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32 Years. My page of things F1, Fernando Alonso, SPN, Deus Ex, The Last of Us - plus a bucket load of everything else I love :)

[isabellaboo2025]

Where Our Shadows Meet - Part Eighteen

Pairing: Joel x Reader.

Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.

Chapter summary: You become Mrs Miller in every way possible.

A/N: The moment has finally arrived 🥰

Masterlist

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The brougham rolls to a smooth halt in the yard.

The driver, who’s been whistling tunelessly for the better part of two miles, falls abruptly and respectfully silent. You hear the soft creak of the box as he climbs down, the small jingle of harness as he moves to the heads of the matched bays, and the way he very deliberately busies himself, with the same flawless, professional discretion he’s shown throughout the ride, with the buckles of the lead bay's bridle, in a position that places his back entirely to the carriage door.

Joel doesn’t wait. He pushes the carriage door open and climbs down in a single fluid motion. Then he turns and reaches up for you, his hands closing around your waist, lifting you down out of the brougham with the careful, possessive thoroughness of a man who’s been counting the miles for half an hour and is no longer prepared to count any further.

He sets you down on your feet in the yard, his hands never leaving your waist, as Tomás appears from the barn, wiping the back of his neck with a flannel.

“Good to see you Patrón,” he says with a grin.

“And you,” Joel nods. “See to the driver, will you? He deserves some rest and a cold drink before he heads on back to town. Mrs Miller and I ain’t to be disturbed.”

“Consider it done,” Tomás replies, nodding at both of you in turn before moving over to the driver and extending his hand.

You don’t wait to witness the outcome of the exchange. Joel's hand moves from your waist to the small of your back as he gently guides you towards the porch steps. His palm presses warm and possessive through the fabric of your dress, the heavy boned stays and the thin torn linen of the chemise beneath, and you can feel the tremor in his fingers against your spine. Glancing at him, you understand that he’s holding himself on a tighter rein in the last twenty feet between the brougham and the front door than he’s held himself in the entire journey before.

Pushing open the door, he guides you across the threshold before closing and locking it behind you, the key turning smoothly. The decisive click of the bolt sliding home echoes in the quiet hallway, and the late afternoon sun falls through the side window in long warm bars across the floorboards. You stand in the dim, cool entry hall with your back to him and don’t turn around.

Behind you, you can feel the heavy heat of his body and the ragged drag of his breath at the back of your neck – the careful trembling restraint of a man who’s been holding himself on that rein and is now about to drop it entirely.

“We should go to bed,” he says calmly, his voice wavering slightly over the last word.

“Yes,” you reply breathlessly. “We should.”

But you don’t move, and neither does he, his breath hot at the back of your neck. The tremor in his fingers has spread into a visible trembling that you can feel through the warm pressure of his palm at the small of your back and the heat in your stomach, which has been simmering patiently, gives a patient, answering pulse.

You draw in a careful breath and finally turn around.

His eyes are inches from yours, and they’re not lazy or crooked or careful at all. The man looking down at you is a man exhausted by restraint. And yet, you can see he’s still trying – can see the clenching muscle at the hinge of his jaw beneath his beard, the ragged restraint of his breath, the visible trembling of the hand that’s left the small of your back and is now hovering, uncertain, between you, as though he doesn’t entirely trust himself to lay it back against you.

“Joel?” Reaching out, you place one hand gently on his chest and his entire body reverberates under it.

"Darlin’, please. If I touch you in this hallway, I ain’t gonna make it to our bed and I ain’t gonna take you for the first time on these damn floorboards. So, let me walk you to our room.”

You look up at him, well aware that the careful side of you, which was entirely absent from the brougham, would take her husband's offered arm and walk with him in careful, dignified silence down the hall to the bedroom.

The spinster, of thirty-four years, would expect it.

You ignore her and, reaching up with both hands, find the top brass button at the high collar of your dress that he so carefully fastened back into place in the brougham not ten minutes ago, and work it loose, followed closely by the second and the third.

Joel's eyes follow your fingers, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Darlin’…”

You undo the fourth button, and the dress falls open by half an inch revealing the scarlet flush again on the bare line of your collarbone. You turn slowly, your back to him, and begin to walk down the hallway, your fingers continuing to work the buttons free as you go.

You feel him follow, his hand catching your elbow after a few paces, and he turns you, his mouth on yours before you can draw the next breath.

The kiss is not slow or careful, rather it’s the kiss of a man whose restraint has cracked clean down the middle and his mouth opens against yours with a low, rough sound in the back of his throat that’s almost a growl. His tongue slides against yours with a demanding heat that takes the breath out of your chest, and his hands leaves your elbow and your waist, gather up the entire length of your dress and hold you hard against him.

You let the small brass buttons go, your hands flying up of their own accord and fisting in his shirt at the muscle of his shoulders as you kiss him back with a hunger you haven’t known you possess, the heat in your stomach now drawing tight in a single drowning heartbeat.

He walks you into the wall, your back hitting it hard, but with too little force to cause any damage. His fingers pull the folds of your dress higher, and you feel the cool air settle against the bare skin of your stocking-clad ankles, then your calves, then your knees.

"Joel…you said…"

"I know what I said."

His hand reaches the soft tender crease at the top of your thigh again, the pads of his fingers tracing the slick heat of you beneath the gathered fabric, the slow, patient pressure of his thumb settling once more against your clitoris. You let out a high, helpless sound against the rough scratch of his beard as his lips dance over the skin of your throat.

He stops, pulls back and presses his forehead hard against yours, and you feel the long, ragged shudder that runs the entire length of his body as he lets out a low, rough broken sound against your mouth.

"Darlin’…I’m tryin’ to get us to bed. I’ll get us there, I swear I will…”

"I know,” you pant.

"Help me."

You exhale against his mouth and press your hand flat against the heavy thud of his heart beneath his chest feeling the ragged drag of his breath and the visible trembling of every line of his body beneath your palm.

You understand that he refused you in the brougham not out of any lack of want but out of the deepest possible declaration of intent, the declaration is costing him every shred of restraint he has left, and he’s asking you, now, to help him hold the last of it.

Drawing his hand carefully out from beneath the gathered layers of your dress, you lace your fingers through his. Then you turn, and start walking once more towards the bedroom, pulling him gently after you.

He follows closely with his hand tight in yours and his beard scraping warm and slow against curve of your shoulder where the dress has fallen open from the loosened buttons. His other hand fists in the fabric at the small of your back to keep you pulled against him and you make it another three steps before he stops, swings you round to face him and kisses you again.

You slide your hand from his and work the next brass buttons of your dress loose against his chest.

Then the next and the next.

The dress falls open from the small notch at the base of your throat all the way down to the high boned edge of the stays, and the scarlet flush is now blooming all the way down across the soft unstructured curve of your breast above the boned edge. The torn chemise has given up the fight of staying tucked beneath the stays and now hangs loose and disordered around the climbing heat of your skin.

He draws back from your mouth just far enough to look down at the bloom of you in the warm gold light. “Darlin’…”

"Yes?”

"Take off the dress.”

"Joel, the bedroom is…"

"You ain’t makin’ it to the bedroom in this dress, darlin’ ‘cause I won’t let you. So, take it off here, now.”

The scarlet flush blooms warmer across the soft swell of your bare collarbone as you raise your arms, allowing him to draw the dress up over your head with a patient, possessive thoroughness. He catches it in his hand, folds it once and lays it neatly on the floor at your feet, then he reaches up behind your head and gently draws the pins from your hair, teasing it with his fingers until it loosens from its knot.

A smile finally pulls at the corner of his mouth. "There, darlin’, that’s better."

You stand in your heavy boned stays and your loosened torn chemise and your layered cotton petticoat and your stocking-clad legs with your hair falling around the scarlet bloom of your bare shoulders and let your husband admire you.

His eyes travel slowly from your hair to your collarbone to the swell of your skin above the stays to the chemise to the petticoat to the line of your white stocking-clad ankles and he draws in a shaky breath.

“We need to keep movin’.”

You laugh and it comes out small, breathless and slightly hysterical, and he laughs too, low and rough and entirely undone. Catching your hand in his, he turns and starts to walk backwards, taking you with him, growing closer and closer to the bedroom door.

You make it there, then he turns you against the wall outside, his mouth dropping to your bare collarbone above the stays. His fingers find the heavy laces at the back, and you understand with a small, dizzy heartbeat that the stays aren’t going to make it to the bedroom either.

He works the knot at the small of your back, his fingers not entirely steady. The knot resists and you hear the low frustrated breath through his teeth. Reaching back over your shoulder, his hand closes around your wrist and together you work the knot loose. The first lace gives, then the second, then a third, and a fourth, the heavy boned structure loosens against your ribs, and you draw in your first deep breath of the afternoon.

He draws the stays away from your body and lays them, with the same careful, reverent precision he gave your dress, on the floor outside the door.

The torn chemise falls soft and loose against the bare skin of your ribs, your unbound breasts and your waist, and the small dark peaks that he drew so thoroughly tight in the brougham are entirely visible through fabric, his eyes finding and focusing on them with a heated intent that makes your knees tremble.

He doesn’t speak as he raises his hand, his thumb tracing one, very slowly, through the torn linen, the heat in your stomach draws tight again, and you sag back against the wall behind you with a whimper.

"Joel… the bedroom…please…"

He gathers you up, one arm going behind your knees, the other behind your shoulders, and lifts you off your feet against the heavy, hot length of his body. You wind your arms around his neck and press your face into the warm, slick hollow of his throat as he kicks the door open with his boot and carries you across the threshold.

The bedroom is cool and dim, the curtains still drawn from the morning, the room lying in a soft amber half-light, the late afternoon glow filtering through the gaps in narrow gold seams across the floorboards and the foot of the bed.

He lays you down on it, the sheets cool against the heat of your skin through the chemise. Your loosened hair spills across the pillow in a wave and he stands beside the bed for a long moment looking down at you, his hands at his sides, the ragged drag of his breath visible in the heavy rise and fall of his chest beneath his shirt, the tremor in his hands at his sides now entirely visible.

"Darlin’ I…I need a moment.”

You raise yourself up onto your elbows, the chemise slipping down off the curve of one of your shoulders, one nipple becoming visible through the loose, disordered linen, and Joel's eyes squeeze briefly shut at the sight of it.

"Joel…you’ve seen me before, that night…”

“Not like this,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Not in this light. I haven’t…not like this.”

"Take your shirt off, my love," you encourage him, your voice lower and richer than you think you’ve ever heard it before.

His fingers go to the buttons at the front of the shirt and work them free. The trembling makes the work clumsy, the third button resists, and he makes a frustrated sound through his teeth and simply tears the rest of the row open with one hard, sharp pull. Buttons scatter across the floorboards, but he doesn’t look at them.

He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, and it falls to the floor in a heap behind him, the soft light of the dim bedroom falling across the plane of his bare chest, the rise and fall of his ribs, the dark scattered hair at his sternum and the pale scars from a life lived hard.

His hands go to the buckle of his belt, working it free, followed by the row of buttons at the front of his trousers. They fall to the floor around his boots, which he toes off, and he steps out of them, now naked before your eyes.

You draw in a small breath as the heat in your stomach draws tight, your eyes falling to the thick, heavy, hardness between his legs. You’ve never seen one before, other than in pictures in a medical book at the mercantile, and no drawing could have prepared you for this.

Sitting up slowly, you reach for him with both hands, and he comes to you, his weight pressing the mattress down beside you with a heavy creak, his hands settling at the loose, disordered chemise.

"Take this off, darlin’,” he instructs softly and you raise your arms again, allowing him to draw the torn linen up over your breasts, over your collarbone, over the loose waves of your hair, whereupon he tosses it carelessly on the floor.

The layered cotton petticoat follows. He finds the tape at the waist, works it loose with fingers that no longer tremble but move instead with a hot, inexorable focus, and draws the petticoat slowly down the bare length of your hips and your thighs and your stocking-clad knees and your calves and over your boots. Then he sets the petticoat aside on the floor and sits back on his heels at the foot of the bed.

You’re bare beneath him now save for the boots and the white silk stockings held in place by the ribbon garters tied above your knees. He doesn’t speak as he bends his head and works the laces of your boots, one at a time, his fingers moving with a possessive thoroughness. The boots come off one after the other and drop quietly to the floor beside the bed. Then he works the ribbon garters at your knees, rolls the white silk stockings slowly down the length of your calves and over your ankles before drawing them off your bare feet and setting them aside.

He looks at you now, his eyes traveling the length of you with a rolling, devastated reverence. “Look at you."

"Joel, please,” you beg. “I can’t wait.”

His eyes return to yours, a smile curving his lips again. "I know, darlin’. I’ve made you wait too long and I’m gonna fix that now.”

He comes up the length of the bed, his bare body settling along yours, his chest pressing against your breasts, nipples dragging against the dark scattered hair of his chest. The thick, hard length of him settles against the slick, bare heat between your thighs without yet pressing in, and you let out a long, broken, shaking sound.

His hand comes up, thumb tracing your cheekbone, eyes locked on yours. “Don’t be scared, darlin’. I’m gonna be careful with you, I promise.”

"Joel…"

"I gotta be careful, darlin’. It’s your first time."

"Please,” you whimper, your hips involuntarily sliding against his. “I don’t need you to be careful.”

“Yes darlin’, you do. I gotta be careful with you this first time and then, once you’re warmed up to me, we can do things differently.” He drops a soft kiss on the end of your nose. “Do you trust me?”

“I trust you,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead against yours, the visible trembling of his body returning in a long, ragged shudder along the muscle of his back where your hands have wound. The ragged drag of his breath comes hot and uneven against your mouth, and you feel the slow, careful press of him slide once along the slick bare heat of you without entering, the patient drag of him learning the shape of what he’s about to do.

“Feels like you’re ready for me.”

“I am, please, I am.”

"I love you, darlin’," he says gently.

"I love you too,” you reply, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

"I’m gonna love you and protect you for the rest of my life, darlin’. Now take a breath and hold on to me."

You inhale sharply and he presses in slowly, so slowly, to the slick, stretched heat of you, an inch at a time, filling you in the amber light of the bedroom while his hand cradles the side of your face and his thumb strokes slow against the curve of your cheekbone. There’s a small pain partway in, a bright thin sting that makes you whimper, and your fingers tighten on his shoulders, and he stills instantly.

"Darlin’, if I’m hurtin’ you…"

"You’re not, I promise. It’s only... only new. Please, my love, don’t stop."

He keeps going, slow and patient, the sting easing into a deep, full, astonishing stretch as he settles the last of the way into you, the hot length of him coming to rest fully inside you. His hips press flush against the inside of your bare thighs, and the heavy thud of his heart drums against yours through the bare press of his chest. He doesn’t move. He holds himself perfectly, trembling still, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath hot against your mouth, his eyes burning down into yours from inches away.

The bedroom is utterly silent.

You can hear the slow tick of the clock and the distant sound of cattle outside the curtained window, the ragged drag of his breath against your mouth and the ragged drag of yours against his.

You feel the heavy press of him at the very heart of you, fuller and deeper than you’ve imagined a man can reach inside a woman, and the realisation settles through every limb at once that the spinster in you is, in this single, suspended moment, being entirely and finally replaced by something else, by the woman who will lie in this bed for the rest of her life beside the man who loves her.

"You feel…so good…” he murmurs. “So good darlin’. So warm and wet…”

The heat in your stomach answers the heavy hot press of him with a slow, patient pulse, and you shift experimentally beneath him, making the smallest movement of your hips against his, and the hot rolling wave of sensation that subsequently travels the length of your spine causes you to let out a moan against his mouth. His eyes squeeze shut and his hand at the side of your face tighten.

"Don’t move, darlin’, not yet. Just…just give me a moment."

"I can’t, Joel. Please, I need to feel it all…”

The careful patient husband who’s been promising you all afternoon that he’ll be careful makes one last valiant attempt to hold the line and loses.

“You’ll feel it darlin’,” he promises shakily. “You’ll feel all of it – every damn inch.”

The first slow withdrawal and the slow, heavy press back in take your breath away entirely. You arch against the bed, your hands gripping his shoulders, and a broken sound escapes your throat which he answers with a low, rough sound of his own against the side of your neck.

He finds a rhythm, slow at first with a heavy careful roll of his hips into yours, the broad heat of him filling you and withdrawing and filling you again, slowly, carefully learning how your body answers his. He braces himself on his forearms on either side of your head, his chest moving slick and warm against your breasts, his beard scraping slow against the curve of your jaw with every slow, heavy roll.

The rhythm builds and the heat in your stomach draws tight at the heavy claim of him with a speed that startles you. The flush blooms warmer across your collarbone and your hands slide down his shoulders to the broad line of his back, your fingertips finding the shifting muscle beneath the slick skin, your heels pressing into the back of his thighs to pull him deeper.

You’ve never felt like this before.

"Joel…more, please…more…”

He makes a rough, undone sound against your mouth, and the careful roll of his hips deepens, becoming harder. The bed beneath you begins to creak softly with the rhythm, the headboard rocking, just perceptibly, against the wall behind it. His hand at the side of your face slides down along your throat and your collarbone and settles at the curve of your breast, his thumb finding the peak that his mouth so thoroughly suckled in the brougham, and the pressure of his thumb against it sends fresh hot sparks down to feed the slow, tightening boil low in your stomach.

"Joel…I’m... already, my love, I can feel..."

"I know, darlin’."

"How can I be... already... how…?"

"You’ve been waitin’, so long, darlin’, we both have.”

The slow, careful patient man is nowhere now. What moves above you is something hotter and more focused, the heavy claim of a husband who’s finally been given the run of his own house, and the heat in your stomach draws to a crescendo.

"Joel…"

"Come apart for me,” he pants, “come apart for me in our bed."

"Joel…"

"Look at me.”

You look, his eyes burning, as the heavy roll of his hips doesn’t falter. His hand slides back down your body, in between where you’re joined, and once more finds your quivering clitoris, circling against it in counter-rhythm to the heavy press of him deep inside you, and you realise you’re going to break as a rolling wave gathers itself in every limb.

"Joel…” you gasp. “Joel, I’m…”

“Yes, let go for me darlin’, let go. Scream my name.”

"Joel…”

“Yes…”

“Joel…!”

The wave breaks and you arch up against him with a high-pitched cry that fills the bedroom and doesn’t need to be muffled. Your fingers grip tightly to the slick skin and the muscle of his back, your heels dig into the back of his thighs, and your body clenches helplessly around the hot full length of him deep inside you. The wave rolls through you and keeps rolling, and the heat of him, deep inside you, turns every wave of it incandescent, and you hear him swear low and rough and absolutely undone against your throat.

"Oh…darlin’…mine…my girl, my sweet girl…! I love you…I’m gonna give you everythin’…!”

His rhythm shatters, the roll of his hips becoming something harder, faster and entirely unrestrained. The bed creaks harder beneath you, the headboard knocking harder against the wall, and his hand leaves your slickness and slides up to the curve of your hip, pulling you open wider and gripping you there with a force that will leave fingerprint bruises by morning that you’ll carry like a benediction.

He drives deep and hard, pressing so tightly against you that you can barely draw a breath. Then a long, ragged shudder runs through his entire body, and you feel the hot pulse of his seed deep inside you, deep, full and astonishingly intimate. The broken sound he makes against the curve of your throat is nothing you’ve ever heard out of any man and something that you’ll carry in your bones for the rest of your life.

For a long, suspended, trembling moment he holds there, his hand still locked at the curve of your hip, his chest heaving against your breasts, the heavy drum of his heart beating hard and ragged against your sternum. His forehead drops to the hollow of your throat, his beard scraping wet and warm against the slick skin of your shoulder, his breath hot and uneven against your collarbone.

The headboard stops knocking against the wall.

The bed stops creaking.

The light pools warm and unchanged across the floorboards and the foot of the bed, and the cattle continue to low outside, entirely unconcerned with what’s just unfolded.

Joel doesn’t move for a long time.

His weight presses you down into the warm tangled linen, his hand at your hip slowly relaxing, his breath gradually evening out and the heavy drum of his heart gradually slowing. Eventually he raises his head, eyes soft now, the heavy claim of a moment ago entirely drowned in the warm aftermath.

“That was…you were so good, darlin’, so goddamn good…”

You can’t, in that moment, form a word. Every breath has been torn from your body by the very act of loving and being loved.

His hand comes up to trace your cheekbone with a careful tenderness that makes your eyes sting again. Then he brushes a loosened strand of hair back from the slick skin at your temple, bends his head and presses a long, slow, reverent kiss against the corner of your mouth.

"My wife."

"Yes…"

"Mrs Miller."

"Mr Miller," you echo, your voice catching slightly over the word as you regain your breath.

"Did you enjoy that?" he asks, nuzzling the tip of your nose with his own.

You laugh, small and watery, feeling absolutely, profoundly, gloriously undone in his arms. “Yes…yes I enjoyed it very much.”

“I’m glad,” he murmurs, kissing you again, “’cause we got forty-eight hours before I need to go back to jail.” Slowly, he withdraws from you, the resulting coolness making you gasp. Then he rolls over onto his back, his arm sliding beneath your shoulders, and he gathers you against the warmth of his chest. “And once ain’t gonna be enough for me darlin’.

“Me neither,” you reply.

“You were too damn good. I’m gonna need to love you again before sundown and beyond. Lord…” he squeezes you gently. “Never thought I’d get to feel this way ever again.”

You gently kiss the top of his chest, your hand sliding over the sweat of his stomach, fingers gently stroking the skin there before slowly slipping lower into the hair under his naval.

“Easy darlin’,” he murmurs against your hair. “You gotta give a man a minute to recover from an encounter like that.”

“Tick tock,” you giggle, as his free hand moves to your jaw and pulls you slightly upwards so that his mouth can meet yours again.

The amber light of the bedroom holds the two of you in the bed, and you can honestly and truly say that the careful spinster of thirty-four years is finally, and entirely, gone.

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Taglist: @spacemooi @mystickittytaco @mcthsman @oldenoughtoknowbettersstuff @missladym1981 @wildthyng @sunnytuliptime @murphyjett @pascalgold @lostinthestreamofconsciousness @the-heart-is-an-organ-of-fire @bellatopo25 @enchantedreader @vickie5446 @cassieorz @inkandstardusts @orodaeh @hannahleah @dotyoureyez @mil88691 @kelgsposts @fatima-marisa @elizabeth4th @canonisoptional @stamira @mandolauren @littlemissporter @aria1108 @fizikkkkk @negrita2345 @vickie5446 @untamedheart81 @ivoryandflame @flatlyworthyeclipse @jessthebaker @venireads @ethereallythere @devilfruitsdaughter @cuteanimalmama @lovefreylove @jothenurse91 @cloudguide @inept-the-magnificent @ashhlsstuff @originals23 @goodvibesonly421 @elegantduckturtle @taniamiller @havensucks @yourfavoritecrime

[pittmebabyonemoretime]

love me again // jack abbot pt. 6

you wake up in a hospital room at ptmc and you have no idea how you got there or why. but when your night shift attending comes bursting in the room all frazzled and worried, things get even more confusing. especially when he's saying he's your husband.

genre: jack abbot x nurse!reader, lover to strangers to ??? it's amnesia!!, smut 18+, nsfw, mdni!

word count: 5100

(a/n: thank you guys SO much for coming along with me on this adventure. hope you like how this story concludes :) thank you again for the kind words.)

part 1 // part 2 // part 3 // part 4 // part 5

The restaurant is in a small, tucked away corner of the city. It’s a date. A real one, not a step in a rehabilitation plan.

A real date with your very real husband. 

"Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Abbot." the host says, his face lighting up with warmth as he snaps two menus from the rack. "It is so wonderful to have you back. We’ve missed you at your usual table."

Your breath catches in your throat, but beside you, Jack doesn't even blink. He slides a casual hand against the small of your back, his thumb tracing a reassuring circle through the fabric of your dress that sends a spark straight up your spine.

"Good to be back, Marco." Jack says smoothly.

By the time the appetizers arrive, the initial shock has dissolved into something intensely addictive. You lean across the white tablecloth, resting your chin on your palm, looking at him.

"So," you murmur, a little smile tugging at your lips as you steal a stray fry from his plate right out from under his fork. "Apparently, we have a “usual table”. Care to tell me what I like to order, or are you going to keep making me guess?"

Jack tracks the movement of your fingers, his jaw tightening slightly before his eyes snap up to meet yours.

The candlelight catches the dark heat in his gaze. "You usually argue with me about sharing the dessert menu for ten minutes." he says, his voice dropping into that tone that makes your stomach do a flip. "And then you order the heaviest chocolate thing they have and eat three quarters of it."

"That sounds a bit like slander."

"It’s a thoroughly documented study, I know you." he counters, a devastating smirk breaking across his face as he leans in closer.

The banter flows effortlessly, a symphony of shy looks and brushed knees beneath the tablecloth that leaves you feeling breathless and dizzy before the main course even arrives.

You're flirting with him. Openly, shamelessly and the way his eyes darken every time you laugh makes you feel like you’re holding all the cards.

But as the plates are cleared, the playful edge in your chest softens into something warmer. You trace the rim of your water glass, watching the condensation drip down. "I found the wedding album." you say softly.

Jack stills, his fingers pausing against his napkin.

"I found the letter you wrote me." you continue. "From the morning of the wedding." You look up, meeting his eyes fully. "Jack..it made me feel like I was finally standing inside my own life again. Like I didn't have to keep searching for the missing pieces because the most important one was sitting right in front of me."

A silence settles between you. Jack’s eyes search yours, so heavy with devotion it makes your lungs ache. He swallows hard, his throat working.

"Did you watch the video too?" he asks quietly.

You straighten up in your seat, your eyebrows snapping up. "There's a video?"

…

The moment the front door clicks shut behind you back at the house, the atmosphere feels charged with anticipation you can taste on the back of your tongue.

You follow Jack into the living room, watching from the doorway as he kneels in front of the living room cabinet, the same one that held the wedding album.

He digs deeper this time, shifting old blankets and keepsakes until his hands locate a battered, nondescript shoebox buried at the very bottom. He pulls it into the light, lifting the lid to reveal a plastic jewel case with a DVD inside.

"John shot it on an old camcorder." Jack explains, a nostalgic smile softening his mouth as he slides the disc into the media player. "We told him we just wanted a few highlights, but he took the assignment way too seriously."

"Was he the cameraman the whole night?" you ask, walking over to the sofa.

"Pretty much."

You sit down, but you don't keep your distance this time. You don't take the far cushion. You sink into it and immediately lean your weight into his side, your shoulder pressing flush against his chest, your thigh resting against his. Jack’s arm moves automatically, curving around your shoulders, pulling you into him as the television screen flickers to life.

The footage is grainy and shaky in the beginning. John’s voice narrates from behind the lens, shouting inside jokes over the thumping bass from the reception. You watch as clips of your friends play across the screen. Trinity performing an aggressively unhinged version of the karaoke song you two love to sing together, Robby trying and failing to look dignified while wearing a ridiculous party hat.

And then the camera pans to the head table.

It’s a candid shot. Neither of you knows you're being filmed. You are just sitting there, your hand resting in Jack’s lap, looking up at him with a smile so brilliant it cuts right through you. Jack is looking back down at you, his thumb tracing your cheekbone, his face completely stripped of his usual armor. He looks like a man who has won everything he ever wanted.

Leaning against his chest now, you feel his heart rate skip, his grip on your shoulder tightening just a fraction.

Then the screen cuts to black for a second, transitioning to a completely different setting. The audio quietens, replaced by the muffled, carpeted silence of a hotel room.

The camera is steady now, held at chest height. You can tell immediately that Jack is the one behind the lens. The viewfinder pans across a luxury suite and scattered rose petals, before locking onto you. You’re standing near the edge of a massive bed, still wearing your white wedding dress, the lace slightly rumpled, your hair half undone and falling over your bare shoulders.

"Here's my wife." Jack’s voice echoes from the TV speakers. The intimacy of it all makes the hairs on your arms stand up. "Still in her dress. Wife, where are we going tomorrow?"

On screen, you turn toward the camera, a radiant smile on your face. "Paris!"

Jack lets out a laugh behind the lens. "And what are we doing in Paris?"

You laugh, marching straight toward the camera, and grab the rim of the lens to yank it toward him. "Honeymooning, of course!"

The frame tilts wildly before steadying on Jack's face. He’s looking at you with a gaze so hot it practically scorches the screen, a lazy, besotted smile on his lips as he raises his left hand, flashing his brand new silver wedding band at the lens. You laugh and set the camera down on the nightstand beside the hotel bed.

It keeps rolling, capturing the two of you as you both lean down into the frame. Jack hooks two fingers under your chin, tilting your head back, and gives you a kiss.

On the couch, your breath hitches.

On the screen, the kiss stretches out. You watch yourself lean entirely into him, your chest pressing against his, your lips parting as you literally sigh right into his mouth. 

The innocence of the wedding day evaporates in a split second as things start to get heated. Jack’s large hand wanders down, his palm fiercely gripping the curve of your ass through the heavy silk of your wedding gown, pulling you flush against his hips. Your own hands are buried deep in his hair, pulling him down, your mouths moving together with hunger.

You sit on the living room couch, your mouth opening slightly, your breathing turning shallow and erratic as the sensuality of your own history plays out in front of you. 

How you could you be blamed for the pooling heat deep in your belly in this moment?

Jack clears his throat, the sound loud in the quiet room. He hits the pause button. The screen freezes on a blurred image of his hands tangled in your dress.

"Better stop it there." Jack says, his voice completely wrecked. "Things..don't exactly stay PG after that point."

You snap your head around to look at him. Beneath the light of the living room, he is flushed a burning crimson red from the collar of his shirt up to his ears.

A thrill cuts through your arousal. You gasp, widening your eyes and feigning total, puritanical shock just to cover up the dangerous way your body is currently vibrating for him.

"Jack Abbot!" you breathe out, your voice trembling with a mix of laughter and heat. "Do we have a sex tape together?!"

Jack lets out a helpless bark of laughter, running a hand over his face as if trying to erase the blush. "No!" he groans, his shoulders shaking as he looks at you. "Not exactly. We..we generally remembered to turn the camera off before we got entirely carried away."

Another laugh escapes you, joining his in the quiet room, the shared amusement breaking the tension but doing absolutely nothing to cool the fire burning beneath your skin.

…

After you say your goodnights and retreat to your separate rooms, the silence of the guest room feels like a prison.

You lie under the sheets for twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, but your skin feels too tight, your blood humming.

You throw the blankets off, stepping onto the cold hardwood floor, and begin to pace the small width of the room.

"This is ridiculous." you whisper to the dark walls, your hands pressing over your flushed cheeks.

Your mind keeps flashing back to his hand on your waist at the bar, his palm on your skin in that hotel room, the possessiveness in his voice when he called you his wife.

"He’s my husband." you say out loud, the words landing in the quiet room. "Of course my body feels this way toward him. It’s always known."

The realization hits you like a physical blow, clearing away every single fraction of hesitation, every lingering doubt, every boundary you’ve spent carefully guarding. 

You're done waiting. 

You're done being careful.

You march straight to the guest room door, your hand wrapping around the brass knob, and pull it open with a decided jerk.

But Jack is standing right there in the hallway. His fist is raised in the air, mere inches from the wood, caught in the exact middle of preparing to knock on your door. He looks completely undone, his hair wrecked, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

"I was just.." he starts.

You don't let him finish the sentence. You lunge forward, closing the final inch of distance between you, and bury your mouth against his.

It’s a feverish, bruising kiss. Crushing your lips to his with all the pent up longing, confusion, and overwhelming desire of the last two months. Jack reacts instantly, a groan tearing out of his throat as his rational mind completely short circuits.

He slams his hands around your waist, pulling you off the floor and pinning your back flush against the doorframe, his mouth devouring yours.

When you finally break apart for air, your foreheads resting together, your chests heaving against one another, you wrap your arms tight around his neck. You look straight into his wild eyes.

"Take me to our room, Jack." you breathe against his lips. "Please."

Jack doesn't hesitate for a single second. He hooks his arms under your thighs, lifting you clean off your feet. You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face into the warm crook of his neck, your fingers gripping his shoulders as he carries you down the dark hallway, straight toward the master bedroom, straight toward the bed you were always meant to share.

...

Jack doesn't put you down immediately. He presses you flush against the wood of the closed bedroom door, his upper body pinning you there as his mouth finds yours again.

It’s a bruising reintroduction, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth that tells you exactly how much he’s been holding back. 

When he finally lets you slide down his body, your feet hit the floorboards, but your knees are so weak you instantly sway into him. He catches you by the waist, his grip firm.

Jack reaches down and unclasps his prosthetic, setting the shaft quietly against the nightstand. There is no hesitation in him, no awkwardness. This is a man who knows exactly what he wants. He shifts his weight seamlessly onto his other leg and then hovers over you as you both tumble onto the mattress of your shared bed.

"You're so beautiful." Jack says, his voice completely ruined as his eyes track the way you spread out beneath him. 

"Jack," you breathe, your fingers digging into his broad shoulders, pulling his weight down onto you. "Don't make me wait."

He breathes against your neck, his lips tracing a burning path down your throat, biting gently at the sensitive spot where your shoulder meets your neck. His calloused hands glide down your sides, pulling the fabric of your clothes off and out of the way until you are entirely bare beneath him.

He shifts his weight on the mattress, using his arms to balance himself as he slides down your body. His hands spread your thighs wide, lifting your knees over his shoulders to give himself perfect access. When his eyes meet yours from between your legs, the passion in them makes your stomach drop in a delicious flip.

Then, his mouth finds you.

You let out a gasp, your fingers clutching violently at the bedsheets as his tongue makes direct, soaking contact with your heat. He isn't being gentle. He knows exactly how you like it, his tongue doing deep strokes that immediately make your hips rock off the mattress. He uses his thumb to find your clit, applying steady pressure that syncs perfectly with the wet, sliding friction of his mouth.

The sensation is overwhelming. Something pooling rapidly in your lower belly. You can't breathe, your head tossing back against the pillows as he suctions you into his mouth, his tongue working frantically until your breath catches in a breathless sob.

"Jack, I'm..I'm going to.."

He doesn't slow down. He deepens the pressure, his fingers sliding inside you to stretch you open while his mouth devours you. Your entire body goes rigid. A blinding wave of pleasure crashing through your veins as you come against his mouth, your walls pulsing around his fingers.

Jack stays right there, drinking in every single drop of you, his tongue lingering until your trembling thighs finally begin to relax. He slides back up your body, his chest slick with sweat and a thoroughly satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he looks down at your undone expression.

Needing to touch him, to taste him the same way, you try to shift beneath him, your hands tracing the sharp line of his hip down toward his boxers. "My turn." you whisper, your voice completely wrecked as you start to slide down toward the edge of the bed. 

Jack’s hand snaps around your wrist, his grip firm but gentle as he stops your movement, pulling you back up the mattress until you're staring right into his eyes. 

"No." he rasps, his face slightly flushed. "If you do that right now, I am going to come in five seconds flat. I'm not kidding."

A small laugh escapes your lips "Five seconds, Abbot? Where’s that legendary stamina?"

Jack laughs and leans down to press his forehead against yours, his eyes locked onto your mouth. "It goes out the window when it comes to you. I've been waiting two months to touch you like this. Every single night, waking up in an empty bed. I want to be inside you. I want to come in you like I always do."

The sheer sincerity in his voice, the unvarnished love behind the admission, makes your heart swell. "Okay." you whisper, your fingers wrapping around his neck, pulling his mouth down to yours.

He moves over you, his arms framing your head, his knee anchoring his weight on the mattress. Before he slides inside, his mouth drops to your chest, capturing one of your nipples between his lips. He sucks deeply, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peaks until you’re writhing beneath him, your hands burying deep into his hair, pulling him flush against you.

He guides himself to your opening, the slick head of his length pressing against your soaking entrance. He pauses for one agonizing second, his eyes locking onto yours, making sure you are entirely with him.

Then, with one deep, devastating push, Jack slides completely inside you.

A loud moan tears out of your throat that you otherwise would have found embarrassing if it didn’t feel so fucking good. Your eyes widened as your body stretched around the thick fullness of him. 

It feels like home. It feels like a perfect remembering. 

Jack lets out a trembling exhale against your ear, his entire body shuddering as he buries himself into your heat until your hips are pinned against the mattress.

"You feel so good, sweetheart." he groans, his hips immediately establishing a slow rhythm. 

He grips your hips with his large hands, lifting your pelvis slightly to find the perfect angle, plunging deep and bottoming out with every single stroke. 

You wrap your legs tightly around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back to anchor him, pulling him deeper into you. Every time his hips slam into yours, you cannot help but gasp at the feeling of it. The friction building again that same delicious tightening in your belly. 

Jack leans down, his mouth catching yours in a wet, filthy kiss as his pace quickens. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, running over it in fast, heavy circles right as his length drives inside you.

"Jack!" you cry out.

"I've got you." he pants against your mouth, his pace turning frantic. "Come for me, baby."

The crushing friction of your release is the final straw for Jack’s discipline. His length pulsed over and over as he filled you completely.

For a long time, the only sound in the room was of your breathing. Jack stays buried inside you for a moment before carefully pulling out and laying by your side. 

You blink up at the ceiling, dazed.  Your voice a whisper in the quiet. "Did it always feel like that?"

"Yes." Jack says. "Every single time."

...

The rest of the weekend dissolves into a blur of tangled sheets, breathless laughter, and the quiet realization that the space between you has completely vanished. There is no more careful. 

Your body remembers him, and his body has been starving for you.

He makes you breakfast in the morning, standing at the stove in nothing but a pair of sweatpants, his broad shoulders catching the morning light. You don't even let him plate the eggs. You slide down his front, dropping to your knees right there on the cold kitchen tile, and take him into your mouth until his hands lock into your hair, his breath tearing out of him in ruined gasps as he braces himself against the counter.

And then of course, you try to walk past his home office on your way from the shower, entirely bare and dripping wet. You only make it three steps past the doorway before his hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back into the room. He sweeps a stack of papers off his desk and bends you over the wood, and drives himself into you from behind, his hands tightly gripping your hips as you scream his name.

It is, simply put, amazing.

By Monday morning, you haven't shared a single detail with anyone. You haven't mentioned that the guest room is empty, or that things are nearly back to normal. You keep your guard up, letting the secret live just between the two of you, until the monthly emergency department meeting forces everyone into the same room.

The hospital conference room is packed. You're sitting near the back, wedged tightly between John and Trinity, both of them adjusting their clipboards and complaining about the shift schedules.

John leans back in his chair, clicking his pen against his knee, and looks over at you with a perceptive squint. "So," he murmurs, dropping his voice below the noise of the room. "How are things going at home? You look less stressed."

Before you can even open your mouth to formulate a polite, non committal response, the heavy door at the front of the conference room swings open.

Jack walks in. His eyes scan the crowded rows of chairs, cutting through the sea of scrubs, until they lock directly onto you.

He marches straight down the aisle. In his hand, he’s holding a paper cup with what you know is the premium herbal tea you like, brewed the way you like it.

The entire row goes completely silent as he stops right in front of your chair. He doesn't say a word. He just bends down, sets the hot cup onto the folding desk in front of you, and then he keeps moving downward.

His hand cups the back of your neck, his thumb sliding behind your ear, and he presses his lips to yours.

It isn't a polite, professional cheek peck. It is a real kiss. He parts your lips with his, kissing you. It is probably a little too intense for a workplace environment, and definitely too long for a room full of your coworkers, but his mouth moves over yours anyways.

When he finally pulls back, a smirk plays on his lips. "Don't let it get cold." he whispers softly.

You sit there, your heart hammering against your ribs, a delicious heat blooming in your face.

To your left, John and Trinity are frozen. Both of them are sitting dead still in their chairs, their mouths agape as they stare at you, then at Jack, and then back at you.

Trinity is the first to recover, a massive grin spreading across her face. "Well, I think I know exactly how it’s going."

An unbothered smile breaks across your face. You don't say a single word to confirm it. Instead, you just lift the warm cup to your lips and take a sip of your tea.

...

Six Months Later

The morning of the vow renewal is chaotic, but you just simply cannot stop smiling.

You’re upstairs in the bedroom struggling with the zipper of a simple, backless white sundress. The lace keeps catching on the track, and you let out frustrated sigh, twisting your arms at an impossible angle.

Jack steps into the room, already wearing his crisp suit trousers and a white button down, though his tie is still draped loosely around his neck. He stops in the doorway, his eyes sweeping over the exposed skin of your back.

"Need some help?" he asks.

"This zipper is my enemy." you mutter, turning your head to look at him. "And aren't there traditional rules about the groom seeing the bride before the ceremony?"

"We’ve been legally married for five years, baby." Jack smirks, closing the gap between you in two long strides. "I think the statute of limitations on the rules has run out."

He steps up right behind you, his chest pressing flush against your bare back, sending an immediate shock straight up your spine. His hands don't go to the zipper first. Instead, his palms slide firmly around the curves of your waist, his fingers digging into your skin, pulling you against him. He leans down, his mouth brushing your shoulder.

"Jack," you breathe, your hands instantly reaching back to grip his forearms. "The guests will be here in twenty minutes."

"They can wait." he groans against your skin, his thumb brushing across your hip. He finally reaches for the zipper, his knuckles brushing down your spine as he slowly guides the track up, closing the dress but doing absolutely nothing to release you from his grip. He spins you around in his arms so you're facing him, his hands resting on your hips. "You look incredible. It’s taking an immense amount of self control not to tear this dress right back off you."

You laugh and reach up to tighten the knot of his tie, leaning in to catch his lips in a quick, teasing peck. "Save it for later."

…

The ceremony itself is small and perfect. 

Your guests are gathered under the oak trees in the backyard, the afternoon sun filtering through the leaves. John is holding a digital camera like a proud mom. Trinity and Dennis are openly tearing up before a single word is even spoken.

Jack stands across from you on the grass, holding both of your hands in his. 

When it’s his turn to speak, he doesn't read from a script. He just squeezes your fingers, his voice steady. "Five years ago, I stood at an altar and promised you my forever." Jack says, his eyes searching yours. "When you woke up, I realized I would gladly spend the rest of my life earning that forever all over again. Because the woman standing in front of me right now is the only future I want. Whatever comes back, and whatever doesn't, I am yours, completely.”

You feel beautifully alive.

"I don't remember the first time I said these words to you." you say, your voice trembling but clear as you look right back into him. "But I know my body never forgot the shape of you I choose you today, tomorrow, and every single day after that."

Jack closes the gap and pulls you into his chest, his arms wrapping around your waist, as he kisses you. 

Husband and wife.

…

Later, after the champagne has been toasted and the backyard has quieted down, you’re standing in the kitchen, packing up the leftover cake. The house is warm, filled with the love of a perfect evening.

Jack walks in behind you, having shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He doesn't say a word. He just slides his arms around your waist from behind, pulling you back until your hips are locked against his. His chin rests gently on the crown of your head.

You lean back into his warmth, your hands resting over his on your stomach.

"So, husband," you murmur, turning your head slightly to glance up at him. “What are our next plans?” 

Jack laughs against your hair, his grip tightening just a fraction as he pulls a white envelope from his back pocket and slides it onto the counter in front of you.

You blink, loosening your grip to pick it up. You slide the paper out, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s a flight itinerary. First class.

"Paris?" you whisper. You flash back to the grainy camcorder footage, to the younger version of you excitedly shouting the destination to the lens. "Another honeymoon?" You say, unable to hide your excitement.

"Our flight leaves on Thursday. I told the department we're going to be unreachable for two weeks." Jack says softly, kissing you behind your ear. 

You turn around in his arms. "Paris," you repeat, a flirtatious smile breaking across your face. "I hope you're ready.  Because I don't plan on letting you leave the hotel room for the first three days."

Jack lifts you clean off the kitchen tile, pinning you against the edge of the counter. "Promise?" he rasps, his mouth hovering inches from yours. 

...

The boutique hotel room is small. All dark velvet, creaking hardwood floors, and a pair of tall French doors that open up to a wrought iron balcony overlooking the rain slicked streets. The moment Jack shuts the door behind you, dropping the luggage onto the floor, the city outside completely ceases to exist.

You don't even let him take off his coat.

You turn on your heel, backing him straight up against the wall next to the door frame. His arms instantly lace around your waist to drag your hips flush against his.

"I thought we were going to at least try to look at the Eiffel Tower first." he pants against your mouth, his thumbs digging into your skin through your sweater.

"The tower isn't going anywhere." you whisper. "And I distinctly remember making a promise in the kitchen."

Without a word, Jack hooks his hands beneath your thighs and lifts you clean off the floor. You lock your legs tightly around his waist, burying your face in the warm crook of his neck as he navigates the small room, his unbothered stride carrying you both until you crash back onto the massive bed.

The clothes are discarded in a tangled heap on the floorboards until there is nothing left between you but the warmth of the room.

You reach up, lacing your fingers through his hair to pull his face down to yours. "Don't be gentle, Jack. I don't need you to be careful with me anymore."

A sound rips out of his throat, and the final shred of his self control completely disintegrates.

He guides his length to your opening, the hot head of his shaft dragging through your own slick release. He pauses for one second, his forehead resting against yours, his breathing shallow.

"Look at me." he commands softly.

You force your eyelids open, locking your gaze directly into his.

With one slow, deep, devastating thrust, Jack slides completely inside you, bottoming out against your core.

"I've got you." he pants, his mouth catching yours. "I've always had you."

…

After, you’re sitting out on the small stone balcony, wrapped in Jack’s coat, a hot mug of coffee cradled between your palms. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets below shimmering like gold under the glow of the streetlamps.

Jack steps out onto the balcony, wearing nothing but a pair of dark sweatpants, his bare shoulders gleaming in the moonlight. He moves up behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist.

You stay like that for a long time, just listening to the distant hum of Paris. 

You tilt your head back, looking up at him, a smile breaking across your face. You don’t need to look at the streets below to know where you are. You don’t need a map or a recovered memory. You just pull his hands tighter around you. And let yourself finally rest in the only place that has ever truly felt like home, with him. 

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[afterdarkbydel]

Source Material

Jack Abbot x Wife!Reader One-Shot

Summary: Jack knows you read smut. What he does not know is that the red tabs in your books are not innocent little quotes or favorite scenes. They are ideas. A whole organized, color-coded archive of things you wanted to feel, things you wanted to do to him, and things you wanted to explore together. When he finds one of those red tabs and realizes a certain throne scene has already made its way into your marriage, Jack has questions. Several, actually. Should he be jealous? Grateful? Offended? You are more than happy to explain.

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, established marriage, sexual themes, spicy book discussion, implied smut, post-sex scene, praise kink references, light restraint references, orgasm control references, semi-public hookup references, body worship, begging/asking clearly, lots of sexual tension, married flirting, Jack being fifty and deeply personally victimized by fictional men with shadows and jawlines, prosthetic mention, emotional intimacy, trust, mutual pleasure, reader owns her sexuality, soft/domestic married sexiness.

Author's Note: This fic is for every woman who has ever been made to feel embarrassed about reading romance or smut. There is no shame here. None. Sometimes books give us language for desire. Sometimes they make wanting feel normal. Sometimes they make asking feel less terrifying. And sometimes your very hot husband finds the red tabs and realizes he has been unknowingly participating in literary adaptation. This one is funny, sexy, soft, and deeply married. It is about trust as much as it is about heat. It is about owning what you want, asking for it clearly, giving pleasure, receiving pleasure, and being with someone who makes desire feel safe. Also, Jack Abbot versus a twenty-two-year-old shadow man? I had to.

Xoxo, Del

MDNI 18+

Jack had been married to you long enough to know the difference between reading and reading.

This was the second kind.

He knew because your breathing changed.

Not much. Anyone else would have missed it. But Jack had spent years learning the language of you in quiet rooms: the small catch before you tried to pretend you were unaffected, the way your shoulders softened into the pillow, the tiny sigh you let out when a scene got good enough to make you forget you were not alone.

He knew you read smut.

That was not new information.

You had never hidden it from him, and Jack had never been the kind of man who got delicate about his wife reading dirty books. He had seen the covers. He had seen the dramatic titles. He had watched you tuck paperbacks into beach bags and nightstand drawers and the side pocket of your work tote like they were perfectly normal household items.

What he had not known, until tonight, was the level of commitment.

You were curled against the pillows on his side of the bed, which you always claimed was accidental, and he always let you believe he bought. One knee was tucked beneath the blanket. Your hair was piled messily on top of your head. One of his old PTMC shirts had slipped off your shoulder, soft from years of washing, the hem riding high on one bare thigh beneath the quilt.

The book in your hands was angled just slightly away from him.

Not enough to be obvious.

Enough to be suspicious.

Jack sat beside you, shirtless, reading glasses low on his nose, gray sweatpants loose at his hips. His prosthetic rested neatly beside the bed, exactly where he could reach it in the morning. He had an article about hospital staffing shortages open on his phone and one hand wrapped around your ankle beneath the blanket, his thumb moving absently over your skin.

You turned a page.

Then, after less than ten seconds, you turned it back.

Jack’s thumb paused.

You bit your lip.

Jack’s eyes shifted from his phone to your face.

You did not notice.

Or you pretended not to, which was almost the same thing and significantly more interesting.

The room was quiet except for the low hum of the heater and the faint patter of rain against the window. The lamp on your nightstand threw warm light across the bed, catching on the glossy cover of your paperback and the little forest of colored tabs sticking out from the edges.

Jack had seen the tabs before.

He had never asked about them because he assumed he knew.

You were a woman with color-coded calendar reminders. Of course, you tabbed books.

He thought he knew your system. Yellow for quotes. Blue for sad parts. Green for whatever fictional man had finally learned emotional accountability. Red for important.

He was about to find out that he was right.

Just not in the way he thought.

You turned the page again. Then you sighed. Softly. Barely. But enough.

Jack lowered his phone to his chest. “Good part?”

Your eyes stayed on the page. “Maybe.”

Jack watched your mouth soften around another tiny, betraying breath.

His thumb stilled against your ankle. “That was a yes.”

You turned the page with great dignity. “You don’t know that.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I know exactly that.”

You glanced at him then, eyes bright in a way he knew entirely too well. “Do you?”

Jack set his phone face down on the nightstand. “I know when you’re reading the good stuff.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “The good stuff?”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Your breathing changes.”

Your face did not go red. Your eyes did not dart away. Instead, your mouth curved like you were deciding whether to reward him for paying attention.

“You monitor my breathing while I read?” you asked.

Jack’s fingers resumed their slow movement over your ankle. “I notice things.”

You looked back down at your book. “That sounds like something a nosy man would say.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “An observant man.”

You turned another page. “A nosy, observant man.”

Jack let his eyes drop to the paperback. “What are you reading?”

You did not hesitate. “Smut.”

Jack blinked once. Then he laughed under his breath. “Just like that?”

You kept your attention on the page. “You asked.”

Jack’s hand tightened slightly around your ankle beneath the blanket. “I did.”

You smiled at the book. “And I answered.”

Jack’s gaze moved over the cover. “Is this the shadow one?”

You finally looked offended. “That is not the title.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “But there are shadows.”

You tilted the book away from him. “Sometimes.”

Jack glanced at the dramatic cover. “And a twenty-two-year-old with emotional damage and a jawline?”

Your lips pressed together, fighting a smile. “Possibly.”

Jack’s gaze lingered on the red tabs along the side. “You have a system.”

You gave him a look. “Obviously.”

Jack nodded toward the book. “Should I be concerned?”

You turned another page with deliberate calm. “Depends on how flexible you are.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes lifted to your face.

You did not look at him. You did, however, smile.

Jack’s voice lowered. “That so?”

You closed the book around one finger and shifted, stretching your leg beneath his hand. “I’m making tea.”

Jack watched you slide out of bed. “Convenient timing.”

You reached for the mug on your nightstand and found it cold. “My tea is cold.”

Jack’s gaze followed the hem of his shirt as it shifted over your thighs. “Tragic.”

You pointed the mug at him. “Don’t start.”

Jack lifted both hands, innocent except for his face. “I didn’t say anything.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You said it with your eyes.”

Jack leaned back against the headboard. “My eyes are honest.”

You stepped toward the door. “Your eyes are a menace.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the paperback the second your back was turned.

You stopped in the doorway and looked back at him. “Leave my book alone.”

Jack raised his brows. “I’m offended you feel the need to say that.”

You shifted the mug to your other hand. “You look curious.”

Jack picked up his phone again, but his eyes stayed on the book. “I am curious.”

You pointed toward the paperback. “That’s exactly why I’m saying it.”

Jack looked up with the mild patience of a man who had absolutely already made his decision. “Make your tea.”

You studied him for one more second. Then you disappeared into the hallway.

Jack waited.

He gave it a full ten seconds, which felt generous under the circumstances.

The kettle clicked on in the kitchen.

Jack looked at the book.

The book looked back, if a book could look guilty.

He reached for it.

Not because he was snooping.

Snooping implied shame.

Jack had been an attending for too many years to ignore a pattern once he saw one.

This was clinical curiosity.

Marital clinical curiosity.

He turned the paperback over carefully, keeping one finger tucked between the pages where you had left off. The cover featured a man who looked deeply underemployed for someone with that much confidence, surrounded by dramatic shadows and what Jack assumed was mist.

Jack glanced toward the hallway.

The kettle hummed.

He opened the book where your finger had been.

He read one line. Then another. His eyebrows lifted.

Jack muttered, “Christ.”

You had not been kidding about the smut.

He read another few lines, mouth twitching despite himself. Then his eyes caught the red tab closest to his thumb.

Red.

Bright. Neat. Placed with intention.

Jack slid his thumb under the red tab and flipped to it.

At first, he smiled.

Then he stopped smiling.

His eyes moved over the page once.

Then again, slower.

A throne.

A woman was placed on it, as if the entire point of the room was her pleasure.

A man on his knees in front of her, all control and devotion, looking up like there was nowhere else he would rather be.

Not just heat. Not just sex. Worship.

Jack’s gaze lifted from the book to the dark hallway.

At the end of that hallway sat his home office.

His chair.

His very practical, ergonomic black office chair.

The one with lumbar support.

The one with the locked wheels.

The one you had walked toward three weeks ago, wearing his shirt and a look he still thought about when he was supposed to be doing discharge summaries.

Jack looked back down at the page. His mouth parted slightly.

Jack said softly, “Well.”

The kettle clicked off. Jack did not move. His thumb slid to the next red tab.

He should have stopped there.

He did not.

The next page was a different scene. Different chapter. Different kind of heat.

Jack read two lines. Then three. His eyes narrowed.

He turned to the next red tab. Another scene. Another category altogether.

His gaze flicked from the page to your nightstand, where two more paperbacks sat stacked beneath a half-empty water glass. Both were tabbed. Both had red markers sticking neatly from their edges.

Jack stared at them. Then back to the book in his hand. His mouth curved, but it was slower this time. Not amused exactly. Impressed. Concerned. Deeply, deeply interested.

Jack murmured, “Fuck.”

You returned a minute later with two mugs of tea, steam curling upward in soft white ribbons.

You stopped in the bedroom doorway.

Jack was sitting against the headboard, shirtless and far too calm, with your book open in his hands.

Not casually.

Not idly.

Like the paperback had just told him something about his own marriage.

Your eyes dropped to the red tab beneath his thumb. Then, to the two books on your nightstand. Then back to his face. You did not blush. You did not gasp. You did not lunge for the book.

You just lifted your eyebrows. “Ah.”

Jack looked up slowly. “Red tabs.”

You walked toward the bed, completely calm. “Yes.”

Jack glanced down at the page. “Not quotes.”

You set his mug on the nightstand beside him. “Some of them are quotes.”

Jack tapped the page once. “Not this one.”

You set your own mug down and climbed back onto the bed. “No. Not that one.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.

You tucked your legs beneath you and met his gaze without apology.

That was the first thing that got him.

Not the book. Not the tab. Not even the very vivid memory that was currently rearranging itself in his head.

It was you sitting there in his old shirt, warm from bed, bare-faced and calm, looking at him like yes, he had found the thing, and no, you were not going to perform shame for him.

Jack looked back at the book. Then toward the hallway again. Then back at you.

Jack’s voice was even. “My chair.”

You took a sip of tea. “You made it feel like a throne.”

Jack looked at you over the top of the paperback.

The teasing in his face shifted into something quieter. 

“That’s what you wanted?”

You set the mug down. “That’s what you gave me.”

Jack glanced back down at the page. “He had actual stone architecture.”

You smiled. “You had lumbar support.”

His mouth twitched. “Romantic.”

“Practical.” Your smile widened by a fraction.

He pointed at the page with one finger. “This.”

You set your mug down on your nightstand. “Inspired by this.”

Jack repeated the word slowly. “Inspired.”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Jack closed the book around one finger, keeping the red-tabbed page marked. “You walked into my office.”

You leaned back against the pillows. “I did.”

Jack’s gaze flicked to the shirt slipping off your shoulder. “You were wearing my shirt.”

You looked down at yourself. “I do that a lot.”

Jack’s eyes moved over you in a way that made the room feel warmer. “I’m aware.”

You smiled. “You like it.”

Jack held your eyes. “I’m aware of that too.”

The air shifted. Only slightly. Enough.

Jack glanced down at the page again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

“He’s twenty-two?”

You picked up your tea again. “Fictional.”

Jack looked back at you, expression calm but deeply unconvinced. “Honey, you know I’m fifty, right? We’re clear on that?”

You lowered the mug. “Very clear.”

Jack’s gaze flicked toward the prosthetic beside the bed. “My leg is off.”

You followed his glance, then looked back at him. “I noticed.”

He lifted the book slightly. “This man has shadows.”

Your mouth curved. “You have other qualities.”

Jack paused. “That was vague.”

You smiled. “It was not meant to be.”

Jack lifted the book slightly, glancing between you and the page. “Do I need to be worried here?”

You blinked. “Worried?”

Jack looked back down at the paragraph, then toward the office. “I’m trying to decide if I should be jealous, grateful, or offended.”

You set your mug down, amused now. “Those are your options?”

Jack’s gaze lifted to yours. “I’m open to guidance.”

You shifted closer beneath the blanket. “Grateful.”

His mouth twitched. “That was quick.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and rested your hand against the center of his bare chest. “You don’t need to be jealous.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your hand, then lifted back to your face. “No?”

You shook your head. “He gave me the idea.”

His hand stilled on the book.

You smiled. “You were the one I wanted.”

Jack went quiet. Then his mouth curved faintly. “That helps.”

You let your thumb move once over his skin. “Good.”

Jack glanced down at the page again. “Still don’t like that he’s twenty-two.”

You laughed softly. “Noted.”

His gaze shifted toward the office again. “And the idea was my chair.”

You shook your head. “The idea was worship. The chair was just available.”

Jack’s teasing expression did not vanish, exactly, but something under it shifted.

You felt it in the way his hand stilled on the paperback.

In the way his eyes came back to yours.

In the way the room seemed to quiet around the rain and the warm lamp and the books scattered near your nightstand.

You kept your hand on his chest. “The books aren’t replacing you, Jack.”

His mouth softened, but his eyes stayed sharp. “I didn’t say they were.”

“No,” you said. “But you’re wondering where you fit.”

Jack went still.

You held his gaze. “The books give me ideas. That’s true. Sometimes they make me think about something I want to feel. Sometimes they make me curious about something I want to ask for.”

His hand settled at your waist, warm over the old cotton of his shirt.

You smiled, but it came out softer than teasing. “But sometimes they make me think about you.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your waist.

“About what I want to do to you,” you said. “About what you like. About how you look when you stop trying to be composed for five minutes.”

His jaw shifted.

“That’s part of it too.”

Jack did not blink.

“It’s not just about me getting what I want,” you said. “I mean, yes, obviously, I like that part.”

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“But I like wanting you too.” You let your palm rest flat over his heart. “I like making you feel good. I like being brave enough to take the initiative. I like being confident enough to say, I want this, or I want to try that, or I want to see what happens if I ask you for something new.”

His thumb moved once at your waist.

You looked down at the red-tabbed book, then back at him. “The books make wanting feel normal. They make asking feel less embarrassing. They make desire feel like something I’m allowed to have and something I’m allowed to give.”

Jack’s teasing had gone completely still now.

You kept your hand on his chest. “But the best part isn’t the book.”

His voice came out lower. “No?”

You shook your head. “No. The best part is exploring it with you.”

Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.

“Because I trust you,” you said.

His hand stilled at your waist.

You felt the change in him, the way those words landed somewhere deeper than the joke.

“I’ve never had that before,” you said. “Not like this. Not with someone I could ask clearly. Not with someone who would listen and check in and still make me feel wanted instead of foolish.”

Jack’s eyes lowered for half a second.

Then they came back to yours.

“You make it safe to want things,” you said. “And you make it safe to want you.”

Jack was silent for a long moment.

Then he closed the book carefully and set it on the nightstand.

“It’s the trust,” he said.

Your breath caught. “What?”

His hand slid from your waist to your hip, grounding but gentle. “That’s what gets me.”

Your throat tightened.

Jack’s eyes held yours. “The books are hot. The ideas are…” His mouth curved faintly. “Often athletically unreasonable.”

You laughed under your breath.

His expression softened again. “But the trust is what gets me.”

You looked at him, suddenly less sure how to breathe.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your hip. “You can always ask me. For what you want. For what you want to try. For what you want to give.” His voice dropped. “All of it.”

Your smile turned a little unsteady. “Even if it comes from a twenty-two-year-old with shadows and a jawline?”

Jack looked toward the book.

His face went dry again. “I’m choosing gratitude.”

You laughed.

He glanced at the stack of books on your nightstand. “Under protest.”

Jack’s gaze shifted back to the nightstand. To the books. To the tabs. The red tabs. There were a lot of them.

His eyes returned to yours. “How many?”

You blinked. “How many what?”

Jack lifted the book. “Marked pages that became my problem.”

You laughed softly. “Your problem?”

Jack’s voice went dry. “My privilege.”

You smiled.

He held the book between you like evidence and invitation. “How many?”

You took the paperback from him, your fingers brushing his.

Jack let you have it, but his hand settled back at your hip the second the book left his grip.

You looked down at the red tabs, then at the two other books stacked on your nightstand, then back up at him.

“You really want to know?” you asked.

Jack’s gaze moved over your face, then to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Yes.”

You shifted closer under the blanket and opened the book to the first red tab.

Jack’s hand stayed on your hip. His thumb moved once.

You tapped the page. “Start there.”

Jack glanced down at the red tab.

Then back at you.

His mouth curved faintly. “The chair.”

You nodded. “The throne.”

Jack’s hand stayed at your hip beneath the blanket, his thumb moving once over the soft cotton of his shirt.

He looked too calm. Too interested. Too Jack.

You rested the book open in your lap. “That’s the latest one.”

Jack’s brows lifted. “Latest.”

You gave him a look. “You asked how many.”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to the page again. “I’m beginning to understand that was a loaded question.”

Your mouth curved. “Very loaded.”

Jack’s thumb paused at your hip. “We covered the chair.”

“We covered the chair,” you agreed.

His gaze came back to yours. “What we didn’t cover is what you were asking for.”

The teasing in the room softened. Not disappeared. Never disappeared entirely, not with him. But it shifted into something quieter. You looked down at the page, at the red tab marking the scene that had made you sit very still with your pulse too loud and your whole body full of want you had not known how to explain until the book gave you the shape of it.

“It wasn’t really about furniture,” you said.

Jack’s expression barely changed, but his hand stilled at your hip. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about worship.”

Jack went quiet. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else would have noticed.

But you noticed. His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and suddenly very still.

“That was what I wanted to try,” you said. “Being wanted like that. Being the whole focus.”

Jack did not interrupt.

You let your fingertips rest on the red tab. “The book made me brave enough to ask for it.”

The office had been lit by one desk lamp and the pale blue glow of Jack’s computer. His shoulders had been tense from a long shift, his reading glasses low on his nose as he scrolled through an email he had already complained about twice. You had stood in the doorway wearing his shirt, the marked page still open on your nightstand and your pulse beating too hard in your throat. Jack had looked up. His attention had changed immediately. Not loud. Not obvious. Just total. Like whatever had been on that screen stopped existing the second you stepped into the room. Jack had taken in the shirt first. Then your bare legs. Then your face.

His voice had gone lower. “What?”

You had held onto the doorframe for one breath longer than necessary. Then, because the book had made you brave and because Jack had always made bravery feel safe, you had said it.

“I want to try something.”

Jack had gone still. Not tense. Present. He had closed the laptop slowly. “Tell me.”

Your face had warmed, but you had kept going.

“I want…” You had glanced at his chair, then back at him. “I want you to put me there.”

Jack’s eyes had flicked to the chair. Then back to you. “In my chair?”

You had nodded. “And I want it to be about me.”

Something in his face had changed. Softened first. Then sharpened.

You had rushed on before you could lose your nerve. “Not just sex,” you had said. “I mean…”

Jack had waited. He was so good at waiting.

You had swallowed and made yourself say it clearly. “I want to feel wanted. Like, really wanted. Like you can’t look anywhere else.”

Jack had taken one slow breath.

Then he had reached up, removed his glasses, and set them carefully beside the keyboard.

“Close the door.”

You had.

By the time you turned back, Jack was already standing. He had crossed the room slowly, giving you every chance to smile it off, to change your mind, to say never mind. You hadn’t. He had stopped in front of you, his hands warm and careful at your waist.

“Here?” he had asked.

You had nodded. Jack had guided you backward until the chair touched the backs of your knees, then he had helped you sit, as if he were placing you somewhere you belonged.

Not rushed. Not careless. Not like the chair was furniture. Like it was an altar.

Your breath had caught. Jack had seen that too. His thumb had brushed once over your waist.

“You want my full attention?” he had asked.

You had nodded, throat tight.

His mouth had curved, but his eyes had been serious. “You have it.”

And then he had lowered himself in front of you with a steadiness that made your whole body go quiet. 

The book had given you the image. The chair. The devotion. The idea of being worshipped.

But Jack had given you the rest. His hands. His voice. The warmth of his mouth against your knee before anything else. The way he looked up at you like he loved you so much it had nowhere to go except into touch.

“Look at me,” he had murmured.

You had tried. God, you had tried.

Jack’s hand had slid over your thigh, grounding and reverent.

“That’s it,” he had said, voice rough in a way that made your chest ache. “Let me take care of you.”

And you had realized, somewhere between the patience in his hands and the heat in his eyes, that what you had wanted from the book was not the throne.

It was this. Being wanted like you mattered. Being touched like love could become physical if someone was careful enough with it. Being looked at by your husband like pleasure was not something you owed him, but something he was honored to give.

Back in bed, Jack’s hand had gone still at your waist. You looked up from the page. His eyes were on you. Not the book. You.

Jack’s voice was quiet. “That’s what this was?”

You nodded. “That was the idea.”

His thumb moved once. “The worship.”

You held his gaze. “The book gave me the image. You gave me the feeling.”

For a second, he did not say anything. Then Jack’s hand tightened at your waist. Just once. Enough.

“Okay,” he said.

You smiled a little. “Okay?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “That one matters.”

Your chest softened.

You closed the book carefully around your finger. “It does.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to the red tab. “But it’s the latest.”

You nodded. “Not the first.”

His eyes moved toward the stack on your nightstand. “There’s a first.”

You slid out of bed, the hem of his shirt shifting over your thighs. “There’s a whole timeline.”

Jack sat up straighter against the headboard. “Of course there is.”

You crossed toward the bookshelf. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it correctly.”

His brows lifted. “There’s a correct way?”

You pulled one paperback from the lower shelf and tucked it under your arm. “Chronological order.”

Jack dragged one hand over his mouth. “Fuck.”

You pulled another paperback from the shelf above it. “You asked.”

Jack watched the second book join the first under your arm. “That is a different book.”

You glanced back at him. “Yes.”

His eyes narrowed. “Completely different book.”

You smiled. “Yes.”

You crouched beside the bed and reached underneath it.

Jack leaned forward, staring at you. “Why are you looking under the bed?”

You emerged with another paperback and held it up. “Strategic storage.”

Jack stared at the red tab sticking from the pages. “There is smut under our bed.”

You stood with the book in hand. “There are sneakers under our bed too, but you don’t sound this scandalized about those.”

Jack pointed at the paperback. “Those sneakers have not been giving my wife ideas.”

You looked down at the book, then back at him. “No, they have not.”

You scooped one more paperback from the nightstand.

Jack’s gaze followed it. “That one too?”

You added it to the stack. “That one too.”

His gaze shifted to your work tote slumped beside the dresser.

You followed his eyes and smiled.

Jack sat forward. “No.”

You walked to the tote and pulled a paperback from the side pocket. “I bring books to work.”

Jack stared at you. Then, at the red tab sticking neatly from the pages. “That one has a red tab.”

You tucked it into the stack. “It does.”

His eyes narrowed. “And it was in your work tote.”

You smiled. “It was.”

Jack dragged a hand over his mouth. “I’m not drawing conclusions yet, but I hate that I have options.”

You crossed back to the bed with the growing stack. “Very wise.”

Jack watched you climb onto the bed and settle beside him with the books gathered against your chest.

The pile landed on the comforter between you, soft covers and bent corners, and color-coded tabs scattered across the bed like evidence.

Jack looked at them. Then at you. “My wife has a library.”

You arranged the books in a line across the quilt. “I have range.”

Jack stared at the stack. Then back at you. “That,” he said, “is somehow worse.”

You laughed and touched the first book in the row. “This is the first one.”

Jack looked down at it. “The beginning.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Pool house.”

His expression changed immediately. His mouth stayed relaxed, but his eyes sharpened.

Jack’s voice went lower. “When you wanted your hands over your head.”

Heat moved up your neck. You did not look away. You held the book open on your lap. “Yes.”

Jack’s thumb went still at your waist. “That was a book?”

You glanced down at the page. “There was a scene where she asked him to hold her still.”

Jack’s gaze held yours. “And you wanted that?”

You nodded. “I wanted to know what it felt like to ask for it.”

The pool house had smelled like chlorine and warm tile. Jack had followed you in from the patio, hair wet, towel slung around his hips, amusement already tucked into the corner of his mouth because he had seen you watching him come out of the water. You had been reading on the lounge chair all afternoon with the red-tabbed book tucked into your beach bag, pretending the scene you’d reread twice had not done permanent damage to your ability to behave. Jack had leaned against the tiled wall, arms crossed over his chest.

His mouth had curved. “You need something?”

You had kissed him first. Then you had pulled back before your nerve could abandon you. 

You had looked at his mouth instead of his eyes. “I want you to hold my hands above my head.”

Jack’s face had changed. The teasing had faded, replaced by the kind of focus that made you feel both exposed and safe.

Jack’s voice had softened. “Yeah?”

You had nodded, your cheeks hot. Then you had forced yourself to say the rest. “And I want you to tell me not to move.”

Jack had searched your face for a long second. Then he had stepped closer. His answer had been quiet. “Okay.”

He had turned you carefully against the tile, one hand closing around both your wrists and lifting them above you with controlled ease. His other hand had settled at your waist, firm and steady.

Jack had checked once. “Like this?”

Your breath had caught. “Yes.”

Jack had leaned in, his mouth close to your ear.

His voice had gone low. “Then stay still for me.”

You had tried.

Jack had noticed every second you failed.

Back in bed, Jack’s mouth curved like he knew exactly where your mind had gone. His hand slid from your waist to the outside of your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and slow. “You were terrible at staying still.”

You gave him a look. “You didn’t seem disappointed.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your skin. “I was not disappointed.”

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Good to know.”

Jack looked down at your mouth. “I think you knew.”

You set the pool house book aside before he could make that worse.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the next red-tabbed paperback. “And then?”

You picked up the book from under the bed. “Vacation fireplace.”

Jack looked at the book in your hand with fresh suspicion. “That’s the under-bed one.”

You opened it to the red tab. “It was a strong chapter.”

His gaze returned to your face. “The cabin.”

You nodded. “The night it snowed.”

Jack’s hand stilled on your thigh. “The waiting.”

Your pulse kicked once.

You held his eyes. “Yes.”

The cabin had gone quiet after the snow started, all frosted windows and creaking wood and the kind of silence that made every breath feel closer than usual. Jack had built the fire while you sat curled on the couch, your book face down beside you, a red tab sticking out near the middle like a dare.

He had looked over his shoulder once. Then again. By the third time, he had stopped pretending not to notice.

Jack had turned from the fireplace. “You’ve had that look for twenty minutes.”

You had folded your hands in your lap, heart pounding like you were about to confess something impossible. You had lifted your chin. “I want to try something.”

Jack had turned fully toward you. His face had stayed calm, but his attention had sharpened. Jack had said, “Okay. Tell me.”

You had looked at the fire, then back at him. Your voice had come out quiet but clear. “I want you to make me wait.”

Jack had not moved. Not right away. You had forced yourself to keep going.

You had gripped the edge of the blanket. “I want you to be in control of when I get to finish.”

His eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed even. Jack had asked, “And if you change your mind?”

You had answered immediately. “I’ll tell you.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and crouched in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

Jack’s thumb had moved once over your skin. “Good. Then I need you to keep telling me the truth.”

You had nodded. 

Jack had kissed your temple. His voice had softened. “That’s my girl.”

And then, in front of the fire, he had taught you exactly how much you trusted him.

In the bedroom, Jack inhaled slowly through his nose. You noticed.

His eyes narrowed when he saw your smile. “Don’t.”

You tilted your head. “Don’t what?”

Jack’s voice roughened. “Look pleased with yourself.”

You rested the book against your lap. “You liked that one.”

Jack’s jaw flexed once. “Yes.”

You smiled wider. “A lot.”

Jack looked toward the rain-dark window, as if considering whether denial was worth the effort.

Then his eyes returned to yours. 

“A lot,” he admitted. The honesty in his voice softened the teasing.

You reached out and brushed your thumb over the center of his chest. “That one was about trust.”

Jack looked down at your hand. “I know.”

You kept your touch there. “That was why I asked you.”

Jack’s gaze lifted. For a second, neither of you spoke. The heater hummed. Rain tapped the glass. His hand rested on your thigh beneath the blanket, warm and still. Then Jack glanced at the line of books across the bed, and his mouth curved.

“So far,” he said, “I’m developing mixed feelings about this archive.”

You laughed softly. “Mixed?”

Jack lifted one shoulder. “Professionally, I have concerns.”

You let your fingers move over his chest. “Personally?”

Jack’s eyes dropped to your hand. “Personally, I’m listening.”

You picked up the next book. “Bar bathroom.”

Jack went still. Not entirely. But enough that you felt it.

His eyes lifted slowly. “The sundress.”

You smiled. “The sundress.”

Jack stared at you. “No underwear.”

You held his gaze. “No underwear.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, his expression was controlled in a way that made heat pool low in your stomach.

His voice was rough. “That was from a book?”

You shrugged one shoulder. “The risk was.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your bare thigh beneath his shirt. “The dress?”

You smiled. “That was for you.”

The bar had been too crowded, too loud, too warm. Jack had worn black. That was the first problem. The second problem was the sundress. Soft. Pretty. Innocent enough to pass in public. Dangerous because you knew exactly what you were not wearing underneath it. Jack had noticed the dress as soon as you walked in. He had noticed the way it moved around your thighs. He had noticed the way you kept crossing and uncrossing your legs beneath the table. He had noticed everything except the secret.

Not until you leaned close at the bar, lips near his ear. You had whispered, “I’m not wearing anything under this.”

Jack’s hand had gone still around his glass. Slowly, he had turned his head. His voice had dropped. “Say that again.”

You had smiled like you had any business being innocent. You had kept your mouth near his ear. “I want you to take me somewhere we shouldn’t.”

Jack’s eyes had held yours. For one second, the noise of the bar seemed to fall away.

Jack had asked, “You sure?”

You had nodded. Jack had set his glass down with careful precision.

“Bathroom,” he had said.

You had laughed under your breath. “Bossy.”

His hand had found the small of your back.

Jack had leaned close enough for his mouth to brush your ear. “You asked.”

In the narrow hallway outside the bathrooms, music had thumped through the wall. Someone laughed too loudly near the pool table. The whole world had been close enough to hear if either of you stopped being careful. Jack had braced one hand beside your head after the lock clicked.

His mouth had hovered over yours, not quite touching.

“If you’re going to start something in public,” he had murmured, “you’re going to have to be quiet about it.”

Your knees had nearly betrayed you before he even kissed you.

Jack’s hand tightened on your thigh in the present. You looked down at it. He noticed and deliberately loosened his grip, thumb smoothing over the place he had held too firmly.

You smiled. “You loved the sundress.”

Jack’s voice was low. “I loved the sundress.”

You leaned closer. “You loved the no underwear.”

Jack’s eyes held yours. “I loved the no underwear.”

You glanced down at the book. “You loved the bathroom.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “I will deny that in a court of law.”

You laughed. “This is not a court.”

Jack looked at you, dry and warm and deeply affected. “Then yes.”

Your pulse fluttered. Jack saw. His mouth curved. You put the bar book down and reached for the paperback from your work tote.

Jack watched your hand move to it.

His eyes narrowed. “The tactical hospital smut.”

You lifted the book. “A normal paperback.”

Jack nodded toward the red tab. “That one looks guilty.”

You opened the book. “It earned the tab.”

His expression shifted immediately when he saw the page. The teasing dimmed. Not gone. But tempered by memory.

You tapped the paper. “Supply closet.”

Jack went still. “Hospital?” he asked.

You nodded. “After the double.”

Jack’s gaze searched your face. “Praise?”

Your cheeks warmed, but you held steady. “Praise.”

The hospital supply closet had started in the hallway after a brutal shift. You and Jack had been moving around each other all night, too close and not close enough, brushing hands over charts, catching each other’s eyes across trauma bays, saying nothing because there were always people nearby. When the hall finally emptied, you caught his wrist. Jack had looked down at your hand. Then at your face.

“What?” he had asked.

Your cheeks had burned, but you did not let go. “I need five minutes,” you had said.

His expression had changed instantly. “With me?” he had asked.

You had nodded.

The supply closet door had clicked shut behind you less than thirty seconds later. Fluorescent light buzzed overhead. Metal shelves pressed close on either side. Jack’s hand slid behind your head before you could bump it, careful even when the rest of him was anything but.

“Tell me what you need,” he had said.

You had swallowed.

You had looked at his collar instead of his eyes. “I want you to talk to me.”

Jack’s thumb had brushed your waist. “How?”

Your voice had come out quieter. “Praise me.”

Jack had gone very still. 

Then his mouth had softened against your temple.

“Such a good girl,” he had murmured.

Your whole body had answered before your pride could stop it.

Jack had felt it. Of course, he had felt it.

His voice had dropped. “Oh,” he had said. “That’s what you needed.”

In the bedroom, Jack’s mouth curved slowly.

You pointed at him immediately. “Do not get smug.”

Jack’s eyes were bright. “Too late.”

You shut the book halfway. “Jack.”

Jack leaned closer. “That line was mine.”

You sighed. “Yes.”

Jack looked deeply satisfied. “Not the book.”

You rolled your eyes. “No, the praise scene gave me the idea.”

Jack’s hand slid from your thigh back to your waist. “But the line was mine.”

You gave him a look. “Yes, the line was yours.”

Jack’s smile widened. “Good.”

You shook your head. “Your ego is exhausting.”

Jack leaned in, voice low near your ear. “Apparently, it’s also effective.”

Your breath caught before you could stop it. Jack pulled back just enough to see your face.

His voice softened. “There.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t.”

Jack’s thumb moved over your waist. “Still works.”

You lifted the book like a shield. “Next one.”

Jack’s laugh came out low and pleased. “Coward.”

You reached for a darker paperback from the line. “This one was later.”

Jack’s eyes followed your hand. “Define later.”

You opened it to the red tab. “Bedroom.”

The humor in his face softened. He knew before you said the word.

“Begging,” you said.

Jack went quiet. The word changed the room. It took the humor and folded something vulnerable into it.

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “After my shower.”

You nodded. “After your shower.”

The begging one had surprised you because it required the most honesty. Not because of the act itself. Because of how hard it was to say what you wanted out loud. You had read the scene twice, shut the book, and waited on the edge of the bed while Jack showered. When he came out with a towel low on his hips and water still clinging to his shoulders, he knew immediately.

His steps had slowed. “What?” he had asked.

You had inhaled. “I want you to make me ask for it,” you had said.

Jack’s expression had shifted. He had stayed where he was, giving you room to take it back.

“Ask for what?” he had asked.

Your face had warmed, but you held his gaze. “For what I want,” you had answered. “Clearly. No hiding.”

Jack had crossed the room slowly and knelt in front of you, one hand warm over your knee.

His voice had gone quiet. “You don’t have to be embarrassed with me.”

Your throat had tightened. “I know,” you had said.

His thumb had moved once over your skin.

“Then tell me.” Jack had said.

You had swallowed. “You don’t give me anything unless I ask for it.”

Jack’s eyes had darkened, but his voice had stayed gentle. 

“Good,” he had said. “Then I’ll listen.”

Back in bed, Jack was very still. You did not joke this time. Neither did he. His hand moved from your waist to your knee, warm and grounding.

“That one mattered,” Jack said.

You nodded. “Yes.”

His gaze stayed on yours. “Because you asked.”

You breathed out. “Because I asked.”

Jack’s thumb moved once over your knee. “And because you knew I’d listen.”

Your throat tightened.

You smiled, softer now. “Yes.”

Jack looked down at the book, then back at you. “That’s what I like.”

You tilted your head. “The begging?”

His mouth curved faintly. “I’m not against it.”

You laughed once.

Jack’s hand tightened gently over your knee. “But no.”

Your smile softened.

His voice stayed low. “I like that you trust me enough to ask clearly.”

The heat in your chest changed shape. Still want. Still tension. But warmer now. Deeper.

You closed the book and set it between you. “I do trust you.”

Jack looked at you like that was not a small thing. Like he knew exactly how much it meant.

Then his gaze moved to the last book in the line. “One more?”

You glanced at the red tab sticking out near the middle. Your face warmed.

Jack noticed. His mouth curved. “That one.”

You gave him a look. “You’re enjoying this.”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face. “Very much.”

You picked up the final paperback and opened it to the red tab. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s teasing faded. His whole face quieted.

“Green dress,” he said.

You nodded. “Green dress.”

The hotel mirror had not been about the book by the end. It had started that way. A marked page. A scene that made your chest feel too tight. A heroine being made to see herself the way the hero saw her, wanted, beautiful, and impossible to dismiss.

You had packed the green dress because of that chapter. Jack had not known that. He only knew that when you stepped out of the bathroom, he stopped buttoning his shirt.

Completely.

His eyes moved over you once.

Then again, like the first look had not been enough.

“Jack,” you had said.

He had crossed the room without saying anything.

You had felt brave for about two seconds before his attention made you shy. 

Then you had turned halfway toward the mirror and forced yourself to say it.

“I want you to help me see it.”

Jack’s face had softened. “See what?” he had asked.

Your fingers had tightened at your sides. “What you see,” you had said.

For a moment, he had not moved. Then his hands had come carefully to your waist. He had stepped behind you, his chest warm at your back, the mirror catching both of you in the dim hotel light.

“Look,” Jack had said.

You had started to glance away.

His voice had lowered, steady and certain. “No. You asked me to help.”

Your breath had caught.

His thumb had brushed your waist. “So look,” he had said.

You had. At yourself. At him behind you. His hands holding you like something worth taking time with.

“That is what I see,” Jack had murmured near your ear.

Your throat had tightened.

His fingers had spread over your waist.

“Beautiful,” he had said.

You had wanted to look away. He had not let you. Not because he held you there. Because he made you believe him. 

The bedroom was quiet when the memory ended. Jack’s eyes stayed on you. You set the book down slowly.

You looked at the stack between you. “That one wasn’t really about trying something kinky.”

Jack’s hand came to your waist again. “No?”

You shook your head. “It was about wanting to feel beautiful without apologizing for it.”

Jack’s face changed. Small. Devastating.

You rested your palm on his bare chest. “The book gave me the idea.”

Jack covered your hand with his.

You looked up at him. “You made me believe it.”

Jack was quiet for a long moment. Then his voice came out rough. “You are beautiful.”

Your smile wobbled. “I know.”

Jack’s mouth curved. Not smug. Proud. “Good,” he said softly.

You laughed under your breath. “That might be your favorite answer.”

Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “It’s up there.”

The red-tabbed books lay scattered across the bed between you. The rain kept tapping at the window. Your tea had gone mostly untouched. Jack looked down at the line of books. Then back at you. His expression was dry again, but his eyes were warmer than before.

“So,” he said, “the archive is chronological.”

You nodded. “Mostly.”

Jack glanced toward the first book. “Restraint.”

You smiled. “Pool house.”

His eyes moved to the second. “Control.”

“Fireplace.”

He tapped the third. “Risk.”

“Bar bathroom.”

His gaze flicked to the work-tote book. “Praise.”

“Supply closet.”

His hand came to rest over the darker paperback. “Asking clearly.”

“Bedroom.”

Then his eyes moved to the mirror book. “Being seen.”

You nodded. “Hotel mirror.”

Jack’s gaze shifted toward the first book again, still sitting open where the red tab marked the throne scene he had found.

Then his eyes returned to yours.

“And worship.”

Your chest warmed. You nodded. “Your chair.”

Jack’s mouth curved, slow and quiet. “My chair.”

You let your hand rest against his chest. “My throne.”

His eyes darkened.

“Careful,” Jack said.

You smiled. 

He looked at the books again, then back at you. For one second, you thought he was going to make another joke. Instead, his hand found your waist and stayed there.

“Thank you for trusting me with all that,” he said.

Your breath caught.

Jack’s thumb moved once over your side. “I mean it.”

You looked at him, throat tight. “I know.”

His mouth curved faintly. “Good.”

The quiet held. Warm. Charged. Tender enough to hurt. Then Jack glanced back at the books with a look of dry resignation.

“That said,” he added, “some of these authors have a reckless disregard for joint health.”

You laughed, startled and bright.

Jack’s expression warmed as he watched you.

You leaned closer. “Please. You loved every single one.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Every single one?”

You smiled. “Every single one.”

Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “That is a dangerous amount of confidence.”

You let your fingers trail once over his chest. “I learned from the best.”

Jack went still for half a second. Then his mouth curved. “Get your shoes.”

You blinked. “What?”

Jack’s hand stayed at your waist. “Get your shoes.”

You sat back on your heels, laughing. “Why?”

Jack looked at the books. Then at you. “I’m taking you to the bookstore.”

Your smile spread slowly. “Now?”

Jack’s eyes moved over your face, warm and dark and entirely serious. “Now.”

You tilted your head. “Talk dirty to me, Dr. Abbot.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “Hardcover budget is flexible.”

Your stomach flipped. You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “Filthy.”

Jack reached for his prosthetic beside the bed. “I’ll carry the tote bag.”

You laughed. “Obscene.”

Jack looked up at you, one hand braced on the mattress, eyes steady.

“And when we get back,” he said, “you’re going to show me which marked pages require my professional opinion.”

Your breath caught.

His smile deepened.

“There,” he murmured. “That look.”

Later That Night…

The book was open somewhere near Jack’s hip.

Face-down.

Spine bent.

One red tab crumpled slightly from having been handled with less academic care than usual.

You were going to complain about that eventually.

Probably.

When your lungs worked again.

For now, you were sprawled across the bed with one arm thrown over your face, hair tangled across Jack’s pillow, skin damp, chest rising and falling as if you had just survived a hurricane.

Beside you, Jack was somehow worse.

Flat on his back. Hair wrecked. Chest shining faintly with sweat. One arm bent over his head, the sheets twisted low around his hips, his prosthetic still exactly where he had left it before he had crawled back into bed with you and a paperback held in one hand like a man prepared to conduct research.

He had conducted research.

Thoroughly.

For a long moment, neither of you said anything.

The room was quiet except for your breathing and his, uneven and heavy and slowly beginning to settle.

Then Jack laughed. Not loudly. Not even fully. Just one dazed, disbelieving breath of sound. 

“That was incredible.”

You turned your head against the pillow and looked at him.

His eyes were still on the ceiling.

You smiled, lazy and exhausted. “It was.”

Jack nodded once. Then, after a beat, he said again, “That was incredible.”

Your smile widened. “I heard you.”

Jack blinked at the ceiling like he was trying to remember what words were. “No, I know.”

You waited.

His brows drew together faintly, genuinely focused.

Then he added, “I’m saying it again because it was.”

A laugh slipped out of you, and your whole body protested.

Jack turned his head toward you slowly. His eyes were heavy-lidded. His mouth was parted slightly. His face had the stunned, softened look of a man whose soul had been briefly separated from his body and returned with notes.

You reached over and brushed damp hair off his forehead. “You okay over there?”

Jack stared at you. Then he nodded. Once. Very seriously. 

“Yeah.”

Your mouth twitched. “Convincing.”

His gaze drifted over your face, then down to your mouth, then back up again, as if the movement took effort.

“Just need a minute.”

You smiled. “Take your time.”

Jack looked back at the ceiling. A second passed. Then another.

His voice came out rough and amazed. “Jesus Christ.”

You laughed again, softer this time. “Still incredible?”

Jack lifted one hand weakly, palm up, as if the evidence spoke for itself. “I don’t have other words yet.”

That made you grin. You rolled carefully onto your side, your hair falling over one shoulder in a ruined tangle. “That’s new.”

Jack’s eyes moved to you again. Slowly. His face changed by degrees: dazed first, then warm, then pleased in a helpless way that made something in your chest squeeze.

“You’re very pretty,” he said.

You blinked. Then your smile softened. “Thank you.”

Jack seemed to consider this. Then he corrected himself, still staring at you like he had just discovered language and wanted to use it responsibly.

“No.” His brow furrowed. “Not pretty.”

You raised your eyebrows. “No?”

“Wrong word.”

You waited, biting back a smile.

Jack looked deeply invested in the problem.

“Beautiful,” he decided.

Your throat warmed.

Then he nodded to himself, satisfied. “Yeah. That’s the word.”

You reached over and touched his chest, feeling the wild, slowing beat beneath your palm. “You’re a little gone right now.”

Jack covered your hand with his. His fingers were warm and loose over yours. “Maybe.”

You nodded, “You have post-book clarity.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. Then he looked toward the paperback lying half-open near his hip.

His expression went solemn. “I owe you an apology.”

You laughed into the pillow. “For what?”

Jack’s eyes stayed on the book. “Doubting the process.”

You pressed your lips together. “The process?”

He nodded, still too dazed to fully locate his usual sarcasm. “The red tabs.”

You lifted your head. “You respect the red tabs now?”

Jack looked back at you.

His eyes were warm, unfocused, and devastatingly sincere.

“I respect the hell out of the red tabs.”

You laughed so hard you had to drop your forehead against his shoulder.

Jack’s arm came around you automatically, pulling you closer even though he still looked like he was operating on a two-second delay.

You tucked yourself against his side, your cheek settling over his chest.

His heartbeat was still too fast.

You smiled against his skin.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The sheets were tangled around your legs. The books were scattered across the bed and floor, red tabs flashing in the lamplight. Your tea had gone cold a long time ago. Jack’s hand moved slowly up and down your back, absent and steady.

Then he spoke again, voice rougher and quieter.

“That was incredible.”

You lifted your head just enough to look at him. “Jack.”

His eyes shifted to yours.

He looked almost offended by your amusement.

“What?”

“You’ve said that four times.”

Jack considered that. Then he nodded once. “Still true.”

Your face softened. You reached up and brushed your thumb along his jaw. “You really liked that one.”

Jack’s eyes held yours.

For a second, the daze cleared just enough for something deeper to come through.

“I liked that you showed me.”

Your chest tightened.

His thumb moved against your back.

“I liked that you asked,” he said.

You swallowed.

His gaze flicked briefly toward the open book, then back to your face. “I liked that you trusted me with it.”

The humor slipped into something warmer. Still breathless. Still messy. Still half-lost in the aftermath. But real.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft and slow.

When you pulled back, Jack looked at you for a long second.

Then he exhaled.

“That was also incredible.”

You burst out laughing.

Jack’s mouth curved, lazy and pleased.

“There she is,” he murmured.

You dropped your forehead to his chest again. “You’re ridiculous.”

His hand moved into your hair, gentle now, untangling one ruined strand from your cheek.

“I’m enlightened.”

You laughed against him. “By smut?”

Jack’s fingers kept moving through your hair.

“By my wife.”

That stole the breath from your chest.

You lifted your head.

Jack was still looking at you like he was dazed, yes, but not only from sex now. Like the entire night had settled somewhere deep in him: the books, the red tabs, the trust, the fact that you wanted him and trusted him and chose him again and again.

His thumb brushed your cheek.

“You can always bring me the red tabs,” he said.

Your throat tightened. You leaned into his hand. “I know.”

Jack nodded once, like that mattered.

Then his gaze drifted back to the book near his hip.

His mouth curved faintly. “Especially that one.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do not get attached to page two hundred and twelve.”

Jack blinked slowly. Then he looked back at you, still wrecked, still breathing too hard, still clearly not fully functioning.

“Too late.”

You stared at him.

He nodded again, solemn as anything. “Page two hundred and twelve changed me.”

You laughed and reached for the pillow behind your head.

Jack saw it coming and did absolutely nothing to defend himself.

You hit him with it.

He laughed, low and breathless, and caught your wrist before you could swing again.

Then he pulled you back down against him, smiling into your hair.

After a long, quiet minute, Jack murmured one last time, softer than before, “Incredible.”

You smiled against his chest.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “It was.”

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld, @generation-zero, @taniamiller, @countryandsweetbabygirl, @fantasyreader130, @thehockeynerd30 @angelryex

[oscar-isaac]

CRAZY, STUPID, LOVE (2011) dir. Glenn Ficarra & John Requa

[jehovahhthickness]

Praying that $1500 randomly comes to you when you need it the most this year.

[jehovahhthickness]

Okay inflation is crazy.

We bumping up the price to $15,000 for 2026.

[afterdarkbydel]

Nothing Casual

Chapter Five: Close Quarters

Jack Abbot x Reader

Summary: The conference trip begins. Robby hates the hospital car immediately. Jack is careful in the passenger seat. You sit in the back and try not to remember every angle of his shoulders you used to be allowed to know.

Then the hotel room mix-up happens.

Two rooms. Three people. One queen. One king. Robby tries to be helpful. Jack says no too fast. You get the king-room key anyway. And suddenly, the conference is not the problem. The room is. The bed is. The pillow Jack puts on the floor is. Caleb Ross introduces himself during the first session. He is kind. Professional. Easy. Jack shakes his hand. Because Jack is very good at being professional. Because Jack is very good at pretending something wasn’t real. Because Jack has no right to care who you talk to.

Because he does anyway.

Warnings: angst, jealousy, emotional fallout, forced proximity, workplace tension, hotel room mix-up, only one bed, implied sexual history, references to previous smut, Jack being emotionally repressed and bad at using his words, Robby being the MVP, Caleb Ross being decent at the worst possible time, no smut in this chapter

Author's Note: This chapter is where forced proximity stops being theoretical and starts becoming everybody’s problem. There is a hospital car. There is a hotel room. There is one king bed. There is Jack Abbot putting a pillow on the floor like that is somehow going to fix anything.

It does not fix anything.

And then Caleb Ross shows up and makes the very bold choice to be normal, respectful, and easy to talk to.

Unfortunately, Jack handles that about as well as expected.

Xoxo, Del

MDNI 18+

Previous Part(s): | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 | Chpt. 4 |

Chapter Five: Close Quarters

The PTMC hospital car had all the personality of a waiting room chair. Robby hated it immediately. “This thing has no soul,” he said, adjusting the driver’s seat with open disgust.

You slid into the back seat and pulled the door shut. “It’s a hospital car.”

Robby looked at you through the rearview mirror. “Exactly. Sterile. Judgmental. No throttle response.”

Jack stood outside the passenger door, dark coat zipped to his throat, bag in one hand. “You were not bringing the motorcycle to a conference.”

Robby’s expression sharpened. “That was never formally proven impossible.”

Jack opened the passenger door. “You had two passengers.”

Robby gripped the wheel. “Sidecar.”

Jack closed his eyes.

You looked out the window before either of them could see you almost smile.

That was dangerous now. Smiling around Jack. Reacting around Jack.

Letting your face do anything before you could stop it.

The last week taught you the value of stillness.

Jack got into the passenger seat without looking back at you. Not because he was ignoring you. Not exactly. He had been careful all morning in the quiet, precise way he had been careful since the parking garage. Careful not to stand too close. Careful not to reach for your bag. Careful not to look at your mouth. Careful not to ask whether you had slept.

You hated that you noticed all of it.

You hated more that part of you still wanted him to ask.

Robby started the car and pulled away from the curb outside Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center like a man personally offended by the existence of hospital-issued sedans.

“Before anyone asks,” Robby said, glancing between the road and the rearview mirror, “yes, I am being brave about this.”

Jack fastened his seatbelt. “No one was going to ask.”

Robby pointed at him without looking away from the road. “Supportive leadership matters, Abbot.”

You tucked your purse beside your thigh. “I’m proud of you, Robby.”

Robby’s eyes flicked to yours in the mirror. “Thank you. That means everything during this difficult time.”

Jack looked out the passenger window. His mouth did not move. But you had known him too long not to catch the almost-smile he killed before it could become visible.

Your chest hurt.

Outside, Pittsburgh dragged itself through a gray morning, all wet pavement and low clouds and brake lights smeared red through the rain. The city slipped by in pieces. Hospital district. Bridges. Traffic. Brick buildings darkened by weather. A coffee shop with fogged windows and a line out the door.

You kept your hands folded in your lap.

The drive should have been easier than work.

It wasn’t.

At PTMC, you could hide behind tasks. Assignments. Meds. Reports. Patients. Professional language.

In the back seat of a hospital car, there was nothing to do but sit behind Jack Abbot and remember the shape of his shoulders from every angle you had once been allowed to know.

Robby tried the radio twice. The first station was sports talk. The second was someone aggressively cheerful, giving weather updates.

He turned it off with a grimace. “The silence is somehow less hostile.”

Jack’s voice stayed dry. “That’s debatable.”

Robby glanced at him. “You’re debatable.”

You looked at the rain-streaked window. “Strong comeback.”

Robby met your eyes in the mirror. “Thank you. I’m conserving energy for the conference.”

Jack’s hand rested near his knee, fingers still. You saw them flex once. Just once.

The car kept moving.

For a while, nobody said anything.

That was the shape of things now. Robby making space with noise. Jack making space with silence. You caught somewhere between them, trying to be grateful for one and unaffected by the other.

Robby’s gaze lifted to the mirror again. This time, he did not joke.

You gave him the smallest nod. I’m fine.

He looked back at the road. He did not believe you. He let you have it anyway.

That was why you had said yes when he offered you Dana’s spot. Not because this would be easy. Not because you wanted two days at a conference in a hotel with Jack. Not because your chest did not still feel bruised every time you heard his voice.

Because Robby had asked you. Because he had said he recommended you because you deserved it. Because he had told you he understood if you said no. Because you refused to be the kind of woman who turned down a professional opportunity just because Jack Abbot had broken your heart and then stood six feet away looking like he might be bleeding, too.

The hotel appeared a little after nine, rising out of the wet parking lot with beige stone, too many windows, and a banner near the entrance that read:

REGIONAL EMERGENCY MEDICINE CONFERENCE

Beneath that, in smaller letters:

INNOVATION, RESILIENCE, AND BEST PRACTICES IN ACUTE CARE

Robby slowed near the entrance and stared at the banner. “I already hate that slogan,” he said.

Jack unbuckled his seatbelt. “You hate most slogans.”

Robby put the car in park. “Most slogans deserve it.”

You reached for your purse. “Innovation and resilience are fine.”

Robby turned in his seat. “That is exactly what a person says before a breakout session on team-based adaptability.”

You opened your door. “I’m leaving the car now.”

Robby nodded solemnly. “Strong choice.”

Cold, wet air hit your face. For one second, the smell of rain and asphalt cleared your head. The hotel entrance buzzed with conference traffic: rolling suitcases, branded fleece vests, damp coats, lanyards, coffee cups, laughter that felt too loud after the long car ride.

You grabbed the straps of your duffel at the same time Jack reached for it.

You pulled it quickly to your side. 

He saw. Of course, he saw.

His hand was stopped halfway toward your bag before it dropped to his side.

Robby shut the trunk with more force than necessary. 

“Okay,” he said, looking between you and Jack with the expression of a man choosing, heroically, not to comment. “Let’s go become better professionals.”

Jack picked up his own bag. “Try not to frighten the registration staff.”

Robby adjusted his backpack strap. “No promises.”

You walked into the hotel between them. Not beside Jack. Not beside Robby either, exactly.

Between, but not with.

The lobby was too warm after the rain, carpeted in a busy pattern that made you vaguely distrust whoever had chosen it. A line had formed at conference registration—another at the front desk. Nurses, physicians, residents, respiratory therapists, EMS leads,  all of them damp at the shoulders and already wearing badges or clutching folders.

You focused on the logistics. Registration packet. Badge. Schedule. Room key. Find the ballroom. Find coffee. Survive the next two days.

Robby collected his badge first and squinted down at the printed name.

“Dr. Michael Robinavitch,” he read. “So formal. So many consonants.”

You clipped your own badge to your sweater. “That is your name.”

Robby looked offended. “Not emotionally.”

Jack reached for his packet from the volunteer. He did not touch you. He did not even come close enough for it to be accidental.

Your body noticed the lack anyway. That was humiliating.

Robby flipped through the schedule as the three of you moved toward the hotel desk.

“There’s a networking reception tonight,” he said.

You took your conference folder from under your arm. “Terrifying.”

Robby looked down at the schedule. “Open bar.”

You nodded once. “Less terrifying.”

Jack glanced at the schedule in his hand. His expression did not change, but something tightened around his mouth.

You wondered if he was remembering all the places you had stood with drinks in your hands while pretending the only thing between you was sex.

You hated yourself for wondering.

The line at the front desk moved slowly. Somewhere ahead of you, a man in a navy fleece was explaining that he was a platinum rewards member with the vocal force of someone revealing state secrets.

Robby leaned toward you. “If I ever become a platinum rewards member, unplug me,” he said.

You kept your eyes forward. “Gladly.”

Jack looked down at his phone. The corner of his mouth moved. Barely.

You saw it anyway.

So did Robby.

Robby’s gaze flicked from Jack to you, then back again.

He did not say anything. A miracle.

When it was finally your turn, the front desk clerk smiled with the exhausted dread of someone who had already apologized too many times before nine in the morning.

“Checking in?” she asked.

Robby stepped forward and set his ID on the counter. “Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Robinavitch, Abbot, and—” He supplied your last name. 

The clerk typed. Her smile faltered. That was never a good sign.

You felt Jack go still beside you.

The clerk typed again, faster this time, as if speed might produce different information.

Robby leaned one elbow on the counter. “That face seems administratively significant.”

The clerk looked up. “I am so sorry.”

Your stomach sank.

Robby closed his eyes. “Always a promising start.”

The clerk glanced between the three of you. “It looks like there was a problem when the attendee list was updated. We had the original room block under Dr. Abbot, Dr. Robinavitch, and Dana Evans.”

Robby nodded. “Dana had to drop. Knee scope husband. Very tragic. Mostly for Dana.”

The clerk typed again. “Yes, I see the change here. But it looks like the room reassignment did not process correctly.”

Jack’s voice stayed level. “What does that mean?”

The clerk swallowed. “We currently have two rooms available under the PTMC block.”

Robby stared at her. You looked at Jack. Jack did not look at you.

“Two,” Robby repeated.

The clerk nodded. “I’m very sorry.”

Robby placed one hand over his chest. “I need you to understand that an apology did not answer the emotional portion of the question.”

The clerk’s eyes widened.

“He means what rooms do we have?” you said quickly.

The clerk looked grateful for the translation. “One single queen and one king.”

The words sat there. Very quietly. Very loudly. A single queen. A king.

Three people.

You stared at the smooth surface of the check-in counter. Of course. Of course, the universe had waited until you had returned his toothbrush, given back his coffee, and learned how to stand beside him without reaching before handing you a hotel room shaped like a bad joke.

Robby turned slowly toward Jack. “No.”

Jack looked at him. “I didn’t say anything.”

Robby pointed at the desk. “You were about to exist near the suggestion.”

Jack’s expression flattened. “I was not.”

“You were,” Robby said. “I could feel math happening.”

You exhaled through your nose and forced yourself into practical mode. Practical was safe. Practical had survived worse things than hotel logistics.

“It’s fine,” you said.

Jack’s head turned toward you. You did not look at him.

“I’ll take the queen,” you said. “You two can take the king.”

Robby’s eyebrows shot up in alarm.

You lifted one shoulder. “Build a pillow wall.”

Robby stared at you. “No.”

“Make Jack sleep in the tub,” you said.

Jack looked at you then.

Robby considered him. “That,” Robby said, “I’m open to.”

Jack’s gaze moved to Robby. “Thanks.”

Robby gave him a solemn nod. “I support creative problem-solving.”

The clerk looked like she wanted to sink into the carpet.

You gave her what you hoped was a reassuring smile. “Are there rollaways?”

The clerk shook her head. “I’m sorry. We’re completely out.”

Robby looked personally betrayed. “Of beds?”

“The hotel is full because of the conference,” the clerk said. “And the weather delayed several departures this morning.”

Jack glanced toward the rain-streaked windows. “Any cancellations expected?”

The clerk checked the computer again. “Not at this time.”

You nodded once.

Okay. Fine.

Two rooms. One queen. One king.

You could survive anything for one night if you made it about logistics.

Robby leaned back from the counter, eyes narrowing with the spark of a terrible idea.

“Or,” he said.

You immediately looked at him. “No.”

He held up one finger. “You haven’t heard it yet.”

You stared at him. “I know your face.”

Robby pointed at you. “Rude but fair.”

Jack’s expression did not change, but his shoulders tightened.

Robby, because he had no survival instinct when chaos was available, glanced between you and Jack. “Technically,” he said, “you and I could share the king.”

Jack’s answer came too fast. 

“No.”

The word hit the lobby harder than it should have.

You looked at him. So did Robby. So, unfortunately, did the clerk.

Jack’s jaw flexed once. For one terrible second, no one moved.

Robby’s eyebrows lifted slowly. “Wow,” he said.

Jack looked away first.

“Sorry. That’s not my call,” he said.

His voice was quieter now. Controlled. Careful. Too late to undo the speed of the first answer.

Your chest tightened. Because there it was again. Not enough. Never enough.

Just the reflex.

The want.

The almost.

Robby’s humor faded by a degree.

He looked at you, then at Jack, then back to the desk.

“We’ll figure it out,” Robby told the clerk.

The clerk looked relieved enough to cry. “Of course. My apologies again for the mix-up.”

Robby thanked her and picked up the two key packets she had laid on the counter.

Then he held the parking validation slip out toward Jack. “Abbot,” Robby said.

Jack’s jaw tightened. “What?”

Robby gave him the slip. “Go ask whether this covers overnight or if PTMC is about to buy us a parking garage accidentally.”

Jack stared at him. Robby stared back. For once, neither of them made a joke.

After a beat, Jack took the slip. His gaze flicked to you once, brief and unreadable, then he walked back toward the desk.

The second he was out of earshot, Robby turned to you. His voice dropped.

“Actual question,” he said.

You looked at him.

“No jokes,” Robby said. “Are you okay with this?”

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your bag. “I’m fine.”

Robby’s face did not change. “That is not what I asked.”

You glanced toward the desk, where Jack stood with one hand braced on the counter, carefully not looking over.

Robby shifted slightly, blocking the line of sight without making a show of it.

“If sharing a room with him is not okay, you take the queen,” he said. “I’ll share with him. I will survive. Mentally, maybe not. Physically, yes.”

Your mouth almost moved. Almost. “Robby,” you said.

“I’m serious.” His voice stayed low. “You don’t have to be low-maintenance about this. You don’t have to make it easier for everybody else.”

That landed too close. You looked down at the key packets in his hand. The queen. The king.

One smart choice.

One terrible one.

“We’re adults,” you said.

Robby grimaced. “Historically, adults are terrible at this.”

You let out a breath that did not quite become a laugh.

His expression softened. “I need a real answer,” he said. “Not a brave one.”

You looked back toward Jack. He was still at the counter, shoulders stiff beneath his coat, listening to the clerk with the expression of a man trying to solve a problem that had already become something else.

Your chest hurt.

Then you looked at Robby. “It’s okay,” you said.

Robby studied you. “Okay, okay?” he asked.

You swallowed. “Okay, enough.”

He did not like that. You could see it. But he also knew you well enough not to argue you into a corner. “Fine,” he said at last. “But if he gets weird, you text me.”

You nodded. “I know.”

Robby lifted the key to the king room slightly. “And if you change your mind, you take the queen.”

“I know,” you said.

“I mean it,” he said.

You met his eyes. “I know.”

Only then did he hand you the key.

Jack returned a moment later with the parking slip in hand. Robby immediately pointed toward the elevators. Jack’s gaze dropped to the key packet in your hand. His expression did not change.

But something in the air did.

Robby continued toward the elevators. You slipped the key packet into your coat pocket and picked up your bag. Jack reached for his own. No one said anything for a moment. Then the three of you walked toward the elevators, conference badges swinging, shoes quiet against the lobby carpet. Robby stepped ahead to jab the elevator button with unnecessary aggression.

Jack came to stand beside you. Not too close. Never too close now.

The key to the king-room felt heavy in your pocket. Jack looked down at it. Then at you.

“You’re sure?” he asked. His voice was low enough that Robby either did not hear or pretended not to.

You stared at the elevator doors.

No.

“Yes,” you said.

The doors opened. Robby stepped inside first. Jack waited. You went in after Robby.

Jack followed last. The doors slid shut, sealing the three of you into the mirrored quiet. Your reflection stood between them. Robby with the queen key and a face that had gone carefully neutral. Jack, with his jaw tight, hands still, eyes fixed on the floor numbers. You with the king-room key in your pocket and your heart doing something stupid and painful beneath your ribs.

Six floors to go.

Then five.

Then four.

No one spoke.

The elevator hummed upward.

Close quarters, you were learning, did not need much space to become dangerous.

The elevator opened onto the seventh floor with a soft chime. Robby stepped out first, rolling his shoulders like the ride had somehow personally offended him. The hallway smelled like hotel carpet, industrial cleaner, and the faint burnt edge of coffee from somewhere near the ice machine.

“Queen room,” Robby said, lifting his key packet like a man accepting a tragic destiny.

You stepped out after him, the king-room key heavy in your coat pocket. “Congratulations.”

Robby glanced back at you, one brow lifting. “If I find one decorative pillow with sequins, I’m billing PTMC for emotional damages.”

Jack came out of the elevator last, his bag in one hand, his expression giving away nothing. “You bill PTMC for enough already.”

Robby pointed at him without slowing. “Leadership is expensive.”

The hallway splits near the vending machines. Robby’s room was to the left. Yours and Jack’s was to the right. Of course. Robby stopped outside his door and looked at you. Not long. Just enough. You gave him a small nod before he could ask anything else. Robby’s mouth pressed into a line like he did not quite believe you, but he accepted the answer anyway. “Text me if the decorative pillows become hostile.”

“I’ll file a report,” you said.

Jack stood a few feet away, quiet and careful, watching the exchange without inserting himself into it.

Robby looked at him next. “Behave.”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “I’m not a resident.”

“That’s never stopped you from needing supervision.”

You almost smiled. Almost. Robby saw it, took the win, and unlocked his door. Then he disappeared inside the queen room, leaving you and Jack in the hallway with the kind of silence that immediately felt too aware of itself.

You turned toward the right. Jack followed. Neither of you spoke while you walked down the corridor. The carpet muffled your footsteps. A family argued quietly behind one door. An ice machine hummed somewhere behind you. Rain tapped against the window at the end of the hall. Normal hotel sounds. Normal conference sounds. Nothing about the walk to the room should have made your pulse sit so high in your throat. 

You found the door with the number on it that matched the key packet in your hand. You paused in front of it for half a second, then pulled the key card free.

Jack stood beside you. Not close. Never too close now.

The card reader blinked red the first time. You tried again.

Green. The lock clicked.

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was aggressively neutral. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Abstract hotel art in muted blues and grays. One desk. One chair. One dresser. One window with rain streaking down the glass.

One king bed. Large. White. Centered in the room, like it had been placed there specifically to make your life worse.

You stopped just inside the doorway. Jack stopped behind you. Neither of you said anything. The door clicked shut with a quiet finality that made your stomach tighten. You moved first because standing there would have looked too much like surrender. You crossed to the bed and set your duffel on it, then placed your conference tote beside the dresser.

Jack stayed near the door for another second. Then his bag landed softly beside the desk.

“I’ll take the floor,” he said.

The sentence was quiet. Immediate. 

You kept your hands on the zipper of your duffel.

A week ago, you would have argued. You would have turned around and told him not to be ridiculous. You would have said he had no business sleeping on the hotel carpet when there was a perfectly large bed. You might have thrown a pillow at him. You might have softened it with a look. You did none of that.

“Okay,” you said.

One word. Calm. Reasonable. Worse than anger.

Behind you, Jack went still.

You heard it in the lack of movement.

He had expected the argument. 

It did not come.

You unzipped your bag.

The room filled with the small, strange sounds of two people pretending this was ordinary. Fabric shifting. Hangers sliding along the closet rod. The soft rasp of a zipper. The rain against the glass. Jack opened the drawer beneath the television and found nothing useful inside it.

The hotel provided a small tray near the coffee maker: two coffee packets, two tea bags, powdered creamer, sugar, and wooden stir sticks, all sealed in plastic. You looked at it once and then away again.

Coffee had become a language neither of you knew how to speak anymore.

You pulled out your clothes for the afternoon session and the evening reception. Business casual. A soft blouse that had survived the suitcase better than expected, tailored black pants, and a blazer you had packed because conference rooms were always either freezing or heated like a greenhouse. Low heels went near the closet.

Professional. Polished. Not scrubs.

That felt important for reasons you did not want to examine.

Jack unzipped the garment compartment of his bag and pulled out a dress shirt. Pale blue. Crisp, or trying to be. He frowned at one sleeve, then looked toward the closet. Of course, he found the ironing board. Of course he did. 

Jack Abbot could be emotionally unavailable in a parking garage and still locate a fucking ironing board in under thirty seconds.

You hated him a little for that.

You hated him more for the way your body noticed his hands as he unfolded it.

He set it up near the desk with quiet efficiency, then plugged in the iron. His movements were precise. Controlled. The kind of practical competence you had once found comforting before comfort started coming with a price.

You took your makeup bag from the side pocket of your duffel and set it on the dresser.

Jack glanced toward the blouse in your hand.

“Do you need anything ironed?” he asked.

You paused.

There it was again.

The almost-care.

The practical offering.

The small domestic thing that should have meant nothing and somehow walked directly into the softest part of you anyway.

You looked down at your blouse. “No,” you said, smoothing your thumb over the fabric. “It survived.”

Jack nodded once. “Good.” He turned back to his shirt.

That was all.

No pressure. No lingering. No comment about how you both knew what it meant for him to offer. He just placed the dress shirt over the ironing board and pressed the iron carefully along the sleeve, steam rising in a soft white breath.

You opened your suitcase wider and reached for your toiletries bag.

Jack’s gaze dropped by accident.

Then stopped.

You followed it.

The bra was folded near the top of your suitcase, half tucked beneath one of your tops.

Heat climbed your neck before you could stop it.

You remembered exactly what he was remembering.

The back seat of your car in the abandoned PTMC overflow lot, rain streaking down the windows, your breath fogging the glass. Jack’s hand at your waist. That same lace caught between his fingers. His mouth against your throat while you tried to stay quiet and failed.

The memory moved through the room like a hand over bare skin.

Jack looked away first.

Too late.

The room had already changed.

His hand tightened once around the iron handle, then relaxed. He moved it carefully down the front of his shirt like nothing had happened.

You tucked the bra under your top with fingers that felt too clumsy.

Nothing had happened. That was the problem. Nothing kept happening so loudly that you could barely hear anything else.

“I’m going to change,” you said.

Jack kept his eyes on the shirt. “Okay.”

You took your clothes into the bathroom and shut the door. The bathroom was all bright light and clean tile, too small for the amount of breathing you needed. You set your blouse on the counter and braced both hands beside the sink.

For one second, you let your eyes close. Back seat. Rain. His hand.

No.

You opened your eyes.

You changed quickly because lingering in a hotel bathroom while Jack Abbot ironed a dress shirt ten feet away felt like a level of psychological warfare even Robby would consider excessive. The blouse went on first. Then the tailored pants. The low heels. You fixed your hair, smoothing it into something more deliberate than your usual shift style. Not fancy. Just polished. You added a little makeup. Subtle lipstick. Enough to look like you had slept more than three hours and had not spent the last week returning someone’s toothbrush with shaking hands.

When you opened the bathroom door, Jack was done ironing his shirt. He looked up, only for a second.

But it was enough.

His gaze moved over you before he could stop it. Hair. Mouth. Blouse. The low heels that shifted your posture just enough to make you suddenly feel visible. He looked away almost immediately, but not before you saw the flash of recognition.

Not lust exactly.

Not only lust.

Something more complicated. Something worse.

You stepped out of the bathroom and reached for your conference badge on the dresser. “Bathroom’s yours,” you said.

Jack’s fingers stilled on the cuff of his shirt. Then he nodded. “Thanks.”

He passed you on the way to the bathroom. There was enough space. 

There was not enough space.

The air shifted when he went by, soap and rain and hotel steam from the iron, and your body remembered too many mornings where he had moved around you in kitchens and bedrooms and narrow halls without needing all this care.

The bathroom door shut behind him.

You let out a breath. Then hated yourself for needing to. You busied yourself with your bag. Conference folder. Pen. Lipstick tucked into the side pocket of your tote. Phone charger. Room key. Anything that gave your hands a reason to move. The iron sat cooling near the desk. The extra pillow and blanket the hotel had left in the closet sat on the low shelf, untouched.

For the floor.

For him.

You looked away.

When the bathroom door opened, Jack stepped out in a dress shirt and dark slacks. No scrubs. No stethoscope. No PTMC badge clipped to his chest yet, like armor. Just Jack in a crisp shirt, sleeves buttoned at the wrists, hair combed back but already threatening to fall out of place, jaw shadowed despite the attempt at polish. He looked less like Dr. Abbot and more like the man who had stood barefoot in your laundry closet switching your clothes to the dryer.

That was inconvenient.

Also cruel.

You looked down at your folder before he caught you looking.

He caught you anyway.

Of course he did.

For a second, neither of you moved.

Then Jack reached for his conference badge from the dresser and clipped it to his shirt pocket.

The role returned.

Not fully.

Enough.

You should have been relieved. Instead, you felt the loss of the man underneath it.

Jack glanced toward the closet. You knew what he was looking at before he moved.

The extra pillow. The blanket. He crossed the room and pulled both from the shelf.

Your stomach tightened.

He set them on the floor beside the desk chair, neatly, because even self-punishment apparently needed clean lines.

You said nothing. Your throat hurt with the effort. Once, you would have told him to get into bed. Once, he would have pretended to argue before doing exactly what you asked. Now the pillow stayed on the floor. And neither of you touched it.

Jack straightened. “Ready?” he asked.

You picked up your tote. “Yes.”

The word was easy.

The room was not.

He opened the door and stepped back to let you pass.

You walked into the hallway first, low heels quiet on the carpet, conference badge swinging against your blouse, your heart still caught somewhere inside that room with the king bed and the pillow on the floor.

Behind you, Jack pulled the door shut. The lock clicked.

You did not look back.

Not yet.

Robby was waiting in the hallway when you and Jack stepped out of the room. He leaned against the opposite wall with his conference folder tucked under one arm, his badge hanging crookedly from his neck, and a paper cup of hotel coffee in his hand. He looked from you to Jack, then back to you. His eyes narrowed.

“Good news,” Robby said. “Everyone looks employable.”

You adjusted the strap of your tote. “That was the goal.”

Robby’s gaze moved to Jack’s shirt. “Abbot ironed.”

Jack closed the hotel room door behind him. “Don’t.”

Robby lifted his coffee cup in salute. “No, I’m proud. Domestic skills. Personal growth. Crisp lines.”

Jack checked the lock, then looked at him. “Are you done?”

Robby considered that. “Never.”

You looked down before your mouth could do anything dangerous. Jack stood beside you in the hallway, too polished for your nervous system to manage politely. Crisp shirt. Dark slacks. Conference badge clipped neatly to his pocket. No scrubs. No stethoscope. No trauma bay between you. Nothing clinical enough to make him safe.

Robby’s gaze flicked to you. Not teasing this time. Checking. You gave him a tiny nod.

He took it, then pushed off the wall. “The session room is this way.”

Jack fell into step on Robby’s other side. You let Robby walk between you. He noticed. Of course he did. To his credit, he said nothing.

The hallway fed into the conference wing, where the carpet somehow became busier, and the lighting became less flattering. People clustered around small standing tables with paper cups and branded folders. A vendor booth near the entrance offered pens, badge reels, and a bowl of mints that looked like they had survived several conferences and lost faith in humanity.

Robby slowed near the coffee station. He stared at the carafes. “This coffee looks legally distinct from coffee,” he said.

You glanced at the label. “It says medium roast.”

Robby picked up a stir stick and pointed it at the carafe. “That is what it wants you to think.”

Jack looked toward the session doors. “We have five minutes.”

Robby sighed and took another cup anyway. “Fine. I’ll poison myself academically.”

You reached for a tea bag instead. Jack saw it. You knew because his attention paused on your hand for half a second.

Then he looked away.

Good.

That was good.

Probably.

You moved toward the ballroom doors before any of that could become a thought with teeth. Inside, the room was already half full. Rows of chairs faced a low stage with a podium, two projection screens, and a title slide that read:

Complex Trauma Response: Field-to-ED Communication and Team Coordination

A session you actually wanted to attend. That helped. Learning helped. A notebook helped. A pen in your hand helped. Anything that made this conference feel like the professional opportunity you had chosen instead of the emotional trap PTMC had accidentally funded.

Robby scanned the rows. “Back? Middle? Front if we hate ourselves?”

You looked over the seating. “Middle.”

Jack nodded toward an open row. “There.”

You moved first. 

Not because you were avoiding him. 

Because you were.

Robby started into the row after you, but you stopped with one hand lightly on his sleeve.

“Robby,” you said, keeping your voice low. He looked down at your hand, then at your face. You glanced toward the seats. “You sit in the middle.”

His expression did not change much. But his eyes softened. “Got it,” Robby said. He stepped into the row first and took the middle seat. You sat on his left. Jack sat on his right.

A buffer.

A boundary.

A person sitting between you and the man whose hands your body still remembered with humiliating accuracy.

Robby settled into the chair and leaned slightly toward you.

“For the record,” he murmured, “I’ve always wanted to be furniture.”

You opened your notebook. “You’re very supportive furniture.”

Robby nodded gravely. “Ergonomic.”

Jack said nothing.

You did not look past Robby to see his face.

You did not need to.

You felt the silence anyway.

A man dropped into the seat on your other side, conference folder in one hand and coffee in the other. He was broad-shouldered in a way that made the chair look slightly inadequate, with short dark hair still damp from the rain and a navy EMS jacket folded over one arm.

Good-looking, your brain supplied, unhelpfully.

Not in a world-ending way. Not in a Jack way.

Just objectively. Broad shoulders. Easy smile. Kind eyes. The kind of man you might have noticed for more than three seconds if your heart had not recently been returned to you in pieces.

He glanced at your badge. “PTMC?” he asked.

You turned toward him. “Yeah.”

His smile was easy. “I’m Caleb Ross. County EMS.”

You shifted your notebook to your lap and offered your hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Caleb shook your hand, warm and professional. “Your trauma team has a reputation.”

You lifted an eyebrow. “Good or bad?”

He smiled wider. “From EMS? Usually good.”

Robby leaned forward enough to see around you. “Only usually?”

Caleb glanced past you, amused. “Depends who answers the radio.”

Robby put a hand to his chest. “That feels personal.”

You pointed your pen toward Robby. “He’s PTMC’s chief attending physician and head of the ER. Everything feels personal.”

Caleb’s eyes brightened with recognition. “Robinavitch?”

Robby looked pained. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Caleb nodded. “I heard you speak at the airway panel last year.”

Robby straightened a little. “Good things, I assume.”

Caleb grinned. “Memorable things.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself. Small. Real. Easy.

Across Robby, Jack shifted.

You did not look.

You turned back to Caleb instead because Caleb was safe in a way strangers could be safe. No history. No toothbrush. No parking garage. No coffee beans returned in a paper bag—just a professional peer making conversation before a session.

Caleb glanced at your notebook. “You working trauma tonight after this, or did they give you actual time off?”

You capped your pen. “I work nights, but I’m off for the conference.”

Robby leaned back in his chair. “She says that like PTMC didn’t try to make her work immediately before and after.”

You gave him a look. “Robby.”

He lifted both hands. “I’m pro-labor.”

Caleb laughed. “Good to know.”

The lights dimmed slightly at the front of the room. You faced forward.

Caleb lowered his voice. “Good luck staying awake.”

You smiled politely. “I came prepared.”

He glanced at the tea in your cup. “That strong enough?”

You looked down at it. “Absolutely not.”

Robby whispered beside you, “Finally, medical honesty.”

You smiled again, but this time you kept it smaller because you could feel Jack on the other side of Robby.

Still. Quiet. Contained.

You opened your notebook and wrote the session title at the top of the page. Focus. Learn. You had chosen this. You were allowed to be here. The presenter began with a story from the field, and you let yourself follow the details. EMS handoff failure. Miscommunication. Pediatric trauma activation delayed by unclear mechanism. How field language changed ED readiness. The material pulled you in despite yourself. Your pen moved quickly. You took notes because you wanted the knowledge. Because you had earned the seat. Because you refused to spend the entire conference measuring the distance between your chair and Jack’s.

When the presenter asked for examples from nursing staff about handoff breakdowns, your hand lifted before you could overthink it. Robby looked at you with open approval.

You ignored him and waited for the microphone to reach you.

When it did, you sat straighter. “At PTMC, the biggest breakdown I see is when field concerns get translated into acuity labels too early,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. “If EMS says, ‘Something feels wrong,’ but the vitals look okay in triage, it can get flattened into stable. Sometimes that gut concern is the most important part of the handoff.”

The presenter nodded from the stage. “That’s an excellent point.”

You handed the microphone back.

Robby leaned slightly toward you. “Nerd.”

You looked at him from the corner of your eye. “Chief.”

He grimaced. “Cruel.”

Caleb leaned closer from your other side, keeping his voice low. “That was a good answer.”

You looked at him. “Thanks.”

His expression stayed open, professional, warm. “We say that all the time in EMS. Sometimes you can’t chart ‘this feels bad,’ but you know.”

You nodded. “Exactly.” It was nice. That was all. A nice, easy professional conversation with someone who understood the work and had not once made your chest feel like it had been split open. You let yourself have it.

Across Robby, Jack said nothing.

JACK POV:

Jack had no right to be jealous. None. Not one goddamn inch of ground to stand on.

He knew that.

He knew it while Caleb Ross smiled at you from the next chair over. Knew it while you turned toward him with your pen in your hand and answered as if this were easy. Knew it while Robby sat between you like a court-appointed consequence Jack had absolutely earned.

The paramedic had done nothing wrong.

That was the worst fucking part.

He was polite. Professional. Friendly in a way that made sense at a conference where people were supposed to network, exchange ideas, and pretend hotel coffee was drinkable.

He had asked about PTMC.

He had complimented your answer.

He had smiled at you like you were someone worth smiling at.

You were.

Christ, you were.

Jack looked down at his notes and realized he had written the same word twice.

handoff

handoff

Excellent. Brilliant. Very professional.

He tightened his grip on the pen.

He was not angry at you.

He was not angry at Caleb Ross, although a very stupid part of him wanted to be. The man had a good handshake, decent posture, and apparently the ability to speak to you without dragging the wreckage of a parking garage into every pause.

Good for him. Really.

Fuck him.

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose.

The man had done nothing except exist near a woman Jack had lost because he had been too much of a coward to admit that casual had stopped being casual long before she asked him for comfort, and he chose the easier room.

The easier table.

The easier company.

Breakfast had been easy.

Robby had been easy.

Pancakes had not looked at him with tears in their eyes and asked him to choose.

Jack’s jaw tightened.

He kept his eyes on the stage.

The presenter clicked to the next slide.

Something about closed-loop communication.

Of course. Perfect.

Robby shifted beside him, and Jack had the immediate, irrational urge to tell him to stop moving.

Not because Robby was doing anything wrong either. Robby had done exactly what he should have done. He had sat between you because you wanted him there. He had checked on you. He had recommended you for the conference because you deserved the spot. He had looked Jack dead in the eye without saying “you did this” because he was apparently capable of mercy when he wanted to be.

Jack hated him for that, too.

Briefly.

Then he hated himself more.

You leaned over your notebook, writing quickly, hair falling just slightly near your cheek. Not shift hair. Not the efficient, pinned-up version he was used to seeing under PTMC lights. This was softer. Deliberate. Professional in a way that had nothing to do with scrubs or trauma shears or the ER’s relentless fluorescent honesty.

You looked like yourself outside the life he had known you in.

He should have been glad to see it.

Proud, even.

You were good. You had earned this. You had made a smart point in a room full of people who should listen to nurses more often.

Instead, Jack sat three seats away and felt like his ribs had been wired too tight.

Caleb leaned toward you again.

Jack did not hear what he said.

He saw you smile.

Not big.

Not flirtatious.

Just warm. Easy. A normal smile given to a normal man in a normal conversation.

Jack felt something ugly twist under his sternum.

He had heard that laugh in his kitchen. Against his pillow. In the back seat of your car in the abandoned PTMC overflow lot, while rain hit the windshield and you tried to muffle your mouth against his shoulder.

Now he was hearing it from three seats away.

With Robby between them.

Good.

That was good.

Someone should be between you.

A wall. A person. A hotel conference. A fucking federal agency if necessary.

Jack had made sure of that.

He had made himself someone you had to survive.

The thought landed hard enough that he looked down.

His notes blurred for a second.

He blinked once.

Then again.

Get it together.

He was an attending physician at a regional emergency medicine conference, not a teenager watching his ex talk to someone by the lockers.

Except you were not his ex.

You had never been his anything.

He had made sure of that, too.

Fuck.

Robby leaned slightly toward him without looking away from the stage.

“You good?” Robby murmured.

Jack did not look at him. “Fine.”

Robby’s pen tapped once against his folder. “That was a hauntingly unconvincing answer.”

Jack kept his voice low. “Watch the presentation.”

Robby glanced at him then, and whatever he saw made the humor leave his face.

For once, Robby did not push.

That was worse.

The session continued.

Jack understood perhaps thirty percent of it.

The rest of him was stuck on the way you had said ‘exactly’ to Caleb Ross, like agreement could be uncomplicated. Like conversation could be safe. Like men could ask you questions and not turn around later and make you feel stupid for believing their answers.

You were allowed that.

You were allowed ease.

You were allowed Caleb Ross, Robby, and every person who could stand beside you without making you feel like you had asked for too much.

Jack had no right to want to be the one in that seat.

No right to hate the seat between you.

No right to notice the low heel of your shoe hooked neatly behind the chair leg, or the subtle color on your mouth, or the way you tapped her pen twice against the page before writing something down.

No right to know that if you were beside him, close enough, he would have recognized the exact moment you were interested in the material and the exact moment you were pretending not to be tired.

No right to miss knowing.

He missed it anyway.

Fuck, he missed it.

When the session ended, people stood in a slow wave of conference folders and awkward knees.

Jack remained seated half a second longer than necessary, because standing meant navigating the row. Navigating the row meant passing you. Passing you meant remembering that the last time he had reached for you, you had stepped back with tears on your face and begged him not to touch you.

Robby rose first.

“Ten-minute break,” Robby said, collecting his folder. “Everyone use it wisely. By which I mean avoid the coffee.”

You stood on Robby’s other side. “I’m getting more tea.”

Caleb stood too, folding his EMS jacket over his arm. “I think there’s another station outside the ballroom.”

You looked up at him. “With better tea?”

Caleb smiled. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

Robby leaned toward her. “Conference optimism is a disease.”

You laughed softly.

Jack stood.

His knee bumped the chair in front of him.

Not hard.

Enough.

You glanced over.

Your eyes met.

For one second, the room went quiet around the contact.

Then you looked away first. Not quickly. Not like retreat.

Like choice.

Jack deserved that, too.

Caleb shifted his folder under one arm. “You going to the reception tonight?”

You adjusted the strap of your tote. “Probably.”

Jack’s hand tightened around his notebook.

Ridiculous.

Absolutely fucking ridiculous.

Caleb nodded toward the doors. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”

You gave him a polite smile. “Maybe.”

Polite. Normal. Fine.

Jack wanted to leave the room.

Robby looked at Jack, then at the ceiling, like he was asking some higher power for patience and receiving no useful response.

“Great,” Robby said, clapping his hands once. “Tea. Networking. Continuing education. Nobody commits a felony.”

You glanced at him. “That instruction feels targeted.”

Robby started toward the aisle. “It is broadly preventive.”

Jack followed you out because there was nowhere else to go.

Because the session was over.

Because the next room was waiting.

Because the hotel key in his pocket was for a room with one king bed and a pillow on the floor.

Because Caleb Ross was walking beside you, talking about ambulance bay handoffs, and you were listening.

Because Jack had no right to care.

Because he did anyway.

@nosebeers, @moonz33, @littlewolfbird, @tubby23, @gandalfthegoatsblog, @melslavalampapp, @marauvderss, @supernaturalcat7,@jennataurus, @itwas-maroon16 , @nizzasspot, @meadow0434, @chezze-its, @callmefatherr, @amacphet, @imabapical, @offsavingtheworld, @ifyoubewooedingoodtime, @justreadinghere7, @rabbotseatcarrots, @vicky066, @manly-man-whore, @rosiepoise88, @alittlerayof-pitchblack,@woodxtock, @mafercita101, @kiatjuddae, @lacy1986, @cajunebugg76, @kittenmittensssworld

[deactivated-blog]

TONIGHT. WE’RE DRINKING FROM THE POND.

[bodyfeeling]

where did op go?

[kineticpenguin]

[sole-jpeg]

Somewhere Between Hate And Whatever This Is — Jack Abbot

(Chapter 6/?)

pairing : jack abbot / f!reader

words count : 5,4k

previous chapters : Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

summary : The night shift at the Pitt teaches you two things very quickly: how to keep people alive, and how to survive the ones you can’t.

You are a newly assigned intern doctor who is brilliant, stubborn, and entirely incapable of backing down — which becomes a serious problem when your supervising attending, Jack Abbot, seems to make a sport out of challenging you at every possible opportunity. Between impossible trauma cases, sleepless nights, and arguments sharp enough to cut through the entire ER, the rivalry between them slowly turns into something far more dangerous.

contain : enemies to lovers, rivals, slow burn, sarcasm, mentions of medical trauma, injuries, physical violence, assault.

a/n : y’all don’t know this but I love angst so much like it’s not healthy at all. So here’s more drama for you 🥰

CHAPTER 6 : NOT LIKE THIS

“HEY!”

The sound cuts through everything. Sharp. Close.

Then— The pressure is gone. All at once.

Your body drops before your brain catches up, your knees giving out as your feet finally lose

what little grip they had on the ground. You hit the floor hard, hands catching you just enough to keep you from collapsing completely.

Air. You gasp for it like it’s something physical, something you have to grab and pull back into your lungs.

It hurts. Burns.

Each breath too fast, too shallow at first, your chest struggling to remember how to work properly. You curl in slightly, one hand coming up to your throat instinctively, fingers pressing against the skin like you need to check it’s still there, still yours.

The world is still wrong. Blurred. Sounds distant, warped, like they’re coming from underwater. Voices shouting. Movement. Someone yelling for security. You don’t really process any of it. You just breathe.

Again. Again. Again—

“Hey.” Closer. Different. Not panicked. Focused. “Hey—look at me.”

A hand touches your arm. Firm. Grounding. You flinch slightly at the contact, your other hand tightening instinctively against your throat.

“Easy,” the voice says. “You’re okay.” You try to respond. Nothing comes out at first.

Just another rough inhale as you force your lungs to cooperate. Your vision starts to settle, slowly pulling back into focus — shapes sharpening, light less harsh, the ringing in your ears fading just enough to let the world back in.

You blink. Once. Twice. And then you look up. At him.

Abbot.

For a second, your brain doesn’t quite connect it. Like you’re still catching up. Still trying to match what you’re seeing with what makes sense.

Of all people— Him.

You didn’t expect that. Not here. Not like this.

He’s crouched in front of you, one hand still steady on your arm, his expression tighter than usual — not unreadable this time. Focused. Concerned.

“You with me?” he asks.

Your throat feels raw when you finally manage to speak. “…Yeah,” you rasp, though it comes out weaker than you want.

He doesn’t let go immediately. His eyes stay on you, searching, checking. “Can you breathe ?” You nod, even as another uneven breath proves the answer isn’t that simple.

“Y-yeah.” It’s not convincing. He notices. Of course he does.

“Slow it down,” he says, voice lower now. “In. Then out. Don’t rush it.” You follow it without thinking.

In. It burns. Out. Still shaky. But better.

Your hand drops slightly from your throat, though you don’t fully let it go. The noise around you starts coming back properly now — footsteps, voices, the controlled chaos of people handling the situation behind you.

But right here— It narrows. Just a little. You look at him again.

Still trying to process it.

“…You?” you manage, breath uneven.

One word. Half disbelief. Half confusion. Something flickers across his expression — quick, hard to read. “Yeah,” he says simply. Like there’s nothing strange about it. Like of course it’s him.

His grip on your arm shifts slightly, more supportive now. “Come on,” he adds. “Let’s get you up.”

And this time you let him help you.

Your legs don’t feel like yours when he helps you up. They respond—but not right. Unsteady. Slow. Like there’s a delay between what your brain says and what your body actually does.

“Careful,” Abbot mutters, one hand firm at your back, the other steadying your arm as he pulls you upright. You sway. The room tilts just enough to make your stomach drop.

“Okay—” you breathe, though it comes out uneven, your chest still tight, throat raw.

He doesn’t let go. “Don’t rush it.” You nod, even if you’re not sure you can actually follow that advice. One of your arms ends up around his neck almost without thinking, fingers gripping the fabric of his scrubs just to stay anchored to something solid.

His hand presses more firmly against your back in response.

“Walk,” he says quietly. “Slow.”

You take a step. Then another. Each one feels heavier than it should, your breathing still off, catching in your chest before it can settle properly.

By the time he guides you back through the doors into the emergency hallway, the noise hits you again—but this time it feels distant, like you’re slightly out of sync with everything around you.

And then— It catches up. Your lungs seize. You cough. Hard. It bends you forward slightly, your grip tightening around him as your body tries to pull in air that still doesn’t come easily.

“Hey—” Abbot’s voice sharpens just a little, his hand shifting higher on your back.

“Breathe.” You try. God, you try. But it comes out in broken gasps, another cough tearing through your chest, your throat burning with every inhale.

“Easy—easy—”

Footsteps rush toward you. Fast. “What happened?!” Dana. You don’t even have to look to know it’s her. She’s already there, already reaching for you, her hand coming up to your face, turning your head just enough to see you properly.

“Oh my—hey, hey—look at me—”

You blink at her, still trying to catch your breath, vision not fully steady yet. “I—” you try, but it dissolves into another cough.

Princess is right behind her, eyes wide, scanning you quickly, then Abbot, then back to you.

“Is she okay? What happened?”

“Patient in the waiting room,” Abbot answers, short, controlled. “He grabbed her.”

Dana’s expression changes instantly. Sharp. Angry. But she pushes it down just as fast, refocusing on you. “Hey,” she says again, softer now, her hand still steady against your cheek. “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

You shake your head slightly, still coughing, one hand coming back to your throat

instinctively. “It—hurts—” you manage between breaths.

“I know,” she says immediately. “I know.” Her hand slides down to your shoulder, grounding.

“Alright, we’re not staying here. Let’s move.”

Between her and Abbot, they guide you further down the hallway, away from the noise, away from the waiting area.

Your steps are still uneven. Your breathing still not right. But you’re moving.

Princess stays close, hovering just beside you, her voice softer now, worried. “You scared us,” she murmurs. You try to answer. Nothing comes out.

Just another shaky breath. And for the first time since it happened— It really hits you. How close that was.

They don’t take you far. Just enough to get you out of the hallway, out of the noise, into something controlled.

“Trauma two—move.” The curtain is already being pulled when you’re guided inside, the bed cleared in seconds.

“Sit—no, lay down,” Dana says, firm but not harsh.

You don’t argue. You can’t, not really. The second you’re lowered onto the bed, the room tilts again slightly, your head hitting the pillow harder than you meant it to. Your chest is still tight, breaths uneven, catching halfway in.

“Okay,” Dana’s voice is right there again, steady, practiced. “Slow breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Don’t fight it.”

You tried but every inhale feels wrong—too shallow, too sharp—like your throat won’t open the way it should.

A cough breaks through again, rough, painful.

“Alright, let’s check her,” Abbot says.

His voice… it’s different. Shorter. Tighter.

You turn your head slightly, still breathing unevenly, eyes finding him almost automatically.

He’s already at your side, movements fast but precise. “Pulse,” he mutters, fingers pressing against your wrist, then shifting to your neck—careful, controlled, but you still flinch slightly at the contact.

“Sorry,” he adds quickly, not really looking at you as he checks. “Pulse is fast,” he says to

Dana. “She’s tachy.”

For a second, it hits you—how strange this feels. Him, this close. His hands on your skin, not to correct you, not to challenge you—but to check, to make sure you’re okay.

It shouldn’t feel different. But it does.

“Not surprising,” Dana replies, already grabbing equipment. “Let’s get her on O₂.” A mask comes down over your face a second later, cool plastic against your skin. “Breathe,” Dana says softly. “This will help.”

You focus on it. On the air. On the rhythm. In. Out. Still shaky—but slowly, slowly easing.

“Sat?” Abbot asks. Princess is already clipping the monitor onto your finger. “Coming up… ninety-four… ninety-six—okay, going up.”

“Good.” Abbot’s hand moves to your jawline, then your neck again, more deliberate this time, pressing gently along the sides.

“Any pain when I touch here?” he asks. You swallow. It hurts. “…Yeah.”

“Where ?”

You lift a weak hand, pointing vaguely. “Here… and—” you cough again “—here…”

He nods, already assessing. “Check for swelling,” he says. Dana leans in, her fingers gentle but firm as she examines your throat. “No obvious swelling yet,” she says. “But her voice—”

“Hoarse,” Abbot finishes. “Yeah.” He steps back half a second, grabbing a penlight.

“Look at me,” he says.

You do. He checks your pupils quickly, then your face, your breathing, every small detail like he’s trying to map out exactly what happened without you having to say it.

“You dizzy?” he asks.

“Not really.”

“Vision?”

“Better… but—” you hesitate “—was blurry.”

He nods once, filing it away. “Okay.” There’s a beat. Then you push the mask slightly away from your face.

“I’m okay,” you say, voice rough, breath still uneven. “I just— I need to—”

You try to sit up. Bad idea. Your body protests immediately, your head spinning just enough to make you pause— A hand is on your shoulder instantly. Firm. Stopping you. “Don’t,” Abbot says.

At the same time, “No—stay down,” Dana adds, her hand pressing gently but insistently on your other shoulder.

You look between them, frustrated. “I’m fine,” you insist, though it doesn’t sound convincing even to you. “You’re not,” Abbot replies immediately.

No hesitation. No sarcasm. Just flat. Certain.

“You had pressure on your airway,” he continues, his tone controlled but sharper than usual.

“You’re not going anywhere yet.”

“I can breathe—”

“Barely,” Dana cuts in, softer but just as firm. “And that’s exactly why you’re staying right here.” You exhale, which turns into another weak cough. Your hand comes back to your throat again instinctively.

You look at him again. Really look this time. And that’s when you see it. Something off.

Something you’ve never seen on his face before. Not irritation. Not control. Something tighter. Edges not quite where they should be. His jaw set a little too hard. His movements just slightly too fast. Like he’s holding something back. Something that looks a lot like—

Panic.

For you.

It throws you off more than anything else. You blink at him, momentarily distracted from everything else. “…I’m okay,” you say again, softer this time. Not arguing. Almost reassuring. His eyes flick back to yours. Just for a second. And whatever that was— It doesn’t go away.

“Stay down,” he says again. Quieter now. But not any less firm. And this time— You don’t try to get up again.

They don’t keep you long under constant watch.

Not because it wasn’t serious—but because the ER doesn’t stop, and you’re stable enough

now to breathe on your own, the oxygen mask resting loose at the side of your face. So they leave you there. In Trauma Two.

Lights softer than the hallway, the steady rhythm of a monitor beside you marking time in quiet beeps.

Thirty minutes. Maybe forty. You don’t really know.

You lay there, one arm over your stomach, the other still drifting back to your throat every now and then without thinking. It aches. Not sharp anymore, but deep. Bruised. Every swallow reminds you.

Your breathing is better. The adrenaline has worn off. What’s left is something heavier. The

memory. The grip. The moment you couldn’t breathe. You close your eyes for a second. Then open them again. Because it’s still there.

Out in the hallway, Dana doesn’t move far from the room you were in. Neither does Abbot.

They stand just off to the side, voices low but tight.

“She needs to press charges,” Dana says, arms crossed, tone sharp with controlled anger.

“That was assault.” Abbot doesn’t answer immediately. His gaze is fixed somewhere past her, jaw tight, like he’s replaying it frame by frame.

“He wasn’t in his right mind,” he finally says.

“That doesn’t change what happened,” Dana shoots back. “He could’ve—” she stops herself, exhales sharply. “He hurt her.”

“I know.” The way he says it is flat. Too flat. Like it’s sitting heavier than he’s letting on.

Dana watches him for a second, reading between the lines. “She’s lucky you got there when you did.” That lands. She could see it. Just in the slight shift of his posture. But he doesn’t respond.

“We need to document everything,” he says. “Marks, symptoms, timeline. If she develops swelling later—”

“I already noted it,” Dana cuts in. “And I’m not dropping the charges conversation.”

“She’s not going to want to.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Dana replies. “It’s not just about what she wants. It’s about safety. For her and for everyone else.” There’s a beat.

Then, “Where is she?” a voice cuts in, quick, a little too sharp.

They both turn. Robby. He’s coming toward them fast, still half in motion, gloves shoved into his pocket, his expression already tense before he even gets the full answer. “What

happened?” he asks, looking between them.

Dana answers first. “Patient in the waiting room. Altered. He got violent.”

Robby’s brow furrows immediately. “Who?”

A pause. “Her.” That’s all it takes. His expression shifts instantly. “Is she okay?”

“She’s stable,” Abbot says. “Breathing’s back to normal range, sats recovered. Throat pain, some dizziness earlier.”

Robby exhales, but it doesn’t fully release the tension. “What the hell happened?” Dana shakes her head slightly.

“He started hitting himself. She went to intervene. He… turned on her.” Robby’s jaw tightens.

“Jesus.”

There’s a brief silence. Heavy. Then he looks toward the curtain of Trauma Two.

“She’s in there?”

Dana nods. “Yeah. Resting.”

Robby doesn’t wait. He moves toward it immediately. And behind him, Abbot doesn’t follow right away.

The curtain shifts softly as Robby steps in. He expects to find you lying down. Still.

Recovering.

But instead… You’re standing. Back turned to him, moving slowly but deliberately around the room, putting things back where they belong. Gauze aligned. Instruments reset. The bed

straightened like nothing happened there. Like you can erase it if everything looks normal again.

For a second, he just watches you. “…Hey.”

You turn slightly at his voice. “Hey,” you answer, quieter, but steadier than before.

Up close, it’s still visible. The faint redness around your throat. The way your movements are just a little slower than usual. The effort behind your breathing.

“What are you doing?” he asks, stepping further in. You shrug lightly, adjusting a tray.

“Just cleaning up. Everything’s fine.” It’s automatic. Too automatic.

“I checked everything,” you add. “I’m good.” The curtain moves again.

Abbot this time. Dana right behind him.

He takes one look at you—standing, moving, clearly about to leave. And something snaps

just slightly. “What are you doing?” he asks again, but his tone is different from Robby’s.

Sharper. You turn to him fully now, brows pulling together just a little.

“I told you—I’m fine,” you say. “I checked everything.” He doesn’t answer immediately. Just looks at you. Long enough that it feels like he’s about to say something else.

Push. Correct. Stop you. But he doesn’t. Not this time.

His jaw tightens slightly instead, and he looks away for half a second, like he’s forcing himself to let it go. Not here. Not now.

Robby steps in before the silence stretches too far. “I’m going to call the hospital lawyer,” he says, direct, already halfway reaching for his phone. “You need to press charges.”

The words land heavy in the room. You don’t even hesitate. “No.” It comes out fast. Immediate. You shake your head, stepping back slightly.

“I don’t want to press charges.” Three pairs of eyes on you now. Dana’s expression shifts first. “Hey—”

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” you cut in, voice still rough but more insistent now.

“He was scared. He was—he was seeing things. I saw it in his eyes, he’s probably drugged.”

“That doesn’t change what happened,” Dana says, gentler than before, but firm. “I’m okay,” you insist again. “Nothing happened.”

Abbot’s gaze snaps back to you at that.

Nothing happened. You can see it in his face— He doesn’t agree. Not even a little.

Robby lowers his phone slowly, studying you. “He assaulted you,” he says, not harsh, but clear. You shake your head again. “I’m not pressing charges.” Silence. Tense. Thick.

Dana steps a little closer. “This isn’t just about you,” she says. “It’s about making sure this doesn’t happen again.”

“It won’t,” you answer quickly. “He needs help, not— not that.”

Robby and Dana exchange a look. And then Abbot finally speaks. Quiet. Controlled. “But you’re still the one who got hurt.”

You look at him. There’s no sarcasm in it. No edge. Just… fact. And something else underneath it. Something you can’t quite name. You swallow, your hand drifting briefly back to your throat again.

“I said I’m fine.” Your voice is softer now. But it doesn’t convince anyone in the room.

Especially not him.

You don’t wait for them to say anything. You don’t stay long enough to let them convince you. You just grab your things, avoid their eyes—and leave.

The curtain falls back into place behind you, the sound soft but final. And for a second no one speaks. Robby exhales slowly, running a hand over the back of his neck.

Dana shakes her head, arms crossing again.

“She can’t just walk away from this,” she mutters. “That’s not—”

“She’s in shock,” Robby says quietly. “Or minimizing. Or both.” Dana nods, frustrated. “She always does that. Takes it on herself like it’s nothing.”

There’s a pause. Then, “I’ll press charges.”

It cuts clean through the conversation.

Both of them turn. Abbot hasn’t moved much. Still standing where he was, gaze lowered slightly, like he came to the decision somewhere in the silence.

Robby frowns. “What?”

Dana looks at him, confused. “You can’t—this isn’t—”

“Yes, I can.” His tone is calm. Too calm. He lifts the hem of his shirt just enough to reveal the side of his rib cage. There’s already a mark forming. Darkening under the skin. The beginning of a bruise. “When I pulled him off her, he hit me,” he says. “Right here.” He lets the shirt fall back into place. “He assaulted me too.”

The room goes quiet again. Robby studies him, trying to read past the words. “You’re serious.”

“Yes.”

Dana’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’re doing this for her.” It’s not a question.

Abbot doesn’t answer directly. But he doesn’t deny it either. “She’s not going to want this,”

Robby points out carefully. “You know that.”

“I know.”

“And you’re still going to do it?” A beat. Then, “Yes.” Simple. Final. Dana watches him for a second longer, something shifting in her expression.

Because she gets it. Even if she doesn’t fully agree with how he’s doing it. “…She’s not going to like it,” she says. “No,” Abbot replies. “She won’t.” Another silence. He doesn’t waver. Doesn’t look uncertain. Doesn’t second-guess it. “Call the hospital lawyer,” he says to

Robby. Robby hesitates. Just for a second. Then sighs quietly, pulling his phone out.

“Alright.”

Dana leans back slightly against the wall, arms still crossed—but her gaze doesn’t leave Abbot.

Not this time. Because that, that wasn’t control. That wasn’t ego. That was something else entirely. And she saw it.

——————

A few hours later, the ER had swallowed it. Not forgotten. Just… absorbed it into the constant motion, the noise, the next patient, the next urgency.

You slipped back into it the only way you knew how. By working. One patient. Then another.

Then another. Five, maybe more—you stopped counting somewhere between sutures and prescriptions, between questions asked and answers given.

Your voice was still rough. Your throat still ached every time you swallowed.

And the marks, you knew it was there. You didn’t need a mirror to feel it. You caught it in reflections sometimes, in the way the light hit the glass, in the quick flick of someone’s eyes before they looked away.

No one said anything. Not the nurses. Not even the other patients you treated. No questions.

No “are you okay?” Just… space. Too much of it, maybe. Because you could feel it anyway.

The looks. Quick. Careful. Lingering just a second too long before shifting back to whatever they were doing.

Like they were all pretending nothing had happened. And somehow, that made it louder. You pushed through it. Kept moving. Kept working.

You turned the corner of the hallway, chart in hand, already scanning the next name, the next task, and then you saw him. Through the small window of the psych room. Sitting on the bed.

Curled in on himself. Shoulders hunched, hands gripping his own sleeves, rocking slightly, like he was trying to hold himself together from the inside.

Not violent. Not loud. Just… small. It stopped you. Mid-step. Your body froze before your brain could catch up. That’s him. Your chest tightened—different from before.

Not lack of air. Something else. You stood there, just outside the door, staring through the glass. He didn’t look like the same man. Not the one in the waiting room. He shifted slightly on the bed, muttering something under his breath you couldn’t quite hear. Alone.

Contained. Broken in a way that didn’t look dangerous anymore.

You didn’t know what to do.

Walk away? Go in? Say something? Nothing?

Your fingers tightened slightly around the chart in your hand. You don’t think about it too long. If you do, you’ll walk away. So you move. Straight to the door. Your hand is already reaching for the handle when—

“Hey.” A hand comes up, stopping the door before it opens. Ahmad. He steps slightly in front of you, not aggressive, just firm—his presence enough to block the way.

“You can’t go in there.” You blink, a little thrown off.

“I just—”

“No,” he repeats, calmer but not softer. “Not you.” That lands. You frown slightly. “What does that mean?”

He gives you a look. The kind that says you know exactly what it means. “That’s the guy,” he adds quietly. “The one from earlier.”

“I know.”

“Then you definitely shouldn’t be going in.” You glance past him, through the small window again. He’s still there. Curled in on himself. Not looking up.

“I just want to talk to him,” you say. Ahmad shakes his head immediately. “Bad idea.”

“I’m a doctor.”

“And he just assaulted you.”

Your jaw tightens slightly. “He wasn’t in his right mind.”

“That doesn’t make him safe.”

“I’ll be careful.”

“You were careful before.” That one hits. You exhale, frustration flickering across your face.

“I need to talk to him.”

“Why?”

You hesitate. Because you don’t have a clean answer. Because you don’t fully understand it yourself. “…I just do.”

Ahmad studies you for a second. Then glances back at the door. Then at you again. You soften just a little. “Come with me,” you add quickly. “Stay the whole time. I won’t be alone.”

He doesn’t answer right away. You can see the hesitation. The calculation.

He looks through the window again, assessing the man inside, then back at you—taking in the mark on your throat, the exhaustion you’re trying to hide, the determination you’re not.

“…Two minutes,” he says finally. Relief flickers across your face. “Thank you.”

“But I’m staying right there,” he adds, pointing just inside the door. “And if anything feels off, we’re done. Immediately.”

You nod quickly. “Okay.”

He exhales, still not fully convinced, then reaches for the door. “Alright.”

The handle turns and the door clicks softly behind you. Not loud. But final enough that you feel it.

Ahmad stays right where he said he would—just inside the door, arms crossed, posture steady, eyes moving between you and the man on the bed without saying a word.

You take a step forward. Slow. Measured. Not too close. Not yet. The room feels smaller than it should. Quieter. You can hear his breathing. Uneven. Shaky.

He’s still curled in on himself when you enter, shoulders hunched, hands gripping the fabric of his sleeves like he’s holding himself together. For a second, you just stand there. “Hey,” you say softly.

He freezes. The rocking stops. Slowly, he lifts his head. And when his eyes meet yours it’s not the same look as before.Not wild. Not aggressive. It’s… fear. Raw. Immediate. Like he recognizes you. Like he remembers.

“I—” His voice breaks before the word fully comes out.

His hands loosen from his sleeves, then tighten again, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “I’m sorry,” he says. Too fast. Too desperate. “I’m so sorry— I didn’t— I didn’t mean—”

His breathing picks up again, panic threading through every word. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—” You don’t move closer. You don’t pull away either. You just stay where you are.

Grounded.

“It’s okay,” you say gently.

He shakes his head immediately. “No—no, it’s not— I hurt you— I saw— I—” His voice cracks again, his eyes dropping to your throat for half a second before he looks away like he can’t stand it. “I didn’t know what was happening— there were voices and— I thought—”

He cuts himself off, pressing his hands against his head briefly like he’s trying to push something out. “I didn’t know,” he repeats, weaker now.

You swallow. It still hurts. But you ignore it. “I know,” you say quietly. That makes him look at you again. Confused. Disbelieving.

“You… know?” he asks, like he doesn’t understand how you could.

You nod slightly. “You weren’t yourself.”

His eyes fill just a little. Not quite tears. But close. “I was scared,” he admits, voice barely above a whisper. “I thought— I thought someone was trying to—” He stops again. Shakes his head. “It doesn’t make sense now,” he says. “It did before. It felt real.”

You take a small step closer this time. Still careful. Still giving him space.

“That happens,” you tell him softly. “Sometimes your brain convinces you something is real when it’s not.”

He listens. Really listens.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” he adds quickly. “I swear, I didn’t—”

“I know.” You don’t hesitate when you say it. And somehow, that seems to break something in him more than anything else. His shoulders drop slightly. Just a little. Like he’s been holding tension he didn’t even realize was there. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Quieter this time.

Not frantic. Just… honest.

You nod once. “I heard you.”

The silence barely has time to settle. The door bursts open. Sharp. Sudden. All three of you flinch. The man jerks back on the bed, panic flashing instantly across his face again, his body tensing like he’s about to bolt.

Ahmad straightens near the door, already alert. But it’s not security. It’s police. Two officers step in fast, controlled, no hesitation in their movements.

“Sir, we need you to stand up.”

The man blinks at them, disoriented, fear snapping back into place. “What—? No, I— I didn’t—”

They don’t wait. They each take one of his arms, guiding—no, pulling—him up from the bed.

“Hey— wait—” he stumbles, clearly confused, looking between them, then past them to you.

“I didn’t mean—” he starts again, panic rising. “I didn’t— please—”

Metal clicks. Sharp. Final. The handcuffs snap into place around his wrists. It happens fast.

Too fast. The shift is brutal.

One second he’s sitting there, apologizing, small, the next he’s restrained, being turned toward the door.

“Wait—” you step forward instinctively, your voice catching slightly. “What’s going on?”

One of the officers glances at you briefly while securing the cuffs. “Ma’am, please step back.”

“I’m asking what’s happening,” you insist, more confused than confrontational, your heart picking up again for an entirely different reason.

Ahmad moves slightly closer to you, not stopping you—but ready.

“He’s being taken into custody,” the second officer says, already guiding the man toward the door. “On what grounds?” you push, your voice still rough but firmer now.

The officer pauses just long enough to answer. “Assault.”

The word lands heavy. Your stomach drops. “What—?”

You look at the man.

He’s shaking now, panic fully back, his earlier calm completely gone. “I didn’t— I didn’t mean to—” he repeats helplessly, eyes darting, landing on you again like you might somehow stop this. “I said I’m sorry— I didn’t—”

Your chest tightens. You take a step forward again. “No— wait—” The officers don’t slow down. They’re already moving him out.

“It’s procedure,” one of them adds shortly. And just like that, they’re gone.

The door closes behind the officers with a dull, final sound that seems to echo louder than it should.

For a second, you don’t move. Then your eyes shift instinctively toward the hallway—and that’s when you see them.

Dana. Robby. And Abbot.

All three of them standing there, just outside, watching. Watching you. Something clicks into place immediately. Not slowly. Not uncertainly. Instantly.

Your stomach drops—and then just as fast, something else replaces it. Heat. Sharp. Rising.

Anger.

You push past Ahmad without a word and step out into the hallway, your pace quick, almost unsteady but driven, your gaze locked on them. “Who did this?” you demand, your voice rough but cutting through the space anyway.

Dana opens her mouth, but you’re not looking at her. You’re looking at him. And he doesn’t look away. “I did.”

His tone is calm. Controlled. Like this is just another decision, another action, something logical and contained. It only makes it worse.

You let out a short, disbelieving breath, stepping closer to him, your chest still tight—not from the lack of air this time, but from everything else crashing in at once.

“You did this?” you repeat, your voice rising despite yourself. “I didn’t want this. I told you I didn’t want this.”

People nearby slow down, just slightly. Not staring—but aware. Of course they are. This is the ER. Nothing stays private for long. But you don’t care. Not right now.

“He needed help,” you continue, your words coming faster now, the emotion pushing through every crack in your control. “He was confused, he was scared—he wasn’t even aware of what he was doing and you—”

You stop yourself for half a second, your jaw tightening as your eyes flicker away before snapping back to him.

“You’re doing this to me—” you start, the words sharper now, more personal, more fragile all at once, “just after you—”

You don’t finish. You can’t. Because whatever you were about to say catches somewhere between your throat and your chest, tangled up in something that feels dangerously close to breaking.

Your hand lifts briefly, gesturing in frustration, helplessness, anger—all of it mixed together.

“This wasn’t your decision to make,” you say instead, quieter now but no less intense. “Not for me.”

He doesn’t interrupt you. Doesn’t try to cut in. He just watches you, his expression still controlled—but not unaffected. Not untouched.

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

And somehow, that doesn’t help at all. For a second, it feels like the whole hallway is holding its breath with you.

You let out a short, sharp scoff, shaking your head as you take a step back, like you need distance from him just to breathe properly again. “No, you’re not.”

Your voice isn’t loud. But it cuts. Clean. Certain.

Because if he were sorry, he wouldn’t have done it. That’s how it feels. Your gaze shifts between the three of them—Dana, Robby, then back to him—and there’s something new in it now.

Not just anger. Not just frustration. Something heavier. Something that sits deeper.

Betrayal.

You don’t say anything else. You just turn. And walk away. Fast enough that it doesn’t look like you’re hesitating. Slow enough that it doesn’t look like you’re running.

But your chest feels tight again, your throat closing up—not from before, not from lack of air— From this.

“Hey—” Dana’s voice comes quickly behind you, footsteps following. “Hey, wait—” You don’t.

Not until her hand catches your wrist. Gentle. But enough to stop you. You freeze for half a second. Just enough. Then you pull your arm back sharply, the movement instinctive, immediate.

“Don’t,” you snap, turning back just enough for her to see your face. “Just—leave me alone.”

It’s not shouted. But it’s final. And that’s what makes it land.

Dana’s hand drops instantly, her expression shifting—caught between concern and knowing she pushed too far.

You don’t wait for anything else. You turn again. And this time, you don’t stop.

Taglist ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@slowburnsky @gandalfthegoatsblog @nosebeers

[my-dailydreams]

[the-big-mood]

"You must complete the HR mandatory safety training"

Me:

[jackabbot]

#the unofficial motto of tumblr dot com

[chillyfeetsteak]

this is what i mean when i type 👀 btw

[peterfromtexas-deactivated20250]

Reenactor throws a spear at a drone

[supapoopa]

What a time to be alive.

[tenthcorner]

“The medieval warrior, realizing the consequences of his impulsive act, immediately approached the owner of the drone and offered to pay for the damage.

The owner of the drone was so impressed by the brilliant attack that he suggested organizing a competition for bringing down “dragons” with short spears next year.

Drone owners have another year to develop a unique “dragon-like” design for their flying machines.” (x)

[kineticpenguin]

I am 100% cooler with this knowing that the spear-thrower realized “oops maybe I shouldn’t have done that” and tried to make it right, and that the guy who the drone belonged to was cool with it

[brunhiddensmusings]

just so everyone knows, this has already been memorialized in a runestone

[stephendann]

Everything about this post blesses those involved with a +4 on their next Today is Good Day roll

[fromaliminalspace]

a rough translation of inscription on the runestone:

On the seventh day of May in the year of 2016 on hither spot the mighty warrior Ulf hath slain a dragon with his spear.

so yeah, happy birthday to this dragon-slaying event and to it only

[nonlinear-nonsubjective]

Happy Ulf Hath Slain A Dragon With His Spear!

[nomadicpixel]

Tumblr heritage post.

[jusjuiceboxbox]

Welcome to being an adult! Featuring such injury causing events as

- sneezed wrong

- turned your neck a little too fast

- slept weird

- took the trash out to the curb and stepped at a slightly different angle than usual

- breathed

- failed to breathe properly

- breathed in the wrong stuff. Allergy time

- looked too hard at something too far away

- knees

[000l]

[shrewreadings]

like to charge, reblog to cast.

[soundofbloom]

The Nice Guys, 2016

[isabellaboo2025]

Where Our Shadows Meet - Part Seven

Pairing: Joel x Reader.

Plot summary: In 1870s Texas, Joel Miller loses his wife and son in childbirth, leaving him to raise his five year old daughter Sarah alone. Faced with losing her to his wife's grieving parents, or being forced into marrying her younger sister, he turns to you - the town's thirty-something spinster - and asks for your hand in a marriage of convenience.

Chapter summary: The tension between you and Joel reaches breaking point but an unexpected visitor throws a spanner in the works.

Warnings: 18+only due to eventual explicit smut. Also references death and grieving.

A/N: Would I keep you waiting??? Some people want a bit of jealousy. I’d love to know if you want feral, sexually possessive jealousy or quiet, brooding jealousy. My fingers are twitching 😂

Masterlist

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

The days that follow the night in the hallway are an exquisite, agonising torture.

Tess’s ghost lingers, but not in an oppressive, painful way, rather as more of a comfortable entity. She lives in the bright, blooming patch of the memorial garden, spoken of and cared about, but in her place, a new, entirely different kind of tension takes root in the house. It’s a living, breathing, blood-heating tension which hums in the air between you and Joel, thick and heavy as the summer.

He doesn’t rush to your bed. You thought he would. You thought the very next night he would come to claim you, but he doesn’t.

True to his word, he seems determined to do this right. He knows you’re untouched, knows that for your entire life, you’ve been the sensible, practical spinster, overlooked and ignored, and he’s fiercely, stubbornly determined not to treat your first time as a frantic, fumbling necessity in the dark. He wants to court you, wants to woo the wife he already has.

But heaven help you, his restraint is driving you slowly, quietly mad.

Every interaction becomes a masterclass in suppressed desire. When he hands you the milk pail in the morning, his fingers deliberately drag across your knuckles, a slow, rough friction that sends a jolt of heat straight to your belly. When he sits across from you at the table, his eyes drop to your mouth, tracking the movement of your lips with a heavy, starving intensity that makes it entirely impossible to swallow your food.

He’s touching you more too, in small, casual ways that feel anything but casual. A heavy hand resting on the small of your back as he guides you through the kitchen door or a thumb brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear when he comes in from the fields. Every touch feels like a brand, a promise of the massive, overwhelming strength he’s holding in check.

You’re vibrating with it. You lie awake in your solitary bed, the quilt kicked off your flushed, overheated body, your hands restless and aching, replaying the memory of his hard, bare chest against your palms and the heavy, rigid length of his arousal pressing into your stomach.

While the physical spark threatens to consume the house, the emotional foundation of your marriage grows deeper, rooted in the rich soil of the memorial garden.

By July, it’s awash with colour and has become a sanctuary, not just for Sarah, but for Joel. He joins you there in the evenings while Sarah waters the base of the plants and talks.

He tells you things about Tess that you’ve never known. Little things such as how frustrated she used to get with her beautiful hair and how she threatened on one occasion to cut it all off. How she tried to help him break a colt once and ended up flat on her back in the dirt, laughing like a mountain dog. How she used to sing to the horses to calm them during a thunderstorm but couldn’t hold a note and only succeeded in making them worse.

In turn, you tell him things about her from the time before he knew her, when she was a skinny girl who wore her hair in pigtails and ran the fields surrounding the town with reckless abandon. You tell him some of the things she shared with you in the burgeoning days of their relationship and feel he’s grateful, almost embarrassed, to hear how she cared for him.

You share her with each other, piece by piece, and as you do, you see the last lingering shadows of his grief evaporate. You can tell he isn’t comparing you to her, rather simply acknowledging the woman who built the first half of his life, while looking with growing, undeniable reverence at the woman who’s building the second.

“I think…” he says hesitatingly one evening, eyes crinkling at the corners as he watches you prune a rosebush, “…that if she had to pick anyone for me, other than herself, she would’ve picked you.”

You pause at that, the shears stilling in your hand. “I’m not so sure.”

“We talked ‘bout it once, long time ago ‘fore we knew it would ever come to pass. She told me that none of her friends would do – they were all too young or frivolous – that I would need someone strong and capable. She never said your name but…” he fixes his eyes on the roses. “I s’pose I figured it out for myself. Guess that’s why I went to your daddy that day.”

You continue pruning, allowing yourself a small smile, your heart swelling with a profound, unbreakable love for him. "And did you opine on who you’d recommend she replace you with, if the need arose?”

“Hell no,” he swears softly. “Joel Miller doesn’t share his women – mind and remember that now.”

You snort a laugh and toss a deadheaded bloom at him which he catches and crumbles gently between his fingers.

It’s a beautiful, healing peace, but by the second week of July, the physical waiting has stretched your nerves to the absolute breaking point.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the Texas heat a physical weight, pressing down on the Brazos flatlands in shimmering, suffocating waves, Sarah succumbs to fatigue after lunch, falling deeply asleep on the rug in the coolest corner of the parlour.

You’re in the kitchen, trying to bake, to give your hands something to do, but they won’t stop trembling. You wander from one side of the room to the other, lifting things up and putting them down again with no use for anything.

You can’t sit still. The house feels entirely too quiet, too empty, so you wipe your damp forehead with the back of your wrist, smooth your sweat-dampened calico dress over your hips, and walk out the back door.

The glare of the sun is blinding. Shading your eyes, you look out across the dusty yard toward the massive, weathered structure of the barn where the wide double doors are propped open to catch whatever meagre breeze manages to crawl across the plains. You know Joel’s in there, having mentioned something at breakfast about repairing the leather traces on the main harness.

You walk across the yard, your boots kicking up small clouds of red dust. You don’t have a reason to seek him out – no message to deliver or chore to complete – you just need to see him, need to be near him.

You step into the deep, cavernous shade of the barn where it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the dim light. The air inside is thick, smelling intoxicatingly of sweet hay, oiled leather, horse musk, and the deep, masculine scent of your husband's sweat. Dust motes dance lazily in the shafts of sunlight piercing through the cracks in the wooden roof.

"Joel?" you call out softly, your voice echoing slightly in the large space.

"Back here."

You follow the low, rough rumble of his voice, walking past the empty stalls until you reach the back of the barn, near the tack room.

Joel’s standing at the heavy wooden workbench and you see straight away that he’s naked from the waist up, wearing nothing but his trousers and scuffed boots. He’s facing away from you, the heavy, iron-hard musculature of his shoulders and back gleaming with a slick layer of sweat, and when he turns, your eyes trace the faint dark hair that dusts his chest tapering down into a line that disappears beneath his waistband.

He’s holding a thick leather strap, working a heavy awl through the tough hide with a sheer, effortless display of physical strength that makes your mouth go completely dry.

He pauses, setting the awl down on the bench, and straightens up, his chest heaving slightly, the sweat shining on his collarbones. Reaching up, he wipes his brow with the back of his hand and his eyes lock onto yours, the casual, welcoming expression vanishing immediately, replaced by a sudden, intense sharpening of his features.

He can see it, can see the restless, aching hunger radiating off you in waves.

"Is Sarah asleep?" he asks, his voice sending a shiver straight down your spine despite the stifling heat.

"Yes," you breathe, taking a slow step toward him. "She's in the parlour."

The tension in his frame skyrockets, the muscles in his chest and arms locking rigid, and he watches you approach like a starving wolf watching a doe step into a clearing.

"You shouldn't be out here,” he warns softly, his hands gripping the edge of the wooden workbench until his knuckles turn white. "It's too hot. You'll make yourself sick."

"I don't care about the heat.”

You stop just two feet away, the sheer size of him, half-naked and practically vibrating with suppressed desire, overwhelming. You’ve spent thirty-four years averting your eyes from men, keeping your thoughts pure and your actions sensible, but looking at your husband now – your husband – all you want to do is press your open mouth against the sweat-slicked skin of his chest and taste him.

"Joel," you murmur, your voice trembling with a raw, naked plea as you close the final distance between you and, reaching out, place your trembling hands flat against his bare stomach.

He lets out a harsh, ragged hiss, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut. The heat of his skin is scorching, burning straight through your palms. You slide your hands slowly upward, feeling the hard, ridged muscles of his abdomen, over the hair of his chest, until your fingers curl over the heavy curve of his shoulders.

He groans your name. “Don’t. I'm tryin’ to be a gentleman. I'm tryin’ to wait."

"I don't want a gentleman, and I don’t want you to wait," you whisper fiercely, stepping into his space until your breasts brush against the hard wall of his chest. "I want my husband. I’m so tired of waiting. I need you, Joel. I need you to touch me, need you to show me…"

He licks his lips. “You deserve…”

“I deserve you – here and now.”

Maybe it’s the heat, or maybe it’s just unquenchable lust, but the last frayed thread of Joel’s iron control snaps with an almost audible crack.

He moves so fast you don’t even have time to gasp, his hands coming off the workbench and grabbing your waist with a possessive, bruising strength. Effortlessly, he lifts you entirely off your feet, turning and slamming your back against the solid wooden wall of the nearest empty stall.

The impact knocks the breath from your lungs, but before you can recover, his mouth crushes down onto yours in a feral, starving, devastating assault, hot, wet, and demanding. His lips part yours with a rough urgency, his tongue sweeping into your mouth to taste you deeply, thoroughly, claiming every inch of you.

You let out a muffled, desperate whimper, your hands tangling into the thick, dark hair at the nape of his neck, holding his head down, kissing him back with an answering, uninhibited fury as you taste the salt of his sweat mingled with pure, intoxicating male heat.

He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating straight down your throat, and presses his body flush against yours, pinning you to the wall. The sheer, crushing weight of him is glorious and you feel him hard and determined against your stomach through the layers of your dress and petticoats.

He tears his mouth from yours, his lips dragging a wet, burning path down your jaw, the scruff of his beard scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. Then he buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth grazing your collarbone.

"You're makin’ me lose my damn mind," he rasps roughly against your throat, his breath coming in harsh, ragged pants. "Every single day, darlin’. Watchin’ you…smellin’ you. I wanna tear that dress off you and bury myself inside you until I’ve got you screamin’ and pantin’ and beggin’."

The filthy, raw honesty of his words sends a violent jolt of both shock and pure lust straight down to your core. You’ve never heard him speak like this before and if any other man had said this to you at any other time you would have been affronted. You would have called him every name under the sun and fled from his sight as quickly as possible in fear of your virtue.

But now your body flushes with a heavy, pooling heat, your inner thighs trembling.

"Do it," you choke out, your head falling back against the wooden wall, offering him more access to your neck. "Joel…please."

His hands move from your waist, sliding upward over your ribs to the front of your dress. His fingers curl around the fabric and with a sudden, impatient tug, the top three buttons pop off, pinging against the dirt floor of the barn.

The hot air hits your bare skin followed instantly by the scorching heat of his mouth. He kisses the exposed swell of your breasts above the lace edge of your chemise, his tongue circling then dipping beneath it, skating over one hardened nipple, making you arch your back and cry out his name.

"You're so beautiful," he mutters, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. "So goddamn beautiful. How no man’s ever claimed you ‘fore now is a goddamn mystery to me."

Suddenly, he drops to his knees in the dust, and you gasp, hands flying down to grip his bare shoulders to keep your balance. He buries his face against your stomach, his arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs as he kisses the fabric of your dress, right over your navel, his hot breath penetrating the cotton.

Then he grabs the hem of your skirts, pushing the heavy layers of calico and petticoats up, exposing your calves, your knees and then your thighs to the dim light of the barn. He doesn’t stop until the bunched fabric is gathered around your waist and he sees you’re wearing nothing underneath but your plain cotton drawers, the fabric already damp with the slick, shameful heat of your own arousal.

He looks up at you from his knees, dark eyes blown wide, completely black with lust, the pupils swallowing the irises. The sight of this massive, powerful man kneeling between your parted thighs, staring at you with such absolute, ravenous devotion, makes your heart hammer so hard and the blood rush through your ears so fiercely that all other sounds seem to fall away.

"Joel," you whimper, your fingers digging into his shoulders.

He doesn’t speak. He simply looks at you for one long, heat-filled moment, before leaning forward and pressing his open mouth right against the cotton of your drawers, directly over your aching centre.

You let out a sharp, ragged sound that echoes off the high rafters, the heat of his breath and the wet pressure of his mouth through the thin fabric sending a blinding shockwave of pleasure straight up your spine. Your knees buckle, but his hands grip your thighs, holding you up, holding you open for him.

He drags his teeth gently over the seam, a low, animal growl vibrating in his throat and you sob, your head thrashing against the wooden wall, your hips bucking involuntarily toward his face. You’ve never felt anything like this. The sheer, overwhelming intensity of the sensation is pulling you under, drowning you in a dark, spiralling coil of heat.

He pulls back just enough to reach his hands up, fingers finding the ribbon tying your drawers at your waist and pulling it loose with a swift, single motion. Then he hooks his fingers into the waistband and drags the cotton down over your hips.

You step out of them blindly, kicking them away into the dust thinking, this isn’t what ladies do – married or not. Ladies don’t allow themselves to be taken against the wall of a barn yet knowing you don’t want to call a halt to whatever is about to happen.

You’re completely bare to him now from the waist down. The vulnerability of it, the absolute exposure in the dim light of the barn as he looks at you, makes you tremble violently, but he doesn’t give you time to feel shame.

He places his hands on the insides of your bare thighs and pushes your legs wider apart, stepping into the space between them, rising slowly back to his feet, towering over you, chest heaving, eyes burning with a dark, territorial fire. Then he reaches down, his hand sliding between your legs, fingers brushing through your curls, finding the slick, wet heat of your entrance.

You gasp, your hips jerking forward, chasing the pressure of his hand.

"Feel that…you're so wet," he groans, his thumb finding the swollen, hypersensitive peak of your sex and dragging roughly across it. “I wanna put my mouth on you, darlin’. I wanna fall back down on my knees for you, but…” he rolls his thumb around you, “I think you wanna feel me, don’t you? Feel how much I need you.”

A choked cry tears from your throat and you cling to his shoulders, your fingernails scoring red half-moons into his skin as he begins to stroke you. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s a man who works with his hands, who knows how to coax and command, and he plays your body with a devastating, ruthless expertise, his thumb circling and pressing, drawing a long, continuous whimper from your lips as the pleasure builds into a terrifying, brilliant pressure.

"Joel," you beg, your legs wrapping instinctively around his hips, pulling his thighs flush against your bare sex. "Please, I want you. Put it inside me."

He kisses you again, a wet, bruising, open-mouthed kiss, swallowing your cries, his hand leaving your centre and dropping to his own trousers, fingers frantic as he fights with his belt buckle and begins to unbutton his fly.

The heaviness of his arousal springs free, brushing against your bare thigh, enormous, thick and pulsing with heat. He grips your hips, lifting you slightly against the wall, positioning himself at your entrance.

"I'm gonna hurt you," he rasps against your mouth, his entire body trembling with the effort of holding back his thrust. "I'm gonna tear you, darlin’ cause it’s your first time, and I’m sorry, but there ain’t no other way."

"I don't care," you weep fiercely, arching your hips, trying to force him inside. "I don't care, just do it. Claim me."

He lets out a ragged, guttural moan, his hips pulling back to deliver the heavy, driving thrust that will finally, irrevocably make you his wife in every sense of the word.

“Boss!”

The shout echoes through the quiet afternoon air, accompanied by the frantic, thunderous sound of galloping hooves tearing into the ranch yard.

Joel freezes, his hips stopping a fraction of an inch from your entrance, his entire body locking rigid, chest heaving against yours, his breath catching in his throat.

"Boss! Don Joel, are you here?!" the voice yells again, closer now, the sound of a horse rearing and stamping just outside the barn doors. "Don Joel!”

The real world crashes down upon you both like a bucket of ice water as you recognise Tomás’s voice.

Joel swears – a dark, filthy, vicious curse – and tears his mouth from yours, his forehead dropping heavily against your shoulder, his chest rising and falling in violent, ragged gasps as he fights to drag himself back from the absolute edge of feral instinct.

You’re entirely dazed, your body still humming with a violent, unfulfilled heat that makes your knees buckle the moment his hands leave your hips.

He steps back, his chest heaving, his face a mask of pure, agonising frustration. He looks down at you – at your flushed skin, your swollen lips, the bare expanse of your thighs where your skirts are still bunched around your waist – and for a split second, the territorial possessiveness flares so bright in his eyes that you think he might ignore his friend entirely and finish what he’s started.

"Boss!” Tomás is closer now, right outside the wide double doors, his voice cracking with urgency.

Joel squeezes his eyes shut, a muscle leaping frantically in his jaw then lets out a harsh, ragged breath He moves with terrifying, protective speed, his hands reaching down to grab the bunched fabric of your skirts and petticoats, pulling them down over your bare legs, hiding your nakedness, his knuckles brushing against your trembling thighs. Then he grabs the torn edges of your bodice, pulling them together over your exposed breasts.

"Stay here," he says, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating rumble, eyes flicking to yours, burning with a mix of absolute frustration and fierce, unwavering protection. "Don't come out until you're put together."

He doesn’t wait to see if you obey. He shoves himself back into his trousers and quickly fastens the fly. Then he grabs his discarded shirt from the workbench and pulls it over his sweat-slicked shoulders, not bothering with the buttons.

You lean heavily against the wooden wall of the stall, your hands trembling violently as you look frantically around the dust for your discarded drawers. Finding them near the workbench, you snatch them up, stuffing them quickly into the deep pocket of your apron then fumble with the torn bodice of your dress, trying to pull the edges together where the buttons have popped off, your fingers clumsy and weak.

Joel strides out of the shadows and into the blinding sunlight of the open barn doors whilst you stay hidden in the dim light, pressing your back against the rough wood, trying to force your breathing to slow down. You can hear the muffled stamp of hooves, the snort of an over-ridden horse, and then the sharp, urgent cadence of a conversation.

"What is it, Tomás?" Joel’s voice booms through the barn, the deep resonance echoing off the roof, the raw, feral edge still there, barely contained beneath a veneer of absolute authority.

"Found him out near the eastern fence line, Boss. Lying face-down in the scrub brush. He's burning up. Looks like trail fever."

The haze of your lust vanishes instantly, incinerated by the sudden, urgent reality of the frontier. You are the woman of this house, the one who knows how to brew willow bark, how to manage a fever, how to keep a crisis from turning into a tragedy – and someone clearly needs you.

You take one last, shuddering breath, smooth your hair back from your face and step out of the shadows.

When you reach the open barn doors, the white glare of the sun makes you squint. Tomás’s roan gelding is lathered in sweat, its chest heaving, and slung over the saddle, entirely limp and unconscious, is a man.

He looks young, dressed in the ruined, dust-caked remnants of what had once been a very fine, eastern-tailored suit. His fair hair is matted with sweat and dirt, his face flushed a terrifying, unnatural red. One of his arms dangles loosely toward the dirt, his pale, uncallused hand swaying with the movement of the horse.

Joel’s standing beside the horse, his hands resting on his hips, his chest still heaving slightly beneath his unbuttoned shirt and he looks at the unconscious man with a dark, unreadable expression. "Is he breathin’?"

"Barely," Tomás mutters, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his leather glove. "He's cooked, Boss. Needs water and shade, or he ain't gonna make it to sundown."

Joel’s jaw locks and he looks up, his eyes finding you as you step out into the light, taking in the sight of you. You know, even without seeing, what you must look like as you clutch your dress tightly in one hand at your chest. Your lips feel swollen and bruised, your skin flushed, your hair wild and untamed. You imagine you look exactly like a woman who has just been on the brink of being thoroughly, ruthlessly ravaged in the hay, and the sight of you makes a fresh, dark wave of possessive hunger flare in your husband’s eyes.

"Bring him into the house," you say, your voice completely steady, practicality and capability taking over. You don’t look at Joel because you know, if you do, you’ll fall apart with disappointment. "Put him in my room, then ride into Sawyer’s Creek and fetch Doc Cooper. Tell him to bring quinine and camphor."

Joel’s brow furrows. "We can put him in the hayloft.”

"It’s an oven in there and full of dust,” you counter instantly. "He'll die out there. Bring him inside.”

Joel stares at you for a long, suspended moment, the air between you crackling with heavy, unresolved tension. You know he wants to argue, wants to throw the stranger into the barn, lock the doors of the main house, and drag you straight to the nearest available place to finish what he’s started.

And the very thought of that lights your whole body on fire.

But you know he also sees the fierce, unyielding compassion in your eyes. The same compassion that has saved him and Sarah.

"Fine," he grunts and, stepping forwards, his arms reach up to pull the unconscious man down from the saddle, hauling him over his shoulder as easily as a sack of grain, making the burden look entirely weightless.

You turn and hurry toward the main house, your boots kicking up the dust. You need to boil water, you need clean linens and you need to prepare the room before Joel brings the man inside.

By the time he crosses the threshold of the back door, his heavy boots thudding against the kitchen floorboards, you’ve already thrown the windows open to catch the cross-breeze and are tearing the quilt off the bed.

Joel walks into the room and unceremoniously dumps the young man onto the mattress, a low delirious moan tearing from his throat, his head rolling limply against the pillow.

Then he stands at the foot of the bed watching you move around the room with frantic, purposeful efficiency. You pour cool water from the pitcher into a basin, grab a clean cloth, and immediately step up to the bedside to wipe the thick layer of dirt and sweat from the stranger's flushed face.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Joel’s eyes narrow as he watches your hands – the same hands that had been tangled in his hair, begging him to take you apart just minutes ago – now gently tending to another man.

"I'll strip his boots and coat," he mumbles, stepping forward and physically crowding the space beside the bed, grabbing the ruined leather boots, yanking them off the stranger's feet and tossing them into the corner. Then he pulls the dusty, tailored coat from the man's shoulders, making quick, rough work of the task.

Underneath the dirt, the young man is handsome in a soft, un-weathered sort of way with the pale, refined features of an easterner, entirely unsuited for the brutal reality of the Texas frontier.

"He's burning up," you murmur, dipping the cloth back into the basin and wringing it out before placing the cool compress against the man's forehead.

"He's a fool who got himself lost," Joel corrects flatly.

You pause, looking up at your husband. The anger and the heavy, suffocating frustration radiating off him is palpable and he’s standing so close to you that you can feel the heat of his body, the intoxicating smell of him wrapping around you like a heavy blanket.

"He's someone's son, Joel," you say softly.

He looks down at you, at your torn dress, your bruised lips, and the lingering, heavy flush of arousal that still paints your cheeks and the anger in his eyes slowly shifts, melting into a raw, bleeding intensity that makes your breath catch.

He reaches out and cups the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point fluttering frantically just beneath your jaw.

"I know," he rasps, stroking the skin he marked with his teeth in the barn. "But he picked a helluva time to die on my land."

A violent shudder racks your body, the physical ache of his touch agonising. You lean into his palm, your eyes fluttering shut for a brief, blinding second as the memory of his heavy arousal pressing against your bare thighs crashes back over you.

"He’s not going to die. We'll save him," you whisper, opening your eyes to meet his burning gaze. "And then he'll leave."

"He better," Joel vows, his grip tightening slightly on your neck. "Cause the second Doc Cooper says he's stable, I'm finishin’ what I started.”

He doesn’t wait for your response, rather he presses a hard, bruising kiss to your forehead, his thumb stroking your jaw one last time before he releases you. Turning his back on the room he strides down the hallway, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his boots echoing through the house until the back door opens and slams shut.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

You stand beside the bed, the cool, damp cloth clutched in your trembling fingers, your heart still hammering a frantic, erratic beat. The air in the room feels suddenly thin, entirely drained of the overwhelming, intoxicating gravity of your husband’s presence.

You look down at your torn bodice. Beneath the fabric, your skin still burns where his beard scraped your collarbone, your breasts still ache from the heavy, wet heat of his mouth and between your thighs, the slick, heavy evidence of your unconsummated desire weeps into the layers of your petticoats, a constant, throbbing reminder of exactly what you’ve been denied.

You close your eyes, dragging a harsh, ragged breath into your lungs.

I’m finishin’ what I started.

The feral, territorial promise echoes in your mind, sending a fresh wave of liquid fire straight to your core. You have to force yourself to breathe, to push the blinding haze of lust away and lock it back inside the iron box of the sensible spinster, because you have a job to do.

Taking a shuddering breath, you turn back to the man on the bed.

****

Doc Cooper arrives from Sawyer's Creek by late afternoon, confirming Tomás’s diagnosis as a brutal case of trail fever, compounded by severe dehydration and sunstroke. He leaves behind a jar of bitter quinine powder, a bottle of camphor oil, and grim instructions to keep the man’s temperature down at all costs.

“We could try moving him into town, but he might not survive the journey,” he says, “and I’ve got two patients at my clinic already.”

“It’s fine,” you reassure him. “I can minister to him here.”

“Alright then,” he nods, patting your arm gently. “Send for me if things worsen.”

“I will,” you nod, then stand at the window watching him ride away, leaving the house suffocatingly quiet.

Joel’s first action, once he realises the stranger isn’t going anywhere, is to move Sarah to Tomás and Maria’s – keeping her away from any risk – and now the house is stripped down to just the three of you.

You stand at the kitchen sink, blindly washing the same tin coffee cup for the third time, your mind completely consumed by memories of the dim, dust-moted heat of the tack room. You can still feel every moment of it, and you’re only jolted back to reality when you hear the sound of Joel’s boots on the floorboards behind you.

Turning, you see him fill the doorway, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges from having washed at the pump, shirt unbuttoned.

"He asleep?" he asks.

"Yes," you manage to say, reaching for a towel to dry your hands. "His fever’s still high, but the camphor seems to be helping him rest."

He gives a short nod, then crosses the kitchen, closing the distance between you until he’s standing just a breath away. The sheer, overwhelming heat radiating from his body makes the air in the room feel instantly ten degrees hotter and you feel your pulse leaping frantically at the base of your throat.

"You're takin’ my room tonight," he says softly, eyes dropping to track the nervous flutter of your pulse.

You blink, your breath catching. "Your room? But... where will you sleep?"

"I threw a bedroll up in the hayloft," he answers, his gaze lifting back to yours. "Can’t sleep under the same roof as you tonight.”

The unspoken reason hangs heavily between you. If he stays in the house, if he has to lie awake in the dark listening to you breathe, knowing you’re just down the hall, the iron-clad control he’s fighting so desperately to maintain would snap.

"Joel," you whisper. “We’re married, Sarah isn’t here and that man…”

He shakes his head. “I don’t care how out of it he is. It’s different with Sarah ‘cause this is her home and it’s what folks do but…I can’t do what I wanna do knowin’ some stranger’s down the hall.”

Your heart aches at the sheer, noble sacrifice of it, at him giving up his own bed, banishing himself to the hayloft, just to keep you safe from his own feral hunger. But there’s a heavier, more delicate weight attached to his offer.

You reach out, your fingers lightly grazing his shirt. "Are you sure?" you ask, your voice incredibly soft, treading carefully onto sacred ground. "That room... it was Tess’s space. It’s your space. I don't want to intrude where I don't belong."

Joel stares down at you, the muscle in his jaw leaping frantically, then reaches up, his hand covering yours where it rests against his heart. He doesn’t push you away, rather he presses your palm firmer against the heavy, thudding rhythm in his chest. "It ain’t a shrine," he rasps, his voice thick with a sudden, raw emotion that strips away the rugged exterior. "And it ain’t been Tess's space for a long time."

He takes a half-step closer, forcing you to tip your head back further.

"You ain’t a ghost in this house, darlin’. I want you in that room. I want my bed to smell like you. I wanna walk in there tomorrow mornin’ and know that my wife slept in my sheets."

The possessive, deeply territorial claim in his words makes you shiver. He isn’t just giving you a place to sleep – he’s deliberately, consciously making room for you in the most intimate corner of his life.

"Alright," you breathe, a trembling smile touching your lips.

He lets out a long, shuddering breath, his eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “If you need me durin’ the night…if he wakes and does anythin’…”

“He won’t,” you reply. “He’s in no fit state to do anything right now except sleep.”

“You scream,” he says, looking at you squarely. “You scream and holler and I’ll be there.”

He pulls back abruptly, the sudden loss of his heat leaving you gasping in the warm kitchen air. Then he turns on his heel and strides out the back door, his boots thudding against the porch before he disappears into the dark, heading for the barn.

You stand frozen against the sink, your body trembling. Then, taking a deep, stabilising breath, you pick up the small oil lamp from the table and walk slowly down the hall, stopping in front of the door at the very end of the corridor.

The door swings inwardly and you step over the threshold, your breath catching in your throat. It isn’t a mausoleum or a dusty, untouched shrine to a dead woman. There are no lace doilies, no lingering scents of floral perfume, no forgotten dresses hanging in the corners. The room is vast, masculine, and spotlessly clean.

A massive, heavy oak bed dominates the centre, its thick posts carved with simple, sturdy lines. To the right sits a wide, scarred wooden washstand holding his straight razor, a leather strop, and a tin of cedar shaving soap. In the corner rests a worn, overstuffed leather armchair, the seat deeply indented from the heavy weight of his body.

But it’s the bed that draws your eye and makes your heart ache with a profound, overwhelming tenderness.

He hasn't just offered you his room, he’s prepared it for you.

The heavy quilt has been folded back meticulously, the sheets stark, crisp, and blindingly white and you realise that whilst you’ve been caring for the stranger, Joel has stripped his own bed and remade it with fresh, clean sheets just for you.

Setting the lamp on the bedside table, you reach out, running your hand over the smooth cotton. It smells like lye soap, the hot sun, and the deep, underlying cedar of the heavy oak frame. But beneath the cleanliness, the entire room is saturated with the dark, intoxicating musk of your husband – leather, dust, and pure, concentrated male heat.

You feel entirely surrounded by him and the sheer intimacy of being in his private sanctuary, touching the things he touches, breathing the air he breathes, is a different kind of seduction. It’s a quiet, domestic claiming that wraps around your soul and pulls the knot tight.

You undress slowly in the golden lamplight, your skin flushing hot as you imagine his eyes watching you from the shadows. Then you slip into your plain cotton nightgown, blow out the lamp, and climb into the bed.

The feather ticking swallows you, soft and incredibly deep. You pull the fresh sheets up to your chin, turn onto your side and bury your face in the pillow where he usually lays his head. Closing your eyes, your body aches with the memory of his hands in the barn, your heart overflowing with the knowledge that the man sleeping out in the hayloft has spent his evening making sure you have clean sheets.

You’re in his room, surrounded by his scent, counting down the hours until dawn, and you’ve never felt more completely, utterly possessed.

➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰❤️➰➰➰➰➰➰➰➰

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