. 

The detective sucks his teeth, smile tightening at the edges as he shakes his head. “That won’t be necessary. His name is Joseph Barker. He was murdered three years ago. The case has been closed, but some new evidence recently came to light that has us reopening it.”

“Oh,” you hum, eyes wide with naivety. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective pulls out his wallet, takes out a business card, and places it down. “I want you to keep that,” he tells you, nodding to the picture. “And call me if anything… jogs your memory.” His eyes cut toward Pope before he swiftly leaves the bar. 

You let out a low breath and lean against the counter, head falling between your shoulders. “What was that?” Pope asks, breaking through the quiet. 

You lick your lips, picking up the card and picture. “Nothing,” you mutter, throwing them both in the trash. You turn around to Pope with a tight smile on your face. Shrugging haplessly, you just tell him, “I have no idea who that is. Ever heard of him?”

Pope stares at you for a long while. Long enough to make your skin crawl with the paranoia that he sees right through your long list of lies. Finally, he shakes his head. “No. I haven’t.”

“Weird,” you mutter, voice cracking around the word. You have to turn away from him. Scrubbing a hand down your face, you suck in a deep breath, willing yourself to get it together. His stare feels like a judgment weighing heavily on you for the rest of your shift. 

Pope’s mind is usually filled with a dozen different thoughts. What Smurf wants from him, worrying about his brother’s fucking something up, reminders of past failures. Lately, the new addition to that has been you. He normally likes his thoughts of you. They break through the rest of the noise and give him a chance to breathe. 

But his mind is jumbled up around how you’ve been acting. You’re barely ever looking away from your phone. Teeth always tearing through the skin of your nail beds until they bleed, uncaring as you frantically message someone on the other side of the screen. 

You’re jumpy and less touchy with him than you typically are. He has a hard enough time initiating with you, but you’ve been making it even worse by flinching at anything and everything. 

He was worried before; it’s only gotten worse since that detective stopped by the bar. You’ve withdrawn into yourself completely. You’re always quiet, with this look in your eyes that tells him you’re somewhere else completely. 

His worry is a poor excuse for what he’s doing right now. But there’s no one around to judge him but himself, and he’s never had particularly strong morals when it comes to protecting those he cares about.

Pope’s been following you all day. Trailing behind you in his truck, watching you run your errands and flit about town. You’ve never noticed him, not once. Which is worrying enough. He’s not been particularly subtle. Almost hoping that you’ll catch him so he can just confront you. 

He’s parked across the street from the gas station you’re at. Arm propped on his window as he watches you run inside. A sleek black car pulls up and parks beside yours. Pope frowns, shifting in his seat to get a better look as the detective from before gets out of the car. 

Detective Benson— he found out the name after he’d fished the man’s business card from the trash. He did a bit of digging into him. He typically handles the more Wall Street cases. Helps businessmen cover up their illicit affairs and bad investments. It makes sense that he’s got this Joseph guy's case. But Pope can’t figure out the connection back to you. 

He sits up as you come out of the gas station, reading your receipt and unaware of your surroundings. Benson walks up to you, cutting you off before you can get in your car. Pope can’t hear anything that’s being said, but he can see the shock on your face. How quickly it morphs into fear as you look around for an escape. 

You were lying to him. 

He knew that at the bar. You’d looked like you were on the verge of tears after the detective left. And he’s not blind. Pope knows you’d recognized the picture Benson had given you. But you weren’t willing to open up to him. 

You look flustered as Benson starts talking to you, holding up your hands and shaking your head. You try to escape back to your car, but he stops you, stepping in front of you and grabbing your shoulders. 

Pope shifts in his seat. He doesn’t appreciate just how comfortable this cop is getting with you. His hand is on the door handle, almost tempted to head out and help you. But you already look calmer, head hanging down as you nod. Benson backs off, pulling out his card again and handing it to you. 

You take it without objecting, lifting your head to watch as the detective drives off. Pope can see you thinking, your foot tapping as you stare down at the card. He’s willing you to turn around and throw it away. To just forget about the cop. 

Instead, you pinch your nose, shaking your head as you put the card in your purse and climb back into your car. 

Pope’s seen enough. He sucks in a sharp breath, white-knuckling the steering wheel as he pulls out and away. The information he needs, he isn’t going to get from you. 

He drives back to Smurf’s place. And he knows that he should have just come to her to begin with. But he’s cagey about you. She knows he’s spending his nights somewhere else now. Somewhere away from her. 

He hasn’t told her about you. Going to her, asking about this Joseph guy, he knows it’s going to point right back to you. But you’re not talking to him, and he doesn’t know what else to do. 

Pope lets out a rough sigh, scrubbing his hand down his face as he parks. He’s trying to think of anywhere else he could go. Anyone else he could talk to so he can figure out what your connection to a dead man is. But he knows what you used to do for his mother, who you were. She knows. He’s sure of it. 

He slams his truck door closed, storming up the front steps. He can hear her in the kitchen, making dinner. He’d forgotten she’d called a family dinner tonight. The last goddamn place he wants to be is surrounded by his family while he’s dealing with this shit with you. 

“Hey, baby,” she calls, glancing over her shoulder with a sharp smile. “Where you been?”

Pope leans against the counter, jaw flexing as he shakes his head. “Nowhere,” he mutters. She narrows her eyes but doesn’t question him further. “Do you know a Joseph Barker?”

Smurf frowns, tilting her head as she thinks. “Yeah,” she smiles at him and nods. “Yeah, I do.” She says your name, and the way her smile sharpens has his chest tightening. “He was her favorite. Something happened between them. Haven’t heard from him in years.”

Smurf shrugs with a helpless smile, but he knows she hasn’t been helpless a goddamn day in her life. “Not my business to tell, baby. Now, help me set the table.”

He takes the plates she hands him instinctively, going to arrange the table just like she asked. Her words ring through his head. Your favorite. He hadn’t realized escorts had favorite clients, but he guesses it makes sense. 

Doesn’t matter that the man’s been dead three years; something ugly and sharp still burns hot through his chest. He slams the plates down harder than necessary, thinking about you having a favorite anything. 

You’ve done everything she asked. 

And you did your job too damn well. That’s why she’s punishing you. It has to be. She wanted you to entertain Pope, keep him occupied, and stop him from spiraling. You did just what she asked. 

You entertained him, cared for him, provided him with the sort of affection she saves up until he’s desperate for any form of contact. Until he’s practically broken. You’ve done your best to stop him from breaking, and that’s exactly why she’s doing this now. 

Smurf is bringing ghosts back, sending the cops on your trail so you remember just why you’re so afraid of her. It’s what she has on you that has kept you so compliant for years. 

You were only meant to entertain Pope. Not become something to him that has him skipping family dinners and ignoring Smurf’s calls. You’ve created this gap between her and him that has her trying to scare you into submission now. You’re so certain she’s the reason “new evidence came to light” on Joseph’s case.

But you have no idea what you’re supposed to do. There’s nowhere you can run, not now. You’ve never been particularly good at covering your trail. She’s the one who’d taken care of everything. Sworn that it was over and done with. 

You pace your living room, biting at your lip and trying not to break down. What the fuck are you going to do now?

Someone knocks on your front door, and you nearly scream. Clutching your racing chest, you turn toward it, debating not answering. Maybe it’s that detective again. Coming by with more questions. 

He’d got you at the gas station today. Tricked you into admitting that you knew Joseph. He got in your head with all that soft bullshit about wanting to help you—– you just had to be honest with him. You’re fragile, and you’re fucking stupid, slipping up like that. 

“It’s me,” Pope calls from the other side. You can’t tell if it's relief or panic that has your stomach swooping. 

“One sec,” you call, voice cracking. Grimacing, you rush up to the door, opening it up for him. “Hey, thought you had a family dinner tonight?” Your smile is tight at the edges, crumbling under the weight of your panic. 

You know your eyes are wide, expression bordering on desperate. You just don’t know if you’re desperate for him to stay or leave. In some strange way, he terrifies you. He sees so easily through all your lies and defenses. He knows something is wrong with you, but he hasn’t probed. And that’s what's scary. 

Because if he hasn’t felt like digging deeper, then what does he already know?

“Left early,” he tells you, stepping inside. Your forehead falls to the door, and you suck in a trembling breath as you try to get your shit together. 

With a quiet exhale, you turn around. His back is to you as he takes in the mess of your living room. A result of your earlier breakdown this morning. “Did you need something—”

“Whose Joseph Barker?” His voice is rough, eyes sharp as he turns to face you. Your nails bite into your palms as your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You flounder, back pressed to the door as you shake your head helplessly. 

Pope huffs, crossing his arms as he glares at you. He’s not easing up in the slightest. “I talked to Smurf. I know he used to be one of your clients. You lied to me.”

“I—” your voice cracks, and you feel your chest heave as you drag in a breath. “I had to,” you mutter, pinching your eyes shut as you fight back tears. “Please, Pope, I don’t want to do this right now.”

“Too bad,” he snaps, voice making you jump. 

Why is he here?

Did she send him?

“You lied to me. I want to know why.” He stalks closer, and you dart away from the door, trying to put as much space between you as you can. Your eyes flit over his body, the way he pauses as he watches you run. His hands— loose at his sides. 

You would be able to tell, wouldn’t you? If he was going to hurt you. You want to think you would know. But it’s Pope… As much as you think you mean something to him, you will never be Smurf. 

“I couldn’t tell you the truth, Pope, okay? I still can’t.” You want him to leave. But you’re too afraid to say that. Your hand shakes at your side as you watch the way he blocks your door. He’s probably not even doing it on purpose, but it feels like the goddamn walls are closing in on you. 

He looks away from you, lips pursing as he sucks in a sharp breath. “Smurf told me he was one of your clients. That something happened—”

“God,” you scoff, cutting him off. “Are you really gonna trust a goddamn thing that woman says?”

His eyes flit back to you, and he shakes his head. “How am I supposed to know what to believe?” There is something so painfully broken open on his face. The sort of pain that’s only caused when someone you care about lies to you. And you’d done that. Repeatedly, you’ve lied to him about everything in your relationship. 

Your head drops as you rub your hand down your face. You can’t look into those hurt eyes of his for another second, or he’s going to break you open completely. “Okay,” you whisper, voice breaking around the word. 

He takes a step closer, but you can’t handle the proximity. Not while it feels like your ribs are seizing around your lungs. You shake your head, backing up and pacing away from him. “I knew him, okay? He was my client, you’re right.”

Pope watches as you pace, brows drawn in. Something guarded falls over his face. “She said he was your favorite.”

You pause, eyes lifting back to his. He can’t seriously be jealous of a dead man. “Yeah,” you scoff. “He was my favorite. That doesn’t mean a whole lot in my line of work. He didn’t hurt me, alright?” Not at first, anyway. “And I appreciated that.” Something flickers in his eyes, anger on your behalf that you’re not interested in. 

You look away from him, throat tightening as you try to find the right words to explain what happened. How it all went wrong. He takes a step closer, and your eyes dart warily to him. “Tell me,” his voice is softer now, a pleading edge to it. 

Sighing, you take a seat on your couch. He hovers beside you, waiting until you motion him over. He leaves some space between you, eyes intent on your face. “He was the first client Smurf ever assigned me to.” 

Licking your lips, you shake your head. “And the reason I needed Deran to get me out. It was… good, at first. I was still new, still fresh to the game. It was harder for me to remember that being with him was a paycheck. He made me laugh, and he never made me feel bad about who— about what I was.”

You finally look up; Pope hasn’t taken his eyes off you. His arm is draped over the couch behind you, his hand placed in his lap. But he’s tilted toward you, resisting the urge to touch you like you know he wants to. To try to ground you the way you do for him. 

“I killed him, Pope. What do you want me to say?”

You wait for it. The flicker in his eyes, the shock, maybe a little fear—though, you doubt he’s afraid of you. Something that registers just how despicable a creature you are. He tilts his head, “Is that it?”

You let out a sharp scoff, staring at him in disbelief. “Is that it?” You jump off the couch, whirling around on him. He remains seated, staring up at you with pensive eyes that make you so angry for some reason. “Pope, I thought I loved him, and then I fucking killed him. What do you mean, is that it?”

“Why?” He prods. 

“Why?” You let out take in a deep breath and forcing yourself to calm down. “Does that even matter?”

“Yeah,” he shoots you a sharp look, finally getting to his feet. “It matters. Tell me why.”

You can’t quite meet his eyes, staring down at your hands. It’s jarring, thinking about that night. You’ve done your very best to forget as much of it as you can. He finally reaches out, taking your hands in his own and stopping you from picking at any more of your skin. A little bit of blood blooms around the edges of your nail, and you grimace. 

“He wanted to play a game. I said I didn’t like it, but he insisted. And… He wouldn’t stop when I told him to. I got scared, really scared for the first time since I’d been with him. I forgot that he was paying for my time, that I really didn’t deserve a say. I grabbed whatever I could reach, a fucking pillow of all things, and I hit him.”

You clench your eyes shut as you think of it. “It caught him off guard, and he fell over. Knocked his head on the edge of the nightstand. I just watched as he spasmed on the floor, as blood started pooling under him. I didn’t know what to do, so I…”

You suck in a sharp breath, your confession a whisper. “I ran.”

What you don’t tell him is how you called Smurf, told her what happened. She’d told you to leave the key to the room under the motel’s mat. That she’d take care of it. You never knew what she did with the body. But you’d been so panicked, you didn’t question why she wanted to deal with it herself. Why didn’t she just tell you to deal with it? 

You still don’t know what it is she has over you. An admission of where you were that night? Pictures of you and him together? Or maybe, just your DNA on the body. Whatever it is, it’s had you on a tight leash, tethered to her for the past three years. And if Pope knows about that, you’re afraid of how deep he’ll dig into your relationship with him. Of what he’ll find out if he goes looking. 

“Do you think someone can be forgiven?” You ask, looking up at him. “For hurting someone they love?”

To your surprise, his eyes water slightly as he stares down at your hands. “Pope?” you question, dipping down to try and catch his eye. He blinks a few times and sniffles, looking away from you. “What happened?” you ask softly. 

He shakes his head. “Nothing,” he tells you. 

Your eyes narrow as you glare at him. “You think I don’t know that look? What happened?”

He sucks in a shaky breath and purses his lips, finally meeting your eye. “I don’t think I can be forgiven,” his voice cracks around the words, and you tug him closer, dragging him down into a hug. 

He presses his cheek to your shoulder, arms tight around you as his shoulders shudder. “I killed Cath,” he mutters, voice muffled against your skin. Your eyes fly wide, and you struggle not to tense up beneath his touch. 

“Smurf had told me she was talking to the cops, and I— I killed her. I hurt her,” his voice is breaking down, and you can feel your heart pounding against your chest. You hold him tighter against you, a shield so he can’t pull back and see the terror in your eyes. 

You’ve always been afraid of what he’s capable of under Smurf’s command. But in some—ridiculously stupid—way, you’d thought there were exceptions to how far he would go for her. You should have known better. 

Pope never stood a chance against that woman. She’s had her nails dug in since he was a baby, promoting the idea that there was no room in his life for any other woman but her. You thought love, real love, would stop that, but you were wrong. 

He cries as you hold him, and you grimace. Would he do the same to you if she told him to?

This was a reach for normalcy, you’re sure. 

Things between you and Pope have been off ever since you told him about Joseph and he told you about Cath. The pair of you are practically perfect for each other: always hurting the people you love. 

Things with him feel more intense now. Like you’ve shared these secrets, and there’s no going back. You’re both stuck with each other. You wouldn’t mind it if you just didn’t know about Cath. More specifically, if you didn’t know that he had been in love with Cath when he killed her.

You don’t judge him for it, not in the way you should. You’ve seen how Smurf gets into her sons’ heads; you see how she used to hurt Deran with her expectations of him. 

But he knew how to break away from her, at least marginally. Pope never got that chance. At each and every opportunity for a positive influence in his life, she cut it off. Even if that meant being the reason her own daughter was dead. 

To try and settle yourselves from the tension and the perception shattering reveals… he’s taken you out to dinner. It’s a nice restaurant; you’ll give him that. Nicer than where you typically go. The menu isn’t cheap laminated plastic, and your elbows don’t stick to the table. 

You’re surrounded by happy couples. They’ve either got rings on their fingers, or that content look in their eye that they’ve found the right person to spend their life with. The place is perfect on paper. 

But you aren’t. 

You’re unsettled, scared, and incapable of sitting with your back to the door because you’re so afraid of who could come up behind you. Smurf has gotten into your head with all the investigation bullshit she’s been throwing at you. As much as you want to enjoy this with Pope, you can’t. 

You’re too busy thinking about whether or not she’s fuming that he’s not at home right now. Is tonight the night she turns you in? Or tells him to hurt you?

Sucking in a sharp breath, you force yourself to focus on the menu. You can feel Pope’s stare burning into you, but you can’t find the energy to meet his eye. 

“Do you like it?” He suddenly asks, probably about the restaurant. 

You force a stiff smile on your face and nod. “It’s nice,” you mutter, unable to come up with anything better. His expression tightens, and he narrows his eyes at you. “Really, Pope,” you let out a stiff laugh. “You did good.”

That’s not enough to make him feel better, but he accepts it, at least. The waitress comes up, and you don’t even know what you order, just blindly saying whatever Pope did. The table is quiet as you eat. You’re one of the only couples in the place not whispering to each other or getting lost in each other’s eyes. 

He doesn’t prod, which you appreciate. After dinner, you take his hand and lead him down from the restaurant to the beach outside. You sit down on the sand, enjoying the way the moon’s light reflects off the waves. 

He settles beside you, arm pressed to yours, and watches the water wash across the sand. “Can I ask you something?” You rest your chin on your knees, turning toward him. 

“What?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the water. 

You think of something Deran had once told you, about Pope being a nickname. “What’s your name?”

Pope lets out a little laugh, turning toward you. “You don’t know?”

You click your tongue with a disappointed sigh. “I thought it was Pope for a while, honestly.” 

He leans in close, tone almost teasing. “Why’re you asking now?”

“Because I want to know you, not…” Not the man Smurf made you into. “Humor me?”

The slight smile he’d had slips from his face as he turns back toward the waves. “Andrew,” he admits, his voice soft with what sounds like vulnerability. Something guarded falls over his face, and you look away. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, testing it out. He turns toward you, and you can tell he likes how it sounds on your tongue. “So… Where the hell did Pope come from?”

That earns a laugh from him. You grin, turning to catch his eye as he looks over at you. His smile fades slightly as his lips twitch, shoulders hunching up. “When I was younger, I started going to church. I didn’t really know what to do with myself, and I figured if anyone could help, it would be God.”

He sniffles and looks away from you, gaze distant as he stares out at the ocean. “I got close to one of the priests at the church. Smurf and Baz found out. They made me use that connection to rob the place.” His voice cracks slightly as he continues, but his expression remains guarded. He doesn’t want you to think it still affects him. 

“He tried to stop us, and I beat him with a fucking bible,” he scoffs and shakes his head. “They’d always called me Pope. For being… different. It just stuck after that.” 

Bile burns in your throat as you watch him, but he won’t look at you, not now. After everything he’s told you, does he really think that’s what's going to scare you off? It just makes you hate Smurf more. 

You wish you could have known him when he was younger. That you could have helped him in any way. But he never really stood a chance. 

“I like Andrew better,” you whisper, leaning your head on his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, just presses his head to yours, taking in a deep breath as his body goes lax under you. 

You can’t keep this up much longer. 

Pope wakes up to a message from you, asking to talk. His chest tightens as he takes in a short breath. He hasn’t had a lot of normal relationships, but even he knows that’s never a good sign. 

Pocketing his phone, he pinches his eyes shut, shaking off the feeling and heading into the kitchen. Smurf stands by the oven, flipping pancakes. “Breakfast is almost ready, baby,” his lip curls at the pet name. 

He’s not particularly interested in spending the morning with her. It’s been harder to stomach being around her after he learned about what you’d done to Joseph. There are these questions bursting at the seams of his lips. 

The type of questions that would only lead to trouble for you and him. 

Smurf turns from the stove and offers him a saccharine smile. She says your name, catching him off guard. He turns toward her with narrowed eyes, and that smile grows cruel. “Have you seen her around lately, baby?”

He clears his throat, shaking his head as he reaches out to straighten the plates she’d put out. “Why?”

Smurf lets out a little laugh and shrugs, plating some fruit and pancakes, passing it off to him like he’s a child incapable of getting himself his own food. There’s such a confusing divide between how she treats him and what she expects from him. Infantilizing him while demanding perfection. 

“I, uh, I got a business associate I’d like her to meet.” She offers a conspiratorial wink that makes his stomach sour. “He’d have some fun with her,” she mutters. She glances up through her lashes at him, just waiting for him to take the bait. 

Pope’s hands tighten around the edge of the counter as he glares down at his plate. “Is she still working for you?” he asks, voice strained. 

Smurf tilts her head with an obviously forced look of confusion. “Didn’t she tell you? I’m sorry, baby, I thought you knew.” 

Pope knows better, at this point, than to blindly believe her. Smurf does this with anyone he starts to get too close to. He’d like to believe he’s been subtle about you, good at keeping you behind closed doors. But she knows. She always knows. 

And she always finds a way to make him start to doubt. To make him start questioning what he thought was real. He doesn’t want that to happen with you. Not like it did with Cath. Not like…

Not like Julia. 

“I’m not hungry,” he tells her, voice strained with barely restrained anger as he storms out of the house. Her smirk bores into his back as he goes. 

You weren’t still working with her; you’d told him that. And after finding out what happened with Joseph, he doubts that you would ever willingly go back to that life. You don’t need to, either. You have him now; if you were struggling, he’d take care of it. Take care of you. 

He gets into his truck, knee bouncing as he stares out the windshield. After debating for a moment, he pulls out his phone. He swipes to the location app he’d installed, the same one he’d added to your phone when you’d been in the bathroom the other night. 

Your icon pops up… driving right toward some scummy motel off the highway. 

His chest seizes as he stares down at the address. Smurf’s words echo through his head. He knows she’s lying, that she’s just trying to get under his skin. But that doesn’t stop the images that start barraging his thoughts. 

Thinking of… someone else getting to touch you, to be with you. 

You choosing someone else… 

Something white-hot and furious floods him, has him peeling out of the driveway before he can really think about what he’s about to do. 

He follows the app’s directions toward you, not stopping until he’s parked at the far entrance of the motel. It doesn’t take him long to spot you. You’re still in your car, biting your nail as you stare down at your phone. 

Your eyes are frenzied in a way he’s never seen before on you. Everything about you seems off-kilter. This is a new low for you, he hasn’t ever seen you get to this point before. Not even when you were telling him about Joseph. You must be scared, then. You must know that this is wrong. 

And, still, he watches as you get out of the car, sucking in a deep breath before turning toward the stairs. Pope sits there. He should be getting out of the truck, dragging you back to your car, and demanding to know what you think you’re doing. 

But he doesn’t, because he’s willing you to turn back around. To change your mind and drive off. You don’t. 

He’s practically cucking himself as he watches you knock on one of the doors. A man opens it, close in age to you, and relatively good-looking. Not the type that should be in a scuzzy place like this. 

Pope opens up his glove compartment, pulls out the gun inside, and tucks it in the waistband of his jeans. He has no thoughts as he throws open the truck door, no plan for what he’s going to say to you to explain his presence. He’s not going to tell you he’s been tracking you. Clearly, you’re hiding things from him, too. 

Just as he gets out, the motel door closes. You move inside and stand in front of the open window. He waits a moment, but you take a seat at the table. The man sits across from you. Neither of you makes a move toward the bed. Instead, you seem to be talking amicably with him. 

Maybe this is another one of your “favorites.”

The thought leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. 

The man you’re with slips something across the table to you. You grimace, glancing around. You seem to just be noticing the open curtains. Jumping up, you’re quick to pull them closed. Pope can just barely make out your silhouette behind them. 

He glances down at his watch with a sigh. You get two minutes, and then he’s coming in. Pope leans against his truck, eyes trained on the scummy door. The waiting is agonizing. Two minutes shouldn’t feel this long to him. 

You might not be meeting a client right now, but it’s clear that you’re still hiding something from him. He thought that after he’d told you about Cath, that would be it. You would realize you don’t have to hide anything from him anymore. He’d given you information that could end him if you wanted to. 

Checking his watch, he starts toward the stairs just as the door opens. “Shit,” he hisses, ducking back behind his truck. You walk out of the room with a little wave to the other man. You don’t look disheveled; your clothes don’t look like they’ve been put back in a rush. He lets out a sigh, but relief doesn’t lessen the pressure of his chest as he takes in the large yellow envelope in your hand.

Your head lifts, brows furrowing as you look around the parking lot. Pope ducks and moves behind his truck. He waits before popping his head back out. You’re already getting back into your car. 

He keeps his gaze intent on you as he pulls out his phone, dialing your number. He sees through your window as you jump, glancing down at your phone with a grimace. After too long hesitating, you answer. 

“Hey,” you offer awkwardly. He almost wants to smile at the way you shake your head at yourself. 

“Where are you?” He asks, getting into his truck as you start your car. 

He hears the way you swallow, fingers bouncing against your steering wheel as you sigh. “Grocery store, why?”

Why is it so easy for you to lie to him?

His jaw tenses as he works to control the tone of his voice. “You said you wanted to talk,” he grits out. 

“Uh, yeah. Not on the phone, it’s kind of a lot.” Your head falls back onto your seat as you let out a heavy breath. “Are you free tonight?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I’ll see you later.” He hangs up before you can respond, tossing his phone into the other seat. You frown down at your phone for a second before pulling out of the parking lot. He starts his truck, intent on following you when someone messages him. 

His fingers drum against the steering wheel, staring after you, before he finally picks his phone back up. Smurf’s name is the last thing he wants to see. 

Come home. 

Now. 

Of course, she doesn’t tell him why. She calls, he comes. That’s just how it works. That’s just how it always works. 

Pope throws his phone back and turns in the opposite direction you went. Right back to Smurf, ever the obedient son. 

“I was in the middle of something,” he calls out as he storms into the house. He’s expecting Smurf as he heads into the kitchen. But J standing beside her is disconcerting. Especially that look he’s got on his normally stoic face. 

J meets Pope’s eyes, and he swears there’s an apology in them. The oddity of it tames some of the anger broiling inside him. 

“You’re going to want to hear this,” Smurf tells him, lacking that normal saccharine tone she lays on too thick. 

Pope freezes, eyes darting between the pair before slowly nodding. Smurf lets out a low sigh, though he truly doubts this is hurting her as much as she’s pretending. Slowly, she slides a piece of paper over to him. He’s annoyed by the drama of it all and glares over at J before flipping it. 

His nails dig into the counter as he looks down at a picture of you. You’re standing in front of the police station, hand on Detective Benson’s arm as he stares down at you. It certainly looks damning. 

“Are you following her?” He grits out, eyes flitting up to meet Smurf’s. 

Her expression hardens as she scoffs. She glances over to J, but he looks less than enthused about involving himself. “You’ve had bad taste in women before, but this is a new low, baby.” Pope shakes his head, passing the picture back to her. 

“You know why they’re looking into her. That doesn’t mean anything.” It feels petulant to argue about this with her. He always feels so childish butting up against her because she is so good at making everything he says small. 

“Michael, one of my old associates and one of her former clients, was arrested today. Someone sent in an anonymous tip about his more illicit business practices. His warehouse got raided. And I’m supposed to think it’s a coincidence your girlfriend just happens to be talking to cops, right now?”

“It wasn’t—”

“I’ve been keeping an eye on her,” J interrupts. “She’s been around the cops, man. A lot for someone who seems so scared of them.”

Pope leans against the counter, letting out a low groan as his shoulders hunch over. He shakes his head. “No. It’s not like that.” But he doesn’t even know if that’s true. He doesn’t know if he can trust you not to hurt him. Not to hurt his family. 

You’re desperate, and you’re feeling cornered. People have done worse for lower stakes than avoiding a murder charge. 

“Why wouldn’t you come to me?” He asks Smurf, eyes cutting over harshly to J. A warning to keep his mouth shut if he doesn’t want it shut for him. 

Smurf takes a step closer, and Pope backs up, watching her warily. She tilts her head with a sympathetic sigh. “Has she not told you, baby?”

He sucks his teeth, shaking his head. “Told me what?”

Smurf makes a disparaging noise that sets his teeth on edge. “I’ve been paying her to keep you company.” His chest tightens, and he jerks back, wishing J weren’t here right now. It’s bad enough Smurf is saying this to him; he doesn’t need a goddamn audience. 

He wants to object; he knows that's not true, and she just keeps going. “She’s not your girlfriend, baby. She’s just another whore who will do anything for the right price. And now, she’s someone we need to take care of. I’m worried about you, Pope. You knew she was talking to the cops, and you didn’t come to me?”

Pope has nothing to defend himself with. He doesn’t even want to. He just stands there, lungs tightening with pain as he tries to catch his breath. She was paying you to be with him. 

Was anything with you real?

“Are you still with us?” Smurf asks, tone biting. 

“What?” Pope croaks out, ignoring the way his eyes have begun to burn. 

“You knew that someone close to you— close to me was going to the cops. And you didn’t say anything. Are you going to let this girl, a nobody, hurt your family? You’re going to let her get away with this?” 

Smurf and J both stare at him with these expressions of betrayal. It’s muted in J. The kid holds everything so close to his chest; it’s the exact opposite of how Julia had been. And Smurf… she’ll say anything, do anything to make him hurt. Because for once, he’d been paying someone else more attention. Giving you more priority. 

But you’d just been another one of her girls. Playing the long game to keep him docile. 

“I’ll take care of it,” he whispers. 

Smurf glances over at J before leaning in close to Pope. “Just like Cath, baby,” she mutters, and something inside him snaps. 

He lets himself in with the copy he’d made of your key. It’s better if he doesn’t give you a chance to prepare. There’s a shuffling in your room, the sound of frantic footsteps as you rush from one side of the room to the next. 

Pope slowly makes his way through the apartment as he takes in the wreck you’ve made of it. Drawers opened and emptied. Random pieces of paper scattered throughout, sheets and blankets tossed around the living room. It looks like someone came through and raided everything. 

He walks into your room and watches you rip out all the clothes from your closet. You turn away from it and catch sight of him standing in front of your door. “Jesus!” You shout, jumping back, clothes falling to the floor. 

Letting out a laugh, your eyes widen and dart toward your bed. He follows your gaze, sees a suitcase open on the floor. That yellow envelope you’d gotten from the motel right on top. He looks back at you as you rush over and kick it to the side. 

“I thought you’d call first,” you deflect, giving him a flustered smile. It’s strained, shadowed by the panic in your eyes. When he doesn’t say anything, the smile falls. “Did I leave the door unlocked?”

Pope takes another step into the room, and you eye him warily, but you don’t back away as he expects. You move closer, face creased with concern. He doesn’t know if you’re worried for him or about him. He thought he knew you, thought he could read you. 

You loved proving him wrong, apparently. 

His hands flex at his sides, the gun in his waistband a heavy weight on his back. He doesn’t know why he brought it. Probably because Smurf was watching him, expecting it. Pope knows he could never look in your eyes and pull the trigger, even with how much you’ve lied to him. He’s too weak. 

Too pathetic. 

“Have you been talking to the cops?”

Your brows furrow, and you nod. Easy admittance makes him doubt you. Everything you’ve done up to this point makes him doubt you. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to get that detective off my ass.”

“Have you taken on other clients?” He demands, not letting you have a chance to tie your story together. 

“No,” you take a step forward, but the look on his face has you stopping short. “Andrew, why are you asking me that? You know you’re the only person I’m seeing.”

“Your only client,” he corrects, watching as your face falls, panic blanketing your features. “Smurf told me. Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” He demands, stalking toward you. To your credit, you don’t back down. 

Your eyes crinkle like you want to cry, but you don’t run away. “You’re lying to me. Again!” He snaps, voice rough as he sucks in a shaky breath. 

You bite your lip, swallowing thickly as you shake your head. “Please, I am begging you to listen to me. I love you, Andrew,” he jerks away from you as you reach for him. But you don’t stop, rushing forward and taking his face in your hands. He could fight you, but he lets you redirect his gaze back to yours. 

“I didn’t have a choice,” your voice cracks as you grimace. “Smurf, she would have made me take on more clients if I didn’t take the money. She—” you bite your lip, and your voice softens into something painful. “She knows about Joseph, okay? She took care of the body. She’s the one sending the cops after me.”

His hands come up to cover yours, and you smile, but then he’s pulling away from you. Eyes narrowing as pain seizes his chest. “You lied about that, too?”

“No, I— Fuck,” you groan, dragging your hands down your face. 

“How am I supposed to trust anything you say? I’ve followed you,” Pope admits. There’s no shame in him as you look at him in surprise. “I saw you at the motel today. Who were you meeting with if that wasn’t a client?”

“I can explain that,” you rush out, breathless as you turn toward your suitcase. You grab the yellow envelope, your hands fumbling as you pour the contents out on your bed. There’s a stack of cash, some cards, and two passports that scatter across your comforter. You pick up two of the cards and turn back to him. 

“Smurf isn’t just idly threatening me with this Joseph thing, alright? So I’ve been meeting up with old friends and contacts. Trying to put together enough to get out of here.” He looks at you with hurt in his eyes. 

You were running… 

He shouldn’t be surprised. 

“But,” you hold the cards out to him. “I’ve been waiting for you.” Glancing down, he sees they’re new IDs; one of them has his picture on it. “I thought we could go together,” you rush out, a manic smile on your face as you nod. 

“You weren’t going to leave me?”

You suck in a sharp breath and shake your head. “No, I swear. I know I haven’t given you a good reason to trust me, but I wouldn’t do that to you. Andrew, please, just look at me.”

He grits his teeth, finally meeting your eyes. A few tears run down your cheeks as you wait for him to say something. But he doesn’t know what he could say to you. He remembers when Smurf sent him after Cath. 

She’d told him that she’d been talking to the cops. That she was putting the family in danger. And he had done what she’d wanted. He’d killed Cath, the woman he was in love with. He can’t—

It makes him sick to think of pushing you down on the bed, to put a pillow over your face as he’d done to her. His hands twitch at his sides as you reach up, cupping his cheek. “I love you, Andrew. And you don’t have to believe me, okay? But I wouldn’t leave you, not without telling you first.”

There have been a lot of women in his life who have said they’d loved him. He used to believe Smurf when she said it, until it started to feel empty. Until it became something that hurt him. He’d believed Julia, and then he’d left her. Cath had never meant it. 

But you do. 

“I can’t,” he mutters, pushing away from you and shaking his head, dragging his hands through his hair. “No, I can’t.”

“Andrew, please.” He wishes you wouldn’t call him that. It’s too soft, too good for what he deserves. “What’s wrong?” Pope looks back over at you, that glint in your eye. You can’t be scared, can you? He wouldn’t hurt you. 

You reach out to him, and he falls into you easily, cheek pressed to your shoulder as he tries to get his breath under control. “I need to tell you something,” you whisper. 

“Don’t,” he mutters, turning, pressing his head into the nape of your neck. His arms squeeze tight around you, trying to keep himself grounded in your touch. Your arms drape low around his back, and he feels your fingers graze the handle of the gun in his waistband. 

He can feel the way your body tenses under him, breath stalling in your throat. The gun isn’t for you. Why did he bring it?

“I’m pregnant.” 

It’s his turn to go still. You hold your breath as he slowly pulls away, eyes watery as he glares at you. “Are you lying?” he chokes out, unable to take any more deceit from you. 

You shake your head, pulling away and running off to your bathroom. He’s left right where he’s standing, stunned and in disbelief. You can’t be. Can you?

It’s not as though either of you has ever been particularly picky about using protection. And he hadn’t ever bothered asking if you were taking anything. His stomach twists itself into knots as you walk back toward him. You hold something out, and suddenly he’s staring down at a positive pregnancy test. 

“Oh,” Pope lets out a rough breath, doubling over as he tries to get his head under control. There’s too much racing through it. Too many different commands urging for his attention. He drops to his knees, unable to meet your eye. 

“Andrew,” you whisper, taking a step closer and running your hand over his hair. His head falls onto your stomach, hands finding their way to your hips as he shakes his head. 

He can feel you trembling beneath his touch, breath shaking as you cup the back of his head. “Please,” you beg, “don’t do what Smurf wants you to.”

His head shoots up, but you’re not looking at him. Your face is pointed toward the ceiling like you’re trying not to cry. Getting to his feet, he cups your cheeks, forcing you to look at him. 

He knows what Smurf wants, what’s expected of him. You’re a threat. A threat to her. To the family, just for knowing what they do. He has failed so many people he loves, but he’s never failed her. 

Pope can’t do to you what he did to Cath…

To Julia. 

His head drops, forehead pressing to yours. You let your weight rest on him, taking in shaking breaths while his eyes drop to the new IDs on the bed. “I won’t,” he swears. 

You’re on a hotel bed, expression bored as you watch Andrew. He’s sitting at the table, knee bouncing slightly as he reads through a magazine he picked up at the grocery store. It’s clearly marketed toward women with its swooping, pink font. But the pregnant woman on the front, the 50 tips for an easier pregnancy! has completely stolen his attention. 

There’s a bottle of prenatal vitamins by his elbow, and the dingy hotel fridge has been stocked with food for the past few weeks. He’s settling into this lifestyle a lot faster than you are. You miss your apartment above Deran’s place. You miss your shower and your bed. 

But Andrew had told you it was too risky to stay there. So he’d taken your suitcase and brought you to a decent hotel with “luxury” accommodations. You’re financing the stay for now. Just while he works on compiling savings in an account not attached to Smurf’s name. 

Your phone was trashed. A burner shoved in your hand instead. You hadn’t even gotten a chance to say anything to Deran. Andrew thought it was too much of a risk. 

“Are you feeling sick?” he suddenly asks, looking up from the magazine, brows pinched. 

“Huh?” you mutter, turning away from the crappy soap you’d put on TV. 

He gets up from the table and moves to sit beside you on the bed. He’s closer than he typically would be, eyes roving your face like it’ll give him the answers he’s looking for. “Do you feel sick at all?”

You glance down at the page of the magazine he’s on, catch the words “morning sickness blues,” and grin. “I’m fine.” You promise, taking his hand in yours. He squeezes your palm, moving closer. “I don’t think I’m far enough along yet to be worrying about that.”

You actually don’t know how far along you are, period. Amongst the worry of running from the cops, escaping Andrew’s mother, and the general hell your life has turned into… 

You haven’t made the time for a gyno appointment. You’re sure that if Andrew weren’t so worried about Smurf discovering you, he would have already dragged you to one. 

Letting go of his hand, you get up to go to the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you the entire five feet it takes you to get there. You’re quick to push the door closed, back pressed against it as you suck in a deep breath. 

He’s doing his best, you know that. Every day, he tells you that this is all temporary. He just needs time. Time to make a plan for you both. Time to get the proper amount of funds for your escape. 

Time, time, time

There doesn’t seem to be enough of it lately. Each day grows shorter, the walls shrink around you, and it’s harder to catch your breath. He’s settling well, his toothbrush beside yours on the sink, spare clothes folded in the dresser. 

He’s adapted to this like he could live in this hotel forever with you. Always keeps your shoes by the door, complains when you move them, and he trips on them. Keeps food stocked in the room and bought sheets that are actually comfortable to sleep in. As if this is just the home you’re going to share with him now. 

But you’re cracking around the edges. Every day that you don’t have a deadline for when you get to leave pushes you one step closer to the edge. He says it’s temporary, but it’s getting harder to believe him. 

Scrubbing your hands down your face, you move toward the sink, splashing cold water over your cheeks. He’s been fussier since he learned you're pregnant. He always looks like he thinks you’re going to keel over. As if being pregnant makes you this new, breakable thing. It’s slightly aggravating, but you understand where he’s coming from. 

Stepping out of the bathroom, you find he’s right where you left him. Posture stiff as he continues flipping through that ridiculous magazine. You walk over, snatching it quickly from his lap and dropping it on the nightstand. “You know all of this is bullshit, right?” you tease. 

He only narrows his eyes at you, arms crossed as he huffs. “You should try reading some of it.”

You crawl into bed beside him, scoffing. “Are you calling me a bad pregnant lady?”

“No,” he mutters, immediately making room for you beside him. Even how he holds you at night is different, now. You’re not just you to him anymore. Suddenly, you’re carrying his child, too, even if you’re not showing. 

You settle with your back to his chest, his arms wrapping securely around your front. He sleeps on the side closest to the door. Always still slightly awake, just in case. 

Your hand drifts down, taking a hold of his and letting out a soft sigh. He shifts, pressing himself closer. “How much longer do you think we’ll be here?” you whisper, afraid to break the peaceful quiet. 

“Until I can get some things together.”

He’d said that last week, but you don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. Instead, you roll over, wrapping your arms around him as you let out a tired sigh. His arms tighten around you, cheek pressed to your head as you let the droning sounds of the TV put you to sleep. 

“What’s that?”

Andrew looks up from the groceries he’d been unloading. He shakes his head, and you point to the box on the table. “Cereal,” he tells you bluntly. 

“Yeah, some weird whole grain shit,” you sigh as you pick up the box. It proudly promotes whole grains, fiber in every bite, and absolutely no added sugar. Eating the box would taste better. 

Andrew stalks over with a sigh, taking the box from your hands. “It’s healthy. You need to eat more fiber.”

You shoot him an affronted glare. “You’re a doctor, now?”

He straightens up from the groceries with an aggrieved sigh. “Diet is important.” The stern look he shoots you goes unappreciated. 

“I resent that,” you pick up the cereal and shake it at him,  “and I resent this.” He shakes his head, undeterred by your complaints, as he continues to display all the healthy options he picked up today. You’re really starting to miss sugar. 

You wonder what he would think if he knew you went down to the hotel lobby and loaded up on soda and junk while he was out. 

Moving toward the dresser, you’re digging around for a pair of socks when you notice something plastic rattling around. “What…” Moving aside some of Andrew’s pants, you see a pacifier and baby bottle hidden beneath his clothes. 

Unable to stop yourself from smiling, you pull them both out and turn toward him. “A little early for this, isn’t it?”

He straightens up, glancing over at you. His jaw tenses as he lets out a rough sigh. “They were on sale.” He tells you bluntly, striding over and taking them from you. You can’t help but snort as he carefully places them back in the drawer. 

“Anything else you’re hiding in there?”

He pauses, and you don’t really expect him to answer. But then he opens the top drawer and moves aside some shirts. Beneath are three parenting books. Each with stupider names than the last. “Wow,” you whistle. “You’re making me look bad.”

He’s quiet for a moment before frowning. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

Your chest tightens as you look him over, that slightly unsure tilt to his lips. “You won’t,” you tell him, squeezing his arm and offering a soft smile. He just nods; you’re not sure he actually believes you. Clearing your throat, you try to break up the tense moment. “Besides, you’re definitely taking this a lot more seriously than I am.”

The look he gives you is tired. You’re just pointing out what he’s already been nagging you about. “You’re pregnant.” As if you need reminding. 

With nothing to do in this tiny room, you walk over to the bed, throwing yourself on it and grabbing the remote. The magazine from the other night is still on the nightstand. You glance over at it, thinking about the baby bottle and whatever else he’s bought in the dresser. 

“You know, that said not to start buying anything until after the first trimester,” you tell him, nodding toward the magazine. “When the risk of a miscar—”

“I know what it said,” he interrupts, glancing over at you. “It was just… It was on sale,” he mutters, not meeting your eye. His shoulders hunch as he reorganizes the pantry area he’d created. 

Guilt sours in your stomach, and you shift uncomfortably on the bed. “Sorry, I wasn’t trying to…” the words won’t come. He looks too uncomfortable for you to keep prodding at what you’re sure is one of his biggest worries right now. That anything might happen to you or the baby.

Your hand rests over your stomach, lips curling as you glance down at your complete absence of a bump. “It doesn’t feel real,” you muse. “I guess that’s why I’m not taking it more seriously.”

Andrew pauses what he’s doing, glancing over his shoulder at you. “I just keep thinking about when we’re going to get out of here.” He looks down at that, and you sigh. “Soon,” you mutter, before he can feed you the same empty promise he has been. 

“Look,” he gets to his feet, but his phone starts ringing on the table. You can see his name from where you’re sitting. Deran lights up the screen, and your stomach sinks with guilt. You wonder if he’s worried about you or if he just thinks you’re another unfortunate soul who slipped through the cracks. Andrew glances between you and his phone before picking it up and walking out of the room. You can hear him answer just as the door closes. 

Grabbing the TV remote, you spend a few minutes channel surfing before settling on an old sitcom. By the time you’re done, he’s coming back. He lets out a short sigh, jaw flexing as he tosses his phone on the table. 

“What was that?” you ask, motioning him over. He follows obediently, settling beside you on the bed. His back is stiffer than normal, shoulders tense as he stares blankly ahead at the TV. “Andrew?” you murmur, reaching up to run your hand through his hair. 

Andrew sinks easily into the touch, finally looking over at you. “Deran says he and Craig have a job. One Smurf’s not involved in.” Your heart rate picks up, and you try not to let your excitement show too much. “Could be enough,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. He doesn’t seem convinced. 

“That’s good,” you remind him, keeping your voice soft. He just nods, not seeming like he’s truly present with you. With a sigh, you tug on his shoulder slightly. He moves easily, sinking further onto the bed as he lowers his head on your lap. His hand comes up to wrap around your thigh, more grounding than possessive in his intent. 

You let your hand smooth over his curls as you sink back into the pillows. “This is good,” you remind him, ignoring the worry that tightens your gut when he says nothing in return. He just settles closer to you, and you have to let yourself be content with what you have.  

Waking up alone has become foreign to you. Andrew doesn’t like leaving without you waking up first. Which, you’re sure bugs him on the days you’re particularly slow getting out of bed. Today, the spot beside you is cold; the shape of his body is still indented on the sheets. 

It takes you a moment to remember the job he’d told you about with his brothers. He didn’t have time to wait for you today. You throw back the sheets and let out a low groan, rubbing your back as pain shoots up your spine. 

God, you miss your bed. 

These hotel slabs were just making you stiffer every day. Glancing over at the table, you see he’s quite pointedly left out the fibrous cereal for you. Scoffing, you slip on your shoes and run down to the lobby. 

They have a little store full of grab-and-go snacks. With your warden out today, you grab all the junk you can carry and take it back up to the room. There’s really nothing you can do to pass the time besides turn on the TV and stuff your face with as much processed sugar as you can handle. 

You just have to make sure to hide the wrappers before he gets back. 

You make sure to keep an eye on the clock all day. There’s never a guarantee how long a job will take. That’s dependent on the materials they need, the plans they lay out, and whether or not the job requires patience rather than rushing in for a quick cash grab. 

Andrew hadn’t deigned to share any of the details with you, so you're left in the dark. 

You toss away the wrapper to a honey bun—that may have been expired—and feel your eyes begin to burn from staring at the same screen for so long. There's a sharp pain in your stomach, and you let out a groan, doubling over as you press down on the ache. 

Spitefully consuming a bunch of processed junk might have been really stupid. 

Grimacing, you get up and head to the bathroom. There’s another sharp pinch, and you let out a low gasp, grimacing as a cold pain shoots through your body. “Jesus,” you hiss out. 

Approaching the toilet, you pull your pants down and pause. It’s hard to tell; your underwear is a dark blue. But…

Yeah, just there is a little bit of blood. 

Your stomach swoops as you jerk your pants back up and rush toward the bed. You rip the magazine off the nightstand and flip through until you find the pregnancy section. 

It takes a few minutes of scanning, your foot tapping restlessly as you do, before you find what you’re looking for. “Spotting is completely normal in your first trimester!”

Letting out a low breath of relief, you almost laugh at yourself. You wish you could, but then you see that little asterisk next to the sentence, and your eyes drop to the bottom of the page. 

*You should always consult your doctor if spotting is accompanied by any sharp pain or abdominal discomfort. 

The magazine slips from your hands as you grab your phone off the bed. A million thoughts race through your head before everything just comes to a stop. All you can think about is that stupid superstition of not buying anything until the second trimester. Because what if… 

What if you lose it?

A cold panic spikes through your blood; it chills you down to your toes. And it’s not even for you; it’s hardly for this baby. Because this still doesn’t feel real to you. It’s not something you’ve gotten to know or love. But suddenly it's something you could lose. 

And it’s Andrew you’re thinking about. His face as you tell him you lost the baby. 

Shaking the thoughts away, you dial his number on the burner he gave you and wait. It rings for a minute before you hang up and try again. Your foot taps impatiently against the floor; another sharp pain digs its nails into your stomach and rips. 

Letting out a groan, you clutch your gut, kneeling on the floor while you dial him again. Halfway through, you finally remember that he’s not going to answer. Not while he’s on a job. 

That’s probably why he’d been acting so off last night. He can’t afford any distractions during a job. Meaning no phone and no you. You bet he was thinking of a situation just like this one. Where you need him, and he can’t get to you. 

“Fuck,” you hiss. You throw your phone on the bed and turn toward the hotel’s landline. You jam your fingers into the numberpad, calling the front desk. It doesn’t take long to connect, but you can barely get the words out through the pain you’re struggling to breathe through. 

You ask them to order you a cab and force yourself off the bed. It’s a herculean effort to get downstairs and in the lobby. From there, it’s kind of a blur. It’s not until you’re in the waiting room at the hospital that you realize you left your phone in the hotel. 

“Shit,” you hiss, head falling back against the wall. 

“How are we feeling today?” 

You look up from your hands and glare over at the doctor who walks in. It’s rude, the look on your face. But how the fuck does he think you’re feeling?

“Not great,” you snap, eyes narrowing. He offers a polite smile and sits down on his little chair. He picks up a clipboard one of the nurses had left behind and scans over it, muttering to himself. 

“Um,” you clear your throat, trying to catch his attention. “Am I… okay?” 

It’s hard to get yourself to say the word miscarriage out loud, as if you’re going to manifest it into being somehow. Pursing your lips, you wait for him to respond. He holds one finger up with an impatient huff, and you scoff. 

With a sigh, he places the clipboard down and offers you a placating smile. “Good news is, everything’s a-okay with the baby!” 

“Thank god,” you mutter, curling into yourself as you let out a shaky breath. There’s another sharp pinch of pain in your stomach, but you ignore it for now. You’re not sure you would have been able to look Andrew in the eye and tell him–

You don’t have to worry about that now. 

Rubbing your eyes, you shake your head and look over at the doctor. “What’s wrong with me, then?”

He rubs his chin and considers you. “Pregnancy is always stressful, but would you say there’s anything that’s been making things harder for you?” You don’t even get to answer before he barrels on. “Is the father in the picture?”

“Yes,” you tell him, more defensive than you should be. Maybe because Andrew seems to care more about this kid than you do. When you can get out of that damn hotel room, that’s when you’ll let yourself believe this is real. 

“And, yeah, I would say I’m more stressed than normal.” Having your former pimp and the cops after you really isn’t great for your blood pressure. 

He purses his lips, “Spotting is normal in the first trimester. And I think you might be suffering a bit of indigestion, hence the stomach pain. But I want to be careful. I’m going to have you stay here overnight so we can monitor you.”

Panic spikes through you. As much as you hate the hotel room, being out in the open after spending so many nights sequestered inside is worrying. There’s no reason for Smurf to ever show up here, but paranoia isn’t logical. 

“Is that absolutely necessary?”

“For the safety of you and your child, yes,” he tells you, that jovial tone leaving him as he gives you a stern stare. 

Letting out a rough sigh, you nod. “Alright. But is there a phone I could use? I need to call someone.”

He nods, getting up and holding the door for you. “There’s a payphone in the hall. I’ll have a nurse come and get you when a room opens up.”

You rush past him, heading toward the payphone. Rifling through your pockets, you manage to find enough change and push it into the slot. Picking up the phone, you bite your lip, trying to remember the number to Andrew’s burner. 

With a grimace, you type it in and pray you’re right. It rings for a while before you’re connected to his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me, um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–” the phone beeps before the line goes dead. 

“What the hell?” you mutter, trying to see if you have any more change. Fuck. You didn’t even get to tell him everything was fine. You let out a loud groan, leaning forward and letting your head thunk against the wall. 

He’s going to have a goddamn heart attack.  

Pope stands around a table with J and his brothers. There’s stacks and stacks of cash in front of them. More than J had even predicted. “Alright,” J has a smile on his face, relieved his plan actually worked out. It’s still odd to see the kid look anything but solemn. 

This newfound desire of his to start leading jobs, making plans, puts him on edge. There’s something off about it all. He’s been too busy with you to give that problem the attention it deserves. Something to be worried about later. 

“We’re taking a cut now,” J tells them, picking up a stack of cash and throwing it at Pope, then Deran and Craig. “I’m going to take the rest and…” he trails off, eyes cutting toward Craig. The one who could really screw this up for them all if he gets in the right mood. “I’ll take care of it,” he mutters. 

Pope counts through the cash quickly. A couple thousand, probably. It doesn’t feel like enough. Not if he wants to be able to find you both a place to stay, finance both of you completely starting new. And then he’ll need extra for the baby’s stuff in a few months. 

“I need more than this,” Pope tells J. 

Deran’s brows furrow as he shoots his brother a strange look. He says nothing, though. Instead, he nods, “I do too. I need to redo the kitchen at the bar.” He holds up the cash and shakes his head. “This isn’t going to cover it.”

J’s eyes narrow into slits, but he can’t object as his brothers start eagerly taking more money. When Pope’s satisfied with the amount, he nods at the kid. “Alright,” J snaps, stopping Craig from pocketing any more. “That’s enough.” he shoots Deran an aggrieved look. “Will that be enough?”

Deran cuts his eyes toward Pope before looking back at the kid. “Yeah, should be,” he tells him. J lets out a heavy sigh and starts bagging up the rest of the money. Pope takes his own cut and moves away from the table, pulling out his phone. He powers it back on as Deran moves toward him. 

“Hey,” Deran greets, eyeing him warily. Pope barely lifts his eyes to greet him. It’s only when Deran says your name that he catches Pope’s attention. He keeps his face carefully neutral. “I was wondering if you’ve seen her around? She just left the apartment a wreck a few weeks ago, and I haven’t seen her since.”

Pope’s about to answer that he cut you off once Smurf told him what you were doing for her. But his phone’s back on and the notifications he missed are popping up. His heart drops as he sees the missed calls from you. 

He walks away from Deran immediately, already heading toward his truck. Deran calls his name, but he isn’t listening. He tries dialing your number, but it just rings through until going to voicemail. Pick up, he thinks, gut twisting as he gets in his truck. 

He scrolls through the missed calls and sees an unknown number. Frowning, he clicks on the voicemail. “Hey, it’s me.”

His head falls against the steering wheel as he sucks in a deep breath. You sound fine, thank god. 

But then, you just have to keep talking. “Um… I’m at the hospital, the baby–”

Pope’s head whips up as the voicemail ends. His fingers are frantic as he replays the message. But there’s nothing more. Whatever you used to call him just cut out. His hands tighten around the steering wheel until he can hear the leather creak. 

He throws his phone in the seat and peels out of the driveway. It’s a blur as he drives to the hospital. There are so many thoughts swirling through his head, drowning out anything else, that he can barely breathe. 

He hadn’t wanted to go on the job today. He knew that he needed to. That this is more than enough for the two of you to get out of town and get somewhere safe. But he shouldn’t have left you alone. He knew that, and he still did it. 

He’s just incapable, isn’t he?

Incapable of becoming attached to anyone, of caring for anyone, without hurting them. 

He’d done everything right. He’d kept you safe and hidden. He found those prenatals at the store that the books all said were good for the baby. Smurf, for once, doesn’t know one of his secrets. And he still managed to fuck it up. 

Pope has to force himself to slow down as he pulls into the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t want to hear you finish your sentence when he sees you. Doesn’t want to know that superstition in the magazine is followed for a reason. 

At the very least, he can hold onto the fact that you sounded okay. You were still good. But he wouldn’t blame you if he was the last face you wanted to see right now. 

Striding into the hospital, he beelines straight for the front desk. The nurse behind the counter offers him a soft smile. “Can I help you?”

He gives her your name, “She called me from here earlier.” His nails bite into speckled linoleum as she types your name into the computer. “Is she okay?” he demands, unable to stop himself. 

Her eyes barely lift from her screen. “Give me a moment, sir.”

“I just need to know if she’s okay,” he repeats, trying to keep his voice steady. He’s been impatient before. When CPS first took Lena, he couldn’t cope. Had lost his shit at the office and had to rely on Smurf just to see her again. 

He can’t do that again. He can’t keep messing this up with you. 

The nurse offers a strained smile. “I understand, sir, but I don’t have that information right now. What’s your relationship to the patient?”

His mouth opens before he goes quiet. “Um,” he glares down at the floor. What are you? “She’s carrying my baby,” he settles on, nothing else fitting right next to the idea of you. 

The nurse nods, typing something before letting out a sigh. “Alright, looks like she should be okay for visitors. Just log in here, and you should be good to go back. It’ll be the third door on the left.”

Pope just scribbles on the paper she passes him, taking the visitor’s pass and racing off through the door to his left. He’s counting under his breath until he’s in front of the third door. It’s closed, and the blinds have been shut against any prying eyes. 

He sucks in a shaky breath, bracing himself for whatever he’s going to find on the other side. He’s never been lucky before. Baz always told him no one would ever want a baby with him. He had a point. Pope’s not… right. He’s not good for anyone, especially not for himself. Why would his luck suddenly change with you?

He has no other choice but to push the door open. 

Reruns of some old show are playing on the TV on the wall. And you—

You’re sitting on the bed with your legs folded, eagerly eating a pudding cup as you watch the show. Your head lifts as the door opens, a smile flitting across your face as you see him. It drops at whatever expression he’s wearing right now. 

“Hey,” you greet softly. “Stop lurking,” you tease, but it’s weak as your brows crease with worry. 

He takes one step inside, letting the door fall closed behind him. He can’t find the right words or the right questions. The magic words that will get you to tell him if everything’s okay. “Are you…” He trails off, coming to your side, hands flexing out toward you. He stops himself, checking over you, trying to find anything that’s visibly wrong. 

The possibilities of what could have happened to land you here are overwhelming in their intensity. Too many at once to possibly try and verbalize it. 

“I’m fine,” you tell him, reaching out and lacing your fingers through his. You tug his arm until he’s sitting on the bed beside you. You put the pudding on your nightstand and take his other hand, pressing it to your stomach. “Everything is fine.”

The relief is so staggering he feels ill. You let out a quiet laugh as his eyes fall shut; he feels like he can breathe for the first time since he left this morning. “C’mere,” you mutter, tugging him forward until his cheek is pressed to your shoulder and he’s squeezing his arms around you. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and he shakes his head, fingers flexing in the thin fabric of your hospital gown. “That stupid payphone cut me off. I wasn’t trying to scare you.”

“I wasn’t–”

“Whoops! Don’t mean to interrupt.” Pope jerks back as the door to your room opens. You let out an annoyed huff, keeping your hand in his as he turns to see a doctor walking in. “The father, I presume?”

“What happened?” He demands, something about the doctor’s tone rubbing him the wrong way. 

“Well, I think a lot of the pain was caused by indigestion.” Pope frowns, glancing over at you, but you won’t meet his eye. “However, in your blood work I noticed a high level of cortisol and your blood pressure isn’t where I’d like it to be.”

Pope just stares at the man, waiting for him to continue. The doctor lets out an aggrieved sigh, but it's you he gives a sharp look. “You’re too stressed. Especially this early in the pregnancy.” Your hand tightens around Pope as you shift uncomfortably in the bed. “Some lifestyle changes will need to be made.” His eyes dart to Pope before he shakes his head. “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

The door closes behind him, and you take in a heavy breath. Pope can’t think of anything to say, eyes cast down at the blanket. It’s his fault that you’re so stressed, that you’re even here. He knows that. He promised to get you out of that hotel room weeks ago. But he’s been stalling, selfish as he enjoys this time with you just to himself. No outside interference, no one to take away your attention. 

He got you here. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. It’s not enough, but he doesn’t know what else he can say. 

He waits for it, for you to take his hand, to tell him it's okay. You’ve done it so many times before. You’re so indulgent, so forgiving; he doesn’t deserve to expect it. But, God, he wants you to just tell him it's not his fault. 

“I can’t live like this anymore,” you tell him, and he can’t find it in himself to turn around and face the truth. Not right now. “Andrew,” you call, “look at me.” 

His hands dig into the blanket as he looks up at you. There’s nothing soft on your face, now. You seem severe; the circles beneath your eyes are darker than ever. You’re worn down in a way he hasn’t seen before. 

“I can fix this,” he promises, and if you didn’t believe him, he wouldn’t blame you. He’s so good at fixing problems for his family. At being the one they call to clean up their messes. But he’s always been horrible at fixing his own. 

Your eyes flit down, and you nod. Silence permeates the air between you. He hates it, but he doesn’t know how to fill it.  

The door to your room opens, and you know who it is before he walks in. Andrew hasn’t really left your side tonight. Despite your many assurances that you really are okay and you’ll be able to leave tomorrow. 

Luck was on your side, though. He stepped out to use the bathroom, and you had enough time to call someone. He’ll probably be back before Deran has a chance to leave, but it’ll be too late by then. And the both of you need Deran’s help. 

“Good to know you’re alive,” Deran tells you, voice flat as his eyes narrow on you. 

You grimace, “I’m sorry, Deran, really.”

His eyes fall shut as he pinches at his nose. He stands at the end of your bed, refusing to come closer. Shrugging, he shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels. “It was Smurf, wasn’t it?”

Your eyes fall to your lap, and you nod. “Why didn’t you just come to me in the first place?” he asks, taking a step closer. 

“It wasn’t that simple,” you mutter, looking up at him. His brows are pinched in concern. Deran’s done a lot for you since you’ve known him. He’s certainly been more selfless than his family ever expected him to be. 

You know you’ve been shitty, hiding everything from him. But it already feels like you’re wrecking Andrew’s life. You didn’t feel like you could drag Deran down with you both. Not when he had worked so hard to help you clean your life up. But you don’t have any other choice now. 

“Alright,” he shakes his head with a scoff. “Then make it simple. You move out, I don’t hear from you for weeks, and suddenly you call me up to tell me you’re in the hospital. You gotta give me something, here.”

You let out a bitter laugh, “How’s this?” He shakes his head, waiting. You force the words out, “I’m pregnant.” 

Deran’s face falls; he takes a staggered step toward you as the door opens behind him. His head whips around as Andrew walks through. Andrew’s expression goes tight when he sees someone else standing next to you. 

“There’s the dad,” you offer weakly, trying for a joke and failing miserably.

Andrew closes the door behind him, eyes narrowed on his brother. “Why is he here?” He demands, looking at you. You can tell he’s holding his temper back. But it’s been on a short leash, already. You don’t want to risk making things worse. 

“He can help–”

“You knew where she was?” Deran demands, taking an angry step forward. Andrew doesn’t back down, expression twitching as he straightens up. “I asked you, man.”

Cody anger is volatile. It’s quick to spark and worse to quell. You can see it, swelling between them. Deran doesn’t take much to get going, he reaches out, shoving Andrew back. You grimace as Andrew grapples with him, trying to get him to stop before you’re all kicked out of the hospital. 

“Deran!” You snap, eyes darting toward the windows and praying no one looks inside. 

“You lied to me,” he shouts at Andrew, face growing red. 

“I couldn’t tell you,” Andrew barks back. 

Desperately glancing around the room for anything to stop them, your eyes land on the empty pudding cup. You snatch it up and throw it at the back of Deran’s head. He flinches at the impact, head whipping around to face you. 

“Enough! Jesus fuck, Deran, I’m in the hospital because I’m too stressed. This isn’t why I wanted you here!”

Andrew still has a hold on him. Deran glances between the pair of you, expression turning embarrassed. He shoves his brother’s arms off of him and reaches up, trying to smooth back the hair that's fallen in his eyes. 

“Then what the fuck do you want from me?” 

At the same time, Andrew asks, “Why is he here?”

They both shoot each other severe looks that have you grimacing. It would have worked out a hell of a lot better if Andrew had just stayed in the bathroom. You scrub your hands down your face and let out a rough exhale, shoulders hunching. 

“We’re staying in a hotel right now. But I can’t keep living like that,” Andrew says your name, but you stop him with a look. “Look where I’m at right now, Andrew. Can you honestly say that the way we’re living is healthy for me?”

You purse your lips. You know this is dirty; you’re using one of his deepest fears against him. And it’s awful; you’re a horrible person. But you’re human, and you physically cannot take another day living like a fugitive on the run. “Is it healthy for the baby?”

His hands go lax at his sides, eyes widening imperceptibly as he stares at you. Whatever argument he had ready is killed by your cutting words. You suck your teeth, shoving down the guilt burning in your throat. 

“So that’s what you want?” Deran asks, staring over at you with this strange look in his eyes. “Another place to stay?”

“I know that I shouldn’t ask you for anything–”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t.” You bite your lip, sucking in a sharp breath. He rolls his eyes, glaring up at the ceiling. “But…” he lets out a sardonic laugh as he turns toward you. “I actually have a place.”

“Smurf,” he continues, “gave us properties.” he motions between himself and Andrew. Your brows turn in as you turn to him. Because he’d never told you about any sort of property. 

He can’t meet your eye, hand balling into a fist as he glares at the floor. “I couldn’t use any of them for you. She would have looked,” he doesn’t seem very defensive. And you’re sure he believes that excuse. But you’re stupid if you think he wasn’t also attracted to the idea of being so close to you, of having you all to himself. 

“Yeah, well she won’t go looking through any of mine,” Deran tells him. He turns back to you, “There’s a house by the beach you can stay in.” You want to get up and thank him, to hug him for the first time in weeks. But his expression is reserved as he moves toward the door. “I gotta go. Call me tomorrow, and we’ll figure it out.”

The door slams behind him, blinds rattling from the force. He’s still angry, then. You suppose you can’t blame him. Not with the way you just disappeared. Sighing, you lean forward, head falling into your hands. 

Andrew comes up beside you. “I would have taken care of it.”

“Would you?” you scoff, glancing over at him. You don’t mean it maliciously, but it’s been weeks. And he’s apparently had ‘property’ this whole time. Andrew was working off his own schedule, and that just wasn’t good enough for you.  

The house is a slightly run-down bungalow by the beach. But it’s good. Anything is in comparison to that hotel room. It’s woefully empty of any furniture or anything to actually make a house a home. You can work on that, though. 

Slowly, over the course of a few monthss—long enough for your stomach to start to swell—you begin collecting everything for the place. The couch that Deran was going to get rid of makes its way to you. Your dining table is something you found at an estate sale, oddly enough. 

Bits and pieces make their way to you. Some old, some new. But it’s a start. A start to something that belongs solely to you and Andrew. Smurf had sold his house when he was arrested. It left him with nowhere to go but back to her. 

The bungalow is a few hours outside of Oceanside. Which makes it a commute for Andrew anytime she calls him back home to deal with family business. You know she must be growing suspicious by now. Especially because Deran stops by a lot. 

Where could both of her sons be disappearing to?

You don’t know what Andrew is telling her to keep her off his back, or if he’s even trying. You try not to think about it a lot. The pregnancy has begun to feel real to you. Your stomach is swelling with life; you’re outside of her control. Worries about her serve only to make you more stressed than you need to be. 

So, you linger in ignorant bliss. Andrew lets you, though you can see his worries about the future eating away at him. There’s only so much you can do for a man who refuses to cut the last tether to the most agonizing aspect of his life. 

His mother. 

“The appointment is at two, right?” 

Andrew nods; he’s busy putting together the bedframe you just bought while you go through the notes from your last visit with the gynecologist. He’d missed it, Smurf calling him home for some job. A bad time to miss it, too, considering the doctor said she was worried you were showing early signs of gestational hypertension. 

It’s not anything life-threatening, but you know he’d been bothered that he wasn’t there when you heard the news. He’s insisting on attending this one. You don’t mind the company, that’s for sure. When the doctor asks what prenatals you’re taking and what your diet looks like, a lot of that knowledge lies with Andrew. He’ll have a better time processing and planning around the information than you will. 

His phone rings, breaking up the quiet of the moment. You glance up from your computer with interest. His entire demeanor changes as he looks at the name. It doesn’t take much guessing to know who it is. 

The way his shoulders hunch up, his lips pursing as he lets out a heavy sigh. “Smurf?” you ask.

He just nods; he gets up, moving out toward the porch as he answers. You glance toward the window, trying to decide whether or not you want to listen in. You sigh before deciding against it. He’ll tell you about it if he needs to. 

You continue looking through the notes from your last visit, making sure you didn’t forget to tell Andrew anything. The door slams closed as he comes back in, making you jump. Your brows furrow as you look over at him. He’s glaring down at the floor, phone tucked back in his pocket. 

You hesitate on saying anything.  “That was fast,” you land on.

“She wants my help on a job,” he tells you. Letting out a rough sigh, his shoulders sink as he looks up. “Today.”

“Ah,” you click your tongue. She seems to have a psychic link to him. Always knowing the worst time to steal him away from you. Looking back at the computer, you bite back whatever venom you want to spew. Instead, you try to keep your voice calm as you ask, “Are you going?”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, and you don’t want to look over. You don’t want him to see the hurt on your face that you even have to ask that question. Guilt shouldn’t be what makes him stay. He should just want to. 

A soft touch lands on your shoulder and you sigh, sinking back into him. “I’m going with you,” he tells you, firm on the decision. 

“Thank you,” you mutter, reaching up to squeeze his hand as he goes back to putting the bed together. “Did she say what the job was?”

Andrew considers for a moment before shaking his head. “She said she’d be coming along on this one. Said it was important.”

Something gnawing stirs up in your stomach. You frown as you consider him. God, you can’t believe you’re about to ask this. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go?”

He pauses from where he was picking up his tools. You get a sidelong look as his voice quiets. “Do you not want me coming?”

Of course that’s how he took it; you feel like an idiot. “No, I’m sorry I didn’t mean it like that. I just…” You have a bad feeling about Smurf. But you have no evidence and no reason to voice aloud your doubt. “Of course I want you there, Andrew.”

He looks over you, eyes narrowing as he stares into your eyes, checking for any dishonesty. Slowly, he nods and resumes his task. You try to do the same, but your focus is anywhere but on your notes. 

You’d had Andrew’s hand in a death grip your entire appointment. You couldn’t tell him why or even explain to the doctor this sudden panic that’s come over you. She’s worried about it, telling you it’s important you lessen the stress in your life as much as possible to avoid any complications. 

If only it were that easy. But you hardly understood your worries before you were pregnant. It only got that much harder after. 

Luckily, everything looked fine with the baby. She couldn’t get a good look at it through the ultrasound, and she forgot her “readers” at home. So, instead, you have to wait a while longer while she runs a blood test to determine the gender of the baby. 

You don’t really care either way. But you think Andrew would make a good dad to a little girl. 

“You don’t want to do the whole gender reveal thing, do you?” You ask on the drive home. 

Andrew glances over at you and shrugs, hand flexing around the steering wheel. “I don’t know. Might not be so bad.”

Your eyes narrow. “Really? You want one of those stupid confetti things staining our backyard pink or blue?”

He lets out a scoff, smiling slightly as he looks over at you. “How ‘bout a cake?” he offers, and you think he might just be messing with you. 

“Considering the strict diet you’ve got me on, I’ll take a cake.” He huffs a little at the dig but doesn’t seem to mind too much when you grin over at him. You stretch, hand resting on the center console. He reaches down, taking it in his own as he pulls onto your street. 

You frown, sitting up when you see another car in your driveway. “Who’s that?” you wonder aloud. 

Andrew’s hand tightens around your own as he slows down. He comes to a stop in front of the house, letting out a low breath of relief when you both see it’s just Deran. But he doesn’t look good. He’s pacing on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets, and his face is strangely red. 

“Wait here,” Andrew mutters, getting out of the truck and stalking up the driveway. You let out an irritated huff, watching as he approaches his brother. Deran’s head whips up as he gets closer, and he stops his pacing completely. 

That unsettled feeling from before returns tenfold as you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You can’t hear what's being said, but you can see the way Deran’s face shifts from that usually untouchable look to something scarily vulnerable. Andrew runs up the steps to the porch, and Deran stops him, grabbing his shoulder and taking in a deep breath. 

You tilt yourself closer to the window, as if you might be able to hear something. Deran finally says whatever news it is he had to be in person to deliver. Your brows furrow as you watch it all play out on Andrew’s face. 

He tilts his head before shaking it, saying something. You can’t make out what he says, but you can hear his voice rise, see him shove Deran back as he continues to shake his head. His hands come up to his head, cupping it. 

You can’t take watching this anymore. Getting out of the truck, you make your way up the driveway just as Andrew sinks onto the porch steps. His head falls between his knees, shoulders beginning to shake. You run up to him, falling beside him. Deran stands behind you both, gaze vacant as he watches his brother. 

“What’s going on?” you snap at Deran, hands cupping Andrew’s cheeks. You try to get him to look at you, but he collapses into you instead. You let out a sharp gasp as his head falls in your lap, hands gripping desperately at your dress. You can feel him shaking, the sharp breaths he’s struggling to get in. 

“Deran!” You snap, hands desperately running over Andrew, trying anything to get him to calm down. 

Deran finally looks at you, but he doesn’t see you. “Smurf is dead.”

The fridge is open again. 

It’s happened over the past week. You’ll walk through the house, and there will be these little things that are wrong. The fridge is open because he forgot he was going to make dinner. The light to the hallway has been on all day because he never remembered to turn it off. There are dirty plates put away in the cabinets because he’d zoned out, unloaded a dirty dishwasher without even blinking. 

You walk over and close the fridge, letting your head fall against the cool metal with a shaky exhale. This is getting bad. You knew he wouldn’t be well immediately following his mother’s death. Who would?

But this is different than being lost in grief. He’s losing chunks of the day, leaving the house and not knowing where he’s going. You caught him standing in front of the nursery with a drill in his hand. He stood there for about ten minutes before you asked what he was doing. 

He didn’t remember. 

Moving away from the kitchen, you check your watch. He’s been gone for two hours already. You hadn’t wanted to let him leave the house on his own. He was meant to take you grocery shopping with him. But you had to run to the bathroom, and he just left. 

You move into your bedroom, intent on putting away some clothes. You’re trying to tidy the place up a bit before he gets back, so he doesn’t have to worry about it. 

Picking up a pile of clothes, you trudge into the closet. It’s stuffed full right now and barely organized. With an annoyed huff, you drop the clothes on the ground and reach for some shirts on an overstuffed bar. You tug at them a bit, grunting until the hangers finally come off. 

Something tumbles from the shelf above; it pops you perfectly in the toe before tumbling off into the shadows of the closet. “Ow,” you grumble, forgetting the clothes as you get on your knees. Your hands swipe across the closet floor, blindly groping until you feel your fingers brush against what fell. 

Pulling it out, you pause. This is…

This is one of the baby bottles he bought. “What the hell?” you mutter, looking up at the shelf it fell from. Getting to your feet, you rush off and drag the stepstool into the closet. Climbing up, you get a good look at the shelf. 

The parenting books, pacifiers, everything he bought too early has been shoved up here. Pulling it all out, you lay it out on the bed. Why the hell would he hide all this?

Sure, you noticed there was less baby stuff around the house. But you thought that was because he was putting it all away in the nursery. You haven’t been there in a while. The scattered parts of the crib he never built are too much of a tripping hazard. 

You never would have thought he was hiding it all away. 

Rubbing your head, you let out a low groan. You rack your brain, but you can’t find a reason he would do this. And with the state he’s in, you doubt Andrew even understands what he’s doing. 

The front door opens, and you run out of the bedroom. Andrew stands in the doorway, his head lifts, eyes still carrying that sad look they’ve had the past few days. “Andrew,” you whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, head lifting as he surveys you with narrowed eyes. But you’re not the problem here.

You purse your lips, struggling to maintain a kind smile. “Where are the groceries?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “What?”

You let out a rough sigh, pinching your nose as you shake your head. “Never mind,” you tell him. Instead, you walk over to him, taking his hand in yours. He lets you lead him to the couch and sit him down. 

“What are you doing?” He asks, looking slightly dazed as he leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. 

“Nothing, just, maybe rest for a little while, alright?” You want to help him; you do. But he’s mourning. And you can’t relate to that pain. Smurf made your life hell. The only good she ever did anyone was giving birth to Deran and Andrew. You wanted to fucking leap for joy when you heard she was dead. 

But Andrew’s steadily devolving into a state that you don’t know how to get him out of. You doubt he’ll be himself for a long time. But this is different. This is wrong. Pulling out your phone, you call the only person you can think of. 

Pope is sitting on one of the rocking chairs on the porch. You’d deposited him there, the burden that’s only serving to make your life more difficult. He wonders if you’re watching him through the window to make sure he’s not going to wander off. He feels like he’s falling apart. 

And maybe he is. Pope’s not sure anyone would call hearing their dead mother’s voice stable. But he does hear her. And he sees her everywhere too. A phantom that he just can’t let go of. 

He hears a car pull up the driveway and frowns, lifting his head. They park and throw the door open. Deran stands there a minute, just watching Pope, before slowly making his way up the porch steps. 

Deran lets out a low groan as he sits in the chair beside Pope. His chest heaves as he exhales and rubs his hands down his face. Pope watches him warily, wondering why he bothered coming. 

Deran looks over at him and laughs. It’s not genuine. It’s bitter and filled with the same sort of reluctant grief plaguing Pope. “You look like shit, man,” he tells him. 

Pope scoffs, but he can’t disagree. He’s hardly keeping his head on straight right now. “What do you want?” he asks, wishing for some quiet for once. Away from all the noise in his head. 

“What do you think?” Deran huffs. He motions inside. “She called me,” he says your name, and Pope grimaces. You must really think he’s just a mess. 

Deran goes quiet for a moment, picking at a thread on his jeans. “How have you been doing?” He asks, his tone losing its abrasive quality this time around. 

“How do you think?” Pope scoffs, looking over at him. And something inside him breaks, seeing his little brother who is holding it together so much better than he is. “I keep seeing her man,” his voice cracks around the confession, and he looks away. “I’m— I’m fucking hearing her in the back of my head. Reminding me—”

Pope shakes his head, dragging his hand down his face as he tries to take in a steady breath. “Reminding me of how much I fucked up. I wasn’t there,” he admits. “I wasn’t there, and she’s dead.”

Deran stays quiet, just watching Pope. There’s nothing he could say that would absolve him of this guilt. He doesn’t deserve it. Not when this is all he’s done his entire life. He was put on a leash for a reason. Because every time he ever tried to break out of that control, the only thing he’s ever done is hurt someone. 

Something about the quiet softens something in him. “I hid all the baby stuff,” he admits. 

Deran lets out a confused noise and looks up. “What?” he asks, shaking his head. “Why?

Pope shrugs, looking down at the chair and digging his nail into a scratch. He picks at it, watching the wood splinter. “I can’t mess this up,” he admits, voice rough as he blinks away the burning in his eyes. “I hear Smurf. I hear Baz. And they’re both just telling me how much I fucked up. And I can hear Baz telling me that no one would ever want a kid with me. Because he was right,” he lets out a bitter sound, taking in a shaky breath. 

“She doesn’t want a kid with me. She just got stuck with me.”

Deran takes in a sharp breath and shakes his head. He laughs, but it's hollow. “Baz was wrong about a lot of things,” he says. He reaches over and takes his shoulder. Pope grimaces, but he doesn’t move away, looking over at Deran. 

“But Baz was always wrong about you, man.” He squeezes Pope’s shoulder before letting go. “Smurf fucked us all up. But,” Deran whistles and shakes his head. “She really did a number on you. Still, if any of us could actually give a kid a chance of survivin’ all the shit we went through…”

Deran offers a strained smile, “It’d be you.”

Pope can’t honestly say he believes him. Believe this is anything other than an attempt to bring him back from the edge. But he wants to. He wants to so badly think that he’s capable of doing something good. 

Neither of them says anything else, sitting in the quiet with one another. 

A while later, Deran gets up. He doesn’t say much, just that he has to head home. Pope nods, watching as Deran walks down the porch. The door opens behind him, the swell of your stomach clear in his peripheral. You call out a goodbye to his brother, walking toward him. He reaches up, hands brushing against your stomach as his head falls against you. You reach up, nails dragging through his curls. 

You’re real. You’re here. Not a voice in his head reminding him that everything falls apart under his touch. 

You kneel, pressing your forehead to his. Your lips brush against the corner of his mouth before you pull away. He holds onto your hand until you’re walking back into the house, and his hand falls back by his side. Deran pulls out of the driveway; he stops at the end for a moment before driving off. 

Pope gets to his feet; he follows the only noise in the house until he’s standing in front of the nursery. You’re kneeling in front of the disassembled crib. Without looking up, you silently hold out the instruction booklet. He walks forward, taking it from you and kneeling at your side. 

Your eyes dart to him for a moment. “It’s a girl,” you tell him. 

His stomach swoops as he looks over at you. You offer a small smile. “The doctor called this morning. I thought you would want to know.”

You reach over and take his hand in your own, lacing your fingers together. He leans over, pressing his forehead to the side of your head. You turn, lips brushing against his as you pull him into your embrace. He sinks easily, the world going quiet around him as you hold him. His hand falls from your side to the swell of your stomach. 

For now, there’s only one voice. 

Baz was always wrong about you. 

end. — I do not own the characters or the show Animal Kingdom- but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

[deathreverse]

APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — Pt. 10 [ FINALE ]

SUMMARY: Jack Abbot was a creature of habit. Structure and routine were infused within the very makings of him, written in bloodwork and DNA if anyone looked close enough. But that was before he met you and Phoebe. Before he fell hopelessly and irrevocably in love with the chaotic girls in apartment seventeen.

WARNINGS: lots to get through; mentions of Tom x Kirsty and abusive and narcissistic tendencies, Phoebe feeling confused and lost in her head and heart, Jack being promoted to Uncle Jack, heavy discussion of readers late fiance and Jack's late wife, talks about parent abandonment, disgusting fluff, minor child injury, inaccurate medical terminology (lol), the pitt teasing Jack, swearing, flirting, kissing, mentions of smut, this is truly quite angsty so may I recommend having some tissues for the final part, just in case.

A/N: I would just like to take a moment to thank every single one of my lovely readers for giving this story a chance and sticking with it to the very end. I am so incredibly sad that this series is now complete and I cannot thank you all enough for the love and support you've given me and this story!! There is a lot to unpack in this final chapter, a very big deep conversation that may make you feel some type of way so just be prepared! I also highly recommend listening to Wait by M83 on repeat when you get to the balcony scene!

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

WORD COUNT: 13.4k

PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST

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Maybe Jack is a little out of his element, but he tries not to let it show. 

Tries to ignore the blatant ogling of moms on the playground and the whispered names of yours and his that pass through gossiping lips. 

Jack reminds himself that this was his idea, that you didn’t exactly force school pick up upon him. Still, this feels entirely more daunting than a shift at PTMC, which he really needs to be getting ready for soon. 

It isn’t the first time he’s offered to pick Pheebs up from her school, but it is the first time he’s done it alone.

Over the past two months, his presence at the school doors has become much more consistent. In the mornings—if he hasn’t just got back from a night shift—Jack will join you for drop-off before taking you out for breakfast and coffee. And in the afternoons, no matter if Jack has work in a few hours or not, he’s made a habit of joining you on pick-up, too.

The addition of his presence in both the playground and Phoebe’s life has been profoundly noticed by everyone. So much so, that his name has been added to Pheebs’ authorized pick-up list and he’s been invited to speak with her class about what it’s like to be a doctor next Tuesday. 

The doors to Phoebe’s class open before Jack can be subjected to any unwarranted approaches, and it barely takes a moment for him to spot Pheebs in the line of kids. It takes her even less time to spot him, to tug on Ms. Melia’s hand and point to where he stands. 

He offers a small wave and Ms. Melia doesn’t wait to send Pheebs off to him. 

She races over faster than he’s ever seen her move, riddled with unkept excitement and rambling at the speed of light about her day. She mentions about twelve times that she’s sad Florence was sick and couldn't come in before he even gets her to the car. 

It’s only when Pheebs is strapped into her seat and Jack’s phone is connecting to the CarPlay that she seems to realize that she’s missing a parent, and her recap of the day's events comes to a halt. 

“Where’s Mommy?” Jack’s gaze meets hers through the rearview mirror.  

It was entirely unexpected when Kirsty had arrived at your apartment just an hour before Pheebs was due to be picked up from school. You and Jack were in the middle of some very exciting bedroom activities when the persistent ringing of your doorbell cut through the moment, and you found Kirsty sobbing at your front door. 

How she found your address, neither of you are quite sure. But you ushered her inside with a steaming mug of tea and listened when she sobbed and poured her heart out about Tom and the irrevocable damage he’s done to her mental and emotional health. 

Ten minutes before pick-up time, she was still crying on the couch and Jack did not have the heart to interrupt her. He also did not have the stomach to sit and listen to all the cruel things Tom has said and done to the young woman. It hit too close to home, made him wonder if they’re the same things he said and did to you. 

So Jack had kissed your temple and told you he’d pick Pheebs up when you went into the kitchen to refill her tea. You didn’t argue with the offer. Just kissed him fiercely and promised to pick up where you left off when he’s back from work in the morning.

He turns in his seat to get a look at her in the back. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed and ominous stains on the front of her shirt that you always somehow manage to get out. 

“Mommy was needed for something super important, so I thought I’d pick you up. That okay?”

She nods with a grin. “Can we get ice cream?” 

Jack’s smile mirrors hers, something cheeky and mischievous. “Can we get ice cream? We can get burgers and then bring ice cream home for Mom after.”

Her excited squeal is music to his ears when he turns forward in his seat and brings up your contact in his text messages. 

Jack: Acquired the goods, taking her for early dinner. How’s Kirsty?

You: not good, tom tends to have that affect on women… she said he up and left last week for dubai after promising he would take her with him. shock.

You: i’ll call you when she's gone

Jack: Don’t rush, I can always take Diva back to mine to grab Sally and we’ll bring you back ice cream and burgers

You: you’re getting the sloppiest head tomorrow morning 

Jack: Yeah? I’m holding you to that

You: ;)

Jack: ❤️ u gorgeous girl 

You: ❤️ u baby

Jack locks his phone with a grin and stuffs it into the cup holder, pulling out of the parking lot and following the route from his mind to the best burger joint in the city. 

He sings along with Phoebe to whatever songs she allows him to listen to. Keeps his mouth shut when she screams Hey Siri, skip! to the CarPlay when she gets sick of something that comes on. 

He does well at keeping his focus on the road and not the final texts you shared. The only time that sentiment has been communicated between the two of you, but it’s still become almost an every day occurrence as of recently. 

Much like Jack’s presence at your apartment. It’s rare he’s ever at his own place for more than two nights in a row. And somewhere four weeks ago, Sally had made the move, too. A shared sort of custody, if it can be considered as that. 

She’s at your apartment more than she’s at Jack’s. Taken it upon herself to snuggle at the foot of Phoebe’s bed every night. It’s a fight Jack’s glad he gave up on, when you were persistent about having the cat so she wasn’t alone when he worked. 

The reasoning of Sally pissing everywhere was weak, and still something you like to rub in his face, seeing as she’s only piddled twice in the last four weeks. 

She’s also become your writing companion, often purring away beside your laptop when Jack’s sleeping and Pheebs is at school while you wrap up the final installment of your trilogy. Something that Jack is incredibly proud of you for. 

Your literal blood, sweat and tears have gone into this final book. Sleepless nights and mental breakdowns where you’ve reconsidered every choice you’ve ever made for your career. It doesn’t help that you’ve been so on edge since Tom walked out at Phoebe’s field day, like you’re just waiting for him to try and pop back into Diva’s life. 

Jack hasn’t exactly been much better. 

He’s tried his hardest to support you in the ways that he can. Staying consistent with the both of you, taking Pheebs out to the park or for food, helping her rearrange her bedroom just so you have some peace to write when inspiration does strike. 

He’s cooked and cleaned, taken Phoebe to bed almost every night for the past six weeks. He’s practically moved into your apartment without fully taking that step. Half of his clothes have made their way into your empty drawers and a spare key to your place has wound its way around his keychain. 

And over the past month, his usual strict routine has been completely thrown out the window. Night shifts have remained the same, but Jack now only goes to the gym whenever he can squeeze an hour in. His shifts with SWAT have slowly been dwindling, but it’s not something he’s mad about. 

For almost three months now, Jack’s been purposely picking up less shifts with the team. Partly because his time has been better placed with you and Pheebs, but mostly because he no longer feels like there’s a void that needs to be filled with adrenaline and near-misses.

Neither of you have really sat back and considered how and when these changes started to occur. How that key ended up on Jack’s chain, why it feels so natural to eat every meal as a family, how dates are no longer squeezed into your schedules but slot seamlessly into everyday life. 

How you can sleep just fine when Jack’s working a night shift, but can’t sleep at all if he’s staying at his own apartment. How even Phoebe can tell the difference between it, too. 

Jack’s grown used to spending his night shift sharing texts and random ninety second FaceTime calls with you. He’ll tell you the craziest patient of the night and you’ll share a snippet of a scene you’ve written (which is usually smut and him promising to try it out with you in the morning). 

Everything between you has intensified and blossomed into the most domestic, honest and real thing he’s ever experienced. Nothing feels rushed or forced, nothing feels out of place or uneasy. And it’s the first time in Jack’s life that he hasn’t felt like he’s waiting for something to go wrong. 

The only non-issue that has been on his mind is Tom. 

Though, he is something that David has been very vocal about on the odd occasion he and Jack have seen one another one-on-one, and it’s been reassuring to see just how frustrated it makes your father. It hasn’t been nice to see the stress it’s caused you, though. 

Neither of you realized how much things needed to change. From removing Tom from Pheebs’ pick up list to removing him as her emergency contact (where Jack offered to be put as the replacement because “baby, if they see a doctor on there, she’ll take priority of anything ever happens,”), and all the paperwork in between, it’s been a lot. 

“Jack, I need to pee.” Phoebe’s strained voice from the backseat brings him back to the present and Jack casts a glance at her through the rearview mirror. 

“We’re almost there, slugger. Can you hold it for five minutes?” 

She’s shaking her head quickly, face pink and lips curled in, knees bouncing in her child seat as she stuffs her hands between her legs. “I really gotta go!” 

Jack feels the internal panic begin to sneak up on him. He’s dealt with tearful falls and tumbles, scraped knees and an almost broken leg when it’s been just the two of them. But Phoebe potentially peeing her pants is not something he’s prepared for. 

He has no spare clothes for her, she’s too big for a potty to be kept in the back of the car…it only really leaves one other option as he pulls up a dirt trail, out of the way of the road. 

Jack turns to her, keeps the engine on and finds himself mirroring her expression. 

“Honey, if you can’t hold it…you’re gonna have to pee in a bush.” 

Her eyes widen, lips part. The shaking of her head becomes quicker. “I’m not peeing in a bush, there’s spiders in there!” 

Jack blinks at Phoebe, rolling his lips between his teeth as he sighs. “I promise the spiders won’t go anywhere near you.” 

She shakes her head again, lifting her chin. “I can hold it, I’ll hold it.” 

“Are you sure?” 

Her head continues to bob. “Come on!” 

He doesn’t argue at her desperate shout of a plea. And he just hopes she doesn’t tell you that he sped a little too fast to get her to the burger joint before she saturated the carseat. 

Phoebe has unbuckled herself before Jack even kills the engine, and the moment he rounds the car and opens her door, she’s jumping out of the vehicle and running with quick, desperate steps to the diner’s entrance. 

Jack barely manages to lock the car and catch up with her in time, holding open the women’s restroom and sighing in relief when he finds it empty. Phoebe shoves him against the basin as she rushes into a cubicle—kicking the door closed, but not locking it—and a dramatic sigh of relief sounds from her when she finally relieves herself. 

Jack struggles to hide his amusement, takes a moment to check his phone for any more texts from you. There are none, but he still admires the lockscreen photo of the three of you at your parents barbeque last weekend. 

The door to the restroom swings open, soft footsteps halting as Jack looks up from his screen to come face-to-face with a cautious woman and child. His fingers immediately point to the stool that Phoebe’s occupying. 

“My daughter…I didn’t wanna take her into the mens.”

My daughter? Jack’s heart lurches when he catches what he’s said, when he realizes that Phoebe is only six feet away with half a door separating them. 

“Okay, I’m done, Dad!” She calls out as Jack pockets his phone and swallows down his heart. 

The woman watches with a gentle smile, one much more relaxed as she ushers her own child into a stool and Jack has to take a moment to try and regulate his breathing. 

Phoebe just fucking called him Dad.

“Good job, kid. Do you need help with your pants?” His voice is more wrecked than he anticipated when he lowly calls back to her, when he blinks back tears that brim in his eyes and struggles to breathe through the tightening of his throat. 

“I’m four, not stupid!” Oh, right. Of course. Because she didn’t get the hump three days ago when she couldn't button up her jeans and Jack had to spend fifteen minutes showing her again how to do the zipper and button. 

Her snarky remark gets a huff of laughter from the cubicle beside Phoebe’s but Jack can’t seem to reign himself in. His head is spiralling in worry for how you’ll react when he tells you what’s happened, his heart is bursting at the fact that Pheebs has likely only said that because he called her his daughter first. 

“Watch that attitude of yours, young lady.” His tone holds no authority or threat. The words come out too breathlessly, like he’s struggling to fill his lungs deep enough. 

But he’s the picture of composure when Phoebe flushes the toilet and swings open the door to reach for the sink. It’s second nature for Jack to lift her beneath her armpits so she can reach; lathering her hands and fingers in soap and muttering a song under her breath. 

He lets Phoebe take the lead and guide him out of the restroom and toward a table by the front of the diner. Allows her to be the one to order for them both when the waitress comes over, only chiming in to add another burger onto the order that he can bring home for you. 

Phoebe watches Jack through it all, notices how he begins to grow quiet and puts his attention into the cartoon sheet they’re coloring together. It makes her tummy tilt, makes worry begin to bubble in a feeling that usually causes her to seek him and you out for comfort. 

“Jack?” Her voice is small, much smaller than he’s ever heard and his head snaps up to look at her. She chews on her inner cheek, head tilted as she averts her gaze to the pink crayon she holds. “Are you upset at me?” 

Jack’s brows pinch together tightly, his chest aching as it tightens. “No, Diva. Why would I be upset with you?” His tone is gentle, soft. But his heart is cracking that she could ever think he’d ever feel anything but happiness and exhaustion when he’s with her.

“Because I called you Dad,” she whispers, still not daring to look at him.

Jack’s movements still, gently dropping the crayon and reaching out to poke at her hand to grab her attention. He swallows down the lump in his throat, silently scolds himself for getting too caught in his head over it that he’s caused this timid, quiet version of Phoebe to arise. 

“Kid, you could never upset me. Especially not by calling me that. It just…suprised me.”

She frowns. “You called me your daughter first.” 

Jack swallows. Is that what this is? Has she just been waiting to feel like it’s okay to call him Dad? Like she’s been holding out for some form of permission? How long has this new title been brewing? How long has she been stopping it from slipping? 

Jack feels like he might pass out. 

“I—yeah, I guess—I guess I did.” 

A silence sits between them. Not awkward, but…heavy. They’re both aware of the weight of it, of the titles they’ve called one another. Uncharted territory for both parties, neither knowing what’s quite acceptable without you being present. 

He can tell she wants to say more but he doesn’t push. If there’s one thing about parenting that Jack has learnt from you, it’s to create a safe space where Diva feels comfortable enough to come to you when she’s ready. 

She doesn't say anything else while waiting for the burgers, doesn’t say anything when she begins to eat. It’s only after Jack asks her to say cheese at the camera so he can send a photo of her to you, and when she steals the phone to take a photo of him, that she finally finds her voice on the topic again. 

“Would I be…allowed…to call you that, sometimes?” 

Her voice is so quiet and meek, Jack almost has to ask her to repeat it. It takes a few moments for the request to fully register, to understand if he’s heard her correctly. 

Because Phoebe is an incredibly intelligent kid. She’s far too aware of her surroundings and people’s intentions. It’s not been lost on you and Jack how in the past two months, she’s only asked about Tom twice. Both times were if she would be seeing him again. 

You didn’t lie to Phoebe, you never do. You told her simply that no, she wouldn’t be seeing him again. Pheebs never asked for an explanation so you never gave one. She took the answer and left it at that, like the child was content with that being all. 

But Jack knows that Phoebe knows the significance of calling someone Dad. To begin with, she no longer wanted to refer to Tom as that. And now, she’s asking for permission to give Jack that label instead, trying to soften the blow by proposing it to be just occasionally. 

“Pheebs,” he calls her name softly. “I am honored that you want to call me that. You can call me whatever you want to call me…but I think it’s something you should talk to Mommy about first.” 

“Yeah, okay.” She sighs, stuffing a mouthful of fries into her mouth and chomping down like having to speak to you about it is an inconvenience to her. 

At least she still has an appetite, Jack’s completely lost his. He can feel his mind spiralling into every direction, trying to figure out where he’s overstepped recently for her to want to call him Dad, but he falls short. 

Because it’s all been so natural and felt so right. You’ve had no issue with Jack taking Pheebs to bed almost every night at her request. You’ve had no problem with holding hands or cuddling each other in her presence. You’ve included him in every family event like it’s a given that he should be there. 

That he is a part of you and Pheebs. 

Jack’s phone vibrates from beside him on the table, the scream lighting up with smiling faces and your contact with a text preview. 

You: god i love those beautiful faces!!

You: kirsty has left so hurry up and come home, someone else has come to see us

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

During the short drive home, Jack and Phoebe played a guessing game of who might be waiting at the apartment for them. Of course, not the best idea to play with a four-year-old. She’s somehow convinced herself that both Harry Styles and Peter Parker are waiting for her in her bedroom. 

But when they do manage to make it inside the apartment, Phoebe tripping over her feet to get to her room and Jack struggling to hold all the leftover boxes and Phoebe’s bookbag, they stop short with wide eyes. 

Karis sits on the couch beside Ricky, glowing and grinning and looking absolutely exhausted. But Jack cannot take his eyes away from you. 

Slightly bent over with your hands tucking beneath small arms, cooing with watering eyes as you lift their little baby boy out of the carseat and into your arms. The newborn scrunch and the sight of you holding a baby short-circuits Jack’s brain and he thinks he’s having the most overwhelming day of his life. 

“Baby Jude!” Phoebe gushes in excitement, slowly easing closer like he’s a frightened little mouse. 

Karis scoops her up and peppers kisses across her cheeks and head as Jack gently closes the door behind him and places the styrofoam boxes on the coffee table when he inches closer. 

It takes effort to drag his gaze off you and meet the eyes of your friends. He leans down to offer a warm hug to Karis, a kiss to her cheek and a shake of Ricky’s hand as he congratulates them. 

You and Jack have FaceTimed them at least once a week for the past two months since Jude was born, when complications had arisen and they were stuck in the hospital for six weeks after his birth. But now they’re here, in your apartment and you’re snuggling that baby like you don’t plan on giving him back. 

Jack’s heart fucking aches. 

“He still has that newborn baby smell.” You whisper tearfully, inhaling the smell that reminds you of when Diva was just a little bubba and didn’t answer back to everything you said. 

She beams up at you, shoulders raised and hands clasped together by her mouth. She looks like an excited old granny and you can’t deny giving her cuddles with her baby cousin. Karis settles Pheebs on the couch between her and Ricky, watches as you coo at Jude before leaning down to gently place him in her lap. 

Jack’s by your side when you pull away to stand straight, and your vision is immediately distorted. Phoebe is so gentle with him, eyes wide and sparkling at the little life in her hands as she strokes the slope of his nose. 

It’s a heartbreaking glimpse of what she could be like with her own sibling, with yours and Jack’s baby. A sobering thought that you catch yourself on, but you don’t for a single second tell yourself it’s wrong to imagine. 

“She’s so gentle with him.” His low voice is comforting in your ear, a hand on your lower back and a kiss to your temple as a late greeting. 

You hum, sink slightly into his side as you both watch her giggle when Jude begins to stretch and fuss. It’s ridiculous to feel so emotional over something as little as her holding a baby. But you find yourself sniffling and blinking back tears, anyway. 

Jack’s just better at hiding it when he feels his eyes begin to sting. Not just at the sight of Pheebs, but at the memory of you holding Jude that’s now ingrained to the very wrinkles of his brain. Is that what you looked like when Phoebe was a baby? Only more fresh-eyed and inexperienced? 

He’s not sure what it is other than something primal and overwhelming, has him conjuring up what you’d look like with a swollen belly again. 

“Mommy, I need to pee.” Phoebe whispers, cautious not to wake the sleeping baby in her lap. 

Ricky gently takes him from her and she waits until her lap is clear and Jude is secure in his father’s hold until she hops down from the couch and makes her way to the bathroom. 

“You gonna have a hold, Uncle Jack?”

He blinks at Karis’ words, a little stunned at the honorable title he’s unsure he’s worthy of. But he nods, untangles his arm from around you and Ricky stands to reach across the distance and hands his baby boy over. 

Jack has held many babies throughout his profession, but none have ever felt quite so meaningful as this. Uncle Jack. His nephew squirms slightly in his hold, eyes still shut and lips puckering, a tiny tongue peeking out before his mouth stretches into a yawn. 

You watch the way Jack’s eyes sparkle down at Jude, the natural way he coddles him to his chest. Your ovaries are exploding at the sight, your heart aching profusely at the ridiculous play-pretend notion that this is your child, Jack’s child. 

“He has so much hair,” Jack breathes a chuckle, risking a featherlight hand over the baby’s head to smooth the thick hair down. He dares a glance up at Karis and Ricky for barely a second before he’s captivated by Jude again. “He’s beautiful.” 

Karis beams, in both pride and happiness for you and Phoebe. 

“Thank you, for answering all my stupid questions when it came to his health. And for the gift baskets.”

Jack waves a hand to dismiss the gratitude that is not needed. He knew how anxious she had been while in the hospital and when she got home. While you only FaceTimed once or twice a week, Karis and Ricky would text Jack at least once a day, just needing reassurance that Jude was still recovering well from his surgery, checking what was normal and what wasn’t. 

“Nothing is stupid when it comes to your child’s health.”

He spends a few more moments with Jude in his arms before finally relenting and handing him back over to his parents at the same time that Phoebe waddles back into the living room, a wicca basket in hand that Sally lounges in. 

“She’s getting too fat!” 

Jack cocks a brow, both arms bending to rest his hands on his hips. “That’s ‘cause you carry her everywhere.” 

Phoebe pokes her tongue out at him as she passes, her excitement for Jude worn off as she opens Sally’s toy box instead. Your gaze meets Jack, something crossing his eyes as watches Pheebs get settled on the rug. 

When he finally averts his gaze to meet yours, you cock your head slightly toward the kitchen in silent invitation, muttering out to Karis and Ricky that you’ll make some tea as Jack grabs the takeout boxes and follows you. 

The moment the kettle flicks on and Ricky turns on the sports channel, you turn to Jack and wrap your arms around his waist. “Was Diva okay when she came out of school?” 

He hums, leans down to steal a kiss. “Yeah, how was Kirsty?”

You sigh, leaning forward to crash your head against his chest. Your heart still feels heavy for the girl, the conversation having brought up all the trauma Tom had also put you through. You pull away to look at him and Jack only now sees how much it has drained you.

“She’ll be okay.”

He watches you in the same way you’re watching him; with slightly furrowed brows and concern prickling at your eyes. 

“Jack, are you sure you’re okay?”

All he can do is make a humming sound, something that is not entirely convincing but you won’t push him. Not here, not now. 

“I’ve gotta get ready for work soon. Debrief tomorrow night?” 

Your frown grows deeper. “Tomorrow night? You got somewhere to be in the morning?”

A grin curls on his mouth at your playfully teasing tone and he leans down to press a ghost of a kiss to your pouting lips. “I gotta meet up with my SWAT guys.”

You kiss him again, just a gentle movement of lips. “You finally picking up a shift? Been a while since I’ve seen you in uniform.”

“No,” he whispers raspily against your mouth. “I’m leaving.” 

He feels your body still before you pull away and he doesn’t have time to stop himself from smoothing out the elevens between your brows with the pad of his thumb. “Stop frowning.” 

“Why are you leaving?”

Jack pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, considers the weight of the reason behind his decision to be a bit too much to divulge when you’ve got company. But he doesn’t want to leave you entirely in the dark. He knows your mind, your soul—knows you’ll worry yourself sick with overthinking the worst possible scenarios. 

His hands leave your waist to cup your jaw, to force your gaze to not just look into his eyes but deeper. “I don’t need it anymore. Coming home safe to you and Pheebs is more important to me.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

By the time Karis and Ricky left with Jude, Jack was having to leave for work. With a smattering of kisses to Phoebe’s cheeks and your lips, he sauntered out the door just before six, always wanting to start a bit earlier to get a feel for what the night would look like. 

You got Pheebs into the bath the moment he left, let her splash around the tub and draw with water crayons on the porcelain. Surprisingly, she let you wash her hair tonight without putting up much of a fuss, and didn't argue when you told her it was time to get out. 

She dressed herself with minimal help, letting you brush the knots from her hair with lips pressed into a firm line. You’re not stupid when it comes to your daughter. You know there’s something on her mind, whether it be a concern or a request. 

She’s always far too compliant when she’s thinking. 

Usually, you don’t push. You allow her to come to you when she’s filtered through a muddy mind and knows what she wants to say. But it’s harder to do that tonight when it’s clear there’s something on Jack’s mind, too. 

“Alright,” you sigh as she settles into her stool at the kitchen island. You lean on your forearms, head dipping slightly between your shoulders to meet her gaze. “What’s going on in that crazy little head of yours, hm?”

Phoebe shrugs. “Nothing.”

You roll your lips between your teeth. “Did something happen today? At school? With…with Jack?” 

She shakes her head, still not wanting to meet your line of sight. It's a struggle not to ask for more, but you don’t want to push her away. You have to remind yourself that you trust Jack. That if something had happened, if Pheebs had told him something concerning, he’d have told you. 

“Alright, well let's have dessert and finish our movie before bed then, sound good?” 

She hums, half committed. “I’ll get Sally a treat.” 

You turn to the fridge when the words tumble out of her, followed by a screech and an awkward sounding thud. You whirl around at the sound of Phoebe’s sob, round the island to find her laying on the ground and clutching her foot. 

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Where did you hurt, your foot?” 

You’re kneeling down to her, trying desperately to keep your cool and not let her shrill cries pierce through your heart. Phoebe doesn’t let you get too close; face bright red and cheeks soaked with tears, pulling away every time you try to reach for her foot. 

“Baby, you need to let me have a look.”

She pulls away again when you inch closer, her knuckles white around her lower calf, eyes squeezed shut. 

“I can’t, Mama, it hurts!” She hiccups through the cries, catching Sally’s attention who curls into her side in a form of comfort. 

You feel sick, heart in your throat as you desperately try to calm her down without touching her. You’ve never heard Phoebe cry so loudly, and you’re unsure if it’s the shock of the fall or if she’s really hurt herself. She doesn’t let you take a look, doesn’t let you put ice on it or keep it elevated above a pillow.

“I want Jack.” She speaks on a shaky inhale of breath, her pyjama shirt soaked from tears. Her desperate request makes your fingertips ache. 

“Alright, okay. I’ll take you to Jack. Come on, up you get.”

It’s only then that Phoebe allows you to touch her. Not her leg or her ankle, but she lets you hold her arm to help her stand. The moment she tries to put pressure on her right leg, her knee gives way and she bursts into another fit of tearful whimpers. 

Worry and panic begins to course through you, thoughts that she’s broken her fucking ankle being the only thing you can really think about. It’s enough to have you gently hoisting her into your arms as gently as possible and grabbing your keys off the hook on your way out of the apartment. 

You can only really offer gentle coos of reassurance to her as your flip flops snap against your feet with every step. You didn’t even think to grab your phone or purse, just Pheebs and the keys as you get her down to the car and buckle her in. 

She cries the entire ten minute drive to PTMC, declining any music or chit-chat to try and keep her mind off things. Her sobs have calmed to whimpers by the time you somehow manage to find a parking space at the ED, feet bare from not allowing you to put shoes on her, so you carry her from the car to the main entrance. 

The last time you were here was at 3 a.m., over nine months ago. It was much quieter then. Tonight, the waiting room is packed with no spaces to sit and a long line at the check-in desk. Phoebe wraps her arms tighter around your neck as you hold her to your front, and get to the back of the line. 

You rock her gently, swaying slightly from side to side as you take in the amount of people waiting to be seen. She hides into the crook of your neck, the noise and bright lights and people squished in too-close proximity a bit too much for her to handle. 

The sight of the chaos makes your skin crawl. You’ve always been acutely aware of the tension and pressure of Jack’s job, but seeing the waiting room—or Chairs, as he calls it—so packed and desperate, it makes you want to dote on him for the rest of your life and never let him lift a finger at home. 

The line crawls forward at a snail's pace, many people kicking up a fuss when it’s their turn to check in, complaining about wait times or demanding that their issue is more important than the rest. By the time you get to the check-in counter, your neck is soaked from Phoebe’s snot and tears.

“What’s your name and problem, hon?” It’s the same face and voice that greets you as the last time you were in here for your little pelvic issue. 

You smile tightly at Lupe, shifting your hold on Diva to shuffle her to your other hip. She grips you tighter, like she’s worried you’re about to put her down. 

“Phoebe Y/L/N. I’m her mother. She fell off the island stool and landed on her ankle, she can’t put any pressure on it, won’t let me look—I don’t know if it’s just a sprain or maybe a fracture.” 

She hums at your words, typing at her computer and sliding a form through the gap at the bottom of the clear screen. Lupe catches Phoebe’s eye as she shifts in your hold, a sympathetic pout forming on the older woman's mouth. 

“Take a seat, hon. Someone will be with you shortly.”

You don’t mention that there are no seats left to take, it’s not her problem. So you thank her with a smile, take the paperwork and carry Pheebs through the throes of people. You mentally prepare yourself for such a long night, to put those pilates classes you’ve been taking to good use with there being no seats available. 

But within three and a half minutes of standing against the wall and gently rocking Diva from side to side, there are fast footsteps approaching until Jack is standing before you with wide eyes assessing the back of Phoebe’s body. 

“Is she okay? What happened?” 

Jack feels sick to his stomach with worry at the sight of her clinging to you. He didn’t even read over her notes or ask Lupe what happened when he was paged about your arrival. Seeing her now, he wishes he had some notion of an idea to be at least a little more prepared. 

He’s never seen Pheebs so tearful and whiney. Not when she has her usual tumbles and not when she awakes crying for you both in the middle of the night after a nightmare. 

The moment she hears his voice, she’s uncurling herself from around you to leap into Jack’s arms. He catches her with ease, lets her wrap herself around him and cries softly into his neck. You appreciate the reprieve and shake your arms out at your sides. 

“She fell off the stool, landed on her ankle. Says she can’t walk on it—what…how did you know we were here?” 

Jack rubs a comforting hand up and down the expanse of Phoebe’s back, craning his neck the best he can to try and get a look at her bare feet that dangle from his waist. He sighs when he turns back to you, reaching a hand around your waist to press his lips to your forehead. 

“I’m on her emergency contact list, remember? Lupe paged me the moment you checked her in.” 

You barely have any time to process the fact before Jack is guiding you through the doors of triage with a hand on the small of your back and an arm carrying Phoebe against his chest. You follow him through to a small cornered off section, just a few down from where you were, where Jack tenderly lays Pheebs on the bed. 

You take the place at her side, let her reach for you and grip your hand as Jack slips his fingers into a pair of blue gloves. He sits on the small swivel stool, walks his feet across the ground to drag himself closer to the edge of the bed. 

“Dr. Abbot, would you like me to take this one?”

Your head turns at the sound of a soft voice, a petite nurse standing at the curtain with fresh gloves already slipped onto her fingers. He whirls to look at her, like he’s catching himself on a line he’s crossing. 

Because as an attending, he has no reason at all to be treating a sprained ankle in triage. He should be on the main floor, tending to whatever chaos gets sent to him or comes barreling through the ambulance bay. 

So, he nods, moving away on the small stool to make room for the nurse to take his place instead.

“Alright, Diva. You gonna let Nurse Dean take a look?” 

She shakes her head, pleasing eyes glued on Jack as she scoops her legs into her arms with her knees pinned to her chest. Nurse Dean looks at Jack with pursed lips and soft eyes, a silent way of saying she understands and won’t push. 

He smiles apologetically, resuming his previous position when Dean slips back through the curtain to tend to patience that will let her care for them. Despite the guilt, you can’t help but huff out an air of laughter over Phoebe’s stubborn preferences. 

If it’s not Jack, she isn’t interested. 

Phoebe doesn’t argue with the gentle tone of Jack's voice when he coaxes her to show him her foot. She offers her ankle to him willingly with one hand still squeezing your fingers. Her tears have dried, her face now blotchy from the hyperventilating. 

You watch Jack closely, the concentrated set in his brow, the firm line of his lips when he examines Phoebe’s ankle with more tender care than you think he gives his other patients. It’s also not lost on you that any nurse or triage doctor could be doing this instead of him. That he could have encouraged Pheebs to have Nurse Dean take a look.

“You said she couldn’t walk?” He asks, lips barely moving and the words almost strung together when he very carefully twists and moves her ankle. 

You hum, sitting on the side of the bed next to Pheebs, one arm around her shoulders as she curls into your side. You press a kiss to the top of her head, your anxiety significantly easing now you’re with Jack and she’s under his care. 

If you’re being completely, selfishly honest, you’re more than pleased that Jack’s taken it upon himself. Not that the rest of the doctors here aren’t competent, but getting to watch Jack in his element and feel so listened to and genuinely cared for…yeah, he’s definitely your preference.

“Yeah, she couldn’t put pressure on it after it happened. Wouldn’t let me look or put it on ice…she just kept crying that she wanted you.” 

He pats her calf with a grin, snapping off the gloves and tugging the leg of her pyjamas pants back down. There’s a swell of pure pride and relief in his chest when he realizes there’s nothing seriously wrong and that all she wanted for comfort was him. 

“The good news is it’s not broken. The bad news is that you’re gonna have to rest it and I’m going to have to prescribe you one rub of chocolate ice cream.”

Phoebe sniffles, and it’s not the reaction that Jack was hoping for.

“So, I don’t need a new leg like you?” Her voice is meek, unsure, and slightly disappointed. 

It causes a frown to pull between your brows, between Jack’s. You dare a glance over at him but your attention is stolen by two figures standing by the open curtain, instead. It’s the slurping through a straw that then catches Jack’s attention and his head whirls to the two culprits. 

John Shen stands with his lips wrapped around a plastic Dunkin straw, Ellis Parker stood close beside him with arms crossed over her chest. Shen’s brows are raised teasingly, Parker’s eyes gleaming in taunting mischief. 

“Well, who is this Diva?” Dr. Parker croons playfully as she steps into the partition, eyes flickering between the three of you as Dr. Shen follows close behind him. 

“I hurt my ankle,” Phoebe sighs. 

Jack heaves in a heavy breath, catching your eye from across the bed as his two coworkers approach the foot of it. 

“Baby, this is John Shen and Ellis Parker, guys this is—”

“Oh, we know who you are.” Parker grins something a bit too feline for Jack’s liking and you can’t help but laugh. 

“I knew who you guys were the moment I saw the Dunkin cup.” Shen nods in what appears to be approval at your words, but as quickly as they give you their attention, it’s quickly given to Pheebs instead. 

She’s always been a social butterfly, so it’s not much of a surprise when she begins to introduce herself to them—beaming at the attention and prospect of two new friends. A laugh bubbles out of you when Parker hands her one of the ER stuffies; a little brown bear that’s likely from the dollar store. 

Your gaze flits to Jack to gauge his reaction and he tilts his head slightly to the curtain, a silent invitation to step away and talk. You step out silently with Jack and he pulls part of the curtain across to shield you both from prying ears. 

“You okay?” His quiet voice asks into the small space between you and it feels like you can finally take a breath. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, “I’m sorry. She couldn’t walk on it, it must've just been a bit of shock…she just wanted you.” 

Jack shakes his head. “No, don’t apologize. You did the right thing to bring her in, even if just to be safe.”

You hum, leaning against a pillar. “You know, you could’ve insisted that Nurse Dean took a look at her.”

He frowns at that, almost like he’s insulted. “No chance. I asked you to put me down as an emergency contact for a reason. Do you know how worried I was when Lupe paged me that you brought her in? You two could’ve been waiting out in Chairs for hours.”

You know he’s right. That despite Pheebs being young, her problem doesn’t exactly warrant her to be seen over the more critical and emergent cases. But Jack’s shoulders are still tense, and you’re unsure if it’s due to whatever's been bothering him or the fact that he’s coming down from his worry. 

You regard him for a few moments, waiting to see if he’ll snap himself out of it. But his eyes slowly dart around triage instead of looking at you. You’ve got a sneaky suspicion that this behavior of his has nothing to do with the chaos of work.

“Jack, did something happen today?” Your question is quiet, voice careful. 

It’s enough to have him finally looking at you again, and you can see the war in his eyes as he fights if it’s something he really wants to bring up right here and right now. 

His lips are moving before he can think better of it. “She called me Dad.”

You blink, unsure if you’ve heard him correctly. Your neck cranes slightly closer to him, head tilting like you might pick up another whisper of what he’s just said. Your chest suddenly feels very tight. 

“What?” You breathe. 

He starts to ramble, hands moving animatedly as he explains, “I called her my daughter first. There was this restroom incident, with this—this mom and daughter and it just came out of me, and Pheebs—she—”

“She called you Dad?” Your voice is quiet, cracking slightly as you cut him off. 

His shoulders drop, eyes a quiet kind of frantic as they flick between yours, searching for any hint of anger or upset. He finds none. Only a glassy look that passes your iris’ like you're overwhelmed and struggling to process what this means. 

“Yeah,” Jack whispers. “Are you…are you okay with that?”

A disbelieving sound escapes you on a breath. “Are you okay with that?” 

His head nods in a very small movement, tongue darting out to tug his bottom lip between his teeth. This is not the conversation he wants to be having at the start of his shift in the middle of triage, where his coworkers and subordinates are passing by with curious glances. 

Still, he doesn't leave you in the dark. 

“Yeah, I am. But I—I told Diva it’s something she should talk to you about first.” 

You feel like you could cry and throw up. Anxiety bubbles beneath your skin, unease and concern when you consider what Phoebe’s little mind must look like right now. The mess of her father walking out, the confusion of having Jack so close and her assuming he’s now to be the figure she’s missing. 

It’s too much to sit and unpack on the spot. Jack’s made it so clear to you how deeply he cares for Phoebe, that even if things don’t work between the two of you, he’d still fight to be in her life in whatever capacity you’d allow. 

But to hear him admit that he referred to Pheebs as his daughter—despite the rushed reasoning he gave—and for her to call him Dad in return…you can feel yourself spiraling down that rabbit hole again. The one that Tom weaved and spun where you’re forced to put your walls up and shut down. 

Because if Tom can leave, what’s stopping Jack from one day doing the same? 

It’s ridiculous, you know it is. Because the difference between Tom and Jack is that Jack loves Phoebe. He holds her best interest at heart at all times, considers her in every decision he makes and has never once let her down. 

It is something you need to speak with Phoebe about first. Something you’re not prepared to brazenly sign off on. You’re not ready for her to call him that. 

You swallow as you look at Jack, the patience and understanding in his eyes despite you not saying a word. From the peripheral of your vision, a tall figure approaches; walks past you both before slowly backing up with arms crossing over a broad chest. 

You peek a glance when Jack sighs, scratching at his jaw.

“Honey, this is Robby. Robby, this is—”

“The woman that Jack does not stop talking about,” Robby interrupts him, untangling his arms to clasp your hand in a friendly shake. His skin is softer than Jack’s, less firm and calloused. 

A laugh slips from your lips when he releases your hand. “It’s nice to meet you and put a face to the name.” 

Robby grins, eyes shining as he looks between you and Jack in something you can only describe to be pure happiness for his friend. “I’d say the same but I feel like I’ve known you for years at this point.” 

Your laughter grows at the playful tease to Jack, who is too busy staring holes into Robby’s face. It feels like you’ve got a slight whiplash, your mind and emotions all over the place while trying to hold a polite conversation. 

“You brought Phoebe in?” Robby asks, voice low as if he likes to keep his conversations private and away from prying ears. 

Something you appreciate, if you’re honest. 

“Yeah, Jack checked her over. Sprained ankle.” Robby hums at your explanation, arms still across his chest as he cranes his neck to peer past the curtain. “Mind if I say hello?”

“Go for it.” 

He offers a warm smile before dipping behind the curtain, the soft rumble of his voice heard through the fabric as he introduces himself to Phoebe. You turn to Jack with a small smirk, still very much overwhelmed but amused enough to break through it for at least a few moments. 

“So you talk about me at work, huh?”

“Shut it.” Jack’s eyes roll fondly as he reaches out for your hip in a playful pinch.

But it doesn’t matter how hard you try to push the new information to the back of your head, to wait until later—because you just can’t. 

You reach for him, fingers toying with the hem of his scrubs at the same time as him reaching a hand up to brush strands of hair from your face. He can sense the shift in your mood, the concern you’re trying to bury. 

“Hey, I know you’re okay with her calling you that, but I—”

“No, it’s okay,” Jack interrupts with a coo and a shake of his head. “I understand. It’s a huge thing, and she’s probably confused now that Tom’s not around.”

Your grip on his scrubs tightens, a deep furrow forming between your brows and Jack hates the look of guilt and unease that’s plastered all over your face. 

“I just—I don’t want anything like that rushed, or expected of her.”

“Baby, you do not need to explain. I told you before that I’m happy to be in her life in whatever capacity you’re comfortable with.” 

He hates this, hates every fucking moment of you doubting him, of you worrying about Phoebe. It’s all warranted, of course it is. Phoebe’s biological father walks out on her, and then she calls her mom’s boyfriend Dad only two months later. 

When Jack looks at it that way, it breaks his heart a little. He’s left wondering if his presence recently has been more confusing than helpful to the kid. He doesn’t bother to remind you that nothing is ever expected from Phoebe, that Jack will take whatever the both of you are kind enough to offer. 

Because he knows you know that. That he would never expect or force anything. 

You nod with a shaky breath, loosening your hold on his now slightly creased scrubs and doing your best to smooth them out with your fingers. An act that’s futile but still appreciated by Jack nonetheless.  

“We can talk about this properly tomorrow, yeah?” 

Another nod follows from you as Jack leans down to press his lips to the crown of your head. With a palm on the small of your back, he guides you back behind the curtain to Phoebe, and it’s only then that you realize how full the little partition has grown. 

Diva remains lounging on the bed, ankle wrapped in a bandage with squiggles of different colored ink decorating it, as if it’s broken. Shen sits on the swivel chair at her side, talking in a ridiculously high-pitched voice as he pretends the dollar store teddy is drinking his precious coffee. Parker and Robby stand off to the side listening intently to Phoebe’s dramatic recollection of her fall.

And Mateo grins at the scene before him.

Wait. 

“Mateo?” He turns at the sound of his name falling from your lips breathlessly, the easy grin dropping into something sober and slightly grave. 

Jack does not like the shift in the air, the way you whispered his name like a lost lover, how Diaz now looks at you like he’s seeing a ghost. And then he’s whispering your name back like it’s a sacred prayer, inching closer to get a better look at you. 

“What—what are you doing here?” 

You want to ask him the same thing, but his scrubs and ID badge say enough. He’s a fucking nurse. The last time you’d seen him was almost ten years ago, when he was as babyfaced as you and unsure what the world had in store for him. 

You blink, pointing at Diva. “Pheebs—I, I’m her mom.”

His eyes widen further, doe-like and familiar in the way he was when you were both kids. God, he looks so much like his brother now that he’s older. A stubble and long hair, tan skin and welcoming features. The more you look at him, the more you feel your heart twisting in your chest. 

His gaze flicks behind you as he repeats your own words, landing on Jack who is doing nothing to hide his frown and distaste for the exchange. 

There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach when he watches Mateo look at you again, something like longing and heartache in his eyes. Jack can’t handle the idea of Diaz being an ex of yours. Just when he thought this day couldn’t make his head spin anymore. 

“Wait, you’re the pelvic chick?” 

You frown at the odd nickname, and it takes a moment or two for your drowning mind to catch up with what he’s called you and why you’re being referred to as it. You whirl around to Jack with raised brows. 

“I’ve got a nickname around here?”

His hand squeezes your hip reassuringly. “You can thank Dr McKay for that one.” 

A flurry of snickers and giggles slip from Shen and Parker, a smirk curling at the corners of Robby’s mouth, too. Jack thinks he’s absolutely had enough of today. If he wasn’t overwhelmed enough already, he’s now drowning in unwarranted jealousy and budding a blooming distaste toward Mateo. 

“Alright,” Jack calls, clapping his hands. “Don’t you all have patients to see? I think Phoebe would like to go home to bed now.” 

“I’m happy to stay!” She pipes up.

Jack points a stern but playful finger in her direction. “It is way past your bedtime, kid. And you are a beautiful distraction to my doctors. Mom’s gonna take you home now.” 

Phoebe pouts animatedly about it but knows better than to argue. She instead says goodbye to her three newfound friends and takes a sheet of stickers from Mateo’s hands when he goes to leave. 

He does stop short just in front of you when he reaches the curtain. “I can’t believe you’re a mom now. She’s a cool kid. And you look great.”

You smile tearfully, a watery chuckle slipping past your mouth as your head tilts. “Yeah, you too.”

Mateo chews on the inside of his cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never reached out after—”

“Don’t,” you interrupt with a shake of your head. “I didn’t reach out either. It’s not on you. Your parents were just—”

“Yeah, I know.” The sadness in his voice hurts more than you’d like to admit. After nine years, you thought you’d moved on from what happened. But seeing Mateo now, after all this time…you can’t help but wonder if it’s breaking him as much as it is you. 

“We uh, we should grab a coffee sometime.”

The frown of your mouth curls up into a trembling smile and you can feel your eyes stinging with salty tears. “Yeah,” your voice cracks when you speak. “I’d really like that, Teo.”

Jack watches the interaction with a tightness in his throat and chest. Barely registers what Phoebe is saying to him as she plasters stickers all over his scrubs and arms. He can’t tear his eyes away from you, can’t stop his mind from starting the cycle of self-sabotage. 

Despite it all, despite the concern and worry and doubt and insecurity, when you approach with tearful eyes and pursed lips, he still reaches out to comfort you. 

“Look, Mommy! I can move it again.” Phoebe calls to you despite there being barely any distance, lifts her leg to move her ankle in the air. 

You plaster on your most encouraging smile, toying with the keys in your hands. Jack notices the nervous fiddling, the anxiety that’s sitting heavy on your shoulders and the way you’re starting to drown in your own head. 

He brushes Phoebe’s hair from her face and keeps his tone soft and quiet. “You can go home with Mommy now, and I’ll see you after school tomorrow, okay?” 

“M’kay.” You watch as Phoebe nods, when she dips her chin in silent request of a kiss that Jack happily pressed to her head.

He helps her stand on the bed where she then opens her arms wide to be carried by you. Bare feet and one bandanged ankle swing by your thighs when you hold her and return to Jack with tired eyes. 

Despite the foreign feelings brewing in the pit of Jack’s stomach, he still moves closer to press his mouth against yours, to squeeze your waist and kiss you one more time. 

“Text me when you get home.”

You agree to the request with a hum, when a Nurse Dean pops her head into the curtain and offers to escort you out. Jack follows you out of the partition and the moment you begin to walk away, Phoebe waves at him as she looks over your shoulder. 

“Love ya, Jack!” 

He beams at the way she shouts across the space, like she’s desperate for her message to reach his ears. 

“Love ya, Diva!” He calls back just as you both reach the door. When you cast one last glance back at him, Jack offers a dip of his chin and a wink, basking in the way that his stomach leaps when you grin back at him until you’re both out of sight. 

He feels Robby’s presence shift behind him, a looming frame filled with questions and silent observations. He watches with Jack as you disappear back into Chairs to go home. 

“You told her yet?” Robby asks, the words drifting from his mouth and into Jack’s ear. 

His gaze is still focussed on the door. “Told her what?”

“That you’re in love with her.”

Robby’s observation echoes in Jack’s mind. Worms its way into every memory and thought he cherishes of you, of Phoebe. There’s no longer that all-consuming sensation of guilt when he thinks about it now, there hasn’t been for a little while. 

At first, it was something Jack didn’t want to acknowledge. Wasn't ready to acknowledge. But somewhere along the past nine months, he’s stopped holding onto his need and love for structure and routine. He’s found himself basking in the chaos of love, the spontaneity and freedom of it if you look in the right places. 

He’s found his home to be nothing but a shell of one. A blank canvas that was posed as a fresh start six years ago. One that he never broke in with memories and laughter, where he never scuffed up the floors or chipped the paint off the walls. 

Somewhere along the past nine months, the weight of his wife no longer haunts him like a bad dream. She rests in his heart, deep and protected in her place of permanent residence. But the space she occupies no longer spans across the entirety of him. 

She’s made room for you, for Phoebe. Allowed her space to be taken by a love that breathes, not one that haunts. It happened slowly, organically. Like this is the way it was always supposed to be. 

Jack swallows around the realization. 

“No, not yet.” 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You barely slept all night. 

Whether it was tossing and turning because of the events of yesterday, or Phoebe waking you up every hour because she swears her foot is about to fall out, you barely got any sleep. 

FaceTiming Jack at three in the morning instead when Pheebs sobbed because she was adamant she needed to go back to see him at the hospital. Sitting on her bedroom floor and reading stories until she fell asleep, only to wake up again forty-five minutes later. 

The pair of you were like zombies when you left for the school run this morning. Hair not up to its usual standards and outfits more than a little skewiff. By the time you got back to the apartment, you were swooped up into Zoom meetings with your editors and publishers, the deadline pushing closer for the final installment. 

Jack didn’t get back until noon, after finishing his shift and meeting with his SWAT buddies to let them know he was officially stepping away. The two of you have been like passing ships all day. When he got home, you were leaving to do a grocery run. When you got back, he was fast asleep. When Jack woke up, you were already picking Phoebe up from school. 

It wasn't until you returned home that he finally scooped you into his arms and peppered your face with kisses. Phoebe’s laughter at the attack had echoed through the apartment and bounced off the walls when Jack lunged for her and blew an onslaught of raspberries onto her stomach. 

The three of you cooked dinner together, ate and spoke about your days. Phoebe did most of the talking, like usual. And Jack cleaned the kitchen when you bathed her an hour later. You don’t get a chance to speak throughout it, attention occupied by Diva until she’s requesting that Jack puts her to bed with a very specific rendition of Paranoid by Black Sabbath as her lullaby. 

She does let you squeeze her in your arms, pepper kisses to the top of her head as you bid her a goodnight. But as quickly as she crashes into your arms, she’s wiggling out of them in search of her new bedtime companion, Sally. 

“Alright, slugger. Let’s get you to bed.” Jack calls out to her, pressing a kiss to your cheek before following Phoebe on his crutches. 

The heaviness in your chest hasn’t disappeared. It’s eased just enough to feel like you can breathe this evening, but even Jack’s presence alone isn’t enough to completely keep it at bay. You’re overly aware that you both need to have a big conversation about yesterday and you’re not quite prepared for it. 

Feeling hot beneath your skin at the thought, you grab two glasses and a bottle of wine from the fridge that you carry in two hands out to the balcony. The evening air is crisper than it was through the day, a slight breeze that does little to cool your skin but enough to help the rise and fall of your chest. 

The sun is starting to set, long summer nights falling behind you as the sky is painted in something beautifully golden. Hints of pinks and oranges peek beneath the clouds, a promise of sunshine for the morning and a sleep full of sweet dreams. 

You fill both the glasses halfway as you sit on the rattan couch, a crocheted blanket draping across your lap as you take a sip. Only a moment for you to try and gain your bearings, to sort through the whirlwind that has been the last two days. 

You’ve drained half your glass of wine by the time Jack finds you, an easy but tired grin stretching on the corners of his mouth when he pops his head out into the balcony. His brows raise playfully when he clocks the almost empty glass in your hand and the freshly poured one on the small table. 

He doesn’t say anything as he joins you, a little too caught up in his head. The last time he drank out on the balcony with you was when it all started. The night of Diva’s birthday party. The night he first kissed you and felt his soul slowly beginning to tangle with yours. 

“She settled okay?” He hums as he comes closer, resting the crutches against the wall and sitting beside you with a tired sigh. 

“Out like a light.” Jack pinches the blanket, drapes some of it across his thighs. He reaches for his wine but doesn’t drink it. Holds it in his lap while his other arm lifts to rest against the back of the seat; fingers gently tracing the skin of your shoulder. 

He feels the heaviness, too. The plethora of topics that need to be addressed, discussed. It’s because of that, that he finally takes a long gulp of his wine before turning to admire you.

“So…Kirsty, huh?”

A non-committal hum escapes you, eyes far off in the distance but when Jack follows your line of sight, he sees your gaze is settled on his balcony across the way. 

“She okay?”

A loaded question, really. One that takes you a moment to consider and answer. “No, he’s really done a number on her.”

Jack swallows, doesn’t like the hollowness of your voice. Like your reminiscing on your own experience with Tom. He squeezes your shoulder. 

“What happened?” He only heard snippets when Kirsty had shown up unannounced. Jack was a little preoccupied with hiding a raging boner, getting dressed and reattaching his prosthetic. By the time he did join you both in the kitchen, he put himself to good use by making tea.

He didn’t want to make Kirsty uncomfortable. 

Jack feels you shrug beneath his palm. “His usual shit.”

It’s not something you want to get into. Not yesterday in a quick explanation, and not now when you have the time. Mostly because it’s not your story to share, but also because it’s the same things that Tom put you through. The lies, the abuse, the manipulation. 

You got out of the woods. You escaped the claws he had in your mind and you’re free now. Happy. Your mind is no longer held in a prison. It’s watered and cherished, cared for and set free to bloom.

“He’s really gone, though,” you find yourself clarifying anyway. “She said he’s been given a house and position at some finance company in Dubai. Living his dream.”

Jack scoffs, wine sloshing in the glass on his lap from the movement of his body. “Yeah, well…he made his bed, now he can lie in it.”

That heavy silence settles over you both again as you gaze out across the sunset. It’s lowering more with every passing minute, darkness slowly creeping over the tops of the sky. You don’t want to spend the evening tiptoeing around things that need to be discussed. Jack’s got four nights off now and you’re not willing to start them off with anything unsaid. 

“So, we’ve debriefed about Kirsty. Next up…you’re leaving SWAT?”

Jack heaves a heavy sigh and rolls his head in a lull of a nod. “Met them this morning after my shift. Told ‘em it’s not for me anymore.” 

You frown at him, his gaze locked on the stem of the wine glass pinched between his fingers. 

“Why? I thought you enjoyed it?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“What changed?”

He turns to you then, eyes slightly glassy and lips scrunched slightly to the side. It’s an expression you’ve learnt that usually means he’s trying to suppress his emotions, or at least keep the full extent of them off his face. 

“I didn’t have anyone waiting for me at home when I joined SWAT. We both know what it’s like to lose a partner. I’m not prepared to put you through that again, to put Pheebs through that.”

His gentle explanation—like it’s the most simplest decision in the world—almost crushes your chest. Your lungs seize at the consideration, at the pure reverence in his tone. You don’t mean to, but your fingers instinctively move to your chest, to reach for the chain you haven’t worn for months and months now. 

The one that sits in a box in your nightstand. Like Jack’s sits in a box in his. 

The fact that you and Phoebe continue to make such a profound effect on him, the way that he so loudly respects and considers you both…how he so happily changes his lifestyle to fit healthily around you both…

“Jack, that’s a big decision to make.”

“No, it’s not.” It’s not an argument, he counters you like it’s a fact. Unbothered and undeterred in his decision. “Besides, Robby’s been trying to get me to quit that shit for years.”

An unintentional laugh barks through you at that, the thought of his dear friend chiding him for such a reckless hobby—which, if you’re honest, you’d have to agree with. Despite how sexy the uniform is…how much fun you’ve had with it in the past.

You haven’t been able to stop thinking about Robby since you met him last night. Kind eyes, teasing lilt to his deep voice. Secure, competent. Attractive, if you’re allowed to think as much. 

“Robby’s single, right?”

Jack’s brows raise comically high at the sudden question. He’s a bit ashamed to admit the wall of jealousy and discontent that slams into him, the way his shoulders stiffen. You’re young, you’re beautiful, you’ve written threesome stories with that very vivid imagination of yours…Jack can’t help but silently begin to panic that you’re about to ask for Robby to be a third. 

“Why?” He asks carefully, voice tight and deep.

You shrug, take a long sip of your wine. “He’s responsible, older…I think he and Bella would look pretty good together.” 

Jack blinks at you for a moment, lungs seizing as he finally releases an exasperated exhale. Relief slams into him like a freight train and he’s met with the embarrassing realization that he desperately needs to get his emotions in check. 

First he’s ready to blow a gasket over your far too friendly interactions with Mateo, and now he’s here fretting over the possibility of you wanting Robby? 

Jesus fucking Christ, Jack. Get a grip!

“You wanna set up Robby and Bella?” He busies his hands with topping up both of your glasses as he asks the question, his newfound and deeprooted insecurity needing a bit of reassurance. “Do you forget how mentally unstable Robby is?”

You frown. “I thought you said he was better after his sabbatical?"

“Well, yeah, but he’s not magically cured, baby.”

You take the wine from him with a hum, peering up at him over the rim of the glass when you take a sip. That heaviness between you both has slowly started to ease into something more comfortable, more familiar. And the glint in your eye promises Jack is about to have his ass handed to him. 

“Your team is nice. They seem to know a lot about me.”

“Yeah. You seem to know a lot about Mateo.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, Jack! What the fuck is wrong with you!?

His eyes widen at his own retort, shoulders stiffen at the sight of your entire body freezing for a split second. Panic surges through him, and Jack feels sick to his fucking stomach for saying something so stupid in such an accusing tone. 

Dread curdles in the pit of his stomach when your lashes flutter droopily, when you lean over to place your drink back on the table. When you turn back to him, Jack gets the sense that he has royally fucked up. 

“I was engaged to Mateo’s brother.” 

The admittance slips past your lips in a quiet confession, one that’s laced with dormant pain and an ache that time will never quite heal completely. Jack blinks at you, heart in his throat and he’s never fucking hated himself as much as he does in this moment. 

“My mom used to call us the three musketeers. Anywhere we went, Mateo always tagged along with us. The night that Sammy… the night of the accident, I had taken Teo to the theatre, some new Avengers movie that had come out…”

“Baby, you don’t have to do this,” Jack’s voice is wrecked when he reaches for your hand. You grip his fingers, knuckles turning white but you ignore him and continue anyway. 

“Sammy was supposed to meet us there—” Your voice breaks as tears begin to slip past your eyes. Years since it happened and whenever you think about it, it feels like it was only yesterday. 

It’s killing Jack to listen, to watch. To see the pain in your eyes and the hurt in your voice. He should’ve kept his mouth shut. He should never have fed into those stupid thoughts, should have never said anything about it.

“We called him, Teo was telling him to hurry up, that he’d be so mad if he missed a single second of the movie. Sammy was speeding…we—fuck, we heard the car ram into a pole—”

Jack catches you before you can collapse into him. Coddles you straight into his chest as he wraps himself around you in the only way he can think to protect you right now. Your body shakes as sobs tear through you, tears soaking into his shirt while his own slip past bloodshot eyes.

He holds you like that until the cries soften to sniffles. Until you’re able to pull away and keep yourself up right. But the pain is still there, still so fresh and prominent in the very centre of your chest. 

“His parents blamed me. Said I got him killed. I wasn’t allowed to go to the funeral, wasn’t allowed to see Mateo anymore. I never got to say goodbye.” 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Baby, I shouldn’t have assumed, I shouldn’t have said—”

“No,” you cut him off with a sniffle. “No, it’s okay. I get it. And you deserve to know about him—about Sammy.” 

He just wants to hold you close again, to tuck you under his skin to shield you away from everything horrible in this world. Jack reaches for you, a tender hand caressing your jaw as his thumb smoothes away the remnants of silver tears.

He dips his head to meet your gaze. “If he could see you now. See the brilliant woman you’ve become, the incredible mother that you are…”

“You always say this,” you interrupt through a sniffled laugh. 

“Because it’s true. My mom walked out on me when I was a kid, left my dad to raise me alone. You are everything to Phoebe that I wish my mother had been to me. And Sammy…he would be so proud of you, if he could see you now.”

You stare at him through bleary vision, unable to steady the ache in your sternum at the mention of Jack’s mother. The only time he’s ever mentioned her. You find yourself nuzzling into his palm, seeking out his comfort and offering yours in return. 

“Mary would be proud of you, too.” 

Jack blinks, eyes reddening as his lips roll into a thin line. It’s not heavy with guilt like before. Not haunted by pain, but like he’s accepting the fact as a truth. 

“Yeah, she would.” He sniffles. 

There’s a moment of pure clarity that seems to wash over Jack, like the final weight of something unspoken has been shifted off his shoulders. He can’t seem to take his eyes off yours, can’t help but be whisked away by your soul. 

He has never found someone so beautiful before. Every part of you, every imperfection that makes you you. It feels like his heart has burst open in his chest, given way to a field of fresh grass and blooming tulips as this thing begins to glow from the inside out. 

He can't hold it in anymore.

“I need to tell you something.” Jack whispers. 

“When I lost my wife, when there was nothing else we could do and she passed…I never thought I would find happiness again, never find love. But you—you and Phoebe…you’ve changed me. I’m not the same man I was when we first met. You’ve reminded me of what it feels like to live, to love. And I know that neither of us expected this, that Phoebe calling me Dad is never something we anticipated but…”

“But what?” You’re breathless, bottom lip trembling and fresh silver lines your eyes again. You can feel your heartbeat in your throat, can feel that familiar tingle in your fingertips as your gaze desperately searches his. 

“Nothing could ever change the way I feel about you, the way I feel about Diva. And I know—I know—I’m not her dad, but she’s become my daughter.” 

“Jack…” Your voice is unsteady and you can’t catch your breath. 

He rests his forehead against yours, both hands cupping your face now and wiping the tears as quickly as they fall. You’re not given a moment to comprehend his words, to filter through them. The tip of his nose traces the slope of yours when he speaks again. 

“I am so, irrevocably in love with you—it’s not even…it’s not funny—why are you laughing?”

But Jack’s laughing, too. Watery and broken as your hands come up to wrap around his wrists, as you blubber and press your tear-soaked lips to his. 

Months of uncertainty and pain and guilt and anguish have led up to this. Trials and tribulations, hurdles and heartache. All of it has led to this right now. To Jack’s heart calling out to yours. 

“Because I'm happy! Because I'm in love with you, too.” 

“Yeah?” His voice cracks, chasing your mouth to kiss you again when another bubble of laughter tumbles from the back of your throat. 

While you’re both caught up in one another, in the happiness and love and devotion that’s finally flourishing so freely on the balcony of apartment seventeen, further into the home is where Phoebe sneaks awake. 

Her feet are kicked up behind her, belly to the ground with pieces of paper with practiced letters and colored pens scattered around her. In one hand is a black sharpie, the other her bright pink diamonte purse. 

And just beside her sits Jack’s SWAT card that she pinched from his wallet five days ago. For the last few nights, she’s been practicing in sneaky sessions, feigning sleep until either of you leave the room so she can continue her mission at hand. 

Days of messy handwriting, backward lettering and something just not looking quite right. But tonight is the night. No more trials, no more fresh sheets of paper. 

She grins at Sally, who pads over on tubby paws and nuzzles into the crook of Diva’s neck, the whiskers tickling her skin and she struggles to keep her giggles at bay. 

And it’s like the furry friend understands the significance of this moment. Because when Phoebe looks down at her work on the wallet, Sally does, too. 

PROPERTY OF DIVA PHOEBE Y/L/N ABBOT

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You have officially reached the very end of Apartment Seventeen. I am feeling a lot of emotions right now tbh, this story is one of my favourite things I've ever written and I am truly so incredibly sad to see it end. I cannot thank you all enough for the overwhelming amount of love and feedback and support you guys have shown me and this series, it truly means so so much!!

I do have plans to check in on them again in the future, along with a potential big bonus chapter later down the line, too. But in the mean time, I am excited to start some new projects and I hope you'll stick around to see them too!!

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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[deathreverse]

APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — Pt. 9

SUMMARY: When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart.

WARNINGS: heavy angst in this one angels, parent abandonment, thoughts/feelings of unworthiness, tom, protective! Jack, mentions of foster care, some playful flirting and kissing, reader worrying that Jack is going to walk away.

A/N: a lot to unpack here, slightly longer than usual but honestly so needed. this is the second to last chapter of the series: the next part will be the final part and i am super sad about it. i cannot thank you all enough for all of the love and support you have given me and this series <3

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

WORD COUNT: 10.1k

PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You don’t know much about cars.

You know how to drive, sure. You know which gas to get for your Honda, to get your oil changed every eight months, and you know how to change a tyre in case of an emergency, thanks to your dad.

What you don’t know is why your car is not turning on, why the engine is spluttering every time you try to start it. But you are very aware that it is not a good sign. If not by the noise alone, then by the deep furrow that’s setting between Jack’s brows. 

“Pop the hood, I’ll take a look.” Jack says as he unclips his belt and opens the passenger side door, lets the cool air of the afternoon kiss your skin. 

You press the button beneath the steering wheel, a small click sounding and Jack lifts the bonnet of the car until it blocks your view of him. 

“Mommy, are we gonna be late?” Phoebe’s voice is nervous from the backseat, lips wrapped around a plastic straw as she chews on it, milkshake now empty.

You look at her through the rearview mirror with a reassuring smile. She’s dressed in a pair of pink shorts and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, sunnies resting on her nose and hair braided back. “No, baby. Jack’s gonna fix it.”

“Can’t fix it.” Jack appears at the passenger side again, lips curled in a thin line as he rests both forearms on the top of the car, leaning in slightly. “Gonna have to take it to a mechanic. Engine’s fucked.”

“Jack!” Phoebe quickly scolds him for the cuss word, and when you dare to look at her through the mirror again, she wears a furiously disappointed expression.

It’s something she’s picked up on since her little scolding two months ago, when she called Tom an ass. Not that you can really blame her, he’s been radio silent since you sent a few shitty messages expressing your anger. 

Hasn’t shown up on the agreed days to see her, hasn’t even sent a message to check in. And despite it, you’ve still reached out to inform him of her field day today. Another one that’s been left on read and ignored.

Jack at least has the audacity to grimace, spluttering out an apology and offering you a sheepish expression. Your hands drop from the wheel with a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“Can’t do it now, we’ll miss field day.” Jack shrugs, moving toward Phoebe’s door and tugging it open. 

“I can get my guy to take a look tomorrow. I’ll drive us instead.” 

You don’t know why you even allowed yourself to begin to stress. Of course, Jack will just drive instead. You blame your increased annoyance and stress levels on Tom because your resentment toward him has reached an all time high. 

Phoebe hops out of your car when Jack unclips her, skips toward Jack’s which is quite literally parked beside yours. He’s already unlocked it and Phoebe gets herself into the back while Jack retrieves her carseat from yours. 

It’s far too natural and practiced when he locks your car and carries Phoebe’s seat across to the back row of his vehicle. When he fastens it securely and buckles Phoebe in while you get comfortable in the passenger side. 

Jack’s engine doesn’t rumble or splutter like it’s sick when he starts up. It purrs and vibrates to life and the aircon kicks in immediately. 

You’ve always enjoyed watching Jack drive. His relaxed grip on the steering wheel, the focused set between his brows when he checks it’s safe to pull out and onto the road. There’s also something oddly sexy about the way his biceps flex beneath his cotton-shirt when he turns left with the palm of his hand.

You’re not exactly slick with your admiration, but Jack doesn’t comment on it. He does, however, shoot you a wide glance as a smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. It’s something he’s noticed a lot more over the past six to eight weeks; your seeming infatuation with his arms and muscles. 

You’ve been favouring curling a palm around his biceps on walks a lot more recently, instead of intertwining fingers. Not ever something Jack will complain about. He welcomes the ego boost and reassurance that your attraction to him isn’t just for his personality and heart. It’s his old man looks, too. 

And the more time that passes, the bolder you’re becoming with him. Jack doesn’t mean just sexually, he means in the gentle domestic way, too. 

You’ve relaxed more when it comes to him and Phoebe, like you’re finally understanding that Jack doesn’t plan on going anywhere. He’s been spending the night more often than not; settling Phoebe to bed with you of an evening, and comforting her in the middle of the night when she’s startled awake from a nightmare. 

Or more recently, growing pains in her shins. 

Jack’s found his footing in this little family, has grown comfortable in the warmth of your home and hearts. For months, Jack’s worried about overstepping, of being too present. But when you didn’t ask him to come to Phoebe’s school field day—when you just assumed he’ll be there—Jack realized what this was becoming. 

“Jack, your music isn’t on.” Phoebe whines from the backseat. 

He casts a glance at her through the rearview mirror, grins at the disappointed pout on the kids lips and reaches into the cup holder for his phone. With his eyes back on the road, he passes it to you silently. 

The screen lights up, his lockscreen a photo of Phoebe stuffing her face with pancakes when the three of you went for breakfast a few weeks ago. There’s a dull ache that forms behind your heart at the sight of it, at how openly he loves her. 

You swipe the screen up, typing in his password and making your way to the Spotify app. When you go into his library, there are only three playlists. The first is your Sunday Funk Day mix, the one he asked you to send him almost seven months ago when you were only in that odd texting stage. 

The second one has no playlist cover, a generic title of My Playlist.

But the third one, it takes you a moment before you can click on it. 

My Divas.

The playlist cover is a photo of you and Phoebe asleep on the couch, cuddled up under a knitted blanket with mouths agape and heads lulled back. 

When you click into it, you’re met with a list of songs that tally up to 8 hours and 39 minutes of playtime. You hit shuffle, let the music flow through the cars stereo system. Phoebe’s quick to sing along to the familiar tune and you take a moment to scroll through the list. 

Half of the songs are from your own playlist…the other half, you come to realize, are songs that remind Jack of you and Pheebs. 

You can feel yourself growing warm, can feel a tender sensation wrap around your bones and you lock Jack’s phone, tucking it back into the cup holder. 

It’s been on your mind for longer than you’d like to admit; the change between you both, the heaviness and overwhelming feeling you get in your heart when it comes to Jack. 

But you don’t say anything, even if that feeling does bloom across your chest with each day that passes. Instead, you sing along with them both. You dance in your seat and let the sound of Jack and Phoebe’s laughter wash over you. 

Let yourself understand and accept for the first time, that this may be your forever. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Your palm curls around Jack’s bicep as you walk across the field, a laugh barking out of you as the sound of Phoebe’s loud excitement follows you across the grass. The moment you had taken her to her classmates and dropped her bag and water off with her teachers, she rushed over to her friends and didn’t even offer a second glance at you or Jack. 

It didn’t matter how many times the both of you called out to her, she wasn’t having any of it. 

“She’s gonna be exhausted after this.” Jack comments with a fond tone, cocking his head down just enough to grin at you.

You meet his gaze with the same expression, squeezing the muscle of his arm and practically skipping in step with him. “Hm, maybe she’ll actually sleep through the night, then.” 

Jack hums, leaning down just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head while still walking toward the rest of the parents across the various tracks and equipment set up for the kids. 

“Tony will come by tomorrow morning when I’m back from work to take a look at the car.” 

Your brows knit at his words and you turn to him again, still walking toward where you’ve spotted your parents and friends. 

“You’ve already spoken to him?”

Jack hums. “Shot him a text when we got here. Said I’ll meet him out front at nine.” 

You watch him for a moment, blinking at this capable, honest, strong, observant, sexy man that you somehow get to call your boyfriend. One of the only men that hasn’t disappointed you—a man whose actions always match his words. 

And it’s entirely inappropriate for you to feel so hot about it given your surroundings. 

Just like everything else when it comes to you, Jack notices. The heat that sits at the apples of your cheeks, the slight heaviness that passes over your eyes, the slight dents your fingernails mark in his skin when you grip his bicep a bit tighter. 

He stares down at you with a secret smirk and a quirked brow, amusement licking at the gleam in his eyes.

“Yeah? That gets you going, baby?” His voice is a low murmur, deep, teasing, and only loud enough for your ears alone. 

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, dig your nails into him a little harder. “Shutup. It’s sexy when you fix things…when you take care of things.”

A dark, breathy chuckle escapes him and his voice lowers even more when you grow closer to your parents and friends. “That right? Just things or you?”

You dare a gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. “Both.” 

His grin turns borderline sinful when he gently unwraps your palm from around his arm and gently pushes you to walk in front of him with his hand on your lower back, squeezing through groups of families to reach your own. 

His body is pressed against the back of yours as he keeps close, and when you’re out of the thick of the crowd, Jack leans down to line his lips with your ear, his stubble grazing deliciously at your jaw.

“For what it’s worth, it’s sexy when you let me.” 

“Honey! Jack!” You’re given no time or chance to recalibrate your mind when your mom is calling out to you both, waving her hands as if you can’t see her from just twelve feet away. 

Jack squeezes your hip, the bastard, and waves back animatedly to your parents. As if he hasn’t just riled you up or short-circuited your brain. 

He jumps straight into conversation with David and Ricky, like he’s known them for years. Talking about what, you’re unsure but somewhere mid conversation with your mom, you notice Jack showing off his prosthetic in his khaki shorts. 

It’s midway through Phoebe’s egg and spoon race that Karis comes hobbling over with Bella. The former holds water while the latter stuffs a hotdog into her mouth like it’s the only sausage she’s found enjoyment in for years. 

“You should not be here, you’re a week overdue!” You greet Karis with a playful scold and she grins in return, spare hand caressing her overly swollen bump. 

You reach for it the moment she’s close enough, palms cupping the fabric of her sundress in hopes of feeling a kick. 

“Jack’s here, so if I go into labor I should be fine.” 

The unexpected joke pulls a laugh out of you, bright and genuine and incredibly amused. Before you can make a joke back about your own incident with your pelvic exam, shouts of angry encouragement sound from beside you. 

“Come on, Phoebe!”

“Take her out, Diva! Keep fucking going!”

Chloe and Leone are red in the face, far too invested as you follow their line of sight to find Phoebe almost sprinting with a spoon in front of her, tediously balancing an egg in the dip of the utensil. 

She approaches one of her classmates, hot on her heels and passing her just at the finish line.

“Good job, kid!” Her head whips around at the sound of Jack’s voice calling out to her in praise, the smile on her face enough to light up a dark room. 

“I did it!” she screams across the field, jumping in her spot as she holds the spoon and egg in the air. 

Prue cackles out a laugh as she videos her granddaughter, laughing louder when Florence races to Pheebs to tackle her in a hug to celebrate. 

Bella snorts from beside you, muttering something about the pair of them being nothing but trouble makers when they’re older. The thought makes you feel proud and sick at the same time. 

You hear Jack’s laughter when the girls start dancing, and when you look across your little group, you find him with his camera facing them, a grin on his face and pride in his eyes. 

The sun beats down on him, casting his skin golden, caressing his freckles, brightening his splatter of grey hairs and glinting off the metal of his leg. For once, Jack doesn’t notice your admiration, doesn’t feel your presence grow closer and closer until you’re by his side. 

The moment he does, it’s instinctive for his arm to snake around your waist, to pull you into him while keeping his attention on Phoebe and Florence.

“She’s having so much fun,” he says softly. 

You hum, watching as Flo runs off for her next course and Pheebs remains in her spot, chugging half a bottle of water and picking flowers from the grass.

“Thank you for coming.” 

Jack looks down at you with a frown at your words, pocketing his phone to turn to you fully; both hands on your hips as you reach to wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Baby, you do not have to thank me for showing up for Pheebs.” He wants to say that it’s his job, that he couldn’t imagine not being there for her for anything, ever. You can tell as much by the hesitancy that flashes across his eyes.

“I know,” you say quietly. “But I want you to know that I notice. I see everything you do for us, I—we—appreaicte it, appreciate you.”

Jack’s gaze softens into something tender and understanding. A hand abandons your waist to cradle your jaw, his thumb soothing across your cheek and you go boneless in his hold. It causes a surge of something hot to swarm Jack’s heart.

Because Jack doesn’t think he’s ever done anything overly special or out of the ordinary for either of you. And yet, you gaze up at him like he’s personally hung every star in the sky.

“I don’t show up to be appreciated, I do it because I lo—”

A nervous call of your name cuts Jack off before he can say it. Both your heads turn to your dad, whose eyes are focused and hard on the field behind you. 

You don’t have any time to dwell on the thumping of your heartbeat, to push for Jack to continue whatever he was going to say. Because when you follow your dad’s line of sight, Phoebe is toe to toe with a boy in her class and her fists are tight at her side. 

You watch in anxious fury when the little blond boy steps closer into Phoebe’s space, but she doesn't back down. She continues to frown, to hold her own with her chin held high. 

The kids lips are moving, snickering but none of you can make out what’s being said. Whatever it is, it makes Pheebs laugh, which in turn seems to make the kid angrier. You feel movement from beside you; Jack itching to cross the field and sort the issue himself, but you reach a hand for his arm to stop him. 

“Just give her a second.”

He blinks, but does not argue, returns to your side while David watches from your other. 

When the boy puts his hands on Phoebe’s shoulders and shoves, your blood roars angry and Jack is struggling to stay beside you. His own fists are curled, eyes scanning the crowd for the boy's father. 

He almost misses when Phoebe quickly finds her balance and shoves the kid back with even more force, knocking him on his ass. A prideful grin curls on Jack’s face, and he’s struck with two thoughts. 

One immediate, the other sobering. 

His first thought is that the idea of someone hurting his little girl is enough to make him feral. To screw the oath he took when he became a doctor and to inflict as much harm as humanly possible to anyone that poses a threat to Phoebe. 

The second thought comes a second too late after the first. Realization catching him deathly still. His little girl. How easy it had been to call her that in his mind, to feel that way about her. How quickly he was willing to go against his oath and word and character. 

His little girl.

His little girl. 

His little girl. 

It sobers him enough to realize just how deep he’s fallen. What little right he actually has to consider her as such. His inner panic is lost on you, your gaze still set on Pheebs, a grin of pride on your own face at how well she handled herself.

Jack looks back across the field, watches the way she sticks her tongue out at the little boy before walking away and lining up for the relay race. She’s so much like you that it hurts Jack’s heart. 

Your smile, your resilience, your strength and your humor. Phoebe has become such a prominent little figure in Jack’s life now. To the point that if, for whatever reason, things don’t work out between the two of you, he could never imagine turning his back on her. 

He’s already made it clear that this is not casual. But now, Jack is met with the very real epiphany that he wants this to be his forever. That he needs to be there to watch Phoebe grow like every father does for their daughter. 

That he will do anything to be offered the privilege of being whatever type of figure you’ll both allow him to be. 

“That’s our girl.” The words fall from yours and David’s mouth at the same time, wearing far too identical grins for a father and daughter through choice and not blood. 

Jack swallows thickly, looses a shaky breath when he feels a warm gust of air caress the side of his face—one he now associates with his late Mary. 

Reassuring him, soothing him. 

Too caught up in his mind, he doesn’t notice your phone pinging consistently from your back pocket, or the dejection that plasters its way across your face. It’s only when you’re resting a palm on his bicep and holding out your phone to him that you catch his attention. 

“I'll be right back. Can you take some photos of Pheebs?”

He hums, takes the phone and puckers his lips when you lean up to kiss him. Jack doesn’t watch you walk away, gets the camera ready instead to record Phoebe’s next race as you excuse yourself. 

Tom’s text still echoes in your mind. 

Can you meet me in the parking lot?

There’s a horrible feeling in your gut. One that promises he’s about to ruin Phoebe’s day with his presence alone. Part of you wonders if he’s seen Jack’s car here instead of yours and is about to refuse to show up unless you make Jack leave. 

When you approach the parking lot and spot Tom leaning against the bonnet of his Audi, you throw your hands up at your sides in both annoyance and exasperation. 

“You ignored me for two months and now you can’t even show your face at your daughter's field day?” you call out across the short distance. 

But as you grow closer, stopping just a few feet from him, Tom doesn’t look angry or resentful. It’s so much worse than that. He looks…regretful. Sad. 

“I didn’t want her to see me.” 

Your brows pinch involuntarily at the sombre sound of his voice. It’s a tone you don’t think you’ve ever heard from him before and you can’t put your finger on it but it’s leaving you very unsettled. 

“What’s going on?” Your voice is careful, tedious. 

Tom’s hands are shoved into his jean pockets, shoulder dropping as he blows out a heavy exhale of air. He doesn’t look at you, keeps his gaze locked on the tarmac beneath his feet. 

“I think I need to take a step back.” Tom lifts his gaze to yours and for the first time in years, you can see the pain in them. 

“I’m not—” he exhales shakily, pulls his hands out of his pockets to run them down his face. “I’m not cut out for this. Being a dad.” 

You blink at him, feel your heart stop in your chest before it begins to ache; like it’s being dragged down to the pit of your stomach. 

“What are you saying?” Your tone is hard, voice close to trembling from the anger and heartache. 

Tom remains silent for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Like the coward he is, he averts your gaze again, focuses on the way his shoes scuff at the ground. 

“I’m saying that I think I need to step away. For good. I never wanted kids, Y/N. When you told me you were pregnant with Phoebe, that didn’t change for me. I’ve tried to be a dad, but it’s just not the life I’m supposed to live.”

You can feel your blood rushing in your ears, can feel an ache in your fingertips as he speaks. You’re stunned, unable to articulate your thoughts fast enough to compose a sentence. 

...It’s just not the life I’m supposed to live.

You stare at him, at the man you once loved, the father of your child. There’s a ringing in his ears as he continues speaking. Talking about his dreams to travel and explore, how Phoebe does not fit into any narrative of the life he’s created in his head. In any of the plans he’s made for his future. 

Your throat grows tight in anger and resentment, in pure, unadulterated hate. 

Because you changed your life and your dreams to fit around Phoebe. You consider her in every single decision you make, in every tiny thought you have. You’ve sacrificed sleep and relationships and opportunities for her. 

Because that’s what a mother does. It’s what a parent does. 

And here Tom is, making it loud and clear that he does not want her. That he doesn’t want to be her dad, he doesn’t want her in his life. That Phoebe is nothing but a burden to him, something that he never asked for. 

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Your voice is tight with fury when you finally manage to speak. “I have given you every out possible! I never forced this on you, I asked you several times to just fucking walk away. But you just couldn’t take the thought of us doing well without you. You sit there and you disrespect me, you talk shit on Jack– who, by the way, has been more of a father to her than you ever have—”

“I know!” Tom’s voice raises into a shout, one full of his own anger and hatred. You refuse to shrink away from it, from him. 

“She deserves Jack. You deserve Jack. He is a good man and I fucking hate it.” Tom spits the words with so much venom it makes your blood boil and you can’t help but scoff. 

“Is that what this is? Because of Jack? You’re threatened by him?” Your voice rises with every word. “You’re going to walk away from your daughter because another man is more of a father to her than you are!?”

Tom clenches his jaw, jerks his head to look away from you; a tell sign that he’s trying to calm himself down, and it’s absolutely fucking pathetic.

But he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t argue that that’s not the case, doesn’t push to try to be better for her, or to offer any other reason besides the selfish life he’s carved himself. 

You swallow down the bile that’s rising up your throat. “If you walk away from her now, you are not welcome back. Not ever, and I fucking mean that, Tom.” 

He nods to himself, stands with his hands still tucked into his pockets. “I’m not on her birth certificate so I don’t have any legal rights as a father. But if you want to speak with the courts so it’s all legit, we can. Let me know.” 

You stare at him in astonishment, your breathing ragged and vision blurring as Tom rounds the bonnet of his car to get into the driver's side. He doesn’t offer you another glance when the engine starts and he pulls out of the parking lot. 

You’re still staring at the empty space after he’s gone. Unable to truly process what the fuck has just happened, how absolute he is in his decision to walk out on Phoebe. His daughter, his blood. 

Your movements are mindless and subconscious when you trek back to the field, silent streams of silver that glisten on the warm skin of your cheeks. It doesn’t matter that he was absent anyway, it doesn’t matter that all he’s ever done is disappoint…what matters is that he has never loved Phoebe.

That your sweet girl is going to grow up wondering why she was never good enough for her own father. A feeling you’re far too familiar with and something you never ever wanted her to experience. 

Jack’s the one that notices your return first. A cheer halting from the back of his throat as Pheebs wins another race when he catches sight of you. He moves quickly, eyes wide with panic and concern at the pure shock and devastation on your face. 

“Honey? What’s wrong? Hey, what happened?” 

His palms are cupping your face with a ghost of a touch, not wanting to crowd you but needing to help you snap out of whatever the fuck is going on. The moment you feel his skin on yours, when his scent and comforting presence envelops you, a sob tears through the back of your throat.

He wipes away the tears as quickly as they fall, shushing and cooing and trying to get you to breathe. The sound of your cries and Jack’s slightly panicked tone is enough to catch the attention of the others.

“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”

“Where did you go? What happened?” 

No one touches you but Jack. But your parents stand beside him, Bella too while Karis, Ricky, Leon and Chloe stand back in worry and concern. 

Your friends have been with you since highschool, have watched you through your biggest highs and your lowest of lows. The only other time they’ve ever seen you so distraught is when you lost your fiance. 

It breaks their hearts. 

“Tom was in the parking lot.” You take a breath, struggling to wipe away your tears. 

You feel Jack grow tense at the mention of him and his presence, watch his gaze turn from panic to fury and can tell just by the look on his face that he’s trying to calm down and not cause a scene.

Prue watches with concern, finally finds herself reaching out to rub a gentle hand up and down your arm. David, however, shares the same cold expression as Jack, and he reaches for him with a hand on his shoulder—a silent vow to promise he’ll beat Tom’s ass with him.

“He’s uh…he’s gone.” 

Your mom blinks, shakes her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“He’s walking away,” your voice is hoarse. “He said he’ll contact the courts if needed to resign his parental rights over Phoebe.” 

“What?” Jack’s breathless reply is all he can muster up. He can feel his heart sinking to his stomach, the shock and heartache for Phoebe tingling in his fingertips. 

You barely notice movement from your side, don’t turn your head to see Bella stomping off toward the parking lot, don’t hear Karis sending Ricky to follow. But you do hear the cry that slips from your mom, the way she reaches for your dad in comfort.

Because they know what this means for Phoebe. The upset and anger that you went through as a kid toward your biological parents for walking away, is something she will now no doubt struggle with. 

It’s the same thing that’s replaying in your mind, in Jack’s too. It’s enough for him to wrap you in his arms and coddle you to his chest, to cup the back of your head with one hand while the other attempts to soothingly stroke up and down your spine. 

“You are everything that she’ll ever need, okay? She has us. She’ll never not have us.” 

His hold on you is nothing short of secure and safe. A silent promise alongside his words that he is not going anywhere. 

She has us. She’ll never not have us.

Jack pulls away just enough to get a look at you, to wipe the remnant tears from your pretty face. 

“I know she’s better off without him and he has never once been consistent, but I gave him so many chances to walk away, Jack. I told him to leave before she was old enough to understand…”

“I know, baby. I know.” His palms rest on your shoulders, a firm sort of massage to do anything to try and help the tension in your muscles. 

David watches with an ache in his chest, rubbing at the spot with a wide palm like he’s physically pained by the situation. His eyes flicker from you to Bella and Ricky who rejoin the group, shaking their hands that Tom wasn’t there for them to tear into. 

Jack lets his gaze stretch across the field, checking that Phoebe is still okay. She’s none the wiser to the situation, happily skipping through another race where Chloe and Leone have moved closer—most likely to keep her distracted if she looks over and spots the commotion. 

When Jack turns back to you, you’ve wiped your face and appear somewhat more composed on the surface. But he can read you like a book; and he can see the hurt and pain you’re struggling to bury in your eyes. 

“I’ll call in tonight, okay? I’ll get Shen to cover.”

Guilt hits you almost as hard as the hurt and you’re shaking your head before he can finish getting his words out. “No. Work is more important, they need you there.”

He wants to argue otherwise, you know he does. That you are more important right now, that Phoebe is. If his job wasn’t so crucial, you’re ashamed to admit you’d allow him to call in sick, that you’d be selfish enough to ask him to stay with you.

“Hey,” Bella interrupts gently with a soft hand on your arm. “I’ll stay over tonight. The girls can have a sleepover. 

You don’t even consider refusing Bella’s offer. Not because you prefer her comfort or company over Jack's, but because this is something you expect from your best friend. Because you’ve both done it for one another so much over the years. Because you are aunts to one another’s daughters. 

But Jack is just Phoebe’s moms boyfriend. If her own biological father can’t stick around and show up for her, how can you ever expect Jack to. It’s an unfair expectation to have. One that, perhaps you’re not entitled to. 

And he can see it. The thought process as Bella offers herself to you for the evening. He watches all the progress you’ve made together go backwards—watches you sink back into those feelings of unworthiness, of being too much.

Jesus Christ, it breaks his fucking heart. 

And when you nod at Bella through teary eyes and an appreciative smile, he doesn’t even get to pull you aside to talk you down from this undeserving ledge. A gasp sounds from behind you the moment he tries to reach out, and everyone's attention is diverted to a slightly pale Karis and the burst of fluid that’s drenched the grass beneath her feet. 

“Karis…”

“I’m sorry, I think my waters just broke.” 

It’s entirely accidental and completely clumsy when Ricky gently tries to shove through everyone to get to his wife, tripping over his feet and pale in complexion. He doesn’t touch her when he reaches her, hands frozen at his sides as he stares at the wet ground. 

“Okay, uh, we should go…” He sounds so unsure of himself, nothing like the usual Ricky you’ve come to know and love. 

For a split, selfish moment, you forget about everything else around you. It’s shoved to the back of your mind as you watch one of your bestest friends about to become a mother. The hurt and anguish is momentarily replaced with overwhelming joy and excitement. 

But it all comes crashing back to you when you watch Ricky hold Karis so tenderly, when he peppers kisses to her temple and they grin at one another when the shock turns into excitement. It’s a feeling of anguish and envy because that was not the experience you had. 

Tom did not hold or caress you when your labor started. He didn’t breathe with you through contractions, did not hold your hand or reassure you when Phoebe stopped moving and her heartrate began to drop. 

Because Tom didn’t show up. He wasn’t there for any of your appointments, never listened to Phoebe’s heartbeat as she grew. He declined every one of your calls when you tried to tell him you were going into labor, declined your fathers when he tried to update him that you were going for surgery, that there was a possibility that Phoebe wouldn’t make it. 

It makes you feel sick to feel so envious of Karis’ happiness in this moment. She deserves the love and support. She deserves for her birth to feel magical and precious. You didn’t deserve the fear and loneliness of yours, even if your mom was with you. 

But more importantly, it makes you realize that the only thing Tom has ever offered Phoebe is confusion and instability. 

And Jack watches it all like he can see every thought flash across your eyes. The hurt and pain, the mix of envy and happiness. 

He doesn’t say anything as he reaches for you, as he tucks you against his chest and rests his chin on the top of your head. But your arms circle his waist and your nuzzle into him, loosing a heavy breath. 

“It’ll be okay, honey.”

The certainty of his reassurance pierces through your heart. And despite your worry that one day Jack could decide to just up and leave, too, you still let yourself wonder why it couldn’t have been him. 

Why you couldn’t have met him sooner, why he couldn’t have been the one to hold your hand and guide your breathing through contractions. Why he couldn’t have been the one to cry with you in surgery. Why he couldn’t be Phoebe’s father.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Phoebe and Florence grin at the camera, three trophies stuffed under their arms and one silver medal hanging from their necks. Their cheeks are flushed, hair windswept and knees grass-stained, but they both beam with so much happiness and pride.

“Hold still…” You manage to snap three photos before Phoebe drops the proof of her achievements and races to the kitchen for food, Florence’s footsteps just as loud and urgent as she follows. 

“No running in the house!” Bella calls after them, nursing an iced tea as she lounges at the kitchen island in Prue and David’s house. 

The girls giggle as they climb to sit at the island with her, chugging their plastic cups of water and stuffing cucumber sticks in their mouths. Your mom watches in fondness, cutting sandwiches into small triangles and placing them on an oval platter. 

“Lunch before playing in the yard. You strong girls need your energy before playing.” She says it in the most lovingly stern voice she can muster, but everyone knows she’ll cave the moment the girls batter their lashes and compliment her hair. 

Smart girls. They’ve got Grandma sussed. 

Jack places the trophies back on the counter, watches in astonishment as the girls eat half their weight in sandwiches and veggie sticks (something that is usually a battle for Pheebs), and then race out to the backyard to play in the Wendy house. 

The moment they are out of earshot, all eyes are turning to you and you fucking hate it. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it.” 

“Honey…” Your mom softens, reaches across the island to brush her fingertips against yours.

You pull away with a shake of your head. Not because her comfort isn’t welcomed, but because if you accept it, you’ll crumble. And you don’t want to cry anymore because of Tom, because of what he’s done to Phoebe. 

“No—I… he’s never been a father to her. Never showed up when it matters, never cared enough to put her first. I’m just—angry. So fucking angry and tired and—”

Your dads arms wrap around you the moment you crumble, and he holds you like you’re a teenager again; angry at the world and confused and lost. 

It feels the same to him, like he’s comforting his little girl, trying to protect her from the evil of the world. But you’re not a little girl anymore, and this is not something that he can protect you from. But he holds you tight, anyway. Lets you cry into his chest and lets you sink because he will always catch you.

David’s chin rests on the top of your head when he casts a glance at Prue, who’s covering her trembling mouth with her palm. Bella, who cries silently because while Florence’s dad has never been in the picture, at least he had the decency to walk away before it began. 

And when David looks toward Jack, he holds you tighter. Jack’s eyes are set on the kitchen counter, knuckles white as he grips the corners, jaw set tight and eyes rimmed with tears. 

The sounds of your cries and sniffles tear his chest apart. In his forty-four years of life, he has never felt such anger, never been riddled with so much hate and disgust for one person. And David can see it in his eyes, can feel those emotions rolling off him. 

He presses a kiss to your forehead as he pulls away and lets you have a moment to wipe your tears. The movement catches Jack’s attention and he turns to David, nose twitching as he tries to reign in his emotions. 

David nods his head briefly to you, a silent command that you need him right now and he doesn’t hesitate. Jack pushes off the counter to move toward you, to stand at your back and place steady hands on your shoulders, to lean down and press a tender kiss to your temple. 

Your shoulders drop at the feel of him so close, like a blanket of safety and comfort has been draped over you. One hand comes up to rest on his; your fingertips tracing his knuckles as your head falls back against his chest with another sniffle. 

“She is going to ask questions,” David says softly. “You did, too. But you have time before that happens. Time to decide what truth you want to tell her.”

You nod as you exhale shakily, fingers wrapping around Jack’s and you squeeze one another in a desperate need of reassurance. 

“But you listen to me good, kid. You are a phenomenal mother. You have sacrificed so much for your daughter, you have shown up for her every day and you have never once put a single thing before her. You are all she has ever needed and all she ever will.”

Your father stares at you with so much love and adoration and respect that you don’t quite know what to do with it. To have made him as proud as you have…it has tears burning at your eyes again. 

And you believe him. You are a good mother, you will always put Phoebe before anything, but you have not done it alone. You’ve had your parents by your side every step of the way. Had Bella and Karis, Chloe and Leone. 

And now, Jack. 

Your sweet, incredible Jack. Who has never once complained when you’ve had to cancel a date. Who has always considered Phoebe and planned dates to accommodate her. Who has come into her life and stayed, never once disappointing or not showing up since the moment they met. 

Jack, who loves Phoebe with every fibre of his being. 

And when David’s eyes flick up from yours to meet Jack’s, his head nods in something subtle. Like a silent way of saying, you too, the both of you is all she needs. 

“Now, we are not going to cry anymore. I am going to make my grandbabies some popcorn and we are going to forget about that little asshole.” 

He calls the girls in while everyone else wipes away their tears, makes a show of getting out a pan for popcorn and when you catch Jack’s gaze, he tilts his head toward the yard in silent invitation. 

The air kisses your warm skin as you take your seats on the patio furniture, pressed into Jack’s side as he curls an arm around your shoulder to keep you close. 

You sit in silence for a minute, like you’re both trying to figure out how to broach the subject, where to go from here.

“Can you promise me something?” Jack asks quietly, voice low and slightly pained. 

You pull away just enough to crane your neck up to look at him at the same time he gazes down at you. And it’s then that you notice the redness of his eyes; the worry and concern and hurt that’s buried itself deep in the lines of his skin. 

“You talk to me.” His voice cracks when he requests it. “You don’t get stuck or lost in your head. You have a concern, you voice it. We talk through it. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere, and I need you to tell me you understand that.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, the need to argue that if Tom can so easily walk away from Pheebs, what’s to say that he won’t, too.

“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen.” Jack rasps like he can read your mind, and you don’t miss the hurt in his voice. The fact that you think he could so easily, so carelessly walk away from either of you like that. 

“You say that now, but what if things change.” He hates the pain in your voice, the worry and fear and heartache.

Jack shakes his head, his hand coming up to caress your jaw and stroke soothingly against your cheek; catching the tears before they can fully fall. 

“Baby, I told you before but I’ll happily tell you again…you and Phoebe are all that I care about. Your happiness, your safety, your health…”

His voice is a wreck as he stares down at you, as he catches the sheer vulnerability in your eyes. It’s on the tip of his tongue, right on the precipice of spilling over. But he catches it before it can. 

“There is nothing that I wouldn't do for you, for Phoebe. And even if you and I don’t work out, or you meet someone younger or better—”

“—there is no younger or better—”

“—I will never turn my back on her. I give you my word, that I will be present in Phoebe’s life, no matter what. In whatever capacity you allow me to be, I will be there. Happily. Willingly.” 

You stare at him in awe, with so much adoration that you feel yourself starting to cry again. You have never felt this way about anyone. Not Tom, not even your beloved lost love. 

He leans down to close the small gap, rests your foreheads together as the tip of his nose brushes down the slope of yours. “You two have made an irrevocable mark on me. You are not something I plan to walk away from.”

Your bottom lip trembles at the sincerity of his words, at the soft and gentleness he’s always given you. You’ve never been cared for so openly, so genuinely. No one has ever been so gentle with your heart and mind. No one has ever watered your soul in hopes that it will bloom and thrive. 

No one but Jack. 

Perhaps it’s wrong to feel so significantly lighter when he intertwines your fingers and guides you back into your parents house. Maybe you should still be hurt and sad and inconsolable over the events of the day. 

But you do. 

You let yourself trust him, his words and his heart. You let yourself laugh loudly when your dad makes his so-called ‘crazy popcorn’, where he lifts the lid of the pan to stress the importance of keeping it on and kernels fly across the kitchen. 

When Phoebe and Florence almost piss themselves from laughing so hard. 

It suddenly makes sense to Jack what Pheebs had meant a couple of months ago when he wasn’t as creative and just made the popcorn in the microwave. A mental note he makes for next time. 

He squeezes your hand gently, trying to catch your attention. And when you turn to him with some of the light back in your eyes, it’s like he visibly relaxes. 

“I’m gonna head back to the apartment. Check on Sally, get some shut eye before shift tonight.” 

The thought of not having him by your side right now isn’t one you’re too thrilled about, but you nod anyway, intertwining your fingers. 

“Alright, we’re gonna stay here for a bit.” 

Jack watches you for a moment, like he’s searching for any split second of hesitancy or unease so can insist on calling in sick and staying with you. But he finds none.

“You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks quietly. 

You’re not sure, not even in the slightest. But you have Bella and the girls. You can’t expect or allow him to put his life on pause because of something another man has done. That’s not fair to him.

So you nod, plaster on a smile that’s as believable as possible. “Yeah. Bella’s gonna stay. And our talk helped.”

Jack squints at you, like he can tell you’re trying to save face for him and he doesn’t like it. But he’a already made it clear to you that he’s here, that he wants to help. He worries that if he pushes more you’ll pull away again. So he relents with a sigh and his hands on your waist, luring you into his arms.

“Okay, you call me if you need me and I'll check in through the night.”

Selfishly, you don’t even consider refusing that. You’ll happily take the calls and texts through his shift, if only until you can be with him again tomorrow. 

Jack leans close to press a tender kiss to your forehead, hands gripping your waist like he’s making sure you’re not about to disappear. And it’s like it physically pains him to pull away to say goodbye to everyone else. 

Prue seeks him out first, wrapping him in a mother’s embrace that he hasn’t felt for himself in many years. She squeezes him like he’s her only son, whispers her thanks for looking after her daughter and grandbaby.

Jack doesn’t have it in him to be able to reply without growing upset. So he smiles through pursed lips and untangles from her hold when David approaches to pat a hand on his shoulder and turns their bodies toward the sink to form a quiet curtain of privacy. 

“I want you to do me a favor.” 

Jack keeps his gaze focused on the faucet as David speaks in a low tone; one that’s rich in pain and protectiveness and he hates that he knows what he's about to be asked. 

“You might feel like it’s not your place, but you cannot allow Tom back into their lives. I know my daughter is a strong woman…but she cannot handle this when it comes to Phoebe.”

Jack cranes his neck to the side to meet David’s desperate gaze. There’s more to it in his eyes, more than just asking a favor for this situation. There’s the worry of who will take care of them when he’s gone. Because the years are passing faster than he can keep up with.

“I’m—” Jack’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, speaking again in a much lower and pained tone. “I’m not sure she’d want me to involve myself.”

David shakes his head before he manages to finish his sentence. “You’re already involved, son. You’re in love with my daughter and you treat Phoebe like she’s your own. They are your family now. As men, we protect our families.”

There’s a stinging sensation behind Jack’s eyes, a throbbing that aches around his heart. David is a smart man, he knows. It’s his way of making sure Jack can take care of you both, his way of accepting him, his silent blessing wrapped in protective ribbon. 

You’re in love with my daughter.

He doesn’t deny it. 

“Yes, sir.” Jack nods, voice gravelly. 

David squeezes his shoulder as a sad sort of grin begins to tug across your father’s mouth. “Just David to you.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Just passes Jack with a fatherly pat on his back before returning his attention to Phoebe and Florence—who Jack had no idea Prue and David also considered to be their granddaughter. 

“I’ll stay with her tonight, promise.”

He turns at the sound of Bella’s voice as she stands beside him, leaning against the kitchen counter with arms crossed over her chest. 

“Thank you.” He looses a sigh, eyes immediately seeking you out across the room as you check your phone for any updates on Karis yet. 

Bella notices, she always does. Follows his line of sight and for the first time, she doesn’t feel protective of you—doesn’t feel like she needs to warn Jack or give him a talking to. Because he watches you with so much devotion and care, so much love it almost chokes her. 

If anyone is deserving of it, it’s you. 

The only time his attention is torn away from you is when small footsteps rush toward him and Pheebs is at his feet, arms in the air as she tries to show him her picture.

Jack doesn’t falter when he lifts her—something she’s very close to being too big for—and rests her on his hip, shifting his weight to his good leg and taking a look at her drawing. 

“Look, it’s us!” She points to each figure as she lists them off. “Mommy, me, you, and there’s Sally!” 

The figures are misshapen and different colors, uncoordinated and chaotic but that’s Phoebe for you. She’s tried to write names at the top—something the three of you have been working on over the past couple of months—and the sight of Jack’s spelt wrong and mostly with shapes and a silver crayon used to draw a line for his prosthetic…it has his throat tightening. 

He decides right then that he’s going to pin it in his locker at work. 

“You are such an artist, Diva. I love it, you even put my leg in there.” 

“Duh,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing to include. 

And Bella watches the exchange. The way Phoebe’s eyes sparkle when she looks at Jack, the way he holds her tight and kisses the side of her head. She watches how your smile widens when you notice them, when you grin something bright and cosmic, when you stand by Jack’s side and Pheebs shows you the picture. 

She listens when Jack tells Diva to behave for you, when he checks if you need her carseat and you tell him Bella has a spare. When Phoebe wiggles out of his grasp and runs off to Florence, when he waves at them both as they scream a BYE JACK at him.

Bella does have the decency to turn away when he kisses you, though. When he promises to see you in the morning and bring breakfast for everyone. When he jokes about stealing your shower to put the chair you got him to good use. 

She lingers long enough to hear your laugh, to hear Jack’s. Waits a beat too long to see if he’ll say it, if you will. There’s a pregnant pause like you both want to, but neither utter what’s on the tips of your tongues. 

Bella doesn’t think it’ll be long before one of you does. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You knew the night was going to end in tears. 

To give yourself some grace, you have managed to hold it in until the girls settle for bed. Your bed, to be precise. They’ve commandeered your bedroom, snuggled up under your sheets as they watch Peter Pan and snack on yogurt covered berries. 

And now that you’ve pulled out the couch bed in the living room and sat with a blanket, chinese food and a bottle of wine…life feels like it’s crashing around you. 

Bella’s hand on your thigh is soothing and grounding, firm enough to keep you from completely floating away in your burning mind. 

“I just feel like I’ve failed her.”

Bella’s heart shatters at your words, at the ache in your voice, the tears that continue to pour down your flushed cheeks. “Babe, you have not failed anyone. You are not responsible for his shitty actions, you know that.” 

She’s right, you know she’s right. But you were the one that had a child with him, you were the one that still allowed him to be in her life up until this point. To confuse her. To now disappear out of nowhere and leave her with the same heartache and anger that your biological parents did. 

“I don’t want her to go through what I did.” Your admittance is passed through trembling lips and salty tears.

Bella’s lips turn downward, her own eyes glistening with fresh tears because she knows all too well what you went through. She was the first friend you ever made when you were put in Prue and David’s care, she was the one you’d sneak onto the back field with during class to smoke weed and be angry at the world together. 

She was there through all those confusing feelings, through all the sadness and anger and then the guilt when Prue and David decided to adopt you. 

“It’s not the same, babe. You know it’s not the same thing you went through.” She coos. 

“It’s close enough. She’s going to grow up wondering why her daddy didn’t want her, why he walked away, why she wasn’t good enough—”

“Stop, calm down, come on.” Bella pulls you into her, cradling your head to her chest and rocking you back and forth on the pull-out bed as she smooths down your hair. 

“She is always going to have you. You’re not going anywhere.” Her voice is gentle when she speaks, wobbling from her own anguish at the sight of you. “Jack is not going anywhere.”

You clutch her tighter. “You don’t know that.”

Bella pulls you out of her hold to get a look at you, to cup your face in her palms and wipe away the onslaught of tears that continue to slip. 

“Yes, I do. Honey, he looks at you like you are the only thing in this world that matters. He looks at Phoebe like she is the most precious thing he has ever met. That man is smitten with the both of you, he is not going anywhere.”

You know she isn’t just saying it to make you feel better. You know that Jack cares so deeply for you and your daughter, that he would never dream of walking away like Tom has. But the truth of it doesn’t stop that worry from festering. Doesn’t stop it from taking root in your mind until you begin to believe it. 

“I’m scared,” you whisper. 

“I know,” she whispers back. 

“I’m in love with him.” It comes out as a breathless whine, an admittance that you’ve been keeping buried for the past couple of months. One that’s been suffocating you from the inside out, like it’s never supposed to have been kept to yourself. 

“I know,” Bella whispers again.

Before you can think to dive into your fears of him not feeling as deeply as you do, the gentle pinging of your phone lights up with a text message from Jack and you’re wiping your eyes as you reach for it. 

Jack: Just checking in baby, you doing okay?

You: all ok, we have wine and chinese, hows work

Jack: Work is fine

Jack: Would much rather be at home with my girls

Your heart stutters at the message. Home. My girls. You want to tell him that you wish he was here, too. That part of you regrets not taking him up on the offer of calling in sick. But you know if you say as much, he’ll walk out and come straight back to you.

His job is more important than this. But you’re grateful that Jack is keeping the conversation casual, like he’s purposely trying to keep your mind off the events of today.

You: promise you’re not missing out on anything exciting 

Jack: I’m missing out on you. You’re the most exciting 

You: anyone ever told you that you’re a massive flirt?

Jack: Once or twice. 

Bella catches you grinning at your phone, takes that as her cue to refill your glasses in the kitchen. You barely register her brief departure before you’re receiving another text. 

Jack: I miss you 

Jack: I’m starting to hate my job

You: liar, you love your job 

Jack: I love being with you and Diva more

You: we love being with you too

There’s at least a minute of your text being left on delivered as Bella comes over with another full glass of white wine and a giant tub of ice cream tucked under her arm, causing a wet patch to form on the pyjama shirt she’s borrowed from you.

You take the wine as you blow her a kiss, your mood slowly lifting as the tears begin to dry. You snuggle back against the pillows, curling into yourself and the scent of Jack’s shirt that you’re wearing when your phone vibrates with another text. 

Jack: Mass casualty incoming, I will try and call you later

Jack: Stay out of that beautiful head of yours, I am not going anywhere. We will figure this out together. x

You stare at the message, rereading it over and over and over again. The words are on the tips of your fingers, eager to be typed and sent. But you refuse for that to be how you tell him for the first time. How you confess it properly. 

You: ❤️ u 

It’s much more casual and lightheartened than how you actually feel, but it’s more than either of you have ever said. You send before you can talk yourself out of it, feel the bile rise up your throat when it’s marked as delivered. Feel it threaten to spill out your mouth when it changes to read. 

Not even a heartbeat later, his reply comes through. 

Jack: I know baby 

Jack: ❤️ u too

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

ok unsure what happened before but hopefully this is working now. i am so sad that the next part is the final part and i hate that i did this to pheebs but it's crucial to the storyline like it just had to happen

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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[geminiwritten]

── miss independent ; jack abbot

summary: you've always kept things casual. it's just easier that way. you've got a roster, a routine, and absolutely no intention of changing—until you realise you've made one very inconvenient mistake: falling in love with dr. jack abbot.

notes: okay, this took way longer than it should have because i burnt out trying to make all the "medical stuff" absolutely perfect, then when i picked it back up i feel like the rhythm changed a little? hopefully for the better? i'm not sure if it's worth the wait, but i really hope y'all still enjoy! and as always, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, blushing, italics, fwb type situation, jealousy, implied age gap, reader is in serious denial, medical descriptions, medical procedure descriptions (not graphic), most definitely incorrect medical information, sexual references, implied sexual relationships, making out (on shift), and one irritatingly handsome and unreasonably reasonable night shift attending.

word count: 15620

“Hey—oh, thank God.” You kick the door shut behind you. “Can you wait for me? I just need, like, five minutes.”

Ellis sighs. “Really? I was just about to leave.”

“Five minutes,” you say again, already moving toward your room.

You don’t bother shutting the door. You just drop your bag at the foot of your bed, pull the faded old U.S. Army shirt over your head, and shove your sweatpants down. Then you grab a fresh set of scrubs and pull them on, tying the drawstring quickly before opening your bag to check for your badge and stethoscope.

“Aren’t you gonna shower?” Ellis calls from the living room.

“We showered before I left,” you say, “but I didn’t have a clean pair of scrubs.”

Ellis gags. “Gross. Why’d you have to say ‘we’?”

You sling your bag over your shoulder as you step out of your room, grinning.

“Because we had some really great shower sex too.”

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”

You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”

“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”

He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”

You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.

Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out. Ellis: Need anything from the store?

Your stomach drops.

“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.

“Uh—yeah. Fine.”

You tuck your phone back into your pocket.

“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”

“Mhm.”

“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Langdon snorts. “Got it.”

You nod. “Great. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. “Great sign-out.”

“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.

You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.

You: You’re dead to me. You: And toothpaste.

When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.

Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.

“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”

You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.

You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.

Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?

“You ready?”

You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”

You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.

“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.

You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.

“Nope,” you reply, too fast.

Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.

“Where are you going?”

“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.

He follows you. Because of course he does.

“You’re going to catch a bus?”

“Yep.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.

“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”

That makes you stop.

You turn around. “No strings attached?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?”

“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”

You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Just drop me off?”

He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.

“And then what?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Then you just leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”

He frowns. “Saying what?”

“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”

He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”

“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”

His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”

You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.

“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”

“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”

“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”

You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.

“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.

“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.

“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”

He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.

“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”

His gaze holds yours.

“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”

His expression softens again.

“Do you understand?”

You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.

“Now listen to me.”

He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”

His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.

His lips quirk. “You alright?”

“No,” you breathe.

And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.

He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.

You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.

And for a second, neither of you seems to care.

The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.

Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.

“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.

Then he pulls back completely.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.

“Still catching the bus?”

You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”

He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.

“My car’s the other way,” he calls.

You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.

Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” you say again.

His smile only widens.

You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.

You just know.

And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.

Which is annoying for several reasons.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[clarktologist]

ㅤㅤ THE JACK ABBOT EXPERIMENT!

During reader's last week at the PTMC, four experiments were performed to test the level of relationship between Jack Abbot and reader. The main hypothesis was that Jack Abbot cared personally for reader, beyond the normal scope of an attending-MS4 relationship. Our constant was the amount of time these experiments were performed, while our variables were different ways of connection to our main subject, such as: strictly professional, kind, flirty and distant.

The result was inconclusive due to an unforeseen change with one of our variables. Despite this result, all logs related to this experiment can be found below.

total word count: 12.2k

STEP ONE: FORM A HYPOTHESIS. STEP TWO: DESIGN & CONDUCT EXPERIMENT. STEP THREE: DRAW CONCLUSION[s]. STEP FOUR: COMMUNICATE RESULTS.

[80sfilmclub]

♡ɞ✦ ┆・ DOLL'S CORNER.

summary. After Jack treats you at the emergency department, he learns that you're a camgirl — a very popular camgirl with a public SFW account. Curiosity has him subscribing and he finds himself falling into a very addicting trap of you. word count. 16.5k (this got away from me) content warnings. nsfw content, excessive use of 'bunny', medical inaccuracies (of literally almost everything, big shout out to healthline and mayoclinic for iud info), mentions of vaginal bleeding and pain, easter eggs/cameos of other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) notes. so this was the most absolute fun to write !! i've got a few easter-eggs in here (including other readers from a previous robby fic (👀) and some of my lovely mutuals mentioned) so i hope you like it, my inbox is open for more blurb requests or ideas you have for the dolls-verse! photos above are from pinterest and @deathreverse made the amazing website mock up i included below! (thankyouthankyouiloveyourmassivebrain)

As someone who's made a living off of exposing every inch of your body to the world, you feel horribly exposed sitting on an exam table in just a hospital gown that you had changed into from the cliche trench coat and lacy negligee you had on earlier.

Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.

So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"

Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.

But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.

"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."

"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."

The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.

"… what seems to be the problem—?"

Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.

Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.

He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.

Face down, ass up.

He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.

"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"

"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.

Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"

You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.

"Words, please."

Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.

Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.

Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.

"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"

Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."

The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."

He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.

You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.

Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"

"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"

Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"

The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.

Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."

A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.

"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"

He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."

Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.

"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."

You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"

Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"

"Maybe."

"It's not very good."

"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."

You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"

"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"

Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."

He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.

"Thanks again, doctor."

The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.

"What?" Jack frowns.

The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."

"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell—!"

The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."

Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"

In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.

The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.

He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.

Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.

It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.

Dollface. Doll. Dolly.

He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.

While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.

It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.

[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]

His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.

The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.

BESTIES — free! access includes: - get ready with me - weekly vlogs - shopping hauls SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($) - everything besties has to offer! - short-form lewd content - locked photos from the vault - audios LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$) - everything sweethearts and besties has to offer! - midnight live-streams - personalized short-form videos - personalized audios

Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.

All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.

He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.

The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.

As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.

Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.

(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)

Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.

You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.

When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:

@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.

Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.

Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.

You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.

In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.

Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.

@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡

@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!

@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡

@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY

In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.

Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.

He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.

@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.

The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.

The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.

He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.

@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot

@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls

@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call

The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.

He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.

You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.

Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).

Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.

Bunny.

You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.

The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.

As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.

[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]

[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]

A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:

doll : doctor abbot???

Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.

He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.

swatdoc : How did you know it was me?

doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡

Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.

swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?

doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.

swatdoc : Sounds fair.

doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?

swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.

doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?

He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—

swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.

doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡

swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny. doll liked your message!

The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.

Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.

None of the actresses look like you.

The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.

"You seeing anyone?"

Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"

"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"

"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.

"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."

The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.

He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.

But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.

You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.

doll: dr abbot?? swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart. doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.

Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.

swatdoc: You mean it, bunny? doll: spending time with you? of course ♡

Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.

swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual. doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny. doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!! swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus. doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot. doll: so when's our date? swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you? doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up? swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7? doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.

He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.

Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.

[ Doll updated her status! ] — 2 secs ago. — Butterflies. ♡

A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.

A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.

Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.

The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.

"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.

Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.

"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.

"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."

Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.

He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.

"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.

Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.

"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.

"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"

Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.

"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.

"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."

The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.

But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.

"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.

You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.

"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"

Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."

The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"

Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."

After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.

"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.

"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"

"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"

Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.

The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.

"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."

You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."

He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."

And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.

When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.

[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.

His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?

Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.

[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.

He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.

"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"

Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.

@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG

@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!

Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.

Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—

"Jack?"

"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"

You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"

"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."

"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"

"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."

"The aquarium…"

He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"

"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"

"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"

"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."

"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."

Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.

You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.

By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.

It's made you undeniably horny for him.

You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.

And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.

At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.

"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.

"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"

Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"

"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."

"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.

"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"

You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.

His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"

You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"

His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"

You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."

"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."

You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.

In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"

The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.

And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.

You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.

That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.

Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—

"'m cumming, daddy—!"

The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.

"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.

Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."

"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."

"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.

You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.

"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."

He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.

The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"

He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."

A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"

Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."

"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."

Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."

You kiss him again.

For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.

A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.

So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.

Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.

But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.

Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.

They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.

The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.

"So. Shen's said you've been weird."

Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."

Robby startles. "Oh. That's— brother, that's great."

"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.

"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"

"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."

The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.

Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.

His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.

"Feelin' restless, bunny?"

"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."

"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.

You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"

"I'm fine—"

"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"

"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."

"I don't think so."

"Jack."

"Bunny."

It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."

Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.

When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.

"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—

"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"

He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"

"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"

"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."

Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."

"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.

"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.

His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"

"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.

"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."

You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.

You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.

But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."

He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.

"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"

"Mhm, yes—"

"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."

It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.

"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."

And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.

He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.

"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"

His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."

Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.

"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."

You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.

He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.

It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.

"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"

His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.

His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.

The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"

"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.

When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.

"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.

Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…

Had it not been for your growling stomach.

His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.

"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"

"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."

He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."

Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.

"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."

It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"

You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.

"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"

A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."

Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.

Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.

While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.

"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.

He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."

The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"

"You're right, I'll behave."

The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.

For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.

"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.

Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."

Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"

"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"

"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.

"She's not my type, she's just hot—"

"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.

Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"

Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"

"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."

The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.

Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).

There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.

The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.

You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.

You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.

"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.

Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."

"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."

When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.

Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.

@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???

@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE

You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.

"You're stealing my fans, Jack."

"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."

"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.

"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."

Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."

"Use your words, bunny."

"I'd like that a lot, sir."

That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.

Sir.

It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.

"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."

When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"

Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.

Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.

"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.

The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."

Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.

"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.

The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.

"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.

He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.

"Add another finger for me, bunny."

You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"

"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.

"Yes, but—"

"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."

The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.

The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.

"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.

Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.

"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"

Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.

"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.

But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.

His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.

"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."

The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.

—

"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"

The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.

"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."

Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"

"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."

"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."

Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."

—

Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.

Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.

She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."

"What do you need a bag for?"

"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.

"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."

The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.

Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.

—

In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.

She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.

Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.

"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.

"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.

You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.

"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"

The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.

When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—

"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.

He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"

"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."

—

With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.

It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.

Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.

Something isn't right.

You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.

With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.

When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"

—

"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.

Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"

"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"

Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.

"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."

Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.

—

After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"

Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"

Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."

"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"

He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"

"No, actually—"

"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."

You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.

At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."

Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"

Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."

Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."

You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"

"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.

"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"

A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.

"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."

—

As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.

"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.

When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."

"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"

"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."

His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.

When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Sure is."

An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."

"What's it mean?"

"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."

thank you so much for reading! likes / reblogs / comments are highly appreciated! if you guys want to see more of bunny!reader in this dolly-verse, my inbox is open for blurb requests and ideas! ♡

[deathreverse]

APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — Pt. 8

SUMMARY: Pizzas, karaoke, movies and a sleepover. All at Phoebe’s request, of course, for Jack to spend Saturday night with them. And when Sunday morning rolls around, she’s got some things that she needs to get off her chest.

WARNINGS: swearing, phoebe borderline disowning her dad, mentions of toxic men and weaponized incompetence. smut; kissing, teasing, swearing, dirty talk, slight praise kink, masturbation, oral (both receiving), face sitting.

A/N: okay i'll be so real, i've struggled with writing this series atm as we're so close to the end. after lots of back and forth and debating, i have decided to keep part 10 as the finale of this story and i am very upset by it :(( thank u for being patient with waiting for an update, life has been super busy but it is here!

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

WORD COUNT: 7.1k

PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

If there’s one thing in life that makes you angry, it’s deadbeat fathers and weaponized incompetence. Naturally, you received your share of a lifetime of such with Phoebe’s father, as did Bella with Florence’s. 

However, you learnt your lesson from past mistakes. Listened to the Universe when it silently told you it was time to walk away and break a cycle before it began. 

Bella, unfortunately, has not taken the same approach. 

“I just don’t get it! Why is that you manage to find someone as wonderful and sexy as Jack, and I’m stuck here settling for barely average dick and men with the personality of a fucking sponge? Which is ironic because they don’t absorb anything other than my fucking happiness and spark.”

Your lips roll between your teeth to hide both your amusement and annoyance on the matter. 

“Because I wasn’t looking for anything when I met Jack. I love you, Bella, but you’re on Tinder like, all the time. You settle too easily.” 

Her footsteps pause abruptly, forcing yours to do the same. And when you slowly turn to sneak a glance at her, she’s glaring at you through squinted eyes. 

“Would it hurt you to lie to me, just once in your life?” 

You snort, reaching to loop your arm around hers and effectively drag her across the concrete playground of the girls preschool. 

“Yes, actually, it would. Because I love you and I want only what’s best for you. And unfortunately, you do not share the same sentiment about yourself. 

Bella leans her arm over to pinch your bicep. “I do want what’s best for me.”

“Then maybe you should stop settling.” You muse. 

She rolls her eyes, throwing her head back and the jewellery that decorates her wrists jingles when she throws an arm in the air, the other still hooked around yours. 

“It’s not my fault I seem to only attract douchebags.” Her argument is half fair. She does seem to attract the incompetent men who ask her on a date but can’t afford to pay. Or the ones that still live with their mom at thirty and can’t hold down a job for longer than six weeks. 

But, Bella also entertains those types of men. Gives them the time of day even after they let her down. Not to psychoanalyze your best friend, but you’re almost certain it stems from her father leaving when she was a child. 

The thought has an idea occurring. 

“What about dating someone…older?”

She turns her head to lazily grin at you as you both stop just a few feet outside the doors to the girls classroom. 

“Older like Jack?” She lowers her voice as other parents begin to drift across the playground, searching for their children’s respective classes. “What, you looking for a third?”

You slap her shoulder at the tease, gnaw down on your bottom lip to hide the inappropriate amusement. Her head rolls back in a laugh, hooks her arm around yours tighter. 

“I’m not opposed to someone older. But I haven’t been lucky enough to stumble across someone hot and old like you have.”

You don’t bother hiding your grin this time, or the flush in your cheeks. “He is pretty hot, isn’t he.” 

She rolls her eyes fondly. “He’s obviously doing something right. I’ve never seen you this…glowy over a guy before.”

You shrug, bashfulness overtaking you just briefly. Because Jack is doing more than just something right. He’s considerate, compassionate, patient and kind. He’s funny—so fucking funny—and flirty and cheeky and intelligent in the sexiest way you’ve ever seen. 

More than that, he’s competent, capable. And he listens to learn, not to reply. He problem solves instead of festering in a negative situation. He’s masculine in every healthy way; like your personal repair man who comes over to fix leaky faucets and helps paint new furniture on your balcony that you’ve haggled from Marketplace. 

And the sex…Jesus fucking Christ. 

It’s always so intimate and sensual. Never rushed, no. It’s explorative and exciting. He takes his time to learn your body, notices what you like and what you love. 

And he’s vocal. Talks you through it with praise and encouragement, something you’ve never experienced before him. 

“I’m not glowy.”

Bella scoffs. “Yes, you are. I mean you’ve always been carefree but since meeting him—what, four months ago?—you’re…I don’t know, it’s like your soul has been let free or something.”

A laugh tumbles out of you. “Okay, Shakespeare.”

The doors to the girls’ class swing open before Bella can offer a defensive retort, and Phoebe and Florence come bolting toward you in quick skips and fits of giggles. 

You try not to focus on Bella’s words and observation; try not to admit that she’s right. Because in the four months of dating Jack, you’ve never felt so alive. Not when you were a teenager and sneaking out to smoke joints in the field with your friends, not when you finally left Tom.

You felt alive when you gave birth to Phoebe, when you heard her cries for the first time and felt her body against yours. But it’s a different feeling of liveliness. It’s when a new part of you awakens, when your life shifts from living for yourself to living for another. 

But, Jack…yeah, he makes you feel alive. Not just in the dates he takes you on, or the ones he works harder to plan so Phoebe can join, but in the way that he’s never once tried to snuff out your light, never once complained or grimaced at your weird and wacky personality. 

Maybe Bella is right. He does make your soul feel free. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

“Mom, Jack’s eating the cheese again!”

Your head whips round to the island where both Jack and Phoebe huddle close together, decorating their pizzas to their liking. The former holds an expression of dramatic betrayal while the latter bursts into the dirtiest laugh you think you’ve ever heard from her. 

“You ate some first!” Jack argues, feigning offence and crossing broad, freckled arms across his toned chest. 

Phoebe’s head rolls back in laughter and you watch when Jack quickly untangles his arms to place a hand at her back, steadying her from falling off the stool with the force of her giggles. 

You watch the scene in amusement, a warmth in your chest that you’re finally starting to grow accustomed to when it comes to the devilish duo. 

“Yeah, but I’m just a kid, so I’m allowed.”

Jack turns to you with raised brows, struggling to hide his amusement when he jabs a thumb in Pheebs’ direction as if to say get a load of this.

It was, of course, Jack’s idea to have pizza night. You didn’t put up much of a fight when he suggested it to you after a rough week of drafting, planning and heavy deadlines. 

And when you then proposed it to Phoebe, she had agreed the second you’d mentioned Jack's name; before you even had the chance to tell her what the plans were. 

From the moment Jack walked in an hour ago, she hasn't left his side. Encouraged him to take off his prosthetic by shoving the crutches against his good leg, tucked it away neatly beside the couch when he did as she requested. 

Then she dragged him to the kitchen island where they’ve been for the last forty-five minutes; kneading dough and cutting pieces of meat and vegetables for their pizzas. 

And you’ve watched from across the island, with something both heavy and freeing in your chest. Felt your eyes prickle with tears at every synchronized laugh that fell out of them. 

Phoebe forces Jack to cut peppers into shapes of flower stems and petals, uses little pieces of corn to centre them and cheese scattered only on the bottom half, because according to Phoebe, grass doesn’t have to just be green. 

You decorate your pizza in a similar fashion, using meat as the petals and veggies for the stems and leaves, while Jack creates a bullseye effect with rings of each topping—much to Pheebs’ disgust. 

“Mommy, can we play SingStar while the pizza’s cooking?” She asks, tone sickly sweet as she dries her hands and Jack cleans down the surfaces. 

Like usual, she seems to get what she wants. 

At first, Jack manages to escape the song delegations, entirely evading his turn to duet or sing at all by finding anything else that momentarily needs his attention. 

“I need to check on the pizzas.”

“I’m just going to grab us all a drink.”

“But it’s so much fun listening to you and Mommy!” 

Until you’ve finally had enough. 

“Jack, it’s your turn to sing with Pheebs. I need to finish dinner.” 

Before he can offer to do it instead, you’re shoving the wired microphone into his chest with a feline grin as he glares playfully down at you. 

“Give it your all or she’ll be pissed. Phoebe doesn’t do half-hearted things. It’s a full performance or your head on a stick.” 

Jack's already well aware of the fact. He’s watched you both prance around the living room for the past fifteen minutes, screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs while completing a fully-fledged dance choreography. 

He’s tried his best to put it off—not because he doesn’t want to join in, but because watching his two girls laugh and dance and sing and scream… he doesn’t want to intrude on something that is yours. 

But Phoebe screeches excitedly when she reaches for Jack’s hand and drags him into the middle of the rug as soon as his prosthetic is clipped back on, the coffee table shoved across the room to make space. 

If he’s going to do karaoke, he’s going to do it properly. Phoebe has standards, and Jack’s not the type of man to disappoint. 

The TV screen blinks briefly as Phoebe presses play and a rhythm of drums and something higher begins to sound through the speakers, the words “Ain’t It Fun by Paramore” flashing across the screen. 

While Jack misses the first verse, sings too fast or too slow, unable to catch the tempo and rhythm of lyrics he’s never heard before, Phoebe kills it. Hips jutting with enough sass of a sixteen-year-old, not missing a single word or beat. 

You can’t help but watch through tears of laughter, a sharp ache forming in your sides from the force of it. And by the time it gets to the final round of the chorus, Jack finds himself jumping around the living room with Pheebs—still singing off key and out of tempo, but he copies her dancing the best way he can.

Her infectious laughter bounces off the walls, and when Jack imitates Phoebe by wiggling his hips, the sound of yours is joining hers. He catches your gaze through a wide grin and sparkling eyes, shoots you a wink that does something to your insides. 

The whole thing feels normal, right. Like the sound of Jack’s laughter and the stability of his presence is exactly what’s been missing in your home and hearts. 

He’s tapping out at the end of the duet, saved by you declaring dinner is ready when Pheebs tries to pester him for just one more song. 

Dinner goes down a similar way; giggles and jokes, talking about Phoebe’s week at school and some crazy (but child friendly) stories from Jack’s shifts recently. Your apartment has never felt so full of life and love. 

You’re briefly taken back to when you were a teenager. Riddled with anger and upset and resentment for the world, but sitting at the table and eating with your mom and dad… talking about your day, laughing at stupid things. 

They always had a way of taking that pain away, even if just for a few moments. Because they made you feel loved, feel wanted. 

This feels a bit like that. Family time. Something Phoebe has only ever experienced with you and her grandparents at their house. 

By the time you’ve finished your pizzas, Jack insists on cleaning up while you bathe Phoebe. She splashes and plays for twenty minutes, uses her bath crayons to draw pictures on the porcelain tub before scrubbing them away and getting into some pyjamas. 

When you return to the living room, the lights are off and the sun is setting from outside the balcony windows. The kitchen is spotless where Jack stands, opening a box of microwave popcorn and The Little Vampire already ready on the TV.

Two steaming mugs of tea sit on the coffee table alongside a smaller mug filled with warm milk and a little plate of cookies. You’re too busy smiling to yourself at the little set up that you almost miss Phoebe scolding and judging Jack. 

“That’s not how my grandpa makes it. His popcorn is crazy.” 

You blink over to the kitchen as you sit on the couch, watching Jack’s brows raise as he slides the popcorn into the microwave. He doesn’t question it, he’s learnt not to question some of the things that Phoebe says. 

But despite her disapproval, she watches through the glass as the paper bag expands and rotates, giggles when she’s startled by the popping until Jack’s pinching the pouch with two fingers and pouring the snack into a bowl. 

Phoebe nestles herself between you and Jack when they join you on the couch, squished between your right thigh and Jack’s left; a thin blanket draped over the three of you while the bowl of popcorn rests in her lap. 

Her eyes dart to the balcony doors and back to the television, like she’s noticing something but too worried to speak up. It causes a frown to pull between your brows as you follow her line of sight. 

But there’s nothing but darkness out on the balcony; the golden light of the lamp and flickers of the TV reflecting on the glass. 

“You okay, Diva? You keep looking outside.” You probe softly. 

You feel her stiffen, just enough for it to feed the concern rushing through you and to grab Jack’s attention. He looks down at her, then at you, his own brows furrowing at her change in body language. 

“It’s night time.” She mutters, but there’s a disappointed lull in her voice. 

You blink, that concern morphing into gentle amusement and lean down at your side to kiss the top of her head. “That’s okay, baby. It’s movie night, you can stay up later.” 

Your confirmation doesn’t do much to shake her tenseness. “But night time means Jack has to go home soon.”

Jack’s eyes snap to meet yours, his lips parted and a softness overtakes him at the realization. She’s sad because she doesn’t want him to go. He leans a hand down to playfully pinch at her purple painted toenails that peek out from the blanket.

“S’okay. I’ll stay for the movie.” Jack coos her, but it still doesn’t seem to be enough.

Even ten minutes later, when The Little Vampire plays on the screen, she’s still tense. 

“Mommy?”

You hum, eyes falling from the TV back to the side of her face. 

“Can Jack have a sleepover tonight?” 

Her request makes you pause, has Jack slowly turning his head to look at you with apprehension. Of all the things Phoebe could have asked, this is not one you could have anticipated. 

Jack…a sleepover. 

Your lips part as you stare at him, trying to silently read what he thinks of it. But before you can consider the question—consider what it would mean for Jack to spend the night while Phoebe is here, he’s talking. 

“But Sally would be all on her own.” He tries gently, looking back down at your daughter as he speaks in a gentle tone. 

His quick answer shouldn’t disappoint you, but it does. Because you’re not sure if you really have an issue with him spending the night; with Phoebe waking up to him in the apartment. 

You’ve slowly been allowing them to spend more time together over the last month, their bond only blossoming into something unbreakable. 

And it’s not like Jack doesn’t already have spare clothes here. On the odd nights that Phoebe is at your moms or at Tom’s and it’s Jack’s night off, he’ll stay here or you’ll stay at his. 

Worry begins to worm its way into your mind. Is that why he doesn’t want to this time? Because it’s not just you he’ll be waking up to, but Phoebe as well?

Jack's been nothing but reassuring, allowing you to run this relationship at your pace… is this where it becomes too much for him? 

“But Sally is all alone when you work at night time.” Phoebe’s counter is one that Jack absolutely cannot argue. 

You have to purse your lips to stifle a laugh when Jack peeks at you. “Alright, that’s fair. But it’s up to Mommy.”

There’s that silent question in his eye when you meet his gaze. Asking if you’re okay with him staying, promising that he understands if you’re not. It’s absolutely ridiculous how quickly you can worry and then become so reassured with him. 

You swallow the lump in your throat and move your head just a fraction—but it’s enough for Jack to see that as permission. Not exactly hesitant, but slow and subtle enough for him to understand the weight of the decision.

As if he didn’t already. 

“Guess I’m having a sleepover then, kid.” 

Probably not the best thing to tell a four-year-old when it’s already well past her bedtime, but the joy on her face… it’s worth it. Jack seems to think so, too. Lets her lay across his lap with her head on his thighs and her calves dangling off yours. 

In Phoebe’s defense, she spends the rest of the movie relatively silent. She stopped reaching for the popcorn about thirty minutes ago, around the time when you relented to the anxious thoughts in your head and curled into Jack's side with your head resting on his shoulder. 

The whole evening feels far too domestic. Too natural, too comfortable. With Jack’s fingers sunken into Phoebe’s hair, scratching gently and soothingly at her scalp. 

You’re only briefly disturbed from your thoughts when Jack shifts subtly, when a soft huff of quiet laughter falls from him. 

“Baby,” he whispers, and you hum, shifting your head enough to look up at him. 

“She’s asleep. Can you get me my leg?” 

It takes you a moment before you move, to comprehend that the reason he’s asking for his leg is because he wants to put her to bed. You nod, humming again, heart warm and fuzzy. You reach for Jack’s leg down the side of the couch, slip from your seat as slowly as you can to not startle Pheebs. 

And Jack stares at you with both shock and reverence when you sit on your heels on the carpet before him, and slowly ease the blanket up to expose his thigh and attach his prosthetic. Something he has never considered or allowed anyone else to do before.

But he doesn’t argue, doesn’t stop you. He finds himself basking in your soft and caring touch, allowing himself to be vulnerable in this moment with you, with Phoebe. With the girls that feel far too much like family these days. 

He shoves down the overwhelming adoration and very meticulously scoops Phoebe into his arms, coddling her head into her chest as she continues to snore quietly. It takes more effort than he’d like to admit to be able to stand without aid of his hands, and though you can see that brief struggle, you don’t offer to help. 

You won’t offend him like that. 

Instead, you gently reach out to brush the hair from Phoebe’s face and bend just enough to plant a tender kiss to her cheek. 

“Night, Diva. I love you,” you whisper. 

When you straighten, Jack beams at you, leaning his head slightly over Phoebe’s frame to meet your lips in a ghost of a kiss. You watch him carry Phoebe down the hall after he pulls away until he disappears into her bedroom.

Jack can’t help but feel a bit shaky as he lowers Phoebe into her bed, as he tugs the duvet over her little frame, as she reaches instinctively for his arm when he tries to pull away. 

Because to be trusted so wholly by you both, to be so accepted and wanted and cherished… Jack never thought this life would ever be possible for him. And yet, here he is, falling for a family that already has each other, and being treated as if he always belonged with them. 

“Jack?” Phoebe’s sleep-laced voice rasps for him. 

He lowers with a quiet grunt to sit on the edge of her little bed, reaches for her even smaller hand that she’s reaching to hold. 

“I’m here kid. Go back to sleep.” He coos. 

Phoebe shifts to lay on her side, tugs her stuffed crocodile to her chest. “Can you sing to me?”

His brow quirks in the darkness of her room, only the faint golden glow of her space-themed night-light illuminating the space. 

“Sure. What do you want me to sing?” He whispers. 

“The Smiths.” She whispers back. 

Jack smiles, hums. “Any specific request?” 

Phoebe doesn’t even think about it, like she knew the song she wanted before she even awoke. “Please, Please, Please song.”

“Let Me Get What I Want?” Jack finishes for her and even in sleep, she manages to beam at him. 

“Yeah, it’s Mommy’s favorite.” 

Jack’s heart thunders in his chest at the thought of it, of how soul-crushing the song is if you really listen. So he doesn’t argue, doesn’t offer something else. 

Jack softly begins to sing, reaches out to brush the hair from her face. She watches him with sleep-ridden eyes as he softly sings to her; verse after verse. 

And when her eyes start to flutter, Jack’s thumb reaches to slowly trace the path from between her brows down the slope of her nose—over and over until her breathing evens out and her body relaxes. 

“So for once in my life, let me get what I want… Lord knows it would be the first time.” His low voice whispers, gently guiding her down a path of gentle dreams and peaceful rest. 

The song, the words… the fact that she wanted him to sing that one only… 

Jack can feel himself choking up at the weight of it. At how heavy and vulnerable it feels for him. Because it doesn’t feel like singing a lullaby. It feels like a loud admittance whispered into a safe and treasured moment. 

He schools himself before his emotions can get the better of him, and gently brushes the last bits of hair from Phoebe’s face before standing with a groan concealed behind gritted teeth. 

Before he can get two steps away from the bed, he’s met the onslaught of toys that are scattered across her bedroom floor. Something he missed when he carried her to bed initially. 

It’s with quiet and somewhat practised ease that Jack very silently begins to tidy up so she doesn’t trip in the night if she awakes. Books are slid back on the case, clothes are thrown into the hamper, Lego blocks are placed beside the tub that usually carries them.

And the action figures, he begins to line them up back beside her dresser when he notices. Not just one doll that’s not quite right, but three. His hands are trembling when he picks them up, when he clutches them in an unsteady hold. 

It’s with blurry vision when he carries them with him out into the hall, toward where you’re folding the blankets on the couch, refluffing the cushions. 

You hear the soft pads of his footsteps approach and freeze when you see the disbelieving, broken look on his face. You don’t even notice what he’s carrying in his hands when you move quickly to reach for him; your worry begins to spiral. 

He speaks before you can. 

“Did you know she’s been amputating her dolls?”

Jack’s voice is thick with emotion, breaking slightly when he utters a truth you’re only just learning for yourself.

“What?” Your voice comes out as a whisper when you finally look down to Jack’s hands. 

Three dolls—Superman, Spiderman, and The Hulk—all missing a leg from the knee down. Just like Jack. 

It feels like you’ve been punched in your chest, like you can’t quite swallow a breath big enough to fill your lungs. Your eyes burn, vision begins to distort as you blink at the dolls and then back at Jack. 

It’s all over his face when he looks at you; the longing, the vulnerability, the thought that he is not deserving of this. Of her. 

“She really does love you, you know.”

He nods, sniffling until a smile begins to pull on the corners of his mouth. “I know,” he rasps. “I love her, too.”

The heaviness of the fact sits thick between you. The truth hidden between the lines—what he’s saying includes what he isn’t. 

But he doesn’t have to, you don’t have to. 

It makes your heart swell and ache, nonetheless. Makes Jack’s try to burst against his ribcage. He doesn’t show it, tries not to, anyway. He gently drops the action figures onto the coffee table and uses his empty hands to reach for your waist. 

You step closer, your palms resting on the hardness of his chest beneath the cotton t-shirt. He leans in close enough to kiss you, but lets the tip of his nose brush yours instead, allowing himself this moment to recenter. 

You give it to him, don’t ask for more, don’t push him away. 

“I’m gonna run back to the apartment quickly to check on Sally. Why don’t you have a bubble bath, hm?”

You know he’s changing the subject, that whatever just happened with him and Phoebe hit too close for him to be comfortable to talk about it right now. 

So you hum, reach up to press a kiss to his mouth—his short stubble scratching at your soft skin. 

“M’kay. Take my key.”

It’s twenty minutes later when you hear him returning. Soft footsteps padding down the hall—stopping briefly outside Phoebe’s door before continuing into your bedroom. 

You’re lounging in a hot bubble bath when he slowly eases into the bathroom, leaning against the doorway. His hair is damp, clothes changed into checkered pyjama pants and a gray t-shirt. Arms fold across a broad chest and he grins at the sight of you soaped up. 

You quirk a brow at him, ignore the flame that burns beneath the skin of your cheeks. 

“You showered when you checked on Sally?”

He hums, moving closer to sit on the lid of the toilet. 

“Yeah, you don’t have a chair.” He explains in a low voice, hand reaching down to dip his fingers into the hot water, finding your knee and gently tracing patterns on the warm skin. 

You don’t comment on the lack of a shower-chair in your apartment, but you do make a mental note to get one ordered in the morning. 

“You know, you can always bring her here, and I’m more than happy to Sally-sit when you’re working.” It’s not the first time you’ve offered and you doubt it’ll be the last. But Jack always argues the same thing—

“I don’t think you or Pheebs would appreciate her pissing everywhere to mark her territory.” 

And as always, it gets a bark of laughter from you. 

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, there was once a time when Phoebe pissed everywhere.” 

Jack grins, leans down to press a kiss to your mouth. “But Diva is infinitely cuter than Sally.” 

You roll yourself with fond adoration and reach up to press another kiss to him. The angle causes the water to slosh in the tub and the bubbles to disperse—momentarily exposing your chest to the cool air of the bathroom.

The change in temperature causes your nipples to pebble at the same time Jack pulls back to look at you. His expression shifts, something darker passing across his eyes as the corner of his mouth curls in the form of a smirk. 

You flush under his gaze, despite how often he’s seen you bare in the past month. It doesn’t matter that his hands have touched your skin more times than you can count now, that he’s already mapped out your body with his hands and mouth—that he’s committed it to memory, along with what makes you squirm and writhe and moan.

“Are you getting out or staying in?” Jack’s voice is low and deep when he speaks, a tone that sends shivers down your spine despite the heat of the water. 

Because you’ve grown to learn what that tone usually means. 

“I’m getting out,” you reply a bit too breathlessly than you mean to. 

With his eyes still on yours, Jack’s hand skims from your knee and down your shin, skipping your foot to reach for the plug where he pushes it down and it pops back up. 

Water swirls at the base of the drain, the tub slowly emptying. Jack reaches to his right for a fluffy cotton towel that hangs on the rail, unfolds it with skilled hands and holds it open wide—a silent invitation for you to step out of the porcelain and into his arms. 

Water sloshes when you stand, drips down the expanse of your body and suds of soap still cling to your skin. He wraps the cotton around you the moment you step out, tucks it over your chest, and guides you through the threshold of your en-suite and into your bedroom. 

The lights are dim, only the small lamp on your nightstand barely able to illuminate the space. It sets a golden hue over your skin and his, blankets the room in familiar intimacy.

“Do you want pyjamas?”

You shake your head, eyes remaining on him through it all. The towel was pointless, really, because the moment Jack is sitting on the edge of the bed, you’re unravelling it from your body and letting it drop to the ground with a quiet thud. 

Jack’s gaze roves over your body in hungry appreciation, his muscles tensing as he shifts and admires you silently. And you let him. The nerves of allowing him to see you so bare dwindled away some time three weeks ago, after he’d spent hours and hours cherishing you, admiring you, reassuring you and proving to you how utterly, devastatingly beautiful you are.

You don’t cower, don’t curl your body into itself. You don’t try to hide your cesarean scar, nor the stretchmarks that adore the podgier skin of your lower stomach. You don’t shy away when his gaze slides over the dips in your hips, the slightly uneven swell of your breasts where the left is just a pinch bigger than the right. 

You let Jack admire, because you’ve never felt safer or more adored than when you’re under his gaze like this. 

“You’re so fucking beautiful.” His words are whispered to you like a prayer. 

Maybe that’s what gives you the confidence to move a step closer between his thighs, to slowly sink down to your knees. Jack exhales shakily when you do, when your palms slide up his clothed thighs.

It’s silent when he relents and lifts his hips to lower his pyjama pants down to his thighs, silent when you hook your fingers into the waistband to pull them off his legs completely. 

For a moment, you don’t allow yourself to look at him, keep your gaze focused on his prosthetic. You press a gentle kiss just above his knee when your fingers reach the clips to unfasten the metal. Another shaky exhale falls from him when you remove it, gently placing it against the foot of the bed. 

Only then, when you know he’s comfortable, do you return your attention to where it’s needed. 

Long and hard, thick and eager. Jack’s cock stands excitedly as he leans back on his hands to watch, already fisting the sheets in anticipation. 

It’s not like you haven’t done this for him before, because you have; a few times. But Jack usually argues that he needs to get you off first, that your pleasure is more important than his. You’re overwhelmingly pleased that he’s not arguing with you on it tonight. 

But overall, tonight is different. He can’t coax orgasm after orgasm from you when Phoebe is only down the hall. He can’t make you cry and moan as loudly as he likes. So he settles for this—clenching his jaw and fisting the sheets. 

You wrap your hand around him slowly, the movement almost making him jolt. With your bottom lip caught between your teeth, you slowly begin to pump him in your palm, leaning close enough to press hot open-mouthed kisses to his ruddy tip. 

“Fuck, baby,” Jack whimpers breathlessly. 

His eyes are on you when you look up at him through your lashes, dark and blown with lust and arousal. You hum, swirling your tongue around his head before suckling him into your mouth. 

Your lips stretch around him as he fills you, only able to take barely half of his length as you fist the rest of him. Your cheeks hollow and you can feel your cunt fluttering at the taste of him. 

With your eyes still on him, you sneak your spare hand between your thighs—a motion that Jack clocks immediately—and begin to glide your middle finger through your soaked slit. 

“Jesus Christ… you’re so fucking sexy.” The praise has you oozing onto your finger, has you whimpering around his cock. It sends shocks of vibrations through his body, forcing him to fist the sheets harder when you take him deeper. 

Jack watches with hooded eyes as you begin to bob your head on his cock, as he feels his tip prod at the back of your tight throat. Your eyes sting with tears at the intrusion but you don’t stop, keep your gaze locked on him even as your brows begin to furrow. 

“Good girl, baby. Doing so good.” 

The praise makes you work faster, has you rubbing tight motions on your clit as you choke on his cock. Jack’s guttural groan and breathless whimper has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, salty drops of pre-cum coating your tongue. 

His hips begin to move, respectful of what you can handle but enough to encourage you to take more. His chest is heaving with every breath, knuckles white around the handfuls of your sheets. 

And when your hand abandons his cock to tenderly massage his balls, when your mouth opens around him and your tongue strokes the underside of his length as he hits the back of your throat, Jack loses it. 

“Fuck. Ah, shit…so good, baby. Oh, fuck me…yeah, just like that.” His voice is wrecked, whimpering in that higher octave that you’ve associated with a brewing release. 

The sound of it spurs you on as you slip two fingers into your dripping cunt, curling as quick as Jack’s usually do in an attempt to get you to his level. You choke around the thickness of him, moans and whimpers suffocated by his cock.

It’s enough to spur him over the edge, to have him spluttering out, “I can’t—honey, I’m gonna cum. Oh fuck, oh fuck,” and with a choked cry of your own, you’re suctioning your lips again—just around his head—and he’s spilling onto your tongue. 

Your own orgasm crashes into you at the same time, cunt convulsing around your fingers and body shuddering in the same way Jack’s does. His hands give out from holding him up, his back crashing into the mattress as you slowly slide him out of your mouth and swallow down his release. 

Jack can’t catch his breath. With an arm thrown over his eyes and his hard cock glistening and resting against his thigh, you finally manage to heave a breath of your own. 

Tears stain your cheeks as you stand, as you crawl beside him on the bed. Before you can say a word, Jack’s blindly reaching for you. A strong hand wrapping around your arm and dragging you over to straddle his chest.

You’re still trying to catch your breath when Jack moves his arm from his face to hold your hips, when he looks at you like he’s only just getting started. 

He squeezes your hips once, dragging you up his chest until your sopping cunt hovers over his face. “C’mon, baby. Let me clean you up.” 

Neither of you question how natural it is. To have fooled around like usual, with Pheebs sleeping down the hall. Because it feels too normal. Like you’re two parents stealing moments of intimacy when you can. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Laughter is the first thing you hear when you stir from your slumber. 

Two sets of it. One young and high pitched, the other older and deeper. Your arm reaches across the bed in search of Jack who’s no longer there. His side of the bed is cold, sheets still rumpled. 

You blink at the light that filters in through the curtains in your bedroom, eyes catching the alarm clock on your nightstand. 

10 a.m.

Music greets your ears next as you slowly sit up, Michael Jackson blaring from the kitchen. A grin stretches across your sleepy face and you stretch beneath the sheets—still bare, but your body feels lighter after two orgasms and a good night's sleep. 

Dressing in the first pair of pyjamas in the drawer, you follow the sound of happiness down the hall and find the source of the noise in the kitchen, where you’re momentarily stunned.

Phoebe sits on the island, a bowl between her legs as she mixes pancake batter within an inch of her life. Jack stands in front of her, gently easing flour into the mix and playfully flicking some at Phoebe’s face just to hear her laugh again. 

You can’t hide your grin and clear your throat to make your presence known. They both turn to you, rosy cheeked and still slightly sleep ridden. 

“Morning, Mommy.” Their greeting is synchronized, like this is a normal, every day occurrence. 

The kitchen is a mess, the music is too loud, there’s flour and batter in Phoebe’s hair but you can’t bring yourself to care when Jack approaches you with a steaming mug of coffee. 

You take it from him with a bashful grin, and he almost closes the distance between you when he catches himself, realizes that he’s in front of Phoebe and unsure of the boundaries in place when it comes to this—the morning after. 

But you soothe that concern when you reach across the coffee to gently press your lips against his, eyes fluttering closed as he reaches an arm around your waist. 

“Morning,” he whispers against your lips as you whisper it back, pulling away to return to Phoebe and the pancake batter. 

Your eyes skim over the island; pencils and paper litter half of the counter, drawings and practised writing. 

Phoebe leans over to kiss your cheek and reaches for a piece of paper she’s particularly proud of and shoves it in your face. 

“Look! Jack was helping me practice writing.” She beams at you in excitement and pride and when you look down at the paper, your eyes sting with tears. 

M O M in big bulky letters, uneven where jack has dotted the outline for the letters and Pheebs has joined them with shaky lines. You’re too busy staring at the masterpiece that is definitely going to be framed to notice Jack watching you with a fervent softness. 

“This is beautiful, Diva. You are so clever.” 

She ignores the praise when she turns back to Jack, noticing the way he’s watching you. 

“Did you sleep in my mom’s bed last night?”

The question has you choking on your coffee and Jack almost dropping the bowl of pancake batter. You splutter out a string of coughs, steadying the mug on the counter for a moment so you can smack at your chest for come relief. 

“Um, yeah. Jack did.” You answer through another cough, casting a cautious glance over her head at him. 

The confirmation has the girl grinning something dangerous when she looks from you to Jack again. Like she’s purposely posing the questions to him instead of you. 

“So you really are boyfriend and girlfriend.” It’s not a question, she words it like a statement. As if she’s been working hard to get you both to this point. 

You suppose she has, really. If it wasn’t for your meddling child, you’re unsure if you and Jack would be here now. 

“Yeah, Diva,” Jack laughs. “You okay with that?” 

She seems to appreciate the thought of him checking, but doesn’t need to consider it before she nods with resoluteness and sprinkles chocolate chips into the mix in Jack’s hand. 

“Jack is nice and funny,” she says out loud. It causes him to grin wide, to meet your gaze briefly again over the top of her head. 

“Thanks, kid. You’re nice and funny, too.”

She hums. “But Tom is an ass.” 

The room falls silent as the music continues to play. You and Jack still, eyes wide and staring at each other. He has to look away, to turn his back to you both and busy himself at the sink to hide both his shock and amusement. 

You blink at your daughter, moving around the island to face her. “Pheebs—what? One, ass is a bad word, we don’t say that. And two…Tom? You don’t call him that, he’s your dad.”

Phoebe huffs, her shoulders dropping at the scolding and she places the half empty bag of chocolate chips back on the counter.

“I don’t want to call him Dad,” she mutters, keeping her gaze down at her fingers. “I like Jack better. Jack’s nice, and he plays with me. And he makes you happy. Tom is mean to you. He says mean things about Jack, Mommy. It makes me sad and angry.”

Jack feels his heart ache and crack at the watery tone of Phoebe’s voice, of the truth she’s admitting that should never have reached her ears. He can feel bile rise up his throat, his hands scrubbing the dishes a bit too forcefully. 

All you can do is stare at Phoebe in shock, feel your heart ache at how brazen Tom has been to belittle you and Jack in front of her. 

You swallow down the lump in your throat and reach for her hand. “Well, I will talk to your dad about that, okay?” You try to keep your voice calm and smooth, but you’re bubbling with anger beneath the skin. 

“Tom.” Phoebe corrects you, and it’s clear that she’s not going to drop this. 

You purse your lips, heart twisting and breaking at the thought of what’s unfolding in her clever little mind. 

“Tom.” You agree.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

ahhh ok so what did we think of jack's cheeky blowjob and the fact that phoebe is now calling her dad TOM :((( there is a lot to happen in the next two chapters so buckle tf up!! again, thank you SO much for your guys' continuous and unwavering support on this series, sending you all big fat smooches!!

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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[deathreverse]

APARTMENT SEVENTEEN — Pt. 7

SUMMARY: When the double date from Hell rolls around, you're left with a new friend while Jack is struggling to come to terms with the type of person Phoebe is stuck with as a father. But despite that, it doesn't stop you and Jack from ending your evening with a bang.

WARNINGS: big screen time for tom in this chapter ladies, i do apologize, narcissistic tendencies, slight mentions of emotional abuse and mental manipulation, swearing, protective!jack, flirting, teasing, smut; oral (female receiving), biting, praise kink, protected p-in-v...

A/N: girls i am literally at out at the bar rn trying desperately to get this out on time!! i am so so excited to share this, it's the long awaited chapter of tom and jack finally meeting!! i promised i would have it out by the weekend so here you go! <3 also there's two big references in here... whoever gets them wins smooches

PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader

WORD COUNT: 12.2k

PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

You stare at Phoebe. 

She stares at you. 

She doesn’t move, but you can see the brief flick of her eyes beneath the mesh sockets of her mask. Her hands are fisted, resting on narrow hips as she stands on the coffee table, refusing to see reason. 

“Baby, it is eighty degrees outside.” Your words squeeze through gritted teeth, patience wearing thin from this argument lasting ten minutes already. 

Frustration is showing in the form of tight lips and beads of sweat that dots your hairline, the clamminess of your palms. But Phoebe does not budge. Her stance remains steady on the oak, fists pressing firmly onto her hips. You blink at her, at the fucking nylon fabric that’s borderline suffocating every single inch of her skin. 

“Fine.” Your voice is tight when you speak. “Then we’re not going out for ice cream.” 

You make a show of dropping your purse on the kitchen counter, making your way to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water instead. Phoebe still doesn’t move, not even an inch. It’s from across the lounge that Jack has to stifle a laugh by pursing his lips, angling his head so he’s not staring at the back of Phoebe’s outfit. 

He doesn’t interfere, finds it quite amusing to watch the way Phoebe stubbornly tries to take control of your parenting. It’s like she’s waiting you out, like she knows it’s a matter of time before you cave and just let her go out in what she’s chosen. 

In any other instance, maybe you would. Pick your battles and all that. But not when it's roasting hot outside and she won’t be able to breathe. Phoebe isn’t the only stubborn one in this apartment. She got it from someone, and that someone is you. 

Jack watches in amusement as you sit at the kitchen island and take a sip from your water bottle, the silence so loud he’s worried that if he even breathes out a laugh, this frustration and stubbornness on both of your sides will then be directed at him. 

But five minutes pass. Then ten. And neither you nor Phoebe have moved. 

“Jack, if you’d like to go and get ice cream without us, go ahead.” You speak in a feigned, professional tone. The sound of it quirks Jack’s brow, but it still doesn’t make Phoebe move.

He cranes a neck to look around her, to meet your gaze. You nod your head to Phoebe, eyes wide and brows raised, a silent command for him to try instead. It causes a ruckus of movement in his stomach at the suggestion, at the approval from you to do so. 

But Jack doesn’t exactly have a whole lot of experience with disciplining stubborn kids, so he swallows thickly when he approaches the table to stand in front of Pheebs instead of behind her. 

“Diva,” he regards her softly, though there's a kink in his tone that she’s never heard from him before. One that holds something like authority.

Her head twitches, but ultimately, she ignores him like she’s ignored you. 

With a sigh, Jack leans down with his legs spread, his eyes level with hers, palms resting on his lower thighs. “Spider-Girl…”

Phoebe, the little shit, turns her head to look at him fully at that. Jack can just about make out the blinking of her eyes beneath the mesh mask as she shifts in her Spider-Man costume. 

“I know you wanna save the city, kid. But, it's too hot today for you to wear this outside.” 

You watch the interaction with squinted eyes and a racing heart. Jack is soft when he speaks with her, gentle yet firm enough that she knows not to argue with him the way she will with you. 

“Peter Parker doesn’t wear his Spidey stuff every day and he still manages to save people without it, right?” 

Her head dips until her chin is pressed to her chest. “I guess so.” Her words are muffled through the fabric of the mask. 

Jack hums, like he understands her upset and inner turmoil. “So, why don’t we change into something else? Maybe a pretty dress like Mommy? Or some shorts like me? Plus, you don’t wanna spill ice cream down your Spidey outfit.” 

It’s with a heavy sigh that Phoebe pinches the mask at the top of her head and pulls it off. Her cheeks are flushed red, hair an unruly mess despite you fixing it just an hour ago. Jack grins at her, stands back at his full height and tenderly smoothes down her wanton strands like he’s slicking them. 

You watch the exchange, heart lodged in your throat at how easy it is between them—how natural he is with her, how quickly they understand each other. Phoebe jumps down from the coffee table and trudges back into her bedroom to change and you watch Jack watch her go. 

Quietly, you stand and approach him and Jack meets your gaze with hesitancy. 

“Was that okay?” He asks lowly. 

Your bottom lip is sucked into your mouth as you nod your head, wrapping your arms around his broad waist when you reach him. “Uhuh,” you hum, pressing your lips to his slowly. 

Jack kisses you gently, slowly, lets his tongue swipe against yours only once before he pulls away with a crooked grin. 

“Yeah?” His tone is suggestive, amused, and you both love and hate how easily he can read you. 

That he knows you liked watching him step just slightly into the threshold of parenthood, that it rattled you a little to watch him be so respectful and kind but authoritative at the same time. That you liked how natural it was for him, how easily Phoebe listened. 

You roll your eyes at him but the act is nothing but fond and affectionate. 

You’ve felt much braver, secure, since your talk at the beginning of the week. Since Jack told you he was happy that Phoebe had been calling him your boyfriend. Since you became his girlfriend.

He’s been touchier since. Given, you’ve only been able to see him yesterday and now, but there’s a noticeable change between you both; in your actions and in the air. The hesitancy when reaching for one another is gone, no more reservations or timid uncertainty. 

And you love it. 

You love even more when Phoebe runs down the hall in a summer dress and twirls around, when Jack offers her a dramatic applause and then bows at the waist like a Jester would to his Queen. 

“You are an absolute fashionista, Pheebs.” He compliments, your daughter's grin stretching wider across her face. 

The sight of her unbridled joy does something sinister to Jack’s chest. He knows the sensation of self-sabbotage far too well, knows he’s beginning to get stuck in his head with guilt and shame for playing happy families.

He feels a sense of betrayal to his wife. Even though he knows she would want him to move on and find happiness again, even though he visited her just yesterday morning after shift and sat with her for hours. 

Talking, reminiscing, apologizing for beginning to fall for someone who wasn’t her. Explaining that he isn’t sorry for meeting someone new, he isn’t sorry for how deeply he feels for both you and Phoebe, but that he’s wholly and irrevocably distraught because he knows he’s truly moving forward from her. 

He sat and cried when he admitted to her gravestone that he no longer wears his ring on his finger, but that he keeps it on a chain close to his heart instead. And when a gentle breeze caressed his face right after, he let himself believe that Mary was there with him; soothing him, silently accepting his words and praising him for finding happiness. 

Despite how much lighter he’s been feeling today… there’s still that stab of guilt that lodges in his throat. Only briefly, not long enough for you to notice a change, but it’s there. Jack knows it’s there. 

He blinks it back when you smother suncream across every inch of Phoebe’s exposed skin, cracks a smile when she grimaces and whines when you smear it across her entire face and accidentally forces her to taste some of it. 

And when you’re out on the streets, with Pheebs walking between you; a hand in yours and a hand in Jack’s, he feels that gentle breeze caressing his face again. Tender and warm, most likely just the sun, but his shoulders ease at the feeling of it. 

At the thought of Mary supporting him. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

After ice cream and a quick trip to the park, you all make your way back to the apartment —Phoebe on Jack’s back and you following close behind, sneakily snapping photos of them together. 

It’s sly when Jack winks at you when you’re in the elevator and Pheebs is too busy blowing kisses to herself in the mirror that encases the back wall. You stifle a laugh at the sight, stepping into Jack’s side and he instinctively wraps an arm around your shoulder to keep you close. 

“Hey, Diva?” Jack calls her softly. 

She perks up at the name, turns to him with raised brows and an expectant expression. Jack rolls his lips between his teeth in amusement before speaking. “You wanna meet someone?” 

You frown to yourself as you look at him, unsure who he’s referring to and why he wouldn’t run something like this by you first. But he squeezes your shoulder in a silent form of reassurance as the doors open on your floor. 

“Are they nice?” She questions with a frown and Jack barks out a laugh.

Instead of turning left to your apartment, Jack turns you both right with Phoebe skipping ahead, like she already knows 

“Yeah, she’s friendly.”

You blink as a smile curls its way into the corners of your mouth, piecing together just who exactly Jack is talking about. Phoebe stops outside Jack’s door, the fact that she’s remembered which one is his after only stopping by once to drop off cakes is a little insane. 

Jack opens the door slowly and Pheebs wanders inside like she owns the place. Jack ushers you in after her with a palm ghosting your lower back and you take in the difference of his apartment compared to yours. 

You’ve not been inside properly before—most dates start with him coming over if Phoebe is in bed or him picking you up and dropping you back after. 

Jack’s place is a mirror layout to yours with a small entrance hall that breaks directly into the lounge and open kitchen space. But unlike your mismatched fabrics and colors, Jack’s is much more cohesive in an organised way. 

Rustic dark wood coffee table and matching TV console, twin brown leather couches and black lamps in the corners of the room. A solid, dark oak bookcase and leather arm chair in the place where you cram a small dining table. 

His refrigerator isn’t littered with magnets like yours, but it does have a few that pin up several of Phoebe’s drawings that she’s made over the past few months. It’s a bit overwhelming to be in his home, with Phoebe. To be fully surrounded by his scent. 

It’s a reminder of the very different lives you live. Jack has no mess, everything has a place. There are no buckets of toys tucked away, no wanton blocks of Lego stuffed beneath the couch. Perhaps it's cruel to think, but his apartment does not feel like a home. 

You wonder briefly if he feels the same way. If that’s why he’s never really brought you into his space before.

“You have a kitty!” Phoebe’s shrill excitement breaks you from your spiralling thoughts and you’re quick to shush and scold her.

“Baby, inside voices. You don’t want to scare Sally.” 

“Sally!?” She coos, dropping on her knees and slowly crawling toward the fat cat that stares at the new guests. 

Jack watches in amusement, wraps his arms around you from behind and nuzzles his chin into the crook of your neck. You melt into him, arms wrapping around his as you watch Phoebe introduce herself to Sally and giggle uncontrollably when she nuzzles into the kids' touch. 

“We should’ve done this sooner. They’re little besties.” You giggle.

Jack hums, lets himself bask in the feel of you in his arms—uses it to reassure himself that this is okay. To have you and Phoebe in his space, to share what little he has considering you’ve shared so much already. 

It doesn’t matter that you’ve only been here for a few minutes. The apartment already feels less quiet as Phoebe’s infectious laughter worms its way into the crevices of every room.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Jack can’t take his eyes off you. 

And not like in the way he’s used to struggling, where every five minutes he has to look at you and just admire for a moment. No. Right now, he physically cannot take his eyes off you as you saunter down the hall from your bedroom and toward where he lounges on the couch.

Chocolate brown midi dress with a subtle draping through the waist, sheer dark brown tights that disappear into a pair of simple heels. You’ve painted your face in a way he’s only ever known you to; subtle enough for it to not be dramatic, yet precise enough to see the effort. 

There’s a familiar heat that’s curling in his lower tummy; a tightness that’s beginning to strangle and suffocate his muscles. Your delicate heels click elegantly across your hardwood floors, arms bent as you reach up to slip an earring in. 

Your eyes are focussed on your feet as you move, brows pinched just slightly in concentration as you attempt to clip the jewellery in place. 

Jack leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs and he takes your moment of distraction to drink you in greedily

Jesus fucking Christ.

“You look incredible.”

Your eyes snap up to his at the sound of Jack’s raw voice. You don’t miss the hunger in his tone, the darkness that pools in his eyes. He’d let himself in five minutes ago like you’d told him to, had gotten himself comfortable on your couch while he waited.

And he looked nothing short of delicious. A simple white button up shirt beneath a black blazer, his thighs almost bursting at the seams in his tailored trousers. It’s a conscious effort not to bite down on your freshly glossed lip. 

The compliment sends a jolt of excitement through you. 

Clearly the two fancy dates he’s taken you on isn’t enough for him to get used to you being dressed up this way. You think it’s fair, though. You haven’t got used to him dressing like this either. 

“And you look delicious.” You drawl playfully, but it’s flirtatious enough for him to know that you mean it. 

He grins, crookedly, and rises from the couch to move closer to you. His eyes hover over your waist before replacing the tender gaze with a delicate touch. Your heels keep you face to face, your hands reaching to rest on his shoulders.

“Do we have to go to this?” You pout at him; the sight causes his grin to grow in adoration and he squeezes your hips reassuringly. 

“It’s for the best. It’s for Pheebs, not us or them.” He offers in a gentle tone, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his and your breath catches in your throat. 

It’s not lost on either of you the path tonight will likely take. How the double date will no doubt end with you at his place or him at yours. That it will end in an intimacy you’re yet to explore with one another. 

And despite the underlying assumption of it, there’s no pressure of expectation. Neither of you feel like it’s owed to each other because it’s been three months of nothing but kissing and dry humping. But tonight—perhaps it’s something in the air, or the fact that this double date makes things even more real between you—it feels like the right time. 

You’re fretting on the walk down to Jack’s car, picking at your freshly polished nails as he pulls out of his allocated parking spot and follows the route to Preston’s. 

You feel sick with nerves and annoyance. Angry at the fact that this is happening under Tom’s terms, anxious at the things he may try to say; Jack’s opinions on you that he might try to change. But more than that, there’s something fierce that’s bubbling beneath your skin. 

Hot, fiery, protective. After the years of being in a relationship with Tom and now trying to co-parent (if it can even be considered that, given how little he shows up for Phoebe), you’ve grown more than accustomed to his spiteful tongue and manipulative tendencies. 

You’re not prepared for Jack to be subjected to it—to bear witness to his passive cruelty. 

And Jack, being ever observant, takes note of your unusual quietness, your fidgety demeanor. It makes his heart sink, has him assuming the worst that this double date has sobered your rose-tinted view of him and the relationship. That you’re making a grave mistake with him. 

Still, he reaches a hand across the console to intertwine his fingers with yours, breaking your anxious habit. 

“Talk to me.” 

You chew on the inside of your cheek, gripping Jack’s hand much harder than you ever have before. But the feel of his skin on yours brings at least a little bit of comfort. He’d be disgusted to know you’re considering that Tom will have any sway on Jack’s view of you. 

You loose a breath, let your head roll back against the headrest, turning slightly to admire the side of his face as he keeps his focus on the road again. You let your fingers on your spare hand trace patterns across his knuckles.

“Just anxious. I don’t like being around him. I don’t like knowing you’re going to be around him.” You explain quietly, allowing your eyes to flutter closed as you take a moment to try to compose your breathing.

You feel Jack squeeze your hand tenderly. “Honey, however tonight plays out…it won’t change a thing between us. His behavior is not going to change how I feel about you.” 

You nod at his words, forcing yourself to sit up straighter and heave a heavy breath again. 

“I know. I just—he can be an ass. And he’s self-absorbed, and he… he twists things so well…”

“Baby,” Jack cuts you off with a soft chuckle, chucks an admiring gaze at you before looking back at the road ahead. “From what little you’ve told me about him, he seems like some douchey finance bro that probably thinks he’s too big for this world because he had one successful trade in Crypto. Someone like that is not going to scare me away.”

A laugh tumbles from you before you can even stop it. “Douchy finance bro? I haven’t even told you what he does for work.” 

Jack shrugs, a smirk pulling on his lips. “Don’t care what he does for work. Just the vibe I get.”

It’s enough to quell that crippling anxiety, enough to force it to pry its claws out of your skin. You release another breath, let your gaze fall to the window as the streets blur into soft strokes of color as you pass. 

“Have I told you yet that you look beautiful?” His voice causes heat to curl up your neck and all you can do is laugh breathlessly.

“Yes.” You turn to look at him but his eyes are back on the road again.

Jack nods. “Good. Because you do. Ridiculously so.”

Your lips curl to hide your bashful grin, but Jack can feel your skin warming, thinks he can actually hear your heartrate picking up in the silence of the car. 

But the moment Jack pulls up, your momentary relaxation is short-lived. You’re gnawing on your glossy bottom lip, effectively smearing it away as you look at the passenger window and directly at the entrance of Preston’s.

“What do you say about a quick tequila shot when we get in there?”

Your eyes close as you huff out a laugh, actually quite thankful for how easy he is to calm you down. And you’re also not at all opposed to a bit of hard liquor to take the edge off. 

You turn to him with a nervous smile, still worrying your bottom lip and Jack reaches a hand to caress your jaw, to pull your lip from between your teeth. 

“If it gets too much, or you just want to leave, say Poughkeepsie.”

You raise a brow at him in a mixture of confusion and amusement. 

“Poughkeepsie?” You deadpan. “As in a safe word?”

Jack pulls a face of consideration. “Maybe more of a distress signal.”

That gets a real laugh out of you—one that’s unrestrained and entirely unapologetic. Jack thinks it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever heard, thinks you look nothing short of angelic when your nose crinkles and your shoulders shake. 

You don’t tell him that you don’t need a distress signal. That you have absolutely zero problem with telling Tom exactly what you think of him and leaving without looking back. But the light that shines in Jack’s eyes when you laugh at his suggestion, when you lean in to kiss him with everything that you feel for him, you can’t bring yourself to tell him so. 

“Okay,” you agree with a giggle against his lips. “Poughkeepsie, it is.” 

He kisses you again, but it’s all teeth; both of you grinning too wide to really press your lips in the ways you want to.

Jack doesn’t let you open your door yourself. He rounds the car to open it for you, to press a hand on your lower back as he guides you into Preston’s. 

You hate that Tom suggested the double date to be here. It’s one of your favorite restaurants and bars in the city. Classy enough to require an effort, common enough for there not to be a three month wait list for a table. 

It’s very moody, the interior. Industrial loft style with expensive furniture and dim, golden lighting. Nothing harsh, nothing performative. It’s a place to eat and drink and enjoy yourself and your company. It’s just a shame your company tonight is about as interesting as a spam email. 

True to his word about some liquid courage, Jack keeps his hand on your lower back as you move past the hostess stand and straight for the bar. But it’s only three steps in that you clock a familiar face amongst the tables and stop dead in your tracks with a huff.

“So much for that tequila shot.” You mutter and Jack frowns slightly, trying to follow your line of sight. 

He sees it then. Them. A brunet and a blonde sat at a table, eyes sharp and looking between you and Jack. It takes him a moment to register that this brown-haired pretty boy is Tom. That the doe-eyed blonde sitting beside him is Kirsty. 

He feels your spine stiffen beneath his touch and he snakes his arms around your waist, to keep you close, to keep you grounded. 

You sigh, swallowing. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Your nerves are rolling off you violently, despite Jack’s comforting touch. He can feel how tense you are, like you’re already in fight or flight by just seeing Phoebe’s dad. It makes Jack’s skin crawl, makes him angry and frustrated and helpless.

It’s only now, that Jack is moving closer to the table and getting a clearer look at your ex, that Jack realizes just how much Phoebe looks like you. Your hair, your eyes, your smile. Diva holds little to no physical resemblance to Tom, and it makes a sick part of Jack happy. 

You stop at the table as Tom watches with the eyes of a shark. He doesn’t move, not even when Kirsty stands with a nervous smile and soothes out the non-existent creases in her dress. 

You glance at her, force your features to soften, to appear friendly. Jack doesn’t exactly offer the same courtesy. He stays neutral. No smile, no frown. 

“Hi, I’m Kirsty. It’s so nice to meet you!” 

Her voice is soft, kind, gentle. It makes you pause, a little stunned. She’s beautiful. Glass-like skin with a slim and slender build. She extends a hand across the table to you and you don’t have enough animosity to reject it. 

As quickly as you shake her hand, she offers it to Jack. “And you must be Jack! Nice to meet you.” 

Unfortunately, Jack does crack a soft smile at that. Does let his hand shake hers politely. You were both expecting Kirsty to be a complete and utter bitch. And yet… she’s kind, soft, just as nervous as you are. 

The little bubble of mutual caution is popped, though, when you look down at Tom who remains in his seat. Expressionless, yet relaxed. Lounging back in his chair with an arm thrown over the back of Kirsty’s empty one. 

“Tom.” You greet him bluntly.

“Y/N.” He returns it, just as dry.

He stares at you, though. Something like disbelief and disgust battling for first place in his expression. You don’t need to ask to know why. 

Because while you’re not sure what exactly Phoebe has told him about Jack, you know for a fact she hadn’t mentioned his age. If Tom’s shock is anything to go by. 

Jack watches Tom as Tom watches you. It sets his blood on fire in something both protective and disgusted. And when Tom’s eyes leave you to look at him with someone less than pleased in his expression, it takes every ounce of Jack’s patience to not hurl you over his shoulder and walk out the door. 

“Tom Scavo.” His voice drips off his tongue like silk when he introduces himself to Jack. 

It’s a voice that feigns confidence and security. It’s hard not to laugh in his face at how unironically wrong it is. 

“Jack Abbot.” He replies, and his voice is much deeper, raw and husky and something that promises comfort and stability. 

Not that it matters, Jack isn’t about to get into a pissing contest with your ex—with Phoebe’s dad—who holds all the arrogance and entitlement in the world on his face. 

You’re staring down at the table, trying to regulate yourself and not spiral on how fucking awkward and uncomfortable this entire situation is. Kirsty isn’t faring much better, but she’s not as good at hiding it. Wide eyes flickering between Jack and Tom like ones about to shoot and the other is about to pounce. 

It’s Jack who moves first, unwinding his arm around your waist to pull your chair out for you, sitting close beside you and resting a heavy palm on your upper thigh beneath the table. 

You could really do with that tequila shot right about now. 

Jack can sense as much when you subtly turn to side-eye one another; one of his brows slightly raised in amusement while your lips struggle not to curl in response. 

The private glance helps, though. Reminds you that you’re not in this alone. And you know that despite how shitty this evening might grow, one look at him and you can find the light in the darkness. 

You’re saved by the waiter, who introduces himself as Martin. He takes note of Tom’s red wine and Kirsty’s fruity cocktail and asks what he can get for you and Jack. 

“I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.” 

“Make that two. Thank you.” Jack smiles briefly at Martin as he saunters away toward the bar. 

Jack doubling your order has you looking at him, amused. “What about the car?” It’s a quiet tease, one only meant for his ears. 

He grins down at you, fights back the urge to kiss your full lips. Because Jack only plans on having one glass of wine, and he knows you know he’s not a lightweight to get even tipsy off one drink. 

“Well, I was only intending to have one, but if you’re planning on taking advantage of me later, we can come back for the car tomorrow.”

It’s entirely instinctive when your hand comes up to swat his chest at the playful but suggestive remark. It’s also entirely involuntary when your cheeks burn and flush with heat at the thought. 

You have to hide your face behind the menu for a moment, feigning consideration of your meal. The act causes you to miss the disgusted glare Tom throws at you and the soft longing in Kirsty’s eyes as she watches yours and Jack’s private exchange. 

“Jack, I hear you’re a doctor?” Kirsty asks softly, and a pang of guilt sears through you at the fact that she is the one to have to try and make conversation. 

Jack nods, keeps his tone and expression polite and kind toward her. “Yeah, I’m an attending physician over at PTMC.” 

Her eyes dazzle slightly in wonder as you lower the menu to force yourself to engage in the conversation. She’s about to open her mouth to say something else when Tom beats her to it. 

“That’s a senior position, I’m assuming.”

You narrow your eyes at his smug tone but keep your mouth closed when Jack offers a reassuring squeeze to your thigh. 

“What about you, Y/N?” Kirsty asks the question so quickly it’s like she can sense the route Tom is trying to go down and she’s desperate for that not to happen. 

Your stomach curls in bitterness toward yourself, for thinking so negative of her before even meeting her. 

“Oh, I work in pub—“

“She’s an aspiring author.” Tom cuts you off with a dig and a really fucking low blow. 

Because he’s always known you’ve kept your job under wraps. That you use a pseudonym for a reason, because you don’t want to be known publicly. 

Martin arrives and places two chilled glasses of white wine before you and Jack, about to ask if you’re ready to order food before sensing the tension off the table and thinking better of it, walking away. 

Jack reels back slightly. 

“You’re an author?” Kirsty asks with wide eyed excitement. 

“Aspiring.” Tom mutters under his breath but it’s loud enough for the table to hear—clear enough for Jack’s jaw to twitch. 

You blubber for a moment, torn between glaring at Tom and smiling kindly at his girlfriend that he is undeserving of. 

“Uh, yeah— I go under a pseudonym, though. I don't really like the idea of my name being out there like that.” You laugh, nervous and completely out of your element. 

Jack knows that’s not the only reason. That your primary concern has and always will be Phoebe, and the asshole kids as she grows up. That you don’t want to subject her teenage years to bullying because her mom writes erotic romances. 

He looks at Tom, keeps his expression friendly when he corrects him. “A New York Times Bestseller says a lot more than aspiring, don’t you think?” 

You dip your head to hide the flush on your cheeks and the curve of your mouth at Jack’s boyish defence of you. You already knew tonight would be a struggle of both of your patience, but you should’ve known that Jack will defend you. 

Even if he has to do it passive aggressively. 

He refuses to sit back and allow anybody to disrespect you. 

“Wow, that’s incredible.” Kirsty gushes, beaming wide and you meet her gaze with something guilty. 

You can’t help but wonder how the fuck she’s ended up with someone as awful as Tom. He hasn’t got much else but his face going for him. You know the sex is boring and his personality is drier than a desert. 

“What about you?” You ask Kirsty. 

Her smile shifts into a look of shy apprehension and she tucks locks of blonde hair behind a pierced ear. “Oh, I’m twenty, so I’m still in college. Lots of time to figure it out, though, right?” She laughs nervously. 

You blink at the information, feel Jack still slightly beside you. Christ. Kirsty looks young but…twenty? Tom’s freshly thirty-three.

“Yeah, loads of time!”

A smile forces its way on your lips as you drag your gaze to briefly meet Tom’s. But he’s already looking at you with barely contained disdain. Like he’s daring you to say something when your age gap with Jack is three years bigger than theirs. 

Both you and Jack reach for your drinks at the same time, suffocating your unfair judgement with wine. But is it entirely unfair when you’re a fully grown woman and Kirsty is barely legal?

“And obviously, you already know Tom works in Crypto exchange.” 

Jack chokes on his wine with a fit of splitting coughs when the words fall from Kirsty’s mouth. He places his glass down a bit too unceremoniously, dabbing his mouth and chin with a napkin as he struggles to breath through the coughing. 

“Sorry,” he apologizes and it takes everything in you to hold back your laughter. 

Jack reaches for his water instead to try and soothe the burn the alcohol has left in his throat. His hand remains in your thigh throughout the exchange and squeezes with a playful warning. 

Maybe you should’ve warned him in the car that his perception of Tom was a little too accurate. Even down to his job. 

But every movement the two of you make is observed and noted by Tom. He doesn’t say anything at first about it, remains polite when Martin returns to take your food order, to refill your drinks. 

It’s mostly Jack and Kirsty keeping the conversation afloat throughout dinner, weaving around Tom’s animosity. 

In all honesty, you’ve enjoyed sitting on the sidelines and watching. Maybe it’s the wine that’s relaxed you, or maybe it’s the fact that Jack goes out of his way to politely disagree with everything that Tom says. 

“Crypto is the way for the future of money.” 

“Nah, can’t go wrong with cash.”

“Don’t you think cash is a little outdated? Old fashioned?”

“I think it’s good to be prepared for an emergency.”

“Cash is pointless. A bit like romance novels.”

“You’re not a romantic, Tom?”

“I just think they’re unrealistic. All a bit of make believe, really.”

“Ah, I have to argue otherwise. Maybe I can lend you my copy of Y/N’s book. You might learn a thing or two.”

“Oh, I would actually love that, if the offer extends to me?” Kirsty asks around a mouthful of food, palm covering her lips as she speaks—like she’s too excited by the idea to wait to finish her food. 

You laugh under your breath and find yourself nodding, completely unaffected by Tom’s attempt at belittling you and your career. It’s a bit hard for him to hit how he wants when the other two people at the table disagree with him. 

“Sure. Just—beware, they're a bit…spicy.” 

Her eyes light up at the warning as she swallows her food, lowering her hand to offer a conspiratorial smile. 

“I say the spicier the better.” 

Tom grimaces at the interaction, something that sends a jolt of smugness through Jack. Good. Let him fester in his girlfriend praising you, in her clear excitement toward your career that Tom does everything he can to belittle. 

Let that jealousy explode in his eyes at the thought of you and Jack together like that. He doesn’t plan on correcting him that nothing has happened yet. 

“Where’s Phoebe tonight?” Kirsty asks as she takes a sip of her third cocktail. 

“She’s with my parents for the night. Her favorite kind of sleepover.” 

She beams at that. “She’s such a great kid. I don’t think she likes me very much, though. I didn’t mean to upset her last weekend…I only asked if she wanted to listen to music and make some breakfast together.” Kirsty admits sheepishly, upset evident in her tone. 

Your heart cracks at that. Because Kirsty was only being kind and friendly to Phoebe. Offering to do something that you and Pheebs do every Sunday. And Phoebe… had she thought that her dads new girlfriend was trying to replace you? 

Jack seems to come to the same conclusion, you can practically smell the pity rolling off him. 

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “No, it’s okay. You don’t need to apologize for anything. It takes her time to open up to people sometimes.” You offer. 

“She seemed to take to Jack pretty quickly.” Tom comments in a bitter tone and you hate the way that Kirsty seems to shrink into herself at that. 

The same way that you used to. 

“There were no labels or expectations when she met Jack.” You’re quick to defend, the hand in your lap reaching beneath that table to rest on Jack’s thigh. 

You don’t tell him that the first time Phoebe met Jack was accidental, that it was also your first time meeting him, too. You don’t have to explain yourself. You refuse to. 

“He’s all she seems to talk about. Jack’s a doctor. Jack’s fun. Jack makes Mommy laugh. Jack’s a silver fox.” Tom continues and you still at that, eyes hardening as Tom glares at you, his anger and disbelief leaking out of his pores. 

“Really? That’s the type of shit you’re saying in front of our daughter?” His tone takes a spiteful turn. One that, despite your years apart, you still feel the hairs on the back of your neck standing up at. 

Jack’s struggling to keep his cool, to not step in. Because he can handle Tom’s futile attempts of making Jack insecure, of focusing on his age and comments that come with it. But Jack cannot handle the blatant disrespect and nasty tone Tom’s directing at you. 

“No. She overheard me on the phone.” You explain through gritted teeth.

Tom cocks a brow. “And that makes it better? She’s fucking four and you’re teaching her this shit?” 

You frown. He’s good at this, manipulating things into something that they’re not. Like you’re going out of your way to educate your child on something inappropriate. 

“I’m not teaching her that, Tom. She overheard a conversation.” You’re speaking through gritted teeth, your anger beginning to boil over. 

He scoffs, opening his mouth to say something else but you stand abruptly before he can. “I’m going to the restroom.”

Something aches in you when Kirsty stands, too, offering an apologetic smile. “I’ll come, too many cocktails.” She tries to diffuse your well-placed anger with a light joke but she knows it’s not really any use. 

You turn to look at Jack, swallowing down the lump in your throat when you notice the conflict of anger and devastation in his eyes. You bend at the waist to press a kiss to his cheek, a silent apology of leaving him alone with Tom, before you and Kirsty make for the ladies room. 

Jack doesn’t watch you go, but Tom does. Metaphorical daggers stabbing into your back with every step and Jack’s knee begins to bounce beneath the table. 

“You talk to her like that in front of Phoebe?” Jack asks, his mouth set in a firm line of barely restrained anger. 

“Let’s get one thing clear. I’m Phoebe’s dad. Not you.” Tom’s tone isn’t angry or rash. But it is accusing. 

Yes, maybe he has the right to make such a statement. Yes, he may be Phoebe’s father but he does not exactly qualify for the title of Dad. 

In another circumstance, maybe Jack would find the statement amusing. But not in this one. In this one, it makes Jack angry. All Tom is doing is portraying his bitterness of you finding someone else as a proud father setting boundaries. 

It’s anything but. 

A dry, humorless chuckle escapes Jack.

“Oh, I understand perfectly that I have no right or opinion when it comes to Phoebe. But as for her mother, I have every right to tell you to watch your fucking mouth when you’re speaking with her.”

The sheer venom in his words sets Tom slightly on edge. Because Jack’s threat lingers in his calm demeanor. His relaxed position in his seat, his warm and raw tone that turns grave at the end of his sentence. 

The soft clicking of your heels on the marble floor drifts closer until your presence is warm against the back of Jack’s chair. You sense the tension immediately, the hard set in Tom’s jaw as he stares at Jack. 

“What did we miss?” You ask carefully, dragging your eyes to assess Jack for any hint of emotion. 

He cranes his neck to look up at you. “Nothing, baby. Was just telling Tom about my trip to Poughkeepsie last year.”

You stare down at him, heart thumping at the ridiculous distress signal Jack came up with in the car. In all honesty, you assumed he was only teasing when he suggested it, or that if it needed to be used, it would be by you. 

But he sits there, looking up at you with a smile that does not reach his darkening eyes and you realize that he’s serious. He’s ready to leave before he does something to make matters so much fucking worse.

His hand reaches for yours that rests on the back of his chair, a touch so tender and reassuring. Because he doesn’t want you to worry, doesn’t want you to think that this abysmal night changes anything between you. 

You’re both too caught up in one another to notice the yearning look that Kirsty watches with. The realization that occurs to her when she sees what love and care and adoration is supposed to look like. 

You turn to her with an apologetic smile, not deigning to give Tom a glance. “We’re gonna head out. Pheebs is back early tomorrow.”

She nods, eyes crinkling when she moves across the table to wrap you in a friendly embrace. And you let her, allow yourself to relax against her because Kirsty is nothing but good. Her reassurance and apology on Tom’s behavior in the bathroom was unnecessary but appreciated all the same. 

It’s not her fault he’s a fucking cunt. 

“It was so lovely to meet you.” You both offer the sentiment at the same time, a laugh tumbling right after and she pulls away to respectfully shake Jack’s hand when he stands. 

Much like when you arrived, Tom remains seated. He doesn’t even feign niceties of a goodbye and instead relaxes into his seat with the smugness of a Persian Prince. 

Like he’s won this round. 

And Jack, ever the gentleman and bigger person, extends a hand across the table to Tom. 

Tom regards it as a test, of sorts. One that he surveys with scrutiny, like he’s just been dealt the losing hand. Whether he accepts or not, Jack wins. 

Only it’s not offered as a test. It’s out of Jack’s respect for you and his love for Phoebe that he puts his anger and hatred aside to offer his hand. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to you when Tom ultimately focuses his attention on his empty plate instead. 

But there’s that sinking feeling of anger and upset when he does. 

When he leaves your Jack standing with his hand still extended.

It’s not a bruise to Jack’s pride or ego, though. He has to hide his amusement at Tom’s childishness and retrieves his hand to dig into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. He pulls out his wallet, plucks a hundred and a fifty and sets the bills softly onto the table. 

“That should cover ours and a tip.”

Tom doesn’t look up, just burns holes into the cash he’s left when Jack turns to you and helps ease your purse over your shoulder. You offer a tight-lipped smile to Kirsty as you curl your palm around Jack’s elbow before you’re both weaving through tables for the exit. 

The moment the cool evening air hits you and your feet meet the sidewalk, neither of you stop. Jack unlocks the car with the press of a button on his keys, and opens and closes your door for you. You’re still holding your breath when Jack gets in the drivers side, still trying to process the night you’ve just had. 

He doesn’t start the engine straight away, just stairs ahead at the people that pass, the cars that drift. It’s eating at him, what he’s done. How he lost his cool just enough for him to have cross words with Tom. If he had it his way, Jack would’ve done a lot more than a verbal scolding. But the guilt of that alone is eating at him. 

“I threatened Tom.” He finds himself blurting quietly. 

Your head whirls around to look at him, eyes wide and heart stammering at the weight of what he’s just said. Of what he’s done. 

“You did what!?”

“Not—not physically, not properly. I—” He’s stammering, anxious that he’s overstepped and despite his reasoning for it, he knows it’s not good enough. 

Your eyes somehow grow wider at his attempted retraction. “You either threatened Phoebe’s dad or you didn’t. Which one is it, Jack?”

He turns to you with a frown, with agony in his eyes. “I didn’t threaten Phoebe’s dad. I threatened your ex.” He’s trying to paint it clearer for you, to understand the difference between the figures. 

And you do. Your shock and frustration shifts, your lips part and your eyes begin to hood. Because you’re picking up what he’s putting down; reading between the lines that Jack had clearly had enough of Tom’s belittling. 

“I spoke to him as a man who will not tolerate anybody disrespecting his girlfriend. Correct me if I’m wrong, but do I not have every right to do that? As your partner?” 

You blink at him, brows softly pinching together as your shoulders drop and you realize exactly where he’s coming from. That he bit his tongue when it came to all the times Tom has and continues to let Phoebe down. Because it’s not his place. Because in the face of Phoebe’s father, he has no right. 

Your eyes close as you release a heavy sigh and you find yourself nodding softly. “Yeah, baby. You do. Of course, you do.”

He watches you carefully when you open your eyes and lean your head against the headrest, when you turn just slightly to look at him with exhaustion and apprehension. 

“I won’t apologize for it.” He tells you, bluntly. 

You huff a laugh through your nose at that, reach a hand lazily across the console to intertwine your fingers. “I’m not asking you to.”

Jack squeezes your hand with a nod, brings your knuckles to his lips where he kisses them tenderly. 

“He’s a fucking asshole.” Jack says, his eyes locked on yours like he can’t quite understand what you ever saw in him. Like he’s distraught that that piece of shit is Phoebe’s father. 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Kirsty seems nice, though.” 

“Mmh,” Jack hums. “Poor girl.”

You don’t say anything, just watch him for a moment. Trying to let your body relax now that you’re out of Tom’s presence. Trying to read Jack’s emotions that he struggles to keep off his face. 

He only did have one glass of wine, so you know whatever is running through his head is completely valid and justified. 

“Thank you, for coming and sitting through that. And I’m sorry that you had to.” You say softly, untangling your fingers to caress his stubbled jaw. 

Jack leans into the touch, lets his hand wrap around your wrist to keep you there. Christ, he’s so fucking handsome. 

“Honey, you don’t need to thank me. And you have absolutely nothing to apologize for. It’s not your fault Tom’s an asshole and has the personality of a piece of drywall.”

A giggle tumbles out of you and you stroke your thumb across the soft skin of his cheekbone. 

He intertwines your fingers again as he begins to drive back to the apartment complex. The radio plays in the background and he listens to the sound of your voice as you single along softly. 

He finds peace in it, in the rolling of your tongue as the lyrics almost sigh out of you. Focusing on that helps to take his mind off his simmering anger. The frustration and hatred that’s still brewing toward Tom. 

He doesn’t mention how devastating it was to watch you curl into yourself in Tom’s presence. How infuriating and disgusting it was to hear the way he speaks to you, how uncaringly he belittles you. 

Instead, Jack drives silently, singing along every now and then with you to take his mind off it. To calm himself down and remind himself that that treatment will remain in the past. That you will never, ever experience a lover like that again so long as he is by your side. 

He opens the car door for you, closes it. Intertwines your fingers again as you walk into the complex together. You catch sight of a few of your neighbors. Deborah from downstairs who grins to herself at the sight of you both, Chirpy from apartment twelve that gives you both a less than pleased look, while the newly wed Mr and Mr Hammond wiggle their brows at you as you join them in the elevator. 

The ride to yours and Jack’s floor is silent but not uncomfortable. You let the pair of husbands leave first, both of you left lingering in the hall as the elevator goes back down empty. 

Jack turns left toward your apartment when you stop walking and squeeze his hand. He turns to you with a furrow. 

“Can we go back to yours tonight instead?” 

He blinks, then softens. This afternoon was the first time you really came into his space, any other time he’s always come to you. 

“Yeah, baby. Let’s go.” His heart swells when you both begin to walk to his front door, when he opens it and you immediately crouch down to pet a waiting Sally. 

She purrs beneath your touch as you scratch behind her ears, laughing when you stand to take off your heels and she nuzzles at your ankles. 

Jack shuts the door with a quiet click, keeps his own shoes on and tosses his keys in the bowl at the small entrance table. You place your bag beside the bowl, pad through the apartment to follow him into the kitchen and make yourself comfortable on one of the stools. 

There’s a stiffness in Jack’s posture. It’s evident he’s never really had a woman in his space like this since his wife. It makes you wonder if you’ve pushed too hard. That maybe you should’ve just agreed to go back to yours instead. 

But the gentle clinking of a wine glass being set atop marble before you catches your attention. Jack takes a heavy gulp of his own before shrugging off his jacket and throwing it over a stool. 

He rests a palm on either side of the island, leaning his weight into it and the motion is far more sinful than he intends for it to be. 

You’re left with nothing to do but reach for your wine and guzzle down half of it. Jack cocks a brow in amusement, in silent question and you place it back with a laugh. 

“We are never doing that again.” 

He grins. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He moves swiftly, despite the slight ache in his leg from being on it all day. You turn in the stool to face him as he cups your cheeks in his palms and leans down to press his lips against yours. 

You both sigh into the kiss, tasting each other and hints of elderflower. He pulls away to rest his forehead against yours, heaving in a breath. 

“Do you have any idea how gorgeous you looked tonight? How hard it was to not kiss you the entire time?” 

You beam at him, eyes fluttering closed and relief is finally beginning to settle within you. The date already forgotten about, Tom’s spiteful words and childish behavior shoved to the very back of your mind. 

You lean closer to kiss him again. It’s needy and hungry and sensual, and Jack returns it with even more vigor. 

“Jack,” you whimper against his mouth, hands reaching for his chest, fingers fumbling with the small buttons on his shirt. 

He makes a sound from the back of his throat, lets his hands wander from your face and down your neck, reaching to the back of your dress as his fingers trace the zipper down your spine. 

You pop a button and then another. Grow frustrated with how long it takes and sneak your hands beneath the fabric to feel his warm, hard chest. 

Jack whimpers at the sensation, pinches at the zip and slowly tugs it down the track. 

“Jack,” you breathe again, fingers curling until your nails scratch gently at the skin of his chest. “Jack, take me to bed.” 

You don’t know what comes over him, what you’ve said or done that makes him snake his arms around your waist and lift you. Your legs wrap around his hips, your fingers tangle into his hair and he does not break the kiss as he somehow manages to carry you from the kitchen, down the hall, and into the dim lighting of his bedroom. 

You’re offered no time to look as Jack gently eases you back on your feet, returning his attention to the zipper at your back. He tugs it all the way down when his lips begin to travel from your mouth to your neck; licking and nipping hungrily. 

Your head rolls back as he pulls the shoulders of your outfit down your arms, as the dress pools at your ankles and leaves you in nothing but a bra, panties, and brown tights. 

He pulls away to look at you with blown eyes and swollen lips. He drinks you in like a man starved, hands covering over your hips like he doesn’t know if he wants to touch you there or somewhere else. 

Your skin burns under his attentive gaze, arousal almost gushing between your thighs. Your heart stammers sporadically as your hands find their way back to the buttons of his shirt again, desperately fumbling to pop them open. 

“Look at you.” Jack’s voice is wrecked; the words are so broken it makes you pause. “You’re so fucking beautiful, baby.” 

Your lungs are on fire, can’t quite seem to catch a deep enough breath at how he’s looking at you. It makes you frustrated and you find yourself gripping either side of his partly open shirt and ripping it open. 

Buttons pop and clatter on hard wood in every direction. Freckled skin meets your line of vision; his torso toned and hard and hot beneath your touch. And when you peek up at Jack, he’s already smirking down at you. 

“Sorry,” you laugh breathlessly. 

He says nothing as he tugs the sleeves down his arms, throws the fabric haphazardly across the room. Jack catches your lips in a kiss again, tongues swirling in something erotic and entirely uncoordinated. 

“Lay down on the bed for me, Angel.” He commands softly against your mouth. 

The new pet name has your head spinning. You don’t argue, far too excited to even consider not giving him everything he wants from you. 

You keep your eyes on him when you move backward until the foot of the bed hits the backs of your knees. You sit down, shuffling backward until your head is resting on his pillows and you’re enveloped in the comforting scent of him. 

Jack moves slowly, admiring the sight of you sprawled out on his bed. His chest heaves with every breath and your eyes track his hands when they reach for the belt wrapped around his waist. 

An involuntary whine slips past you as he unbuckles it. “Take your tights off, baby.”

There’s something so incredibly sexy at how naturally he’s taken control. At how earnestly he speaks to you, at how devotedly he stares down at you. 

You move quickly, hooking your fingers in the thin waistband of your sheer tights and tugging them off as gracefully as you can. You’re left almost bare. In just a little black thong and a matching balcony bra. 

Jack swallows at the sight of you and abandons his belt, wrapping his hands around your ankles and gently tugging you down the bed until your ass is flush with the edge. 

“Now, spread your legs.” 

He eases himself to his knees as smoothly as he can at the same time as you parting your thighs. His hands soothe up the soft skin of your calves, tracing the flesh of your inner thighs. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch him with hooded eyes. And Jack thinks he’s about to pass out. 

There’s a prominent wet patch on the dark fabric of your panties, goosebumps pebbling on your skin as he hooks fingers into the underwear and slowly eases them down your legs. 

When he throws them to the ground and you drop your legs open again, Jack groans. 

He’s seen you before. But this is different. This time you’re willing and excited and desperate. This time you’re in his fucking bed, not behind a hospital curtain. 

And above all, this time, Jack allows himself to really look. To admire you. To touch. 

You moan when he parts your lips with his index and middle finger, when you feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your clit. 

“Prettiest fucking cunt.” He praises roughly, salivates when he watches how you pulse because of it. 

“You’re soaked, baby.” 

His lips tease with open-mouthed kisses across your inner thighs, causing them to quake. His stubble grazes deliciously against the tender skin, but it only fuels the fire. 

You whine again, hips bucking toward his face. Desperate for something, anything. 

Jack relents, eager to taste you. His cock is throbbing against the confinements of his pants and boxers, eager to be buried to the hilt. 

His thumb swipes at the wetness at your puckering entrance, all the way up to your clit. He keeps it there for a moment when you gasp, rubs lazy circles around the little nub until you’re whimpering and begging for more. 

He’s a generous man. Not one to deny a woman of anything. Especially not you. 

It’s without another thought that Jack moves closer to swipe his tongue in the same way he did with his thumb. Laps at your cunt, eyes rolling back at the taste of you and all restraint is lost. 

His hands grip at your waist to keep you still, gripping with enough force to mark but not to bruise. Your back arches at the feel of his mouth on you—skilled and messy, worshiping every inch. 

“Jack, oh, fuck!” 

His guttural moan sends vibrations through your nerves as he wraps his lips around your clit and sucks. His tongue flicks against it at the same time, burying his face between your thighs. 

His short stubble scratches deliciously at your sensitive skin, a welcome burn grazing at your entrance and inner thighs. It only makes you needier. 

He’s completely drunk on you. So much so that he doesn’t even notice the ache forming below his knee, the discomfort that’s usually enough to cripple him. 

Your back drops onto the bed, head digging into the sheets as your hands fly to his hair, gripping and pulling until your nails are scratching at his scalp. 

He pulls off to heave a breath, to release one hip and circle your entrance with a finger. 

“You taste so fucking good.” He slowly pushes between your walls, curling against the tightness. 

A sharp cry sounds from the back of your throat when he returns his mouth to its rightful place, when he curls his finger faster and rubs the flat of his tongue against your clit when he sucks between his lips. 

The thickness of his fingers is unfamiliar but most welcomed. And the praise of how you taste goes straight to your head. 

Has your toes curling and eyes rolling. That familiar burn at the bottom of your spine creeps up on you like a freight train. You have no time to warn Jack when you clamp down on his finger, when you shudder and spasm beneath his hold. 

You have no time to warn him because the breath is stolen from your lungs and you’re gushing as release paralyzes you. 

And Jack…he drinks you like a starving man. Abandons your clit and removes his finger to lap at your pulsing hole; swirling his tongue and slurping like he can’t fucking get enough. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath when he’s struggling to stand again, your vision is nothing but a kaleidoscope gaze. All you can think is to scold yourself for waiting as long as you fucking have for that to happen. 

And when you blink through the distortion, you catch your orgasm coating Jack’s chin and mouth. The sexiness of it is short lived when you realize how his mouth is slightly curved into a grimace and he’s favoring his weight on his good leg. 

But he tries to soldier through it. To drop his trousers to his ankles, to hook his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers. 

It’s more effort than you care to admit to sit up. Your body spent but still aching for more. You rest your palms on the outsides of his muscular thighs, let your nose brush against his navel, pressing open mouthed kisses to the burning skin. 

“Take it off.” Your words are drunken and muffled but Jack hears them. Understands them. 

“I’m fine.” His voice is raw when he speaks, dripping with lust so much it almost masks his discomfort. 

“You’re not. Take it off, baby. I don’t care.” You insist, still peppering hot kisses across his waist, dragging your tongue across the path. 

Jack sighs shakily, relenting. And when he bends down with one hand on the bed and the other reaching to unclasp his prosthetic, you crawl backward on the bed until your head is resting on his pillows again. 

You spread your legs for him, let your hand snake down between your thighs to touch yourself while you wait. You’re dripping onto his sheets, unapologetic and when Jack looks up with his prosthetic off, he whimpers at that sight. 

“Jesus Christ, baby.” He’s almost drooling at the sight, still using one hand to balance and the other hooks into the waistband of his boxers and tugs them down. 

Your eyes bulge. He’s fucking big. Long and fat and veiny. Slapping against his navel when it’s free, red and neglected. You feel your chest tighten, feel yourself drip between your thighs. 

“Holy shit.” You pant. 

He crawls into the bed and between your thighs with a bashful smirk; his cheeks dusted pink and eyes twinkling with something like excitement and nerves. 

It’s then that he really notices the small scar just above your pubic bone. The evidence of the life you carried and birthed. It only intensifies his feelings toward how. Reminds him of how much you trust him. 

You swallow, unable to take your eyes off his cock. But you’re not dumb on it yet, still able to consider him in these final few moments. 

“Do you want me to—“

“No. Fuck no.” He knows what you’re going to say before you say it. Does he want you to do the work, does he want to lie down so it’s easier on his leg. 

The answer is a resounding not a fucking chance in hell. 

“Baby, I am more than happy for you to ride me whenever you want. But not—fuck—not tonight.” He’s panting out his words, like he’s already on the verge of release and he’s not even inside you yet. 

His hands block you in on either side of your head, thighs slotting between yours and when he lowers his hips, his cock brushes against your soaked folds. 

There’s a sobering moment that hits him the second he feels you. He doesn’t have any condoms and he doesn’t quite know how to broach the subject of asking if you do without breaking the moment. 

But it’s like you read his mind, or maybe you can just read the hesitancy on his face. “It’s okay. I’m clean. I haven’t—I haven’t been with anyone in a while.”

Jack looses a breath at your admittance. Lets his head drop so his forehead rests against yours. Your words send a strike to his cock, the reminder of your IUD, the thought of feeling you bare. “Me too.” 

You swallow, breaths mingling and your hand leaves your pussy to wrap around his cock, pumping slowly and Jack shudders. 

“So, we take it slow. No expectations, right?” 

Jack practically melts at your tone and your words, at how easy everything is with you. How right it all feels. 

“Yeah, baby. No expectations.” 

You nod again, as much as you can, and guide the tip of his swollen cock to your fluttering entrance. A shudder runs through you both, anticipation crawling at your spines. 

Jack’s hips move slowly, easing into you in a way that makes you relax enough to take him. Inch by inch, whimper by whimper, until his hips are flush against yours and you’re both panting. 

“Give me— fuck, give me a second. Jesus fucking Christ—baby, you’re…you’re so fucking tight.”

“Big,” you gasp through a heavy breath, nails scratching down the wide expanse of Jack’s muscled back. You can’t form a coherent word, far too overwhelmed. 

“I know.” He coos, holding his weight above you on one hand by your head when the other reaches between your chests to slowly fold your bra down, exposing your breasts. 

The whimper that slips out of him is almost enough to make you cum. Your supple breasts spill out, nipples perk and he flicks a thumb over one, pinches gently when you whine for more. 

“You’re doing so well for me, baby. So good.” 

You mewl at the praise again, something you’ve never once experienced in bed. But now that you have, you know you could never go without it again. 

Jack moves his hips gingerly, pulling out a few inches before slowly sheathing himself back in. You’re far too tight around him to remain composed; cunt soaked and sucking him in like it’s where he belongs. 

“Keep going, feels so good. So big.” You whine. 

“Yeah?” Jack asks breathlessly, rolling his hips with a tedious rhythm, like he’s experimenting what works best for you. 

You’re too caught up in the pressure and stretch of him to realize just how much strength it takes for him to hold his weight on one hand, fuck you like he loves you, and pinch your nipples like you’re nothing but his good girl. 

All with one leg. All with barely contained restraint. 

Your hips begin to roll against his, bucking up to meet his thrusts and he gets the hint that you need more. 

But you’re tight, pulsing, sucking him deeper with every thrust. Until you’re both panting and Jack’s bed is creaking. Until moans are slipping from your lips instead of breaths. Until Jack’s whimpering and moaning and whining into the crook of your neck. 

He abandons his assault on your nipple, rises to his hands at either side of your head to watch your face, to flicker his gaze between your thighs to watch you stretch around his thick girth. 

His cock is slick with your arousal, a creamy ring of white at the base of him. 

“Fuck, baby.” His voice is slightly higher pitched now. Whining in a way that has you bucking up against his in urgency. 

That burning returns in the base of your spine, tingles zapping up and down your navel as your orgasms balloons. 

“Jack! Oh fuck, baby—I’m…I’m gonna cum… oh fuck…”

“Yeah? You gonna come on my cock? Come on, baby. Let me feel you.”

It doesn’t crash into you this time, doesn’t sneak up on you and paralyze you like the last one. No, this time it sets your body alight; bursts from you from within. 

You shudder and spasm, sob and moan and whine and claw at Jack’s back. He feels you tighten impossibly, feels your cunt attempt to gush around him. 

It drags his own release from him, and he hates how quickly and harshly he pulls out of you so he doesn’t spill inside. His cock drops heavily on your cunt, ribbons of creamy release spurting across your lower stomach as you shudder through the remnants of your orgasm. 

Despite how fucked out you are, you still hear the whimper of a moan that falls from Jack’s, the praise that follows when he cums across your abdomen. 

You’re struggling to catch your breath, blinking away the white spots that mask your vision. But you feel the bed dip as Jack collapses beside you on his back, the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he pants breathlessly. 

You turn your head to him in a lazy motion, an arm thrown over his eyes while the other reaches out for his hand to hold your thigh. His cock lays heavy on his leg; still glistening in your excitement and still incredibly big as he softens. 

“Remind me again why we waited so long to do that.” You laugh through a heavy breath, and it makes Jack chuckle heartily. 

With as much energy as you can muster, you try to sit up to clean yourself but Jack moves faster. Grips your thigh harder and turns to you beneath the arm over his eyes. 

“Don’t you dare move.” His voice is gravelly, slightly broken. “I’ll clean you up, just give me a second.”

But you don’t listen. Jack watches with disdain as you sit up and round the bed, disappearing into the bathroom just beside his bedroom door. 

It’s pure inadequacy that he feels. Like he’s unable to do something as simple as clean you up and take care of you after sex. A bare minimum act that you don’t let him complete. 

He spirals in the two short minutes you’re gone, and when you come back clean and naked with a wash cloth in your hands, it only intensifies the feeling tenfold. 

“I could’ve done that, sweetheart.” He tells you when you had him the cloth and sit on your heels on the bed beside him. 

“I know.” 

You don’t elaborate on the fact that he’s always taking care of you. Coming over to fix the sink or the dryer, helping you build a new bookcase or unclogging the toilet after Phoebe stuffed a whole roll of toilet paper down it. 

You don’t want to make a thing out of it. 

“Do you have a t-shirt I can borrow?” You ask instead. 

Jack blinks when he takes the wash cloth from you, pointing silently to the second drawer of the dresser in the corner of the room. 

You make quick work on shaky legs of standing and pinching a gray t-shirt from the draw. It swallows you whole, the hem reaching just below your ass and the arms almost reaching your elbows. 

Jack’s chest seizes when you turn to him, an uncontrollable wave of adoration and slight possessiveness strokes through him. The latter is something he’s not exactly proud of. 

But you’re in his apartment, in his room, wearing his shirt, blissed out from his cock…

It takes him a moment or two to regulate his emotions. The internal battle of pinning you beneath him again to coax another orgasm out of your body and just coddling you close to his chest all night. 

So he’s a little thrown off when you remain standing at the foot of the bed and ask, “Where do you keep your lotion?” 

“My lotion?” He blinks. 

“For your leg.” 

His eyes betray him as they flicker toward the bathroom and you’re sauntering off before he can even stop you. 

When you return with the bottle in hand and sit on your heels again beside him on the bed, he doesn’t stop you when you squeeze a dollop into your palms. Doesn’t comment when you warm it between your hands before gently massaging it across his tender skin. 

He watches, reverently. In complete adoration and disbelief that you could ever be real. That this isn’t a figment of his imagination. 

But it is real. 

And when you curl up into his side beneath the covers like you’ve only ever belonged there, in this moment, Jack finds himself battling with three words that threaten to spill from his lips. 

Too caught up in the moment and intensity of the night as you and Jack drift off to sleep, both of you miss the fact that neither of you are wearing your rings around your neck. 

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART

Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!

OKAY IM SORRY THIS WAS SO LONG BUT I DID WARN YOU IN THE LAST CHAPTER!! lots to unpack in this one; tom's behavior, kirsty being a poor little sweetheart, jack being hot as fuck and of course, the smut!!!! from here on out, things take a big change and there is lots to happen and get through, so chapters will likely be this length or longer!

Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!

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