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Just finished writing ch 15 and it is sooooo fucking intense but also captures my own feelings of gifted kid burnout and is so eldest daughter coded anyway, yall gonna love it when it drops Friday
bitches be like "i love writing fanfiction" and then constantly second guess themselves because what if they're not good enough what if it's cringe what if no one likes it what if people laugh when they see it what if i mischaracterized someone what if i didn't tag it properly what if what if
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀᴛᴇᴇɴ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀᴀꜱʜ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ. dbf!jack abbot/reader. age gap. explicit content. cw for the death of a parent, terminal illness, etc. 90% unedited. i'll revise one day. maybe.
author's note: I am so blown away by all the love and support for this book. i wrote a longer sappy post here, but in case you missed it, TLDR: I almost quit writing, and this story surprised me and reminded me why I love it. ALL THANKS TO YOU GUYS. I also got my first hate comment this week, so i got to block an ao3 user for the first time. ty for the hits, babes, and out of spite, I will continue writing and loving my story.
never miss an update by following @notify-fxckingjo and turning notifs on! updates every Friday at midnight PST!
and, most importantly, thank you for 2000 followers. what the fuck guys, i don't deserve y'all <3
⟲ last chapter // next chapter ⟳
ᢉ𐭩 series masterlist ˚꩜｡ main masterlist ☕︎༯ tip jar ☆ read on ao3
Jack's tactical vest is draped over the side of the railing, the metallic flecks in SWAT catching the light of the setting sun. Golden hour makes the silver in his hair brighter. His shoulders are rigid, hands shoved into his pockets. He doesn't turn around when the rooftop door creaks open. You're not even sure he knows you're there. Not at first.
"Not in the fuckin' mood, Robby," he snaps.
"Not Robby," you reply gently, unaffected by the bite in his tone.
He turns around and softens at the sight of you, some of the tension bleeding out of him. "Sorry, sweetheart," he sighs. "Didn't know it was you."
"You're on the wrong side," you say. "You could fall."
He laughs bitterly. "Not worried about it."
"Well, I am," you argue, your voice shaking ever so slightly. Then, "Please."
In most of the time you've known Jack, he's never once faltered. You imagine it takes a lot to shake him, like he's this unbreakable mountain of a man. Yet somehow, as you're pleading with him to take a step back, he looks surprised. His brow crinkles, and then slowly, he throws one leg over the railing and comes back to the other side of it.
You all but sag with relief.
"I wasn't gonna jump," he tells you.
"I know," you murmur. "But you're acting like someone who wants to see how close he can get to the edge without breaking."
The sun dips lower in the sky, and a breeze chills your skin, raising goosebumps on your arms. You shiver. Suddenly, your scrub top feels like it's made of paper, and when Jack looks at you, you feel stripped bare, like you're naked and under the hot lights of an examination room, every secret painted in your skeleton. It occurs to you, for a second, that maybe he feels that way too; you don't run from connection because you're comfortable.
"So why're you here?" Jack asks, not unkindly, but not mincing his words either.
"Robby wanted me to get the contact information for Wayne's next of kin, and your sergeant."
"I'll handle it. That all?" He's never spoken to you so coldly before, using indifference as a shield, retreating behind his defenses instead of falling apart. Instead of feeling.
You shake your head, tugging your lip between your teeth as you find the confidence for words. "I wanted to see if you were okay."
His reply is too clipped to be convincing. "Peachy."
"Bullshit," you reply, sighing with exasperation. "Your friend just died in our trauma room. We cracked his chest. We did everything we could, and it wasn't enough—"
Jack doesn't have to shout when he cuts you off. The cool, flat delivery is just as precise as a razor. "I was there." Your name follows, trembling from his lips. "I don't need the play-by-play."
"We couldn't do anything else," you reason.
You haven't read over the chart a second time or given the books another scan, but you took every cue in that trauma for Robby, who's been around the ER for thirty years and most definitely knows what he's doing. Hell, even Dana said you handled it well, and you can't think of a single thing that could've changed the outcome. Deep down, Jack knows that. He must.
"What do you know?" he spits. "You're an intern!"
You bristle, but you don't lie down and take it. You push back, because that's all you know how to do when it comes to him. Push and pull, give and take. "And yet, you let me do the chest tube, so clearly you do trust me," you argue.
He pinches the bridge of his nose, sucking in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry. You're right. This isn't fair of me. I just wish…"
You step closer, until you're separated by a couple of inches. Not even a whole foot between you. Close enough to count his freckles, to memorize the lines in his face. There seem to be new ones. Or maybe they just disappear when he smiles.
God, you'd really like to see him smile. To know he's alright.
You ramble, to fill the space, "With my memory, I never forget anything, so I remember every moment of my day, every second, every procedure. I run them back in my head and follow all the moves I could've taken, until I'm sick of it—"
The corner of his mouth twitches. "Like playing chess."
"Like chess," you confirm. "I keep turning this one over, and I can't think of a single book or case study where the outcome was different. He was gone en route. We did everything right, and you gave him a chance before you even made it past the ambulance bay. You did good, Jack. And you taught me something. That matters. In that room? Down there? That's everything."
He scratches his jaw absently. "Too bad we couldn't save him."
"Not this time."
Those hazel eyes shift downward, to the paved surface of the roof, then up at the golden hour sunset. When they finally find your face again, he's looking at you like he isn't sure you're real.
"You're a good doctor, sweetheart," Jack says.
"Learning from the best," you return.
When you finally tear your eyes away from his, you see the sweat staining the grey of his undershirt, which clings to every muscular curve of his frame. Beneath it, a few red spots have started to bleed through. Fresh blood. Not Wayne's.
"Jack, you're bleeding," you say. "Let me see."
He reaches up, absently touching his shoulder. "It's nothing."
"It's not nothing."
He rolls his eyes, but he doesn't fight you when you wrap your hand around his elbow, turning him to use the fading sunlight to inspect the wound. You push his sleeve up, realizing he's already plastered a gauze pad to his skin with medical tape and a prayer. The bandage is soaked through.
"You need stitches," you say calmly, as you peel away the remnants of the dressing. "At least four."
"I can do them."
"But I need to practice my suturing," you reply. According to Robby, you don't, and while you're sure Jack is more than capable, thinking about him doing his own stitches, without anesthetic, or letting the wound sit and fester, makes you ache like the pain is your own.
"You're impossible, you know that?"
"Just let me help," you insist.
He nods. "Fine."
"Come down with me."
He shakes his head. "And deal with the paperwork from SWAT and the heat from Robby? No thanks."
"Then I'll get a suture kit and come to you," you say. "While there's still light out."
"Don't need the novocaine," he adds as you turn to go.
You roll your eyes, throwing your response over your shoulder. "Alright, tough guy, your macho card won't be revoked if you let me numb it. You got shot. You've suffered enough. Give it up."
There it is again, that almost-smile. "Whatever you say, sweetheart."
You run down a couple of floors to get a suture kit, and then take the stairs two at a time to get back to the roof. You're a little out of breath when the metal door slams open ahead of you. Even though you believed him when he said he wasn't planning to jump, a small part of you was still terrified you'd come back and find him gone.
In your experience, people you care about tend to disappear in the blink of an eye. Once, you thought he'd be the exception. Now you're not certain of a damn thing.
He sits down, and you curl up beside him, folding your knees under you as you hold up the fabric scissors. "You want to sacrifice the sleeve or lose the shirt?" you ask. Your pulse thrums in your throat, heart fluttering as if reminding you what a spectacular view it is to see Jack Abbot shirtless.
"You trying to get me naked, doc?" He raises a brow.
"Already have," you reply breezily. Then, realizing what you've just said, your eyes widen. "You know what? I'm sorry—"
He chuckles. "I got plenty of shirts. Just cut what you need to."
It's probably best that he preserves his modesty anyway. You might be a little distracted by the view, which means sloppy suture work. You snip away the fabric, about six inches up to his clavicle, exposing the laceration. It's not too deep, but definitely a gash.
"How'd this happen?" you ask. A million scenarios run through your mind, most of them involving needing to update his tetanus shots. You're trying to fill in the blanks, imagining a warehouse shooting or a car chase. All of them terrify you.
You shouldn't care this much about Jack. You spent enough years trying to forget that summer, how you fell for him, how you never stopped falling, because now you're looking at him and it's like no time has passed at all.
"Bullet just grazed me," he says dismissively.
That stops you cold. "You got shot?"
"Shot at mostly. It happens."
You're torn between your professionalism and the urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until his good sense is restored. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" you demand.
"Sweetheart, I've been taking bullets since you were learning the ABCs," he drawls.
Oh, you definitely have issues of the Freudian variety, because that turns you on a lot more than it should. What the hell is wrong with you?
You distract yourself with the task at hand. Irrigate, cleanse, prep for stitching. You know how to do this like the back of your hand, so you focus on the steps, and not the heat of Jack's skin, the heady blend of sweat and cologne and his detergent.
Your brow furrows as you blot gently at the edges of the wound. "Doesn't it scare you?"
"It scared my wi—" He cuts himself off. You fill in the blanks, but you don't push, don't ask too many questions. "I could've done another tour, even after I lost my leg, if I really wanted to, but we had a deal. So instead, I bought a house in Pittsburgh and started playing it safe again."
Playing it safe. Is that what this is? Safety? "That's what SWAT is for you?"
"The SWAT thing is new. Only been doing it about, uh, four years?" he guesses. "My therapist said I needed a hobby."
The timing isn't lost on you. Did he start the SWAT thing after you slept together? Is it some kind of self-flagellation? A new reckless behavior to substitute the stupid fling he had with you? Your ego is probably making this seem bigger than it is. It probably has nothing to do with you.
But what if it does? A small part of you whispers back. You shake it off. Steady your hands. "Hell of a fucking hobby, Jack."
"You got a filthy mouth, kid."
You roll your eyes as you finish cleaning the wound. "I'm not a kid."
"I know," he murmurs. And somehow? It feels loaded, the way he says it.
You inject the lidocaine without warning, and he doesn't so much as flinch. As you thread the needle for suturing, you realize he's not looking at your hands—he's looking at you. At your face, carelessly falling loose from the braid you put it in twelve and a half hours ago. At the curve of your neck, the way you tilt your head as you concentrate on placing the sutures.
"You're not gonna check my work?" you manage to ask, voice quiet, as if afraid speaking louder will make your words shake.
He shrugs his other shoulder. "Don't have to. Steadiest hands in Pittsburgh, right here."
"Ha."
"I'm serious. You're good," he assures you. "Real good."
You tie off the last stitch and dress the wound again, wrapping the bandage around the meat of his thick bicep. "All done. Avoid getting it wet, come back for removal in a few days, avoid strenuous activity, blah, blah, blah."
"Fantastic beside manner. I'll be sure to leave an excellent patient satisfaction survey."
"I'm just glad I don't have to chart this," you reply, gathering your things and placing them back into the suture kit.
"Hey." His fingers brush your cheek, following the curve of the bone down to your jaw before tilting your chin up. Your eyes meet his. "Thanks," he murmurs softly.
"You're welcome," you whisper back.
There's a heartbeat, where you almost lean in a little closer, where you almost cross another line and kiss him, or maybe he's thinking about kissing you already. You've gotten pretty good at reading all of Jack's microexpressions, learning everything that makes him tick, but there's still so much you don't know. But you'd like to. Until you have your own language, until you drown in him.
He clears his throat, pulling back just enough to draw the line in the sand. "You better get back downstairs. Robby probably needs you."
"And you have to call the family and your sergeant."
"Right," he says. "Yeah."
"Yeah," you echo.
You walk away first, while you still can.
You take the first elevator back down to The Pitt, and Jack waits for the next one. Even though Dana knows where you went, and Robby told you to follow him, there's still the imaginary standard of propriety to follow. Roles to stick to, and all that. Not that anything happened on the rooftop, not strictly anyway, though the vibes of a cataclysmic bad decision were there. Still, you're pretending.
The more you see of Jack, the more confused you feel. Sure, he runs hot and cold, and whenever you think you're getting close, he pushes you away. His actions are loud, though. He cares about you, enough to teach you, to assemble your furniture, and take you to baseball games. So why would he take your virginity and leave? He probably doesn't even know he was your first, but he also doesn't strike you as a guy who just takes what he wants and leaves. It's a piece that doesn't fit, but no matter how much you want an answer, you're terrified to ask.
You sit down next to Trinity at the computers, working on your charts. She's dictating, rubbing her temple with the telltale slump of her shoulders that signals a bad day.
You nudge her shoulder with yours. "You good?"
She nods, yawning. "How was the GSW?" she asks. "Heard you got to put in a chest tube."
"He had DIC. Bled out."
"Damn. Still, you got to be in the room." She's doing her best to hide her jealousy, and guilt swims in your stomach. You'd tell her you tried to get Robby to switch you out, but she'd probably hate the pity. "Triage sucks balls. The most exciting thing I did was fish a condom out of some poor girl."
"What?" you sputter.
"Two virgins walk into a gas station..." Trinity sing-songs. "Guy bought some Magnum XLs, so I had to go fishing. What a magical V-Card experience, right?" She snorts derisively. "McKay gave them some freebies in the right size. Thank god I'm a lesbian."
You're tired, half paying attention, and your filter is shot to hell, which is why you let the comment slip without realizing you're opening the door to follow-up questions. "My first time wasn't that bad."
As if the universe needs to mock you with more ill timing, Jack walks back behind the Central desk, passing some contact information to Dana while he dials. Your cheeks burn, and you look away.
Trinity pauses her typing, intrigued. "Sounds like there's a story there."
"No, Trin, we're at work. Jesus." If you could kick yourself without drawing more attention, you would. Central is already buzzing with energy since hand-offs are still underway. Some of the day shift staff have left already, but you're still hanging around, working on your notes and keeping an eye on Jack.
She raises her eyebrows. "Come on, don't be such a nun. How old were you?"
You sigh. "We're not doing this."
Trinity Santos is nothing if not relentless. She's got a massive heart to back it up, and a bit of an ego too. She's also terribly nosy, and that's why she's not going to let this go. You gave her the inch, and she's swooping in for the mile. "If you don't tell me, I'm just gonna keep nagging you until you give up."
Part of you wants to tell her. She's your first female friend, a true friend, in your life besides Ashleigh, and Ashleigh, being your stepmom, isn't someone you can compare notes on sexual experiences with. For more reasons than one.
"Fine. I was twenty," you answer.
"TWENTY?" Trinity gasps, like you've scandalized her.
You could die, right here and now. "Dude, keep your voice down."
She seems to realize where she is, and as the nurses shift their attention away, she lowers her voice. "Sorry, I just... Twenty as in 2-0?"
"Uh-huh. I was a late bloomer. It was the summer before med school."
You watch her process the information, silently doing the math in her head. "So you're...?"
"Twenty-four."
She whistles. "Jesus, you're like a baby. Can't even rent a car."
"I'll be twenty-five soon," you reply, a bit defensive. Sure, you are one of the youngest people here, and you've gotten used to being the youngest person in most academic settings. You don't advertise it, mostly because you're so aware of how naive you must seem in comparison. "Besides, you're, like, three years older than me, not a fossil."
She nibbles on the end of one of the PTMC ballpoint pens, scanning your face like she's reading your secrets. There may as well be a cartoon sign over your head that reads, 'I had sex with Jack Abbot, and I liked it'! "So you waited until you were twenty to pop your cherry?" she prods.
"I just didn't find anyone I wanted to do that with," you explain, your face heating further and further, veering into fire-engine red territory.
She leans forward, her stool creaking. "So who was he?"
You decide the best way to handle the situation is to answer her questions as directly as possible with as little detail as necessary. "A friend of my dad's."
She chokes on her next breath. "What?"
"Trinity, I swear to god—"
She doesn't let you finish, because she's rambling now, like this gossip session gave her a second wind even espresso couldn't compare to. "My bestie, the Doctorpedia, good girl protégé, lost her V-card to her dad's friend? How old?"
It takes everything in you not to look at Jack. You refuse to turn around and glance over your shoulder, out of fear you're going to spell it all out and expose the truth. "Forty-ish."
Trinity guffaws. "Ish? Holy shit, you just got a lot more interesting. Maybe I should call you Lolita instead."
You bury your face in your hands, groaning. "Trin, stop. Please. Doctorpedia is bad enough."
She raises her hands in surrender. "Fine, fine, no new nicknames, but you have to admit Doctorpedia suits you, and it's catching on. Besides, this is way better than a chest tube procedure. I expect details later. Over tequila."
"I'm not telling you anything else."
She pouts. "Come on. You're the only one getting to play doctor for real. Give me something—"
You shake your head, deflecting. "I should go find Robby, ask what he wants me to add to the chart for the trauma—"
"Robby's tied up," Jack says, and you startle, nearly falling out of your chair. "I can help you finish the chart, if you need help."
You don't know how long he's been off the phone, standing within earshot of the two of you, possibly hearing every word of this conversation. You won't be shocked if Princess and Perlah start circulating it through the rumor mill. You're just praying they don't discuss it.
"Oh," you squeak. "Um, it's fine—"
Jack leans over you, hand gently pushing yours out of the way as he finds the mouse and scrolls. He squints for a moment, reading, and if you were alone, you'd joke about him needing reading glasses like Robby does. Finally, he hums in approval. "You have everything here, just need the attending's notes. It'll kick it to him once you hit submit."
"Thanks," you manage, before clicking the green 'submit' box.
"Sure," he replies. "Got all your other charts done?"
You nod. "Langdon told me to stay on top of them, so I wouldn't be here all night."
"Must be nice," Trinity mumbles.
"Your supervising resident should handle most of the heavy lifting," Jack tells her. She opens her mouth to respond, but Jack just whistles before shouting across the room. "Hey, McKay!"
"Yeah?" Cassie asks, her backpack slung over her shoulder. Her hair is loose, down from her usual ponytail, and you realize Trinity is definitely checking her out. "Harrison has a soccer game tonight. I'm trying to catch the end of it—"
"Charts aren't done," Jack interjects.
"Santos said she's got them," McKay replies, winking at Trinity. "Right, Trinity?"
Trinity, for the first time ever, seems flustered. It might be a trick of the light, but you're pretty sure she's even blushing. "Yeah, uh, totally. Have fun at baseball."
"Soccer," McKay says, eyes bright. "I'll come in early tomorrow, Abbot. Swear."
"I'll hold you to it," he warns.
She waves over her shoulder as she leaves. Jack, satisfied, turns back to the pair of you. You gather your things, swiping your badge to log off before letting it reel back to your hip. You're still not used to seeing your name and photo tagged Doctor, Emergency Resident.
"Just a few more notes," Trinity says. "I was just complaining for no reason. Don't wait up for me. Seriously. I'm good."
"You sure?" you ask again, shifting from foot to foot and awkwardly hovering.
"Yes, so stop asking. Shoo. Be free or what-fuckin-ever."
You take only a couple of steps before pausing. "I'll make you dinner. Text me when you're off."
"Yes, yes, you're wifey material," she says, returning to her dictations and shooing you off. "Patient presented with—"
You stop listening after that, making a 180 toward the locker room. You don't make it far before Jack calls your name. Last name, like a professional. Like he doesn't know what you taste like or what you sound like when you come.
"Hey, hold on a sec!" he calls after you, jogging to keep up. His weight drags a bit, and guilt twists your stomach. His leg must hurt. You notice the momentary wince, so brief anyone else would miss it.
The two of you are alone in the hallway by the lockers. Even without the eyes on you, you feel exposed, vulnerable to gossip or worse, something intimate. You busy yourself by fiddling with the combination, like avoiding his eyes will mean he doesn't ask what you know he's going to.
"How come you didn't tell me you were...?" He trails off, but the unspoken part of the question hangs there, like a cloud of smoke.
"Wasn't important." And because he probably wouldn't have done it if he'd known. Maybe he could negotiate with his antiquated sense of duty without your virginity factored in. Truthfully, you didn't want to make it a big deal. You never believed in the Puritanical importance of your maidenhead, or whatever, and you weren't holding onto it by choice, so much as lack of opportunity. That much was true. Sure, a small, romantic part of you wanted the whole nine, but Jack took care of you, and for that hour or so, it was almost love. It felt like it, at least.
"It's important," he insists. "If I'd known—"
"You wouldn't have bailed without leaving a note? Or you wouldn't have used me for sex?" You hiss the words, but they land as hard as they would've if you shouted them.
"It wasn't my choice," he replies. "Sweetheart, believe me, if I could take it back—"
One of the night shift docs, Ellis, comes running into the corridor, out of breath. "Abbot, we need you in Trauma 2. Penetrating trauma. Two guys Shish Kebab-bed. Some Final Destination type shit. It's nasty."
"Say no more," he calls back. "Grab Santos. She looks like she needs to see some action."
Ellis nods her chin in acknowledgement. "You got it, cap!"
You fight a smile. Thank goodness Trinity will finally see a trauma room. You know she needs it. And of course, Jack sees it too. He's so perceptive and thoughtful, and it makes you want to throttle him and kiss him all at once.
"Later," Jack promises you, squeezing your shoulder before he's gone too. The Pitt waits for no one, and everything moves at a thousand miles an hour.
As you settle into your car for the drive home, you decide you won't hold your breath about finishing this conversation. No good ever comes from dredging up the past.
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american pie. | steve and bucky (18+)
ᯓ★ chapter one. the dbf! mini-series masterlist.
⤷ dbf!steve rogers x f!reader x dbf!bucky barnes
⭐︎ warnings: nsfw, dad's best friend au, sexual tension, age gap, forbidden relationships, dips into taboo territory, jealousy, possessive behavior, size difference, they both have dad bods and big dicks bc I said so, mentions of alcoholism and recovery, love marks, groping, dry humping
⭐︎ word count: 10.9k
⭐︎ a/n: i've been wanting to write some sort of dbf fic inspired by the song "im on fire" by bruce springsteen, and what better way to do it then make it fourth of july americana themed? here goes the first part, and i hope you guys like it! link to the fic playlist if you'd like to follow along :)
synopsis:
Your dad always kept his inner circle of friends small and close. Steve Rogers was one of them. He was respectful, kind, and someone you looked up to and trusted. What you didn't understand, though, was how your dad could also be best friends with a broody, grumpy man like Bucky Barnes. But when your dad leaves for a work trip over the Fourth of July, Bucky decides to remind you exactly why he’s so close with your father—except Steve keeps getting in his way to stop him.
← previous fic | main masterlist
You and your dad always had a plan for the Fourth of July weekend.
In the morning, you both would go to the 24-hour diner just a few blocks away in your pajamas and order the classic All American Breakfast. It was a tower of buttermilk pancakes with a side of bacon and sunny side up eggs cooked to perfection.
By noon, you’d be swimming with friends and family under the bright, burning sunlight while your dad took over the backyard. He would have the grill ready, making the best burgers— the kind that were a little burnt at the edges, and hot dogs that were charred and crispy on the outside but soft and juicy on the inside.
Beers and seltzers would already be chilled in the coolers, the ice nearly melted because it couldn’t keep up with the summer heat, and you’d crack a cold one just as the sun went down and the fireworks began to light up the sky.
Fourth of July weekend was the holiday you looked forward to most—so when your dad told you he wouldn’t be home for it, you could only imagine your disappointment.
You were lying in your bedroom with every intention of sleeping in since every plan for the weekend was out window, but the sun piercing through the glass window and the sound of rustling in the living room downstairs woke you up.
Climbing out of bed tiredly, your bare feet padded softly down the wooden steps. You were still rubbing the sleep out of your eyes by the time you reached the kitchen.
“Dad?” you mumbled sleepily. “You’re home already—?”
Once the sleepy vision fog cleared, what you found in your kitchen was not your father, but rather...
“Not your daddy,” Steve said, turning to face you from the kitchen island. He set the mail he’d just picked up and his spare keys down on the counter. “But someone better.”
The spare keys.
The ones your dad had lent to Steve for ‘emergencies’—which he never actually used them for but instead used them to come over whenever he wanted, watch TV, and crash on the couch. But you didn’t mind, because you liked and respected Steve.
Plus, it had been a while since you had last seen him.
“Well, are you just gonna stand there and gawk? Or are you gonna give your good ol’ Steve a hug?”
You flashed a droopy, sleepy grin as you met him at the counter. Getting up on your tippy toes, you raised your hands to wrap them around his neck, and he returned the gesture with a tight hug around your waist.
“Mmm,” he hummed with a squeeze. “There she is.”
“What are you doing here, Stevie?” you asked as you pulled away.
“What? You don’t like seeing your dad’s favorite best friend over?” he asked with a playful grin and a matching head tilt.
You chuckled tiredly. “That’s not it, and you know it. It’s just… what brings you here? My dad isn’t even in town.”
“That’s the point, sweetie.” He leaned back against the counter, folding his large arms over his broad chest.
You swore he was too old to be wearing shirts that were always one size too small for him.
“I know how much celebrating the Fourth of July means to you—and since he’s out of town… well… I figured I’d take over the celebration.”
You crossed your arms and raised a brow, half suspicious yet half amused. “Did he make you do this?”
“What? No. I’m doing this out of the kindness of my old heart,” he chuckled lightly. “And besides, I wouldn’t want to celebrate my birthday alone this year. So… how ‘bout it? A fun weekend with just you and me?”
Hanging out with Steve on the Fourth of July weekend was far better than doing nothing all alone. And by hanging out with Steve, it meant he’d pay for everything—breakfast and all. You knew you couldn’t turn him down—not that you wanted to—but you still wanted to try and pull his leg.
“I don’t know,” you sighed dramatically, running a finger along the tile of the counter. “You should’ve asked me a lot sooner. My friends already planned something this week.”
You didn’t even need to look up to see Steve’s frown.
“But it’s also my birthday,” he said pathetically. “You wouldn’t leave me all alone on the Fourth of July now, would you?”
You had to bite back a smile. He looked like a kicked golden retriever. It was never a question of how or why your dad became friends with Steve Rogers—he was just too much of a likable guy all around.
“Well, since you’re asking so nicely—I guess I’ll spend it with you.”
His smile was so wide it was contagious.
“That’s my girl.”
Steve swiped the keys off the counter and twirled the keychain around his rough finger. “Your dad told me all about your guys’ adventures over a beer one time. Wouldn’t shut up about it. So the only right way to do this is by starting off with breakfast at a diner, right?”
Your lips quirked into a half smile as you bit your lip. “Not just any diner. It’s Mama Joann’s, just a few blocks away. And not just any breakfast, either. We get the—”
“—All American,” Steve finished with a smug grin. “I know. Your old man talks a lot.”
He pocketed his phone and wallet into his jeans and nodded towards the front door. “I’ll get the car started. Go on and get dressed now.”
When you didn’t move an inch, he paused and raised a brow at you.
“Guess my ‘old man’ forgot to mention during his ramblings that we actually go in our pajamas,” you explained, waving a finger at him. “So technically—you’re the one who isn't dressed.”
Steve’s face was unreadable as he scratched at the stubble on his chin.
“Honey, if you wanted to see me in nothing but my underwear, you should’ve just told me.”
Your face immediately warmed at his bold statement. “Y-you—! What—!”
But before you could even stammer out a coherent sentence, Steve was already walking out the front door to wait for you.
A red 1966 Ford Mustang was parked at the curb of your house. It was an old thing that made more odd sounds than it did distance.
It was Steve’s pride and joy—that typical man project he was always working on in his garage. He rarely ever took it out, occasionally driving it around the neighborhood just to keep the engine breathing. You guessed he had actually planned on spending time with you this weekend before today, because he’d gotten it all fixed up and ready just for you.
The car creaked and groaned as it made its way to Mama Joann’s, the radio connected to an aux cord playing Bob Dylan—his favorite.
He had the top down, leaving your hair to whip wildly in the wind. You caught him glancing at you through the side mirrors.
“What are you staring at, Stevie?” you asked without looking at him.
Steve held the wheel with one hand, while the other rested casually on the gear shift. “Nothin’,” he said, a grin evident in his tone. “It’s just… your pajamas.”
“And what about them?” You looked down at yourself, peering over the rim of your sunglasses. You were wearing a soft white tank top and a pair of light pink plaid sleeping shorts. “Did you take me out to breakfast just to make fun of my sleeping clothes?”
He chuckled—deep and raspy. He glanced over at you, blue eyes dancing over the rim of his own dark sunglasses as they traced the curve of your bare leg up to your tank top. You realized just then that you weren’t wearing a bra, since you never slept in one and hadn’t bothered to put one on.
“Not making fun of you, sweetie,” he said, pinning his focus back on the road. “Just think the shorts are cute and all.”
Despite the wind blowing in your face, you still felt warm.
Finally pulling into Mama Joann’s busy parking lot, Steve stepped out of the car.
When riding with Steve, he never let you open the doors yourself. He would quickly park, scramble over to your side, and hold the door open for you. Every time he did it, your dad would always say, “See what Uncle Stevie does for you? This is why I won’t let you settle for anybody less.”
“Thank you,” you said with a smile, grabbing his hand. “But you know you don’t have to do that when my dad’s not around, right?”
“When has your dad being here ever mattered?” he asked genuinely, raising an eyebrow as he shut the door behind you and locked it.
You shrugged. “You know how he is—he’ll always be like, ‘Look at Steve! When you get a boyfriend, make sure he respects you like Steve does,’ yadayada.”
A short snort left his lips as he held the diner door open for you. “Honey, I don’t think there’s any man out there who’ll be respectable enough for you anyway. It’s best you save yourself from the disappointment and stay single.”
You raised a brow at that. Sometimes, you found him acting more paternal than your actual father did with how often he lectured you.
The bell chimed with a welcoming jingle, and Steve stepped in right behind you.
As always, Joann was walking around with a black apron wrapped around her waist, refilling the coffee cups of everyone seated at the booths. The bell chiming caught her attention, and she smiled upon seeing you.
“There you are!” she greeted so loudly it caused the customers to look up at you and Steve. “You had me believin’ for a second that you’d be missin’ out on a yearly tradition.”
She set the pot down, motioning to the booth by the window that she always gave to you and your dad.
Speaking of which…
“Now, this handsome man next to you ain’t your daddy,” she said, nodding to the six foot two man standing right beside you. “Who’s this? And is he single?” she asked shamelessly.
Steve chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I’m Steve—a good friend of her dad’s.”
“Hey, Joann,” you waved with a smile. “My dad is out of town for a work trip, so Steve insisted on taking me out for the Fourth of July weekend.”
You two slid into the booth as Joann laid two menus over the sticky wooden table.
“Well, ain’t he sweet,” she cooed. “I know you and your dad always get the All American, but in case your friend here wants somethin’ different, I’ll give you guys some time to look over the menu.”
Then, before leaving, she threw a wink in Steve’s direction, though she was talking to you. “And if Mr. Steve wants to hang out with someone more… age-appropriate—just know that the folks in town call me Mama for a reason—”
“—Okay, thanks, Joann!” you quickly dismissed her with a burning face and an embarrassed wave of your hand.
Steve chuckled, lifting the menu and leaning back in the booth. It looked way too small for a man his size with the way he filled the space.
“She’s a sweetheart, isn’t she?” he joked.
You blew a raspberry and gave him a look, glancing at your own menu despite already knowing what you were going to order. “Should I invite her back over to have breakfast with us, then?”
Steve grinned wolfishly. If he didn’t know any better, he might’ve assumed you were jealous. His eyes raked over the menu. “So, the All American, you said?”
You nodded enthusiastically, looking giddy as you smiled brightly over the top of the menu. “It’s the best thing here. Joann’s buttermilk pancakes are the best—better than anything you can get from a chain.”
You pointed to where it said ‘with a side of bacon and sausage’ on the menu, and tapped on the bacon text. “And make sure to get the bacon extra crispy.”
“Geez,” Steve huffed a laugh, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling up handsomely. “Sounds like you and your dad know what you’re doing.”
You laughed at the fond memory of your father taking you to this same diner since you were a little girl. The fact that he wasn’t here to celebrate was saddening, but you couldn’t have asked for a better man to spend it with than Steve.
You watched as he reached for his coffee mug, his large hands cradling the ceramic. It looked tiny and weightless in his grip, the tight hold emphasizing the veins and roughness of his hands. He lifted the mug to his lips, blowing on it gently before swallowing in slow gulps that made his Adam’s apple bob.
You swallowed hard and tried to avert your gaze so he wouldn’t catch you staring. But instead, your eyes trailed lower to his built chest and the way his stomach slightly pushed against his tight shirt.
He set his mug down and glanced up.
He caught you staring, and he smiled.
You quickly tried to save face.
“Yeah, um—I bet the calorie intake will probably throw off your entire game,” you stammered out with a chuckle that sounded awkward and nervous. Jesus. What were you saying?
‘Nervous’, however, wasn’t in Steve’s vocabulary.
Awkward? Probably.
“What?” he frowned.
Steve glanced down at himself, noticing his slouch and the way his belly seemed… a bit softer as of late. He had one too many steaks and far too many beers.
He looked back up at you, his grin turning slow and lazy. He rested his large forearms on the edge of the table, leaning in just enough to make himself look even more imposing.
“What’s the matter?” he murmured, his voice dropping deep and gravelly in a way that made your nerves dance. “A girl like you doesn’t like a man with a little meat on his bones?”
Your breath hitched and your eyes widened. Before you could even stammer out a response, he continued.
“Besides,” his blue eyes twinkled with amusement as he maintained eye contact, “don’t you think I need a little extra fuel if I’m gonna keep up with you all weekend? Unless you’re planning on keeping me busy enough to burn it all off, that is.”
It was way too early for Steve fucking Rogers, of all people, to be making you feel this way.
This unexpected, flustered and butterflies-in-your-stomach type of feeling caused by your own father’s best friend.
You had never seen Steve in any light other than as your father’s highly respectable, closest friend. At this point, you couldn’t tell if he was just taunting you like he normally did, or if he was actually flirting. But with the way he was looking and smiling at you—no.
Surely, he wouldn’t take that risk.
Then again, with your dad out of town, maybe there was a side to Steve he usually kept hidden—one you knew nothing about, but was now curious to unravel.
Desperate for a distraction, you grabbed your own coffee mug, which had cooled down enough for you to swallow it in big, hasty gulps.
“Easy, girl.”
“Just…” you wiped your lips, “…thirsty.”
Steve grinned. “Coffee is a diuretic, silly goose.”
And there was the taunt. You mentally groaned, wanting to kick yourself for even entertaining the possibility that Steve would ever blur the line between himself and his best friend’s daughter.
“It’s too early for you to be teasing me like this, Stevie,” you mumbled shyly, tracing your finger along the wooden table.
Steve wore a wolfish grin, resting both of his large arms on the table as they crossed over each other, taking up even more space in the tiny booth. “Sorry, I can’t help it,” he snickered. “Especially when you react the way you do.”
“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean—” you started to say, but your words died in your throat as a large presence that was hard to ignore fell over the booth.
“What do we have here?”
The voice was gruff and deep, lacking the playful warmth you and Steve had just been exchanging. You and Steve both froze, staring up at Bucky, who stood at the edge of the table holding his own coffee mug. His expression was unreadable, his sharp eyes glancing back and forth between the two of you as you sat there completely dumbfounded.
He raised a brow at your silent, wide eyed stares. “There a party going on that I don’t know about?”
While your father was best friends with Steve, you didn’t know how your father also managed to become best friends with a man like Bucky Barnes.
Growing up, Bucky had his share of good moments—he helped you learn how to drive, despite snapping at you impatiently whenever you hit the curb. He picked you up from parties whenever you were too drunk to get yourself home, and he would often spoil you with sweet treats or something he found at a store, always with a simple, “Saw this running errands, thought you might like it.”
But, in return, Bucky also had plenty of bad moments.
He was incredibly specific about how he liked things. If you ever tried to help him or your dad with something—like the grill or fixing a drink— Bucky would already be over your shoulder, nudging you away and taking the tongs right out of your hands.
“I got it. You’re just making a mess.”
There were times where you would be dressed up to go out with friends, and he would be sitting on the porch with your dad for a smoke. He would look you up and down, eyes lingering, and say something like, “You’re really going out looking like that? Go put a jacket on.”
Or sometimes, when your dad was away and you needed a hand around the house whether it be checking on the locks or fixing a leak, Bucky would show up, but he’d be short tempered the entire time. He would constantly scoff while he worked, acting like he had a million better places to be.
Your dad always told you that Bucky was part of the family—that it was just how he was, and that was how he showed his love.
But you didn’t buy it.
You felt like he had something personal against you.
And… it also felt like he might have something personal against Steve, too.
“Bucky,” Steve greeted, though it sounded more like a warning.
Or maybe, it was Steve that had something personal against him.
Bucky’s eyes flickered down to meet Steve’s, holding his gaze for a long moment. “Steve.”
While the two men stared at each other in a silent competition, you took this opportunity to take in Bucky. He wore a dark leather jacket that had seen better days with a white tank top—that strained against his thick lower belly—tucked beneath his belt and jeans.
Bucky tore his gaze away from Steve to look down at you.
“Well?” Bucky’s lips tugged into a lazy, tired smirk. “Aren’t you happy to see me?”
There were times when Bucky would disappear, going M.I.A. for weeks at a time. It had gotten to the point where even your father had gotten involved, leaving late at night, scrambling out the door with nothing but a hasty, “Don’t wait up for me, okay? Uncle Bucky is… uh, going through something and he needs me right now.”
It hadn’t taken you long to piece together that your father kept having to pick him up from bars, or even the police station. Yet despite his recent wrongdoings, just like your father, you still had a soft spot for him that you could never push away, no matter how much he worried you.
“Of course I am,” you finally said.
Even with your lack of enthusiasm, Bucky seemed pleased with your answer. His leather jacket creaked as he gestured with his coffee mug to the empty spot on the bench right next to you. “Mind if I sit? Or is this seat reserved for someone else?”
“Sit down, Buck,” Steve said. All the warmth he had shared with you gone and thrown out the window now that Bucky was here. “We were just about to order.”
Bucky glanced at Steve, pursing his lips as he gave a short nod. “Good.”
He set his mug down on the wooden table and slid right next to you in the booth. His denim clad knee brushed roughly against your bare leg, making you shudder and feel even smaller. “Because I’m starving.”
Bucky rested his hands on the table, intertwining his fingers. He looked like he worked with his hands, and he smelled like Marlboro Reds.
You could see the dirt trapped underneath his fingernails, his skin calloused—the rough texture of someone who spent his life either fixing things or breaking them. He scratched the stubble on his chin.
Just like Steve, it looked like he hadn’t shaved in weeks.
He caught your gaze and smiled, letting his eyes trail down to your legs. “Cute pajamas.”
Steve’s eyebrow twitched.
“Thanks,” you said shyly, looking down and playing with a stray string that had come loose from your shorts. “My dad—well, when he’s actually in town—likes to take me to this diner on the morning of the Fourth of July weekend. It’s usually our tradition.”
While Steve already knew your tradition with your father like the back of his hand, Bucky had no clue.
“Ain’t that sweet,” Bucky hummed in amusement, giving you his full attention. “What else do you and your dad do? I wanna hear all about it.”
You smiled just thinking about it. “We always host—”
“—a party in their backyard, grilling burgers, drinking beer, and swimming,” Steve cut in, taking a sip of his coffee as he glared a sharp dagger straight into Bucky’s eyes. “The one he hosted last year was fun. And the one before that too. It’s a shame you missed it, Buck.”
Steve wasn’t being sympathetic at all, and both of you knew it. He was being petty, even immature, throwing it in Bucky's face that he hadn’t been around for any of the holidays—or that he didn't even know your father was out of town, for that matter.
Bucky’s jaw clenched, but he kept his smile up, trying to save face just for you.
“Is that right?” he murmured. “Guess I had some important business to take care of last summer. But I’m here now, Stevie. So why don’t you fill me in on what else I missed?
Steve had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something offensive.
“You missed a lot, Buck,” Steve said flatly. “More than you think.”
You sat there, sandwiched between a tension that was rapidly becoming suffocating.
It was clear that whatever Steve and Bucky had going on—which you had no clue about—they never communicated or resolved. You figured it might have had something to do with Bucky and his recent downward spiral—traveling down a wrong, bumpy path with signs that led to nowhere. But you weren’t going to sit here and become their mediator.
Clearing your throat, you caught both of their attention.
“I have to use the bathroom,” you announced. “If Joann comes by, you already know what to order for me. Bucky, will you excuse me, please?”
Bucky nodded before sliding out of the seat. He offered his hand to help you out of the booth, and the two older men watched you walk off towards the restroom. As you left, Bucky wore a grin that Steve knew all too well—a smile that meant nothing but trouble.
“Look at her,” Bucky said, watching you from afar with a soft look in his eyes. “Our baby is all grown up.”
Steve scoffed in disbelief. “Our baby?”
The smile Bucky was wearing quickly dropped into an annoyed frown now that you were no longer there to witness it. He slid back into the booth, leaning across the table as he glared at Steve.
“What the hell is your problem?” Bucky hissed, ditching his good boy facade entirely.
“My problem?” Steve sneered, leaning across the table to meet Bucky halfway. “My problem is that you show up after months of silence whenever it’s convenient for you—bringing all sorts of trouble with you.”
Steve kept his voice low, trying to maintain enough control to avoid drawing attention to their booth.
“What the hell have you been doing these past few months?”
Bucky’s brows drew together so closely as he glared back at his childhood best friend. Before your father came into the picture, Steve and Bucky had been two peas in a pod. They were inseparable growing up, but as they got older, they naturally drifted into their own separate lives, with only occasional chatter here and there.
Steve had already gone through the whole marriage routine. He had tried to start a family with his ex-wife, Peggy, but after she cheated on him, he went through a heartbreaking divorce. Meanwhile, Bucky had suffered a string of devastating losses.
Bucky had always prided himself on being a family man, and when he lost it all, he felt like he had nothing left. His mother, Winnie, and his sister, Rebecca, had both passed away in the same year. From there, Bucky fell into a dark stupor, finding comfort only in solitude and alcohol.
Over time, Steve grew to despise the way Bucky coped—hating to watch his best friend drink himself silly and end up in places he shouldn’t be. Bucky, on the other hand, hated being lectured by Steve. He believed that a true friend should support him at all costs, through all the good and the bad.
Eventually, they both just kept their distance, leaving you and your dad as the middle ground.
“I’m in recovery, Steve,” Bucky protested weakly, his fingers digging into his palm as he tightened his fist.
“Yeah?” Steve scoffed with a bitter smile. “And how’s that working out for you?”
Regret washed over Bucky’s blue eyes, and for a split second, Steve nearly softened. But he couldn’t. His friend had pulled his leg for far too long. The mental reminders of Bucky taking advantage of him over the years were enough to make Steve push down his guilt.
“Look, I’m trying, okay?” Bucky muttered, staring into his half-empty mug. “I just wanted to pay a quick visit to town—see how you and her dad are doing.”
“See how he and I are doing?” Steve folded his arms across his chest, sitting back. “Or see how she’s doing?”
Bucky’s jaw clenched. He kept his head down but raised his eyes to glare back at him. “And if I was, is there something wrong with that?”
Steve really tried his best to keep his composure. Bucky knew exactly how to get under his skin—using a voice that could pass for innocent when it was anything but.
“You have no right showing up back in town after all the bullshit you pulled. Did you even know her father was out of town? Or did you take advantage of him being gone just so you could spend time with her?” When Steve realized how loud he was getting—catching the attention of some of the diner staff—he dropped his voice to a harsh whisper.
“If you’re still involved with whatever shit you were getting into, leave it behind. Don’t drag her into this—”
“—Jesus. Where the hell is the waitress?” Bucky muttered, throwing his arm over the back of the seat and looking behind him.
Steve snapped his fingers to yank his attention back. “And don’t think for a second I didn’t notice you checking her out. Are you fucking kidding me, Buck? She’s your best friend’s daughter!”
“Hey—all I did was call her shorts cute.” Bucky turned back to Steve. “I was just being nice.”
Steve ran out of scoffs to give. “You’re a lot of things, Bucky, but you’ve never been subtle.”
Bucky could feel his own patience frying. “Wanna know what’s funny, Stevie?”
“What?”
Now, it was Bucky’s turn to lean in so no one else could eavesdrop. “To an outsider, you look like an old, perverted man taking a young, respectable lady out on a date. Come on, Steve. How old are you again?” he tilted his head with that taunting tone that made Steve’s blood boil. “You’re drilling me so hard over something so trivial, but you’re no saint either.”
Steve slammed his hand on the table, causing the wood to shake and making the family of four at the next table gasp. So much for being discreet.
“What the hell kind of person are you trying to make me out to be?”
“Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it,” Bucky shot back. “A pretty girl like her—looking up at you the way she does, with that cute smile of hers.”
Steve opened his mouth, his face turning a furious shade of crimson. “What are you saying—!”
Bucky held his gaze, his eyes boring deeply into Steve’s. “Look me in the eye and tell me you haven’t thought about fucking her, Steve.”
Neither of them had noticed Joann standing there, her pen poised over her notepad. She stared at them completely dumbfounded, her mouth slightly agape in shock.
“Uh,” she drawled, her gaze shifting slowly between the two grown men. “What’ll it be, boys?”
Both Steve and Bucky blinked up at her.
They cleared their throats rapidly and sat back, trying to put as much distance between each other as the small booth allowed. Steve forced his charming smile back onto his face, acting as if he hadn’t just slammed his hand down and yelled a second ago. Across from him, Bucky crossed his leg and turned his head, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his frustration as he forced himself to look out the window.
“We’ll have the All American,” Steve said.
Joann jotted down their orders—along with an extra chocolate milkshake added by Bucky, which earned him a side-eye from Steve, since Steve was the one paying for it all.
On your way back from the bathroom, you bumped right into her.
“Oh, hey Joann. Did you already take our orders?”
“Sure did, but honey, you better be careful with those two,” Joann warned, pointing her pen over her shoulder toward your booth with a worried expression. “They look like they bite.”
The chance to elaborate was long gone as she was already walking off towards the kitchen. Turning your attention back to the booth, you saw Steve pressing his cheek against his palm, staring morosely out the window, while Bucky casually sipped his coffee.
You smiled to yourself, oblivious to all the tension.
From where you stood, it looked like they had gotten along just fine while you were gone.
The breakfast platters were already cleared away, leaving nothing but a pile of crumpled napkins and Bucky’s drained milkshake glass.
Up front by the old cash register, Steve stood with his back to the booth, digging into his wallet as Mama Joann rang up the bill. Even from behind, Steve’s broad shoulders were still stiff from his earlier irritation.
Breakfast had gone by smoothly enough—though it wasn’t quite as fun as it normally was with your dad, you still appreciated their company. The entire time, however, it felt like they were talking to you rather than to each other. Every time Bucky asked you a question, you would answer, only for Steve to immediately grab your attention next. Once you replied to Steve, Bucky would subtly try to fight for your focus again.
The whole dining experience felt more like a job interview than spending time with close family friends.
Now, you were left alone in the booth with Bucky. With Steve away from the table, Bucky’s shoulders eased up just slightly.
“So,” he drawled. “What are you and Stevie going to do after this?”
You thought about it for a moment, realizing you and Steve hadn’t actually planned much of anything.
“I’m… I’m actually not sure,” you replied with a shrug. “Breakfast was all we talked about today.”
“Sounds boring, and sounds just like Steve,” Bucky said, leaning back against the seat and draping his arm over the top as he looked down at you.
Under his cold stare, you always felt so small.
You knew Bucky was the kind of man who just took what he wanted—and right now, it felt like he only wanted you.
“You remember Becca’s old house? The one by the lake?” he asked.
You blinked, caught off guard. Ever since his sister’s passing, your father had strictly warned you never to bring up Bucky’s family. It was only safe to do so if Bucky brought them up first, and even then, you had to be careful to avoid any painful triggers.
“I do,” you nodded, keeping your response brief to let him control the conversation.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been over there,” Bucky explained, his blue eyes studying your face. “I think I can fix up her old boat in the shed. Maybe we can take it out for a spin on the lake.”
Your mouth parted slightly with a loss for words. Bucky was inviting you to his late sister’s house? To ride on her boat, no less? He rarely ever spoke about Rebecca, let alone extended an invitation to her place. You were pretty sure not even your dad had ever been invited over there.
“And considering it’s been some time since I last saw you, I think it’d be a great opportunity for us to catch up,” Bucky added.
“Catch up on what?”
Both you and Bucky looked up to find Steve standing at the edge of the booth. He was pocketing his wallet in the back of his jeans, taking in your wide eyes and Bucky’s slouched, unbothered posture.
Bucky kept his arm draped casually over the seat behind you. “Just telling her about Becca’s old place,” he said with that smug tone. “Thinking about going down to the lake later. Get some fresh air. You know, since you didn’t make any plans.”
Steve’s jaw clenched so hard you were sure you heard his teeth click. He crossed his arms tightly over his broad chest, glaring down at Bucky.
“Oh, is that so?” Steve huffed. He then shifted his gaze to you. “And what did she say about it?”
Being put on the spot made your stomach drop. It felt like there was no right answer.
Your eyes flickered back and forth between them. You could understand Steve’s apprehension—Bucky’s reputation hadn’t been... the best, as of late. But looking at Bucky, seeing as much hope as he could muster in those tired blue eyes and the vulnerability of him sharing a piece of his late sister’s memory with you, you already knew your answer.
“I’d love to check out Becca’s house and ride on the boat,” you finally said.
Bucky let out a quiet breath of relief, while Steve’s brows pinched together in disbelief.
“…But,” you added quickly, “I think it’d be fun if Steve tagged along, too.”
The disgruntled noise that left Bucky’s mouth would’ve made you laugh, but the way Steve’s eyes nearly bulged out of his sockets beat you to it.
Bucky pulled his arm back, throwing you an incredulous look that he didn't even bother trying to hide. “Sweetheart, I was actually hoping it would be just the two of us—”
“I would love to come,” Steve interjected, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face that Bucky wanted nothing more than to wipe off.
A smile broke across your face. You knew there was still an underlying tension between them, but the prospect of visiting Rebecca’s old house for the first time and riding in a boat was far better than sitting around doing nothing.
“Yay!” You clasped your hands together, your enthusiastic gaze flickering between the two of them. “Steve and I will stop by the house first so I can change—”
“No,” Bucky interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. “You already extended an unwanted invite to Steve, and I’ll only forgive you if you don’t keep me waiting.”
He kept his eyes locked on Steve as he slid out of the booth, rising to his full height to meet him face to face.
“You remember the way to Becca’s house?” he asked.
“‘Course I do.”
“Good.” Bucky spared a quick glance down at you as you began sliding out of the booth yourself, before turning his attention back to Steve. He leaned in, voice dripping quietly so only Steve could catch it.
“Don’t have too much fun with her on the way, yeah?”
Steve only glared harder.
On the drive to Rebecca’s house, you noticed Steve’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, his knuckles taut. One of his favorite songs came on the radio, and he didn’t even care to acknowledge it.
There was something deeply wrong between him and Bucky—something you had missed entirely while you were in the bathroom.
Finally mustering the courage, you decided to address it. “Steve—”
“There’s something you should know about Bucky,” Steve cut you off, deciding to it for you.
“Okay,” you murmured, prompting him to continue.
“I don’t know how much your dad has told you,” Steve said, letting out a deep breath through his nose. “But Bucky’s been through a lot. He isn’t the same guy he used to be. I know he’s… family to you, and I know your dad trusts him. But Bucky’s been running with a bad crowd lately. Getting into things he shouldn’t be, making promises he can’t keep. He’s reckless.”
You leaned back slightly in your seat, your right arm propped on the window sill as you watched Bucky’s truck ahead of you. Everything he was saying to you wasn’t exactly new.
“Where are you going with this?”
“He treats everything like a game. People, relationships,” Steve continued.
He paused for a moment, chewing his bottom lip in apprehension as he tried to find the right words.
“I recognize the way he’s looking at you, and I don’t like it one bit. He’s looking at you like a distraction from his own mess. I just... I don’t want to see you get hurt, or caught in the middle of whatever trouble he’s dragging behind him.”
You slowly let out the breath you had been holding.
For the most part, you were grateful that Steve was actually being open with you about Bucky and his bad habits. Whenever Bucky’s name came up around your father, your dad was always quick to beat around the bush, never addressing anything seriously.
“Ah, Bucky is just going through a rough patch right now.”
“He’s just in another one of his moods. Leave him be.”
“I invited Bucky to your birthday party, but he… he couldn’t make it. You know how he is.”
Even though Bucky was everything a girl like you should avoid, at the end of the day, he was like family. And the idea of him being alone this weekend while he was back in town killed you.
He had his ups and downs, and as much of a grumpy old man he could be now, you weren’t going to throw away all the good times just because of the bad.
“I’m a big girl, Steve,” you reassured him, glancing over. He kept his gaze locked on the road. “I can make my own decisions. Bucky invited me to his late sister’s boat—and despite everything, I couldn’t refuse that. You know why.”
Up ahead, Bucky’s truck slowed down, turning left onto a narrow, gravel driveway lined with overgrown pine trees. The reflection of the sun hit the lake and shone through the branches in the distance.
Steve pulled up right behind him, shifting the car into park but keeping his foot firmly on the brake. He turned fully in his seat to look at you, his blue eyes searching yours with earnesty.
“I know. It’s just… promise me you’ll stay close to me today,” Steve pleaded softly.
You unbuckled your seatbelt and gave him a reassuring smile. You nodded towards Bucky’s truck, where he was just hopping out of the driver’s seat and slamming the door shut.
“You act like he’s going to murder me.”
Despite your attempt at a joke, Steve’s expression didn’t waver.
“Your dad left you under my watch, so in a way, I feel responsible for protecting you—”
“—protecting her from what?” Bucky asked, slapping his calloused hands against Steve’s window and leaning over. “Woah—this car is still running? You know, my sister used to love this thing. Coulda’ sworn you were gonna win her over with it every time you pulled up to the house.”
Steve gave Bucky a deadpan look. With a grunt, he pushed his door open—forcing Bucky out of the way. But just as Steve started walking around to your side to open your door, Bucky beat him to it.
“Watch your step,” Bucky said, holding your hand to help you out of the seat. “Lots of rocks.”
“Since when did you get so sweet?” you teased, sandals stepping down onto the crunching gravel.
Bucky chuckled—a low, raspy sound as he shook his head. “Geez, you really think I’m an awful guy, don’t you?”
You gave him a small smile, which he returned with a gentle one of his own before letting go of your fingers.
Steve kicked a pebble with the toe of his boot. He didn’t like this interaction one bit, but he swallowed down his pride for your sake.
He looked around the property, taking in the overgrown grass and the faded paint on the siding of the old house. The place hadn’t been maintained in what looked and felt like years. The fences had once been painted a bright coral blue—Rebecca’s favorite color—but now, they were stained with dirt and weathered from years of neglect.
Steve glanced at you, knowing you were thinking the same thing. A solemn look settled into your eyes. You knew how close Bucky and his sister had been, and leaving this house to him had obviously been more than he could handle.
Bucky stood there stiffly, hands shoved into the pockets of his worn leather jacket. The playful twinkle his eyes had held for you just moments ago slowly faded the longer he stared at the house.
“It hasn’t changed much,” Steve said quietly, clearing his throat. He was trying to ease the tension, even though they both knew it was a lie.
Something between a snort and a self-deprecating laugh left Bucky’s lungs.
He nodded towards the path wrapping around the side of the building. “Come on. The shed’s down by the dock.”
The three of you fell into a single file line, with you taking the middle spot. As you approached the shed, Bucky fished around in his pocket for the keys. It took him a moment to find the right one, but when he finally pushed the door open, it revealed an eighteen foot wooden motorboat right in the middle.
The deep emerald green paint on the hull was flaking away in brittle scabs, exposing the gray, sun bleached wood underneath. Inside, the white oak ribs were coated in dust and cobwebs, and the stagnant rainwater pooling in the bilge smelled faintly of rot, causing you to wrinkle your nose.
Bucky took the first step inside, his hand reaching out to gently touch the worn steering wheel.
“We’ll get her fixed up today,” he murmured. “We’ll take her out on the lake.”
He spoke so softly you weren’t sure if he was talking to you, or to himself.
“I don’t know, Buck,” Steve hesitated, dragging a finger along the side. “She might leak like a sieve if you put her in the water right now. You’re gonna need a miracle to get this thing to turn over, let alone idle.”
Bucky’s shoulders dropped, his expression turning somber. He knew Steve was right, and seeing that defeated look pulled at your heart. He was already carrying so much emotionally, it ached to watch him rarely try to plan something special, only to see it fall apart.
“Chin up, you guys,” you spoke up enthusiastically, breaking the silence. “It doesn’t look that bad. Especially since there’s three of us—we can fix this in no time.”
Steve raised a skeptical brow at you. “You’ve never even touched a boat, sweetheart. There’s a lot of heavy lifting to be done here.”
“Well—it’s a good thing I’ve got two strong men by my side!” you joked, hopeful eyes flickering between the two of them. “Even if we don’t fix it completely, even if we just end up floating out there,” you shrugged, a smile tugging at your lips, “at least we got it on the lake, right?”
That, at least, managed to pull a small smile from Bucky.
And with the soft spot Steve always had for you, he knew he couldn’t deny your wishes.
With a reluctant sigh, he started moving around the shed, scanning the shelves for the tools they would need. “Well? What are we standing around for, then?”
For the rest of the afternoon, the three of you worked side by side to bring Rebecca’s old boat back to life.
Steve and Bucky took turns with the heavy lifting, hauling out the rusted battery and helping each other realign the heavy parts of the inboard motor. Bucky insisted on handling the delicate mechanical work—scraping away layers of rust, cleaning out the gummed up carburetor, and replacing the brittle fuel lines.
You did your best to help where you could, taking a wire brush to the flaking paint on the hull and wiping down the dusty wooden benches. Mostly, you acted as their mediator, passing wrenches and screwdrivers back and forth while they worked in relative silence.
By the time the sun began to slip behind the trees, painting the sky in beautiful shades of orange and pink, the boat was far from perfect, but it finally looked cared for again.
Bucky stood over the engine block, hands on his hips. He had discarded his leather jacket hours ago, and his shirt was now thoroughly drenched in sweat.
He looked over at you with a grin. “Think she’s good enough to take for a spin?”
Your lips started to tug into a smile. “Yes—!”
Steve shook his head, shutting you down. “No. The bilge pump is shot. It needs to be replaced before we put her in the water.”
Sitting on the wooden bench inside the boat, you glanced over your shoulder and met Steve’s eyes with a frown. “But we worked on it all day. Are you sure we can’t take it out? Not even for a little bit?”
“Without that pump, water is going to leak through the planks like crazy,” Steve explained.
But caught between your crestfallen look and the disappointed crease between Bucky’s brows, he sighed and gave in.
He checked his watch, tapping the glass. “It’s just past five. The auto parts store in town closes at seven on Fridays. If I leave right now, I can grab a replacement pump and be back before it gets dark.”
“Really? You’d do that, Stevie?” you beamed, your excitement returning in an instant.
Steve’s eyes softened. He hated how easily he gave in to you. “Yeah. I’ll be quick—just stay here, alright?”
Bucky shifted, rocking back on his heels with a rare and slightly sheepish look. “Thanks, Steve.”
Steve stepped away from the boat, fishing his car keys out of his pocket. Before he turned around, he pointed a stern finger at Bucky. “Don’t do anything stupid until I get back.”
To anyone else, that saying could have passed as typical, lighthearted banter between two old friends. But you knew Steve well enough to hear the real warning underneath it.
Bucky just shrugged, unbothered. “How can I? When you’re taking all the stupid with you.”
Steve was already walking briskly up the path towards the driveway, keys jingling in his hand. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head, ignoring Bucky’s comment entirely.
The two of you watched him get into his car and drive off. The moment the sounds of Steve’s engine faded away, Bucky turned back to you.
A slow, mischievous grin spread across his face—it was a look that insinuated he was up to no good.
“How ‘bout we take her out anyway?” Bucky asked, nodding to the lake. “Just to see how long she’ll float?”
You gasped. “Bucky, no! Steve literally just said she’ll leak—”
“Steve worries too much,” Bucky scoffed, clicking his tongue. He stepped over to the stern and began pushing the boat towards the lake, ignoring the fact that you were still sitting inside. “It’ll take time for the water to really start coming in. We’ll just go out a hundred yards, turn around, and come right back.”
You knew Steve would be furious, and logically, sitting in a boat that was destined to take on water was a terrible idea. But looking at the sudden, bright spark of life in Bucky’s eyes—the first real glimpse of the carefree guy your dad used to talk about—you found yourself softening.
“A hundred yards,” you bargained, pointing a stern finger at him. “And the second my feet get wet, we turn right around.”
“Deal.”
Before you could change your mind, he shoved the boat down the wooden launch ramp. “Hold on tight!”
The cedar hull hit the once calm glassy surface of the lake with a splash, sending a hard ripple across the water. Bucky tied her off to the dock quickly, then vaulted over and immediately went to work on the flywheel.
He wrapped a pull rope around the starter, took a deep breath, and gave it a hard yank.
The engine coughed, sputtering out a cloud of blue gray smoke, but failed to catch.
“Come on,” Bucky muttered to the machine, wrapping the rope again. He gave it another tug.
This time, the engine sputtered, groaned, and then loudly chugged to life. Bucky laughed triumphantly, the sound so raspy and genuine— it made butterflies swarm in your belly.
He unhooked the mooring line from the dock and tossed it into the bow, then hopped back to the center of the boat to take the steering wheel, gliding the boat away from the dock and further into the water.
The cool lakeside breeze greeted your face, a godsend from working under the sun for hours. Surprisingly enough, the engine and boat remained stable while the sun turned the lake into a pretty pool of liquid gold.
Bucky had a gentle look on his face, the lines around his eyes creasing slightly as he wore a soft smile.
“My sister and I used to ride this boat all the time,” he explained softly, eyes boring into the sun dipping past the lake line. “We would go fishing—and she’d always hate me for catching the biggest fish.”
You smiled softly. It wasn’t often that Bucky shared a part of himself, but every time he did, it was beautiful.
“We should go fishing one day,” you said. “My dad loves fishing, and it’s been a long time since he saw you. Maybe we could do it when he gets back.” You chuckled quietly to yourself at the idea. “He’d probably be so jealous if he found out I got to ride your boat before he did.”
Bucky hummed, the corners of his lips quirking up.
The two of you stayed quiet for a moment as he steered the boat deeper into the lake. Compared to you and Steve, your conversations with Bucky weren’t as lighthearted or enthusiastic. Majority of the time, it’s just you sitting in awkward silence—well, awkward for you—while Bucky just basks in the moment.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around these days,” he suddenly murmured, back still turned to you as he kept his focus on the sunset. “I’ve been caught up with a lot of things. I’m sure your father has told you, and I’m also sure I lost all his respect for me.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh as he added, “Not that I deserve it, anyway.”
“You’re being too hard on yourself.” Even though he wouldn’t look at you, you kept your eyes on his back. “He still respects you.”
Then, Bucky slowly looked over his shoulder, eyes half lidded and tired.
“And what about you?” he rasped. “Do you still respect me?”
You tilted your head and raised a brow, not expecting him to care about your respect for him of all things.
“Of course I do, Bucky.”
“Good,” he nodded, looking back at the lake. “That’s good…”
While on the topic of respect, you couldn’t help but wonder…
“What about you? Do you respect me?”
Bucky’s lips curved up into an even bigger impish grin. “I don’t know yet,” he teased.
Your eyes bulged. “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean—!”
But the already short teasing interaction got cut even shorter, a wet sensation seeping through your sandals and between your toes.
You glanced down, catching the way the water was bubbling up through the gaps in the floorboards like tiny miniature fountains. The dark pool in the bilge had risen past the soles of your sandals, and with every small wave that hit the hull, the water level crept higher toward your ankles.
“Bucky,” you gasped, lifting your foot. “Bucky! Look down!”
Bucky glanced down, that impish grin stripped off his features as he lifted his boot, now dampened with water. “Shit.”
Your eyes flickered in a panic around you. The dock looked tiny in the distance. The shoreline was far away—way further than the promised a hundred yards. In the middle of your conversation, Bucky had kept driving obliviously and you were now stranded right in the deep center of the lake.
“Bucky, we’re too far out!” you shrieked as you lifted your knees to your chest, trying to keep your feet out of the freezing water.
The bilge was filling fast, making the boat feel heavy and sluggish.
“Turn it around!” you urged.
“I’m trying—” Bucky grabbed the lever, but the moment he shifted it into reverse to swing the boat around, the engine made a startling noise with a sputter that choked on the rising water. And died.
“Shit. It’s not turning—can you swim?” He met you in the center of the boat, where it rocked dangerously, and he grabbed your wrist.
“Oh, God,” you felt your heart race in horror. Being stranded in the middle of a lake with no life vest was a far reach from your usual swimming capabilities that only belonged in a swimming pool.
“Bucky—I don’t know how—”
“It’s okay,” he tried to reassure you, grabbing both your wrists, which only caused you to panic even more. “Just hold still—”
He tried to widen his stance to keep his balance, but your flailing caused him to hiss impatiently, pulling you closer to his chest with a harsh and sudden tug.
He was strong—strong enough to cause you to collide into his chest, and without the engine running to keep the boat steady, the sudden movement tipped the vessel. The momentum caused you to fall over, bringing Bucky down with you.
A shriek managed to escape your lips before you were engulfed completely under the freezing lake water.
You flailed your arms, trying to figure out which way was up. Bucky found your wrists again, pulling you upward with him as your head broke the surface. You gasped for air, blinking the dirty lake water out of your eyes.
“I got you—I got you, okay? Just stay with me,” he reassured, his deep and asserting voice overriding your panic momentarily as his long, dark hair hung wet over his gruff face. “Don’t let go.”
You stood in the middle of the first floor bathroom with Bucky. He was frantically rubbing you down with a towel, ruffling your hair into an even wetter mop than it already was as he kept mumbling things about not wanting to get you sick, and how both your father and Steve would kill him if he did.
“I’ll be okay, Bucky,” you grabbed the towel from his hands, pausing him. “You need to take care of yourself too. You’re drenched.”
“Right. Well, I was only able to find one towel in here—” He started browsing through the other cabinets, his large hands shifting through expired bottles and dusty toiletries out of the way.
As he rummaged deeper, his movements started to slow.
Hidden behind a stack of old soap bars was a small, dusty bottle of vanilla perfume and a faded pink hair ribbon—things left abandoned by Rebecca years ago, who was… no longer around to use them.
His shoulders dropped as he just stood there, staring at them.
You frowned softly, watching the change in his expression. “Are you okay?”
He closed the cabinet door slowly and shrugged, trying to shake it off, but there was no use. “I couldn’t find another towel, so I’ll just air dry.” He answered instead.
Your frown deepened as the water droplets from his hair hit the cold tile floor.
He was soaked from head to toe, and he was shivering. You knew there might have been a spare towel somewhere in the house, but you knew Bucky didn’t want to look. It had been clear that there weren’t any signs of life in this house after his sister’s passing up until now, and if he got shaken up from just seeing the perfume bottle and hair tie alone, then you could only imagine what he’d go through if he walked through the rest of the house.
“Don’t be stupid,” you murmured softly, gathering the damp towel and pressing it against his hair.
Bucky went still, his breath hitching as you began to dry his wet strands. You wiped the back of his neck, then moved down to gently dab at his broad shoulders and the damp fabric of his shirt.
“You should take your shirt off,” you explained. “You’ll get sick.”
He huffed a short laugh, glancing subtly over his shoulder down at you. “I could say the same thing to you, but that’d be inappropriate.”
Pausing, you quickly glanced down at yourself and realized just how inappropriate this already was—even with your shirt still on.
Your white cotton tank top was soaked right through, your cold and perky nipples poking against the fabric obscenely. Your shorts, completely damp, clung tightly to the curves of your body, riding up as water drippled down your thighs.
The entire sight was improper, and you were sure Bucky was thinking the same thing—he just didn’t want to address it.
Slowly, he turned around to face you, his hands finding your wrists and gently catching them to stop you.
“Thank you for riding the boat with me,” he murmured, gently guiding your hand with the towel over his damp and stubbled cheek.
Your breath shuddered. Bucky—your dad’s friend, who was usually always walking around with grumpy frown lines and his arms crossed—looked so utterly small and vulnerable in the small space of this cold bathroom.
“Of course,” you whispered.
Bucky’s grip on your wrists loosened, his large hands sliding slowly up your forearms, past your elbows, until they found comfort on your waist.
Even though he was drenched, his hands felt warm against your skin. Pulling you closer, his thumb brushed against the bare skin of your hip bones where your tank top had rose up.
“Every time I leave town, my mind always screams at me—telling me to come back to one thing,” he spoke quietly, his eyes tracing the vulnerable column of your neck. “Not even to your dad, or to Steve, or even… this house.”
He stepped closer, one strong leg finding its way between yours as he pushed you gently back against the sink’s counter.
“But to you. Isn’t that so wrong of me?”
You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath until you found out he was actually waiting for an answer.
“I don’t see how that can be wrong,” you spoke, more timidly than you’d like. “We’re like family, aren’t we?”
Bucky’s brows furrowed so deep it should’ve scared you.
“That’s what makes it so wrong,” he murmured, one hand coming up to cup your cheek, letting his thumb glide over the curve. “Because I have these thoughts—thoughts a man like me shouldn’t have for a girl like you. Like how badly I want to kiss you.” Bucky rasped, his voice conflicted as he pulled you closer against him, until no space was left. “I know I shouldn’t. But hell, everything in my body is telling me to.”
The look in his eyes matched the conflict he poured into every single word.
His hands held you tight, keeping you trapped between the counter and his body, but the look in his eyes was begging himself to let you go.
You knew you shouldn’t encourage this. You knew this wasn’t right.
And yet…
You reached up, your fingers tangling into the wet strands of his hair, and pulled him down and met his lips with yours.
The gasp that caught in his throat was overcome by the warm sensation of your mouth. Shock paralyzed him, but the longer he felt your lips press against his, he lost all the resolve that was screaming at him to stop.
Bucky took the control he wanted to have over you for a long time. His hands gripped your waist, meeting your first gentle kiss with a rough, demanding one. He slipped his tongue in as he lifted your body up until you were sitting right on the edge of the sink counter. He stepped closer, forcing your legs to open and let him in.
He didn’t want this moment to slip away, or even grace you with the opportunity to change your mind. His hands explored all over your body, large palms sliding to cup the curve of your ass, rocking the erection that grew in his pants within seconds just from being close to you.
“Fuck—we shouldn’t do this,” he rasped against your lips before pulling away to catch his breath. “We shouldn’t—shit—”
“I don’t care,” you whimpered, your pleading eyes meeting his hungry ones. “I want this.”
A dark, raspy chuckle left his lips. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”
His mouth trailed down your jawline to bury his face in the crook of your neck. He bit and suckled at your sensitive skin, making you arch your back as his hot breath and wet tongue sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid up, fingers hooking under the hem of your soaked white tank top and pushing the fabric up until it was bunched beneath your chin.
You shuddered as the cold air hit your skin. Bucky’s eyes were dark and hungry, staring at the water dripping down between your breasts like a taunt.
“Christ, look at you. Looking like every man’s dream,” he groaned, greedy hands coming up to cup your tits before pressing both of them together. “I’ll take care of you. I promise.”
He leaned down to capture one cold, perky nipple between his lips. He swirled his tongue around the peak, sucking it deep into his mouth with a tug that had your fingers gripping his shoulders in pleasure, your hips rolling up against the bulge of his lower stomach as you filled the bathroom with the slutty sounds of your breath.
You arched your back, tugging at his hair while his tongue feverishly licked and sucked at the sensitive bud. While his mouth gave its attention to one nipple, his rough fingers would play with the other. Then he would switch between the two, giving your body all the love he knew it was lacking.
Bucky pulled his face away with a wet pop of his mouth, a string of saliva connecting to your chest as he licked his lips clean.
“This… this is so wrong,” his words drifted uselessly in the air as he broke the space again, his nose to your neck as his tongue found something new to play with.
His warm mouth danced around the skin of your neck, sucking, biting, and groaning with every nibble.
He was sure to leave marks, but you didn’t have the strength to tell him to stop—you didn’t want him to.
“Keep going,” you said breathlessly, your head rolling to the side while he made love to your neck and memorized your body with his hands. “Don’t stop, Bucky—”
Suddenly, all the tension in the room shifted into something far more wicked than what was transpiring between you and Bucky.
The door slammed open, hard enough that the knob left an indent on the wall, and right there, standing in the doorframe, was Steve—who had once been holding the brand new bilge pump that had fallen and hit the floor.
“What the fuck is going on here?”
if you've made it this far, as always thank you so much for taking the time to read my work. interactions are always appreciated, I love reading every bit of them!
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michael robinavitch the type to fuck you absolutely stupid then give you so so many kisses and cuddles afterwards because at the end of the day you're his girl <3
── .✦ MICHAEL 'ROBBY' ROBINAVITCH
★ˎˊ˗ CONTENT 18+ MDNI fem reader, AFAB reader, reader has breasts, descriptive language, aftercare focus (cuddling, praise, etc), hints of possessiveness, fluffity fluff
MASTERLIST | RULES | INBOX
When Robby finally eases the last of his weight off of you, he does so carefully, like you’re an antique he’s terrified of cracking, a jarring contrast to moments ago when he had you folded in half, driving his cock so deep you swore you could taste it, the headboard begging for mercy with every brutal slam.
He groans when the mattress springs back into place. A palm, wide and a little rough, skates down the ridge of your spine as though he needs the touch more than the next breath he’s chasing.
“Christ,” he mutters, half-laughing, half-praying, hair spilled over his brow in damp ringlets. “You all right, sweetheart?”
You mean to answer right away, but your brain is still someone in the rafters, floating among the dust motes he knocked loose out of you.
So what comes out is less words and more a sigh that shivers through every exhausted inch of your body.
His grin spreads, triumphant. “Need a real answer, honey.”
You find your voice, albeit ragged, but present. “M’fine. Floaty.”
“Yeah, I can see that.” He leans in anyway and kisses the corner of your slack mouth, lingering until he feels you kiss back. “Stay right there a sec. Gonna grab water, towel, and and see what I can do about the pretty mess I made of you.”
“Cocky,” you mumble, though there's no bite to it. Really, he’s only stating the obvious. You are a mess, he made you one, and Robby is far too pleased with himself about both.
He chuckles, snagging his boxers from the floor. “Call me whatever you want, sweetheart. You’ll still be asking for more once you recover.”
While he’s gone, you stare at the ceiling fan, counting revolutions until everything sounds less like static and more like your own heartbeat again.
By the time he returns, you’ve made it to an elbow. He sets a glass on the nightstand, drops the towel beside it, then crawls back over you on his knees, trailing the towel like a cape.
“Water first.” He nudges the rim to your lips, waiting until you take a sip. “Attagirl.”
The praise hits harder than the water, but you drink anyway, throat working around the cool relief.
When you stop to breathe, Robby wipes a stray drip off your chin with his thumb. “Good?”
“Better.”
“Anything else you need right now, baby?”
You shake your head, too lazy to hunt for words. You just want him back where he was, wrapped around you, body weight crushing you like a weighted blanket.
He seems to read that want plain as ink. He moves the water, folds the towel under your hips for cushion, then lowers onto his side and drags you into the curve of him. Chest to back, his arm bands over you, palm flattening between your breasts.
“Heartbeat’s settling,” he says into your hair. “Thought I snapped the thing right out of you for a minute.”
You snort, the sound embarrassingly fond. “You tried.”
“Yeah, well.” He peppers kisses across your shoulder, each one a punctuation mark at the end of a sentence only he can read. “Wanted to make sure you remembered whose girl you are.”
Your laugh comes out airy. “Possessive much?”
“Extremely,” he admits without a hint of shame. He noses behind your ear. “Listen, floaty girl — next time you spot that mirror in the hallway, take a good look. There’s a hell of a lot to be possessive of.” His teeth graze your lobe; the hand on your chest gives a gentle squeeze. “And lucky me, I got there first.”
“Think you might be a little biased,” you tease, warmth creeping into your cheeks despite the sleepy little smile pulling at your mouth.
A low laugh rolls out of him, all soft thunder against your back. He lets the sound fade into a lazy trail of kisses, mapping collarbone, shoulder blade, the delicate chain at your throat. Each brush of his lips is slower than the last, until he nuzzles into the crook of your neck.
“Of course I’m biased,” he says, pressing another kiss beneath your ear. “Still know what I’m looking at.”
MARIA NOTE lowkey this is dogshit but fuck it wii ball <3
YOU CAN FIND MY MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH MASTERLIST HERE ⭑.ᐟ
SUMMARY: When Phoebe's field day goes nowhere near as planned, Bella is left to pick up the pieces of your broken heart while Karis goes into labor and Jack and your father have a heart to heart.
WARNINGS: heavy angst in this one angels, parent abandonment, thoughts/feelings of unworthiness, tom, protective! Jack, mentions of foster care, some playful flirting and kissing, reader worrying that Jack is going to walk away.
A/N: a lot to unpack here, slightly longer than usual but honestly so needed. this is the second to last chapter of the series: the next part will be the final part and i am super sad about it. i cannot thank you all enough for all of the love and support you have given me and this series <3
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
WORD COUNT: 10.1k
PREV. PART — SERIES MASTERLIST
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You don’t know much about cars.
You know how to drive, sure. You know which gas to get for your Honda, to get your oil changed every eight months, and you know how to change a tyre in case of an emergency, thanks to your dad.
What you don’t know is why your car is not turning on, why the engine is spluttering every time you try to start it. But you are very aware that it is not a good sign. If not by the noise alone, then by the deep furrow that’s setting between Jack’s brows.
“Pop the hood, I’ll take a look.” Jack says as he unclips his belt and opens the passenger side door, lets the cool air of the afternoon kiss your skin.
You press the button beneath the steering wheel, a small click sounding and Jack lifts the bonnet of the car until it blocks your view of him.
“Mommy, are we gonna be late?” Phoebe’s voice is nervous from the backseat, lips wrapped around a plastic straw as she chews on it, milkshake now empty.
You look at her through the rearview mirror with a reassuring smile. She’s dressed in a pair of pink shorts and a Pink Floyd t-shirt, sunnies resting on her nose and hair braided back. “No, baby. Jack’s gonna fix it.”
“Can’t fix it.” Jack appears at the passenger side again, lips curled in a thin line as he rests both forearms on the top of the car, leaning in slightly. “Gonna have to take it to a mechanic. Engine’s fucked.”
“Jack!” Phoebe quickly scolds him for the cuss word, and when you dare to look at her through the mirror again, she wears a furiously disappointed expression.
It’s something she’s picked up on since her little scolding two months ago, when she called Tom an ass. Not that you can really blame her, he’s been radio silent since you sent a few shitty messages expressing your anger.
Hasn’t shown up on the agreed days to see her, hasn’t even sent a message to check in. And despite it, you’ve still reached out to inform him of her field day today. Another one that’s been left on read and ignored.
Jack at least has the audacity to grimace, spluttering out an apology and offering you a sheepish expression. Your hands drop from the wheel with a sigh, reaching up to pinch the bridge of your nose.
“Can’t do it now, we’ll miss field day.” Jack shrugs, moving toward Phoebe’s door and tugging it open.
“I can get my guy to take a look tomorrow. I’ll drive us instead.”
You don’t know why you even allowed yourself to begin to stress. Of course, Jack will just drive instead. You blame your increased annoyance and stress levels on Tom because your resentment toward him has reached an all time high.
Phoebe hops out of your car when Jack unclips her, skips toward Jack’s which is quite literally parked beside yours. He’s already unlocked it and Phoebe gets herself into the back while Jack retrieves her carseat from yours.
It’s far too natural and practiced when he locks your car and carries Phoebe’s seat across to the back row of his vehicle. When he fastens it securely and buckles Phoebe in while you get comfortable in the passenger side.
Jack’s engine doesn’t rumble or splutter like it’s sick when he starts up. It purrs and vibrates to life and the aircon kicks in immediately.
You’ve always enjoyed watching Jack drive. His relaxed grip on the steering wheel, the focused set between his brows when he checks it’s safe to pull out and onto the road. There’s also something oddly sexy about the way his biceps flex beneath his cotton-shirt when he turns left with the palm of his hand.
You’re not exactly slick with your admiration, but Jack doesn’t comment on it. He does, however, shoot you a wide glance as a smirk curls at the corner of his mouth. It’s something he’s noticed a lot more over the past six to eight weeks; your seeming infatuation with his arms and muscles.
You’ve been favouring curling a palm around his biceps on walks a lot more recently, instead of intertwining fingers. Not ever something Jack will complain about. He welcomes the ego boost and reassurance that your attraction to him isn’t just for his personality and heart. It’s his old man looks, too.
And the more time that passes, the bolder you’re becoming with him. Jack doesn’t mean just sexually, he means in the gentle domestic way, too.
You’ve relaxed more when it comes to him and Phoebe, like you’re finally understanding that Jack doesn’t plan on going anywhere. He’s been spending the night more often than not; settling Phoebe to bed with you of an evening, and comforting her in the middle of the night when she’s startled awake from a nightmare.
Or more recently, growing pains in her shins.
Jack’s found his footing in this little family, has grown comfortable in the warmth of your home and hearts. For months, Jack’s worried about overstepping, of being too present. But when you didn’t ask him to come to Phoebe’s school field day—when you just assumed he’ll be there—Jack realized what this was becoming.
“Jack, your music isn’t on.” Phoebe whines from the backseat.
He casts a glance at her through the rearview mirror, grins at the disappointed pout on the kids lips and reaches into the cup holder for his phone. With his eyes back on the road, he passes it to you silently.
The screen lights up, his lockscreen a photo of Phoebe stuffing her face with pancakes when the three of you went for breakfast a few weeks ago. There’s a dull ache that forms behind your heart at the sight of it, at how openly he loves her.
You swipe the screen up, typing in his password and making your way to the Spotify app. When you go into his library, there are only three playlists. The first is your Sunday Funk Day mix, the one he asked you to send him almost seven months ago when you were only in that odd texting stage.
The second one has no playlist cover, a generic title of My Playlist.
But the third one, it takes you a moment before you can click on it.
My Divas.
The playlist cover is a photo of you and Phoebe asleep on the couch, cuddled up under a knitted blanket with mouths agape and heads lulled back.
When you click into it, you’re met with a list of songs that tally up to 8 hours and 39 minutes of playtime. You hit shuffle, let the music flow through the cars stereo system. Phoebe’s quick to sing along to the familiar tune and you take a moment to scroll through the list.
Half of the songs are from your own playlist…the other half, you come to realize, are songs that remind Jack of you and Pheebs.
You can feel yourself growing warm, can feel a tender sensation wrap around your bones and you lock Jack’s phone, tucking it back into the cup holder.
It’s been on your mind for longer than you’d like to admit; the change between you both, the heaviness and overwhelming feeling you get in your heart when it comes to Jack.
But you don’t say anything, even if that feeling does bloom across your chest with each day that passes. Instead, you sing along with them both. You dance in your seat and let the sound of Jack and Phoebe’s laughter wash over you.
Let yourself understand and accept for the first time, that this may be your forever.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Your palm curls around Jack’s bicep as you walk across the field, a laugh barking out of you as the sound of Phoebe’s loud excitement follows you across the grass. The moment you had taken her to her classmates and dropped her bag and water off with her teachers, she rushed over to her friends and didn’t even offer a second glance at you or Jack.
It didn’t matter how many times the both of you called out to her, she wasn’t having any of it.
“She’s gonna be exhausted after this.” Jack comments with a fond tone, cocking his head down just enough to grin at you.
You meet his gaze with the same expression, squeezing the muscle of his arm and practically skipping in step with him. “Hm, maybe she’ll actually sleep through the night, then.”
Jack hums, leaning down just enough to press a kiss to the top of your head while still walking toward the rest of the parents across the various tracks and equipment set up for the kids.
“Tony will come by tomorrow morning when I’m back from work to take a look at the car.”
Your brows knit at his words and you turn to him again, still walking toward where you’ve spotted your parents and friends.
“You’ve already spoken to him?”
Jack hums. “Shot him a text when we got here. Said I’ll meet him out front at nine.”
You watch him for a moment, blinking at this capable, honest, strong, observant, sexy man that you somehow get to call your boyfriend. One of the only men that hasn’t disappointed you—a man whose actions always match his words.
And it’s entirely inappropriate for you to feel so hot about it given your surroundings.
Just like everything else when it comes to you, Jack notices. The heat that sits at the apples of your cheeks, the slight heaviness that passes over your eyes, the slight dents your fingernails mark in his skin when you grip his bicep a bit tighter.
He stares down at you with a secret smirk and a quirked brow, amusement licking at the gleam in his eyes.
“Yeah? That gets you going, baby?” His voice is a low murmur, deep, teasing, and only loud enough for your ears alone.
You suck your bottom lip between your teeth, dig your nails into him a little harder. “Shutup. It’s sexy when you fix things…when you take care of things.”
A dark, breathy chuckle escapes him and his voice lowers even more when you grow closer to your parents and friends. “That right? Just things or you?”
You dare a gaze up at him from beneath your lashes. “Both.”
His grin turns borderline sinful when he gently unwraps your palm from around his arm and gently pushes you to walk in front of him with his hand on your lower back, squeezing through groups of families to reach your own.
His body is pressed against the back of yours as he keeps close, and when you’re out of the thick of the crowd, Jack leans down to line his lips with your ear, his stubble grazing deliciously at your jaw.
“For what it’s worth, it’s sexy when you let me.”
“Honey! Jack!” You’re given no time or chance to recalibrate your mind when your mom is calling out to you both, waving her hands as if you can’t see her from just twelve feet away.
Jack squeezes your hip, the bastard, and waves back animatedly to your parents. As if he hasn’t just riled you up or short-circuited your brain.
He jumps straight into conversation with David and Ricky, like he’s known them for years. Talking about what, you’re unsure but somewhere mid conversation with your mom, you notice Jack showing off his prosthetic in his khaki shorts.
It’s midway through Phoebe’s egg and spoon race that Karis comes hobbling over with Bella. The former holds water while the latter stuffs a hotdog into her mouth like it’s the only sausage she’s found enjoyment in for years.
“You should not be here, you’re a week overdue!” You greet Karis with a playful scold and she grins in return, spare hand caressing her overly swollen bump.
You reach for it the moment she’s close enough, palms cupping the fabric of her sundress in hopes of feeling a kick.
“Jack’s here, so if I go into labor I should be fine.”
The unexpected joke pulls a laugh out of you, bright and genuine and incredibly amused. Before you can make a joke back about your own incident with your pelvic exam, shouts of angry encouragement sound from beside you.
“Come on, Phoebe!”
“Take her out, Diva! Keep fucking going!”
Chloe and Leone are red in the face, far too invested as you follow their line of sight to find Phoebe almost sprinting with a spoon in front of her, tediously balancing an egg in the dip of the utensil.
She approaches one of her classmates, hot on her heels and passing her just at the finish line.
“Good job, kid!” Her head whips around at the sound of Jack’s voice calling out to her in praise, the smile on her face enough to light up a dark room.
“I did it!” she screams across the field, jumping in her spot as she holds the spoon and egg in the air.
Prue cackles out a laugh as she videos her granddaughter, laughing louder when Florence races to Pheebs to tackle her in a hug to celebrate.
Bella snorts from beside you, muttering something about the pair of them being nothing but trouble makers when they’re older. The thought makes you feel proud and sick at the same time.
You hear Jack’s laughter when the girls start dancing, and when you look across your little group, you find him with his camera facing them, a grin on his face and pride in his eyes.
The sun beats down on him, casting his skin golden, caressing his freckles, brightening his splatter of grey hairs and glinting off the metal of his leg. For once, Jack doesn’t notice your admiration, doesn’t feel your presence grow closer and closer until you’re by his side.
The moment he does, it’s instinctive for his arm to snake around your waist, to pull you into him while keeping his attention on Phoebe and Florence.
“She’s having so much fun,” he says softly.
You hum, watching as Flo runs off for her next course and Pheebs remains in her spot, chugging half a bottle of water and picking flowers from the grass.
“Thank you for coming.”
Jack looks down at you with a frown at your words, pocketing his phone to turn to you fully; both hands on your hips as you reach to wrap your arms around his neck.
“Baby, you do not have to thank me for showing up for Pheebs.” He wants to say that it’s his job, that he couldn’t imagine not being there for her for anything, ever. You can tell as much by the hesitancy that flashes across his eyes.
“I know,” you say quietly. “But I want you to know that I notice. I see everything you do for us, I—we—appreaicte it, appreciate you.”
Jack’s gaze softens into something tender and understanding. A hand abandons your waist to cradle your jaw, his thumb soothing across your cheek and you go boneless in his hold. It causes a surge of something hot to swarm Jack’s heart.
Because Jack doesn’t think he’s ever done anything overly special or out of the ordinary for either of you. And yet, you gaze up at him like he’s personally hung every star in the sky.
“I don’t show up to be appreciated, I do it because I lo—”
A nervous call of your name cuts Jack off before he can say it. Both your heads turn to your dad, whose eyes are focused and hard on the field behind you.
You don’t have any time to dwell on the thumping of your heartbeat, to push for Jack to continue whatever he was going to say. Because when you follow your dad’s line of sight, Phoebe is toe to toe with a boy in her class and her fists are tight at her side.
You watch in anxious fury when the little blond boy steps closer into Phoebe’s space, but she doesn't back down. She continues to frown, to hold her own with her chin held high.
The kids lips are moving, snickering but none of you can make out what’s being said. Whatever it is, it makes Pheebs laugh, which in turn seems to make the kid angrier. You feel movement from beside you; Jack itching to cross the field and sort the issue himself, but you reach a hand for his arm to stop him.
“Just give her a second.”
He blinks, but does not argue, returns to your side while David watches from your other.
When the boy puts his hands on Phoebe’s shoulders and shoves, your blood roars angry and Jack is struggling to stay beside you. His own fists are curled, eyes scanning the crowd for the boy's father.
He almost misses when Phoebe quickly finds her balance and shoves the kid back with even more force, knocking him on his ass. A prideful grin curls on Jack’s face, and he’s struck with two thoughts.
One immediate, the other sobering.
His first thought is that the idea of someone hurting his little girl is enough to make him feral. To screw the oath he took when he became a doctor and to inflict as much harm as humanly possible to anyone that poses a threat to Phoebe.
The second thought comes a second too late after the first. Realization catching him deathly still. His little girl. How easy it had been to call her that in his mind, to feel that way about her. How quickly he was willing to go against his oath and word and character.
His little girl.
His little girl.
His little girl.
It sobers him enough to realize just how deep he’s fallen. What little right he actually has to consider her as such. His inner panic is lost on you, your gaze still set on Pheebs, a grin of pride on your own face at how well she handled herself.
Jack looks back across the field, watches the way she sticks her tongue out at the little boy before walking away and lining up for the relay race. She’s so much like you that it hurts Jack’s heart.
Your smile, your resilience, your strength and your humor. Phoebe has become such a prominent little figure in Jack’s life now. To the point that if, for whatever reason, things don’t work out between the two of you, he could never imagine turning his back on her.
He’s already made it clear that this is not casual. But now, Jack is met with the very real epiphany that he wants this to be his forever. That he needs to be there to watch Phoebe grow like every father does for their daughter.
That he will do anything to be offered the privilege of being whatever type of figure you’ll both allow him to be.
“That’s our girl.” The words fall from yours and David’s mouth at the same time, wearing far too identical grins for a father and daughter through choice and not blood.
Jack swallows thickly, looses a shaky breath when he feels a warm gust of air caress the side of his face—one he now associates with his late Mary.
Reassuring him, soothing him.
Too caught up in his mind, he doesn’t notice your phone pinging consistently from your back pocket, or the dejection that plasters its way across your face. It’s only when you’re resting a palm on his bicep and holding out your phone to him that you catch his attention.
“I'll be right back. Can you take some photos of Pheebs?”
He hums, takes the phone and puckers his lips when you lean up to kiss him. Jack doesn’t watch you walk away, gets the camera ready instead to record Phoebe’s next race as you excuse yourself.
Tom’s text still echoes in your mind.
Can you meet me in the parking lot?
There’s a horrible feeling in your gut. One that promises he’s about to ruin Phoebe’s day with his presence alone. Part of you wonders if he’s seen Jack’s car here instead of yours and is about to refuse to show up unless you make Jack leave.
When you approach the parking lot and spot Tom leaning against the bonnet of his Audi, you throw your hands up at your sides in both annoyance and exasperation.
“You ignored me for two months and now you can’t even show your face at your daughter's field day?” you call out across the short distance.
But as you grow closer, stopping just a few feet from him, Tom doesn’t look angry or resentful. It’s so much worse than that. He looks…regretful. Sad.
“I didn’t want her to see me.”
Your brows pinch involuntarily at the sombre sound of his voice. It’s a tone you don’t think you’ve ever heard from him before and you can’t put your finger on it but it’s leaving you very unsettled.
“What’s going on?” Your voice is careful, tedious.
Tom’s hands are shoved into his jean pockets, shoulder dropping as he blows out a heavy exhale of air. He doesn’t look at you, keeps his gaze locked on the tarmac beneath his feet.
“I think I need to take a step back.” Tom lifts his gaze to yours and for the first time in years, you can see the pain in them.
“I’m not—” he exhales shakily, pulls his hands out of his pockets to run them down his face. “I’m not cut out for this. Being a dad.”
You blink at him, feel your heart stop in your chest before it begins to ache; like it’s being dragged down to the pit of your stomach.
“What are you saying?” Your tone is hard, voice close to trembling from the anger and heartache.
Tom remains silent for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Like the coward he is, he averts your gaze again, focuses on the way his shoes scuff at the ground.
“I’m saying that I think I need to step away. For good. I never wanted kids, Y/N. When you told me you were pregnant with Phoebe, that didn’t change for me. I’ve tried to be a dad, but it’s just not the life I’m supposed to live.”
You can feel your blood rushing in your ears, can feel an ache in your fingertips as he speaks. You’re stunned, unable to articulate your thoughts fast enough to compose a sentence.
...It’s just not the life I’m supposed to live.
You stare at him, at the man you once loved, the father of your child. There’s a ringing in his ears as he continues speaking. Talking about his dreams to travel and explore, how Phoebe does not fit into any narrative of the life he’s created in his head. In any of the plans he’s made for his future.
Your throat grows tight in anger and resentment, in pure, unadulterated hate.
Because you changed your life and your dreams to fit around Phoebe. You consider her in every single decision you make, in every tiny thought you have. You’ve sacrificed sleep and relationships and opportunities for her.
Because that’s what a mother does. It’s what a parent does.
And here Tom is, making it loud and clear that he does not want her. That he doesn’t want to be her dad, he doesn’t want her in his life. That Phoebe is nothing but a burden to him, something that he never asked for.
“Are you fucking kidding me right now?” Your voice is tight with fury when you finally manage to speak. “I have given you every out possible! I never forced this on you, I asked you several times to just fucking walk away. But you just couldn’t take the thought of us doing well without you. You sit there and you disrespect me, you talk shit on Jack– who, by the way, has been more of a father to her than you ever have—”
“I know!” Tom’s voice raises into a shout, one full of his own anger and hatred. You refuse to shrink away from it, from him.
“She deserves Jack. You deserve Jack. He is a good man and I fucking hate it.” Tom spits the words with so much venom it makes your blood boil and you can’t help but scoff.
“Is that what this is? Because of Jack? You’re threatened by him?” Your voice rises with every word. “You’re going to walk away from your daughter because another man is more of a father to her than you are!?”
Tom clenches his jaw, jerks his head to look away from you; a tell sign that he’s trying to calm himself down, and it’s absolutely fucking pathetic.
But he doesn’t say anything else. He doesn’t argue that that’s not the case, doesn’t push to try to be better for her, or to offer any other reason besides the selfish life he’s carved himself.
You swallow down the bile that’s rising up your throat. “If you walk away from her now, you are not welcome back. Not ever, and I fucking mean that, Tom.”
He nods to himself, stands with his hands still tucked into his pockets. “I’m not on her birth certificate so I don’t have any legal rights as a father. But if you want to speak with the courts so it’s all legit, we can. Let me know.”
You stare at him in astonishment, your breathing ragged and vision blurring as Tom rounds the bonnet of his car to get into the driver's side. He doesn’t offer you another glance when the engine starts and he pulls out of the parking lot.
You’re still staring at the empty space after he’s gone. Unable to truly process what the fuck has just happened, how absolute he is in his decision to walk out on Phoebe. His daughter, his blood.
Your movements are mindless and subconscious when you trek back to the field, silent streams of silver that glisten on the warm skin of your cheeks. It doesn’t matter that he was absent anyway, it doesn’t matter that all he’s ever done is disappoint…what matters is that he has never loved Phoebe.
That your sweet girl is going to grow up wondering why she was never good enough for her own father. A feeling you’re far too familiar with and something you never ever wanted her to experience.
Jack’s the one that notices your return first. A cheer halting from the back of his throat as Pheebs wins another race when he catches sight of you. He moves quickly, eyes wide with panic and concern at the pure shock and devastation on your face.
“Honey? What’s wrong? Hey, what happened?”
His palms are cupping your face with a ghost of a touch, not wanting to crowd you but needing to help you snap out of whatever the fuck is going on. The moment you feel his skin on yours, when his scent and comforting presence envelops you, a sob tears through the back of your throat.
He wipes away the tears as quickly as they fall, shushing and cooing and trying to get you to breathe. The sound of your cries and Jack’s slightly panicked tone is enough to catch the attention of the others.
“Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
“Where did you go? What happened?”
No one touches you but Jack. But your parents stand beside him, Bella too while Karis, Ricky, Leon and Chloe stand back in worry and concern.
Your friends have been with you since highschool, have watched you through your biggest highs and your lowest of lows. The only other time they’ve ever seen you so distraught is when you lost your fiance.
It breaks their hearts.
“Tom was in the parking lot.” You take a breath, struggling to wipe away your tears.
You feel Jack grow tense at the mention of him and his presence, watch his gaze turn from panic to fury and can tell just by the look on his face that he’s trying to calm down and not cause a scene.
Prue watches with concern, finally finds herself reaching out to rub a gentle hand up and down your arm. David, however, shares the same cold expression as Jack, and he reaches for him with a hand on his shoulder—a silent vow to promise he’ll beat Tom’s ass with him.
“He’s uh…he’s gone.”
Your mom blinks, shakes her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”
“He’s walking away,” your voice is hoarse. “He said he’ll contact the courts if needed to resign his parental rights over Phoebe.”
“What?” Jack’s breathless reply is all he can muster up. He can feel his heart sinking to his stomach, the shock and heartache for Phoebe tingling in his fingertips.
You barely notice movement from your side, don’t turn your head to see Bella stomping off toward the parking lot, don’t hear Karis sending Ricky to follow. But you do hear the cry that slips from your mom, the way she reaches for your dad in comfort.
Because they know what this means for Phoebe. The upset and anger that you went through as a kid toward your biological parents for walking away, is something she will now no doubt struggle with.
It’s the same thing that’s replaying in your mind, in Jack’s too. It’s enough for him to wrap you in his arms and coddle you to his chest, to cup the back of your head with one hand while the other attempts to soothingly stroke up and down your spine.
“You are everything that she’ll ever need, okay? She has us. She’ll never not have us.”
His hold on you is nothing short of secure and safe. A silent promise alongside his words that he is not going anywhere.
She has us. She’ll never not have us.
Jack pulls away just enough to get a look at you, to wipe the remnant tears from your pretty face.
“I know she’s better off without him and he has never once been consistent, but I gave him so many chances to walk away, Jack. I told him to leave before she was old enough to understand…”
“I know, baby. I know.” His palms rest on your shoulders, a firm sort of massage to do anything to try and help the tension in your muscles.
David watches with an ache in his chest, rubbing at the spot with a wide palm like he’s physically pained by the situation. His eyes flicker from you to Bella and Ricky who rejoin the group, shaking their hands that Tom wasn’t there for them to tear into.
Jack lets his gaze stretch across the field, checking that Phoebe is still okay. She’s none the wiser to the situation, happily skipping through another race where Chloe and Leone have moved closer—most likely to keep her distracted if she looks over and spots the commotion.
When Jack turns back to you, you’ve wiped your face and appear somewhat more composed on the surface. But he can read you like a book; and he can see the hurt and pain you’re struggling to bury in your eyes.
“I’ll call in tonight, okay? I’ll get Shen to cover.”
Guilt hits you almost as hard as the hurt and you’re shaking your head before he can finish getting his words out. “No. Work is more important, they need you there.”
He wants to argue otherwise, you know he does. That you are more important right now, that Phoebe is. If his job wasn’t so crucial, you’re ashamed to admit you’d allow him to call in sick, that you’d be selfish enough to ask him to stay with you.
“Hey,” Bella interrupts gently with a soft hand on your arm. “I’ll stay over tonight. The girls can have a sleepover.
You don’t even consider refusing Bella’s offer. Not because you prefer her comfort or company over Jack's, but because this is something you expect from your best friend. Because you’ve both done it for one another so much over the years. Because you are aunts to one another’s daughters.
But Jack is just Phoebe’s moms boyfriend. If her own biological father can’t stick around and show up for her, how can you ever expect Jack to. It’s an unfair expectation to have. One that, perhaps you’re not entitled to.
And he can see it. The thought process as Bella offers herself to you for the evening. He watches all the progress you’ve made together go backwards—watches you sink back into those feelings of unworthiness, of being too much.
Jesus Christ, it breaks his fucking heart.
And when you nod at Bella through teary eyes and an appreciative smile, he doesn’t even get to pull you aside to talk you down from this undeserving ledge. A gasp sounds from behind you the moment he tries to reach out, and everyone's attention is diverted to a slightly pale Karis and the burst of fluid that’s drenched the grass beneath her feet.
“Karis…”
“I’m sorry, I think my waters just broke.”
It’s entirely accidental and completely clumsy when Ricky gently tries to shove through everyone to get to his wife, tripping over his feet and pale in complexion. He doesn’t touch her when he reaches her, hands frozen at his sides as he stares at the wet ground.
“Okay, uh, we should go…” He sounds so unsure of himself, nothing like the usual Ricky you’ve come to know and love.
For a split, selfish moment, you forget about everything else around you. It’s shoved to the back of your mind as you watch one of your bestest friends about to become a mother. The hurt and anguish is momentarily replaced with overwhelming joy and excitement.
But it all comes crashing back to you when you watch Ricky hold Karis so tenderly, when he peppers kisses to her temple and they grin at one another when the shock turns into excitement. It’s a feeling of anguish and envy because that was not the experience you had.
Tom did not hold or caress you when your labor started. He didn’t breathe with you through contractions, did not hold your hand or reassure you when Phoebe stopped moving and her heartrate began to drop.
Because Tom didn’t show up. He wasn’t there for any of your appointments, never listened to Phoebe’s heartbeat as she grew. He declined every one of your calls when you tried to tell him you were going into labor, declined your fathers when he tried to update him that you were going for surgery, that there was a possibility that Phoebe wouldn’t make it.
It makes you feel sick to feel so envious of Karis’ happiness in this moment. She deserves the love and support. She deserves for her birth to feel magical and precious. You didn’t deserve the fear and loneliness of yours, even if your mom was with you.
But more importantly, it makes you realize that the only thing Tom has ever offered Phoebe is confusion and instability.
And Jack watches it all like he can see every thought flash across your eyes. The hurt and pain, the mix of envy and happiness.
He doesn’t say anything as he reaches for you, as he tucks you against his chest and rests his chin on the top of your head. But your arms circle his waist and your nuzzle into him, loosing a heavy breath.
“It’ll be okay, honey.”
The certainty of his reassurance pierces through your heart. And despite your worry that one day Jack could decide to just up and leave, too, you still let yourself wonder why it couldn’t have been him.
Why you couldn’t have met him sooner, why he couldn’t have been the one to hold your hand and guide your breathing through contractions. Why he couldn’t have been the one to cry with you in surgery. Why he couldn’t be Phoebe’s father.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
Phoebe and Florence grin at the camera, three trophies stuffed under their arms and one silver medal hanging from their necks. Their cheeks are flushed, hair windswept and knees grass-stained, but they both beam with so much happiness and pride.
“Hold still…” You manage to snap three photos before Phoebe drops the proof of her achievements and races to the kitchen for food, Florence’s footsteps just as loud and urgent as she follows.
“No running in the house!” Bella calls after them, nursing an iced tea as she lounges at the kitchen island in Prue and David’s house.
The girls giggle as they climb to sit at the island with her, chugging their plastic cups of water and stuffing cucumber sticks in their mouths. Your mom watches in fondness, cutting sandwiches into small triangles and placing them on an oval platter.
“Lunch before playing in the yard. You strong girls need your energy before playing.” She says it in the most lovingly stern voice she can muster, but everyone knows she’ll cave the moment the girls batter their lashes and compliment her hair.
Smart girls. They’ve got Grandma sussed.
Jack places the trophies back on the counter, watches in astonishment as the girls eat half their weight in sandwiches and veggie sticks (something that is usually a battle for Pheebs), and then race out to the backyard to play in the Wendy house.
The moment they are out of earshot, all eyes are turning to you and you fucking hate it.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“Honey…” Your mom softens, reaches across the island to brush her fingertips against yours.
You pull away with a shake of your head. Not because her comfort isn’t welcomed, but because if you accept it, you’ll crumble. And you don’t want to cry anymore because of Tom, because of what he’s done to Phoebe.
“No—I… he’s never been a father to her. Never showed up when it matters, never cared enough to put her first. I’m just—angry. So fucking angry and tired and—”
Your dads arms wrap around you the moment you crumble, and he holds you like you’re a teenager again; angry at the world and confused and lost.
It feels the same to him, like he’s comforting his little girl, trying to protect her from the evil of the world. But you’re not a little girl anymore, and this is not something that he can protect you from. But he holds you tight, anyway. Lets you cry into his chest and lets you sink because he will always catch you.
David’s chin rests on the top of your head when he casts a glance at Prue, who’s covering her trembling mouth with her palm. Bella, who cries silently because while Florence’s dad has never been in the picture, at least he had the decency to walk away before it began.
And when David looks toward Jack, he holds you tighter. Jack’s eyes are set on the kitchen counter, knuckles white as he grips the corners, jaw set tight and eyes rimmed with tears.
The sounds of your cries and sniffles tear his chest apart. In his forty-four years of life, he has never felt such anger, never been riddled with so much hate and disgust for one person. And David can see it in his eyes, can feel those emotions rolling off him.
He presses a kiss to your forehead as he pulls away and lets you have a moment to wipe your tears. The movement catches Jack’s attention and he turns to David, nose twitching as he tries to reign in his emotions.
David nods his head briefly to you, a silent command that you need him right now and he doesn’t hesitate. Jack pushes off the counter to move toward you, to stand at your back and place steady hands on your shoulders, to lean down and press a tender kiss to your temple.
Your shoulders drop at the feel of him so close, like a blanket of safety and comfort has been draped over you. One hand comes up to rest on his; your fingertips tracing his knuckles as your head falls back against his chest with another sniffle.
“She is going to ask questions,” David says softly. “You did, too. But you have time before that happens. Time to decide what truth you want to tell her.”
You nod as you exhale shakily, fingers wrapping around Jack’s and you squeeze one another in a desperate need of reassurance.
“But you listen to me good, kid. You are a phenomenal mother. You have sacrificed so much for your daughter, you have shown up for her every day and you have never once put a single thing before her. You are all she has ever needed and all she ever will.”
Your father stares at you with so much love and adoration and respect that you don’t quite know what to do with it. To have made him as proud as you have…it has tears burning at your eyes again.
And you believe him. You are a good mother, you will always put Phoebe before anything, but you have not done it alone. You’ve had your parents by your side every step of the way. Had Bella and Karis, Chloe and Leone.
And now, Jack.
Your sweet, incredible Jack. Who has never once complained when you’ve had to cancel a date. Who has always considered Phoebe and planned dates to accommodate her. Who has come into her life and stayed, never once disappointing or not showing up since the moment they met.
Jack, who loves Phoebe with every fibre of his being.
And when David’s eyes flick up from yours to meet Jack’s, his head nods in something subtle. Like a silent way of saying, you too, the both of you is all she needs.
“Now, we are not going to cry anymore. I am going to make my grandbabies some popcorn and we are going to forget about that little asshole.”
He calls the girls in while everyone else wipes away their tears, makes a show of getting out a pan for popcorn and when you catch Jack’s gaze, he tilts his head toward the yard in silent invitation.
The air kisses your warm skin as you take your seats on the patio furniture, pressed into Jack’s side as he curls an arm around your shoulder to keep you close.
You sit in silence for a minute, like you’re both trying to figure out how to broach the subject, where to go from here.
“Can you promise me something?” Jack asks quietly, voice low and slightly pained.
You pull away just enough to crane your neck up to look at him at the same time he gazes down at you. And it’s then that you notice the redness of his eyes; the worry and concern and hurt that’s buried itself deep in the lines of his skin.
“You talk to me.” His voice cracks when he requests it. “You don’t get stuck or lost in your head. You have a concern, you voice it. We talk through it. ‘Cause I’m not going anywhere, and I need you to tell me you understand that.”
You swallow the lump in your throat, the need to argue that if Tom can so easily walk away from Pheebs, what’s to say that he won’t, too.
“I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not going to happen.” Jack rasps like he can read your mind, and you don’t miss the hurt in his voice. The fact that you think he could so easily, so carelessly walk away from either of you like that.
“You say that now, but what if things change.” He hates the pain in your voice, the worry and fear and heartache.
Jack shakes his head, his hand coming up to caress your jaw and stroke soothingly against your cheek; catching the tears before they can fully fall.
“Baby, I told you before but I’ll happily tell you again…you and Phoebe are all that I care about. Your happiness, your safety, your health…”
His voice is a wreck as he stares down at you, as he catches the sheer vulnerability in your eyes. It’s on the tip of his tongue, right on the precipice of spilling over. But he catches it before it can.
“There is nothing that I wouldn't do for you, for Phoebe. And even if you and I don’t work out, or you meet someone younger or better—”
“—there is no younger or better—”
“—I will never turn my back on her. I give you my word, that I will be present in Phoebe’s life, no matter what. In whatever capacity you allow me to be, I will be there. Happily. Willingly.”
You stare at him in awe, with so much adoration that you feel yourself starting to cry again. You have never felt this way about anyone. Not Tom, not even your beloved lost love.
He leans down to close the small gap, rests your foreheads together as the tip of his nose brushes down the slope of yours. “You two have made an irrevocable mark on me. You are not something I plan to walk away from.”
Your bottom lip trembles at the sincerity of his words, at the soft and gentleness he’s always given you. You’ve never been cared for so openly, so genuinely. No one has ever been so gentle with your heart and mind. No one has ever watered your soul in hopes that it will bloom and thrive.
No one but Jack.
Perhaps it’s wrong to feel so significantly lighter when he intertwines your fingers and guides you back into your parents house. Maybe you should still be hurt and sad and inconsolable over the events of the day.
But you do.
You let yourself trust him, his words and his heart. You let yourself laugh loudly when your dad makes his so-called ‘crazy popcorn’, where he lifts the lid of the pan to stress the importance of keeping it on and kernels fly across the kitchen.
When Phoebe and Florence almost piss themselves from laughing so hard.
It suddenly makes sense to Jack what Pheebs had meant a couple of months ago when he wasn’t as creative and just made the popcorn in the microwave. A mental note he makes for next time.
He squeezes your hand gently, trying to catch your attention. And when you turn to him with some of the light back in your eyes, it’s like he visibly relaxes.
“I’m gonna head back to the apartment. Check on Sally, get some shut eye before shift tonight.”
The thought of not having him by your side right now isn’t one you’re too thrilled about, but you nod anyway, intertwining your fingers.
“Alright, we’re gonna stay here for a bit.”
Jack watches you for a moment, like he’s searching for any split second of hesitancy or unease so can insist on calling in sick and staying with you. But he finds none.
“You sure you’ll be okay?” He asks quietly.
You’re not sure, not even in the slightest. But you have Bella and the girls. You can’t expect or allow him to put his life on pause because of something another man has done. That’s not fair to him.
So you nod, plaster on a smile that’s as believable as possible. “Yeah. Bella’s gonna stay. And our talk helped.”
Jack squints at you, like he can tell you’re trying to save face for him and he doesn’t like it. But he’a already made it clear to you that he’s here, that he wants to help. He worries that if he pushes more you’ll pull away again. So he relents with a sigh and his hands on your waist, luring you into his arms.
“Okay, you call me if you need me and I'll check in through the night.”
Selfishly, you don’t even consider refusing that. You’ll happily take the calls and texts through his shift, if only until you can be with him again tomorrow.
Jack leans close to press a tender kiss to your forehead, hands gripping your waist like he’s making sure you’re not about to disappear. And it’s like it physically pains him to pull away to say goodbye to everyone else.
Prue seeks him out first, wrapping him in a mother’s embrace that he hasn’t felt for himself in many years. She squeezes him like he’s her only son, whispers her thanks for looking after her daughter and grandbaby.
Jack doesn’t have it in him to be able to reply without growing upset. So he smiles through pursed lips and untangles from her hold when David approaches to pat a hand on his shoulder and turns their bodies toward the sink to form a quiet curtain of privacy.
“I want you to do me a favor.”
Jack keeps his gaze focused on the faucet as David speaks in a low tone; one that’s rich in pain and protectiveness and he hates that he knows what he's about to be asked.
“You might feel like it’s not your place, but you cannot allow Tom back into their lives. I know my daughter is a strong woman…but she cannot handle this when it comes to Phoebe.”
Jack cranes his neck to the side to meet David’s desperate gaze. There’s more to it in his eyes, more than just asking a favor for this situation. There’s the worry of who will take care of them when he’s gone. Because the years are passing faster than he can keep up with.
“I’m—” Jack’s voice cracks and he clears his throat, speaking again in a much lower and pained tone. “I’m not sure she’d want me to involve myself.”
David shakes his head before he manages to finish his sentence. “You’re already involved, son. You’re in love with my daughter and you treat Phoebe like she’s your own. They are your family now. As men, we protect our families.”
There’s a stinging sensation behind Jack’s eyes, a throbbing that aches around his heart. David is a smart man, he knows. It’s his way of making sure Jack can take care of you both, his way of accepting him, his silent blessing wrapped in protective ribbon.
You’re in love with my daughter.
He doesn’t deny it.
“Yes, sir.” Jack nods, voice gravelly.
David squeezes his shoulder as a sad sort of grin begins to tug across your father’s mouth. “Just David to you.”
He doesn’t say anything else. Just passes Jack with a fatherly pat on his back before returning his attention to Phoebe and Florence—who Jack had no idea Prue and David also considered to be their granddaughter.
“I’ll stay with her tonight, promise.”
He turns at the sound of Bella’s voice as she stands beside him, leaning against the kitchen counter with arms crossed over her chest.
“Thank you.” He looses a sigh, eyes immediately seeking you out across the room as you check your phone for any updates on Karis yet.
Bella notices, she always does. Follows his line of sight and for the first time, she doesn’t feel protective of you—doesn’t feel like she needs to warn Jack or give him a talking to. Because he watches you with so much devotion and care, so much love it almost chokes her.
If anyone is deserving of it, it’s you.
The only time his attention is torn away from you is when small footsteps rush toward him and Pheebs is at his feet, arms in the air as she tries to show him her picture.
Jack doesn’t falter when he lifts her—something she’s very close to being too big for—and rests her on his hip, shifting his weight to his good leg and taking a look at her drawing.
“Look, it’s us!” She points to each figure as she lists them off. “Mommy, me, you, and there’s Sally!”
The figures are misshapen and different colors, uncoordinated and chaotic but that’s Phoebe for you. She’s tried to write names at the top—something the three of you have been working on over the past couple of months—and the sight of Jack’s spelt wrong and mostly with shapes and a silver crayon used to draw a line for his prosthetic…it has his throat tightening.
He decides right then that he’s going to pin it in his locker at work.
“You are such an artist, Diva. I love it, you even put my leg in there.”
“Duh,” she says, like it’s the most obvious thing to include.
And Bella watches the exchange. The way Phoebe’s eyes sparkle when she looks at Jack, the way he holds her tight and kisses the side of her head. She watches how your smile widens when you notice them, when you grin something bright and cosmic, when you stand by Jack’s side and Pheebs shows you the picture.
She listens when Jack tells Diva to behave for you, when he checks if you need her carseat and you tell him Bella has a spare. When Phoebe wiggles out of his grasp and runs off to Florence, when he waves at them both as they scream a BYE JACK at him.
Bella does have the decency to turn away when he kisses you, though. When he promises to see you in the morning and bring breakfast for everyone. When he jokes about stealing your shower to put the chair you got him to good use.
She lingers long enough to hear your laugh, to hear Jack’s. Waits a beat too long to see if he’ll say it, if you will. There’s a pregnant pause like you both want to, but neither utter what’s on the tips of your tongues.
Bella doesn’t think it’ll be long before one of you does.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
You knew the night was going to end in tears.
To give yourself some grace, you have managed to hold it in until the girls settle for bed. Your bed, to be precise. They’ve commandeered your bedroom, snuggled up under your sheets as they watch Peter Pan and snack on yogurt covered berries.
And now that you’ve pulled out the couch bed in the living room and sat with a blanket, chinese food and a bottle of wine…life feels like it’s crashing around you.
Bella’s hand on your thigh is soothing and grounding, firm enough to keep you from completely floating away in your burning mind.
“I just feel like I’ve failed her.”
Bella’s heart shatters at your words, at the ache in your voice, the tears that continue to pour down your flushed cheeks. “Babe, you have not failed anyone. You are not responsible for his shitty actions, you know that.”
She’s right, you know she’s right. But you were the one that had a child with him, you were the one that still allowed him to be in her life up until this point. To confuse her. To now disappear out of nowhere and leave her with the same heartache and anger that your biological parents did.
“I don’t want her to go through what I did.” Your admittance is passed through trembling lips and salty tears.
Bella’s lips turn downward, her own eyes glistening with fresh tears because she knows all too well what you went through. She was the first friend you ever made when you were put in Prue and David’s care, she was the one you’d sneak onto the back field with during class to smoke weed and be angry at the world together.
She was there through all those confusing feelings, through all the sadness and anger and then the guilt when Prue and David decided to adopt you.
“It’s not the same, babe. You know it’s not the same thing you went through.” She coos.
“It’s close enough. She’s going to grow up wondering why her daddy didn’t want her, why he walked away, why she wasn’t good enough—”
“Stop, calm down, come on.” Bella pulls you into her, cradling your head to her chest and rocking you back and forth on the pull-out bed as she smooths down your hair.
“She is always going to have you. You’re not going anywhere.” Her voice is gentle when she speaks, wobbling from her own anguish at the sight of you. “Jack is not going anywhere.”
You clutch her tighter. “You don’t know that.”
Bella pulls you out of her hold to get a look at you, to cup your face in her palms and wipe away the onslaught of tears that continue to slip.
“Yes, I do. Honey, he looks at you like you are the only thing in this world that matters. He looks at Phoebe like she is the most precious thing he has ever met. That man is smitten with the both of you, he is not going anywhere.”
You know she isn’t just saying it to make you feel better. You know that Jack cares so deeply for you and your daughter, that he would never dream of walking away like Tom has. But the truth of it doesn’t stop that worry from festering. Doesn’t stop it from taking root in your mind until you begin to believe it.
“I’m scared,” you whisper.
“I know,” she whispers back.
“I’m in love with him.” It comes out as a breathless whine, an admittance that you’ve been keeping buried for the past couple of months. One that’s been suffocating you from the inside out, like it’s never supposed to have been kept to yourself.
“I know,” Bella whispers again.
Before you can think to dive into your fears of him not feeling as deeply as you do, the gentle pinging of your phone lights up with a text message from Jack and you’re wiping your eyes as you reach for it.
Jack: Just checking in baby, you doing okay?
You: all ok, we have wine and chinese, hows work
Jack: Work is fine
Jack: Would much rather be at home with my girls
Your heart stutters at the message. Home. My girls. You want to tell him that you wish he was here, too. That part of you regrets not taking him up on the offer of calling in sick. But you know if you say as much, he’ll walk out and come straight back to you.
His job is more important than this. But you’re grateful that Jack is keeping the conversation casual, like he’s purposely trying to keep your mind off the events of today.
You: promise you’re not missing out on anything exciting
Jack: I’m missing out on you. You’re the most exciting
You: anyone ever told you that you’re a massive flirt?
Jack: Once or twice.
Bella catches you grinning at your phone, takes that as her cue to refill your glasses in the kitchen. You barely register her brief departure before you’re receiving another text.
Jack: I miss you
Jack: I’m starting to hate my job
You: liar, you love your job
Jack: I love being with you and Diva more
You: we love being with you too
There’s at least a minute of your text being left on delivered as Bella comes over with another full glass of white wine and a giant tub of ice cream tucked under her arm, causing a wet patch to form on the pyjama shirt she’s borrowed from you.
You take the wine as you blow her a kiss, your mood slowly lifting as the tears begin to dry. You snuggle back against the pillows, curling into yourself and the scent of Jack’s shirt that you’re wearing when your phone vibrates with another text.
Jack: Mass casualty incoming, I will try and call you later
Jack: Stay out of that beautiful head of yours, I am not going anywhere. We will figure this out together. x
You stare at the message, rereading it over and over and over again. The words are on the tips of your fingers, eager to be typed and sent. But you refuse for that to be how you tell him for the first time. How you confess it properly.
You: ❤️ u
It’s much more casual and lightheartened than how you actually feel, but it’s more than either of you have ever said. You send before you can talk yourself out of it, feel the bile rise up your throat when it’s marked as delivered. Feel it threaten to spill out your mouth when it changes to read.
Not even a heartbeat later, his reply comes through.
Jack: I know baby
Jack: ❤️ u too
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆
SERIES MASTERLIST — NEXT PART
Tag list for this series has grown way too big for me to keep up with so it’s unfortunately CLOSED. You can however follow the #apt.17 tag instead for updates on the series!
ok unsure what happened before but hopefully this is working now. i am so sad that the next part is the final part and i hate that i did this to pheebs but it's crucial to the storyline like it just had to happen
Thank you very much for reading! Feedback really means a lot so I would love to hear your thoughts and ideas for where you think this will go!! Reblogs helps to boost stuff for more people to reach so if you enjoyed it please consider reblogging!!
I just want to say that I almost quit writing and gave up my dreams of being an author this last year because querying and traditional publishing broke my heart. Thanks to you guys, I’m feeling so happy and creative and I’m overjoyed to be writing my little fanfic stories. It means the world, even if I never publish. BUT Crash Course has made me fall back in love with storytelling, and while I do plan to try to adapt it into a romance book, I’m also perfectly content to just let you guys enjoy it for free. So thank you, for giving me this reinvigoration for my first and greatest love: writing. I’m sentimental and sappy, what can I say??
