Summary: Before war and murder and vengeance, Frank existed as⌠well, Frank. Young, wary of the world, but determined to make an impact. And then� Then came you. You changed everything. Ah⌠to be 18 again.
Warnings: non-canon timeline set in the 90âs. Frank & reader are both 18, nearing the end of their senior year of high school. Reader has family trauma, mentally unstable alcoholic dad but not abusive. Hints of reader enduring poverty/experiencing hunger. Frank being adorable and trying real hard for reader. LOTS OF FLUFF. No use of y/n. Cute shit, kissing, firsts, some drama. Healing my inner 18 year old me because we all deserved a bf like Frankie.
Requests OPEN for Glory Days! Whatever lilâ cute or angsty or hurt/comfort high school bits you think of, send âem my way.
Summary; Tom Riddle was born hungry, his stomach churning for food, his chest aching for comfort, his eyes burning for love. he grows up learning to stop asking for any of it. but he meets someone that gives it to him without having to be asked.
Tom angst, i have alot of feelings for Tom when he was young, he fascinates me. OOC Tom, maybe, who knows. Tom gets to enjoy comfort and food and gets spoiled.
Tom had grown up hungry.
Tom had grown up ravenously hungry, and alone, and without comfort.
Heâd grown up without a mother, who died the day she gave birth to him, without a fatherâwho ran the moment he could, without any care beyond feeding and changing him from the orphanage caretakers.
Once he was old enough to learn there was no point in asking for any sortâve affection, he stopped. Stopped hanging onto skirts, or holding his arms up for a hugâbecause thatâs what he saw other little boys do.
It was always the same; a shove, a glance, and neglect.
They only fed him because they were paid to do it, only housed him because they got money from the government per child. Tom grew up starving, for more than just food. Starving for affection, starving for comforts beyond his itchy thin bed, starving for anyone to look beyond his oddities and see a boy who still needed a guiding hand, even if he didnât act like it.
Tom gave up on asking for affection when he was 6 and thrown into the basement for breaking a vase over Billyâs head. He hadnât meant to do it, he just got so angry at Billyâwhoâd ripped up Tomâs book that heâd gotten for his birthday. The vase had moved on its own, Tom had repeatedâover and overâbegging for anyone to listen.
No one did, and Tom spent the night in the dark damp basement with the rats, who didnât care about him eitherâand nibbled at his clothes and hair as he slept curled up in a corner near the boiler.
He stopped trying after that night. There was no point. There was no comfort in the halls of Wool's orphanage, no love for a devil child like him, as they called him.
Tom grew up cold, and alone. Many nights wondering if he wouldnât wake up as the winter chill pierced the wallsâthe thin blanket Tom wrapped around himself not doing much. He wondered if it would be the end as bombs dropped from the sky and rattled London, sitting huddled in a shelter with so many others, his hair dusted grey from debris.
He feared it. Death. Because what if he died before getting to feel warmth? What if he died before feeling full? What if he died before ever lying in a warm comfortable bed? What if he died unknown, just another body in the piles that he was forced to help dig through.
He didnât want to die.
 =
The first glimmer of hope, of a different life, a better one, came when a strange man came to the orphanage. Tom was on the defensive as always, fearing it to be another doctor to take him away from the orphanage and throw him into a cell to spend his days in a madhouse.
Theyâd tried it before, the caretakers, to have doctors come diagnose him with madness, it never worked. Tom knew how to act.
But this strange man said he was a professor, from a school for witches and wizards. Tom hadnât believed him, not until the man set his closet on fireâwith no lighter or even movement. Tom watched with wonder, his mood dimming as the man told him that stealing was prohibited at Hogwarts.
Tom didnât steal. He took things from those who didnât deserve it, took from those who were mean to him without reason. But he returned the items, scared heâd not be allowed to Hogwarts if he didnât.
He needed to leave, to escape, to find a path to greatness.
And so, he went on his own to Diagon Alleyâhe didnât need any hand-holdingâfeeling awe for the first time as he stepped into a world all his own. Everything on his list for school cost something however, so he crept into Gringotts, handing over his note from the headmaster of Hogwarts, allowing Tom to take a stipend from the Hogwarts fund vault to buy his wand, textbooks, cauldron, and new robes.
Well, new was being generous. Everything he bought had to be second-hand just so he could afford everything, though he stared longingly at the golden cauldron that sat inside the potions shop. He couldnât get himself an owl, he couldnât afford it and knew the orphanage wouldnât let him keep it, nor could he get any other pet.
Tom stepped into the final shop, Olivander's Wand shop, he sneezed, dust falling over his face as a stray spell hit the shelves above him and made wand boxes and dust fly.
âSorry!â a squeal came from ahead, and Tom squinted open his eyes to see a girl, who looked to be around his age, eyes wide as she held a wandâwhich was quickly taken back by Olivander(Tom could only assume thatâs who he was.)
âDefinitely not that one,â Olivander said quietly as the girl pouted. Tom sneezed again, and when he looked upâthe girl was offering an apologetic smile and a handkerchief.
He narrowed his eyes at her, untrusting of such aâŚkind action, but when the girl does not give up, and he sneezes again, he takes the handkerchief and cleans his face. âthanks,â he mumbles, handing the soft square of fabric back to her.
The girl smiles brightly. âyouâre welcome! Youâre new to Hogwarts too, right?â she asked, striking up conversation all too easily and Tom shuffles on his feet, his eyes darting from side to side.
âYes,â he strains out, unused to suchâŚpositive attention. This girl was magical, like him. she wasnât going to think he was a devil, or strange, weird maybe, but not evil. She smiled at him, turning as Olivander handed her another wand and it was taken from her before she could even try it out.
Tom frownedâwhy did the old man keep taking wands from her? he thought before the girl seemed to know why he was frowning and spoke. âWand chooses the wizard apparently,â she grumbled as Olivander went to find a different wand for her to try.
Tom let out a short hum, watching as the girl went through several wands before she took one that seemed to hum with her. She beamed, holding her new wand close. She grabbed her wallet, handing over 5 galleons and skipping out of the storeâbut not before wishing Tom luck.
He watched her leave the wand shop, she did not reunite with any parents, but continued down the angular street on her own. Tom turned back, meeting eyes with the strange old man named Olivander, who began the usual routine of matching new young wizards with their wands.
=
He meets the girl again on the train; she was alone, like him, pushing the trolley full of baggage and a cage of an owl through a solid brick archwayâgoing right through. Tomâs eyes went wide, he double-checked to make sure no one saw that, and somehow, no one had.
Tom swallowed hard, looking down at his ticket. Platform 9 and 3/4ths, and he stood in front of the archway between the two platforms. Tom took a breath, taking his trolley and running forward towards the brick, clenching his eyes shut as he met the wallâand passed right through.
âWoah,â Tom murmured, looking behind him at the brick wall, and then back at the newly appeared platform, seeing all the wizarding families around, and the grand scarlet train; the Hogwarts Express.
He follows another families lead to have his luggage loaded onto the train, and hops onâwalking down the train corridor alone until he finds a compartment, sitting alone for maybe only four minutes before the girl from the wand shop pops in, smiling.
âHi! Uh, can I sit with you?â she asks, nervously, and Tom slowly nods, one of his new textbooks in his lapâwatching the girl intently as she sits in front of him, smiling still.
They stare at each other for a long moment, before she speaks. âI'm (y/n), by the way,â She said, holding out her hand. Tom stares, before taking her hand, responding quietly.
âTom, Tom Riddle,â he muttered.
(y/n) smiled, so unguarded and in such a way Tom had never been smiled at beforeâŚ
That it made him uncomfortable.
=
(y/n) lingered even after theyâd been sorted and the chaos of school made itself known, somehow sheâd been sorted into Slytherin with him, even ifâwith her personalityâshe was more of a Hufflepuff, but as the weeks went on, Tom had a feeling stereotypes of each house didnât ring true.
Gryffindors could be cruel to anyone of the Slytherin house; Slytherin house was quite cruel to anyone of âlesser bloodâ as Tom had overheard while holding back a scream as fake trolls blood mixed with gravy dripped over his head and down his back.(he spent hours scrubbing the blood out of his 2nd hand robes, holding back tears.)
Hufflepuffs were fine, he barely interacted with them, and Ravenclaws were haughtyâin the way Tom was, self-assured in their mind and hungry like him.
He liked the green, but perhaps he wouldâve been better suited in blue.
And (y/n) lingered.
She smiled at him when he was sorted a little bit after her, sitting two spots down from her, she sat beside him in all their classes and sat beside him in the common room when he sat in the comforts of the giant plush chairs by the lake windows.
He didnât talk much at the start. (y/n) did that for him, chattering away about how wonderful everything was, how cool magic was, how fun potions was and so much more. Tom stared over the edge of his book, still wearing his uniform even if everyone else had changed out into their casual wear.
Tom only had his orphanage uniform, and if his second-hand robes had caused some bullying, he could only imagine what his shoddy, all-grey-colored uniform would bring.
Impossibly, (y/n) noticed his lack of wardrobe, how his book bag(stolen from Billy) was straining to keep together even with all the repair charms Tom tried to cast on itâdesperation pulling at his throat as the threads plucked apart by the hour and threatened to break completely with each book piled into it, and how starved he always seemed, hording anything and everything he could get his hands on and keep.
It was weeks before Christmas, during the chaos of holiday exams for the end of terms, when Tomâs bag broke at the strap and seamâhis books and papers flying everywhere in the chaos of the hallway. Many didnât notice; a lot just walked around him as Tom dropped to the ground and frantically tried to grab everythingâyelping as his hand was stepped on.
He glared up, watching as a 4th-year Hufflepuff kept walking on, not even caring heâd stepped on a 1st year. A blur of someone joins him on the floor, and he turns his burning eyes to (y/n) as she sets her pout to his books and papers, helping him pick everything up, yelling at anyone that steps too closeâand surprisingly everyone listens to the 11-year-old girl that isnât very scary but is very loud.
She hands him his papers and carries his books to their next class, and does this for the next two classes until Slughorn takes pity and gives Tom an old but not bursting-at-the-seams bag to keep carrying his stuff.
âThank you,â Tom grumbled beneath his breath to (y/n) as she carefully slides his papers into his bag, making sure nothing was crushedâhe doesnât know why she's being so detailed, but he knows this is genuine kindness. He doesnât understand it, but he sees it.
(y/n) smilesâbright and wide.
He gets a new, not fancy, sturdy bookbag for Christmas, and he holds back the ache in his throat. His first Christmas gift, and its thoughtful. The bag is detailed, rich dark leather with dragon embroidery all over and its dorky and sweet and Tom hugs the book bag.
Its his, all his, his first gift, something meant for him with thought put into it, and Tom holds it closeâhis hair a mess, he woke up 10 minutes ago; he hadnât expected anything for Christmas but some other first year had yelled across the room for him as the rest sat under the tree.
He had a present, and he loved it.
His eyes caught (y/n)âs, she smiled at him and heâfor the first timeâoffered a wobbly smile back. Sheâd gotten him a gift, for no reason at all beyond childish kindness and too much money that one would know what to do with.
He sits with her at Christmas dinner, and they both talk for the first time since (y/n) had begun to hang around him.
=
By 4th year, theyâre attached at the hip. (y/n) was an orphan like him, but she was half-blood, like him, but sheâd ended up with wizarding relatives and a massive inheritance after her parents died from the black cat flu. She shared everything with him and he wasâŚstill getting used to it.
He stopped needing the Hogwarts stipend by the start of 2nd year, (y/n) was determined to take care of him for some reason, and Tom was nothing but hungry and greedy, thankful still, but greedy.
Even if most of the timeâhe had no clue how to respond to her generosity.
But he craved it, for the first timeâsince he was bornâhe was being fed. More than just the comfort of warm food, more than just a warm bed and thick bedding, more than just the warmth of magic.
No it was the comfort of another person, the warmth of her beside him, that he felt full for the first time.
=
He got sick in 3rd year, he didnât have any vaccinations for any sickness, so he went down with a scarlet fever for weeks on end, delirious, feverish, and locked away in a private room to make sure it didnât spread.
He caught it early on, a mere week after 3rd year started, probably got it from some kid at the orphanage and now Tom was miserable in a medical bed, unable to even focus on reading as classes went on and he was stuck in the damn hospital wing.
Tom coughed, harsh and rough, groaning as his throat burned with relentless pain, sluggishly reaching out to grab the numbing honey tea Madam Tegner had given him. It helped, as much as it could; he was just glad he was at school sickâwhere potions and spells kept him comfortable and the risk of him passing in the middle of the night wasnât possible.
(y/n) was vaccinated and wore a mask to visit him every day, teaching him everything from their shared classesâshe even took the same electives as him, minus care for creaturesâhe didnât care for that.
Her hand in his was a welcome distraction as he listened to her read to him from their 3rd year DADA textbook, notes piling high on the beside table as he sniffles and breathes though the heat in his throat while (y/n) stubbornly makes him a cup of tea that her grandmother swore by was best for scarlet feverâor as the wizarding community called it, phoenix fever.
He understood the logic, he felt like he was going to burst into flames from his fever.
(y/n) doesnât get sick, and she takes care of him every day.
He saves her some tiramisu, her favoriteâyet rareâdessert that only appears once a month when a particular house elf felt especially happy. Everyone always devoured it too quick for (y/n) to get a slice, leading to pouting lips and heavy tears that made Tom feel out of balance.
She hugs him, and Tom cannot explain the warmth in his face and the feeling in his belly thatâs hungry for more of that.
=
He starves for her.
He starves for her hand in his, her head on his shoulder, her hair tangled in his fingers, he starves for her warmth. The way her laughter curls in his chest and makes it easier to breathe, the way her smiles loosen the noose around his neck that has been there since the day he was born, the way she somehow fits beside him like a missing puzzle piece.
The way she sneaks into the secret student kitchens within Hogwarts and makes him a warm plate of homemade pasta when heâd gotten sick of the same Hogwarts meal every day.
He nearly cries; it's flavorful and warm, the pasta so full of love that he didnât know one could imbue into it.
âAre you crying?â (y/n) asks with a laugh. It's 5th year, she's wearing a flour-dusted apron, yolk smeared on the back of her hand, staring at him with an incredulous gaze as his eyes water and his mouth is tasting the best thing it's ever had.
âShut up,â Tom croaked, hording over his plateâdevouring the meal she so lovingly made. He didnât know how much he was craving something like this, not just food, but food made with the intent to be for someone adored. He wipes his eyes as he finishes the plate, asking weakly; âCan I have some more?â
(y/n) smiles and makes him another plate of alfredo tortellini, and makes garlic bread a week later when he âsubtlyâ asks for more handmade pasta.
Tom discovers he loves Italian food. Especially when itâs made by (y/n), who tells him her grandpa taught her how, her family was from Italy, and had immigrated to England and America a generation back.
He spends the summer with her, at a beach villa her grandparents own, and Tomâs cheeks are bruised by the end of the first day. Her grandma loves him, and Tom gains weight for the first time in his life since starting Hogwarts.
Tom doesnât starve anymore, heâs still hungry, heâs still greedy, he still wants everything owed to him and so much moreâhe wants to hoard and protect and carve a place for himself in the world.
But he doesnât starve, not when (y/n) feeds him. not when she holds his hand, not when she plays with his hair during late night study sessions in the common room, not when she spoils him with new dress robes for the Malfoy yule ball that he gets invited too after his Slytherin ancestry is revealed, not when she kisses him beneath the mistletoe and he devours her whole.
Tom was born starving, born without comfort, born to starve to death.
Tom no longer starves, he hungers still, for everything he was deprived of when he was young, but heâs no longer grasping for the smallest things, heâs no longer afraid to take and ask and receive.
He kisses (y/n), eats her food full of love just for him, and feels full.
Tom Riddle, finally felt full.
-End-
Yaaaaaaaay, I finished it! My mom flew down from Georgia so I really wanted to finish this before I lost access to my computer, and weâre going to Disneyland on Friday!(which I have no money forâŚyaaay :c)
Uh, I hope you guys enjoooyed, I just really needed Tom, starved for everything, to finally feel full. byyye
SUMMARY: Narcissa has big plans for her son's girlfriend this time of year, and you're determined to live up to her expectations.
WORD COUNT: 7680
NOTES: The first fic of this year's Christmas series, and I think you guys will really love it! It's cute, it's sweet, and it's just the right amount of sassy-Draco.
The moment you sank into the seat beside him, Draco pushed a cup of your favourite herbal tea across to you, his lips brushing your cheek as he whispered a sleepy greeting. Opposite you, Mattheo was half-asleep above his bowl of cereal, his head tipping forward precariously â and a slight thrill shot through you at the idea of him dropping face-first into the milky bowl.Â
âYouâre evil for choosing a six am lecture, do you know that? And they think Mattâs father is the darkest wizard there is.â Daphne groaned as she shuffled into the kitchenette of your small, shared flat in her bunny-eared muggle slippers. Chancing a glance at Draco, you didnât miss the disgraced twist to his lips as he eyed them. Just like always.Â
âNobody forced you to get up at this time, yâknow.â You teased, blowing the steam away from your mug, and Mattheoâs head lulled forward just far enough to fall when the toast popped. He jerked his head back up, only inches from getting a face-full of milk and rice crispies, and you pouted in disappointment as he blinked himself back awake, and scooped some more into his mouth, chewing obnoxiously. âWhy do you get up at this time every day?â
âBecause Dray makes us all breakfast if we do!â Daphne chirped, adjusting far better to the early rise than your other roommate, who would be cranky until noon, even without face-planting his crackling snack.Â
âCorrection, I make my girlfriend breakfast, and you two just pilfer food that isnât yours.â He snarked, buttering the toast, and kissing the top of your head a moment later as he placed it down in front of you. Moments later, a teapot, jam, a plate of only slightly too-crispy bacon and hashbrowns floated over too, laying themselves out on the table along with plates and cutlery.Â
Since his insistence on moving into his own accommodation at the start of university, Draco had been practising his cooking skills. After setting off the fire alarms every day for the first two weeks and screaming every insult under the sun at the beeping box on the ceiling, heâd started to become quite adept at it.Â
A harmony settled across the table as you all tucked into your food, only the scrape of butter on toast and the occasional squeak of metal on pottery sounded, the tea in your mug sinking dwindling as the clock on the wall ticked on. Finally, when it was time to leave, you floated all the dishes to the sink, and let Draco trail you to the door of your cramped apartment. Wrapping a thick scarf around your neck, he used it to pull you in for a kiss, smiling against your lips when you grumbled;
âI have to go, Dray.â
âI know.â He mused, licking across your lower lip in that same way that always made your legs tremble a little.Â
âStop it.â
âIâm not doing anything.â Your boyfriend teased, his hands sneaking around your waist to pull you in close. Your hand, that had been reaching for your coat, somehow found itself tangling into those soft blonde strands instead.Â
âIâm going to be late.â Your murmur was swallowed by his mouth closing over your own, a wider kiss, covering your mouth and you sagged into him. He was practically radiating smugness, the squeeze of his arms around you, the arrogance in his breathy chuckle. âDrayâŚâ
âMmmh?â
âIââ
A tapping at the window cut you off, and Draco pulled back with an indignant sound, whipping his head around to look at the window. He sighed with agitation, âDo you think my mother simply does not care that our apartment building is Muggle, or does she still think Muggles use carrier pigeons?âÂ
You smothered a laugh as he made his way over to the window, taking a little more effort to open it as ice frosted the seals closed, but when he finally did, the tawny brown owl acknowledged him with a rather irritated hoot. The moment Draco had taken the letter, it was stretching its wings, flapping again and taking off into the murky dawn light.Â
Tugging on your coat as he closed the window back up and shuddered, you shouldered your bag. Upon seeing your progress towards leaving, and another morning of failing to hinder your departure, Draco pouted. His attention turned to the letter in his hands as you opened the front door. âItâs for you.â
âWhat?â
âMy mother, she sent the letter to you. Do you want me to leave it on yourââ
âGive it here!â You squeaked, lunging for the letter, and letting the door fall back shut as you snatched it from his hands. Just like he said, elegantly scrawled across the front in Narcissaâs handwriting was your name, and a flush of nervous heat flooded your body. Suddenly, despite the ice and snow outside, you were wearing too many layers.Â
âI thought you had to leave?â
âItâs a letter from your mother! I canât leave this until later!â Turning it over and running a shaky finger under the seal with the Malfoy signet, you popped it open, the envelope falling open into a folded parchment with the same lovely handwriting contained inside.
Scanning your eyes over the words, seconds seemed to drag on into endless minutes, as you read it again and again. At last, you clutched the letter to your chest, peering up at your confused boyfriend with wide eyes. âSo, what did she say?â
âShe wants me to plan the annual Christmas Eve party this year.â
Your breathing was light and shallow as you sat inside the restaurant, smoothing down floo-rumpled hair that had taken Daphne almost an hour to style for you. Your dress was new, courtesy of a panicky shopping trip with Draco after insisting you had nothing appropriate to wear to eat dinner with his mother. Your lipstick was the perfect shade and youâd made sure your perfume was just on the right side of decorous, not the sultry date night scent you typically wore to places like this.Â
And still, despite all your preparations, your hand trembled as you picked up your water glass and brought it to your lips.Â
And then, the green flames at the front of the restaurant flashed once again, and out stepped Narcissa Malfoy. Sophistication incarnate, she smoothed her hand down the front of her dress, one that made your own feel like a burlap sack. Several members of staff flooded to her side before sheâd even finished stepping down from the line of fireplaces, and she smiled politely as she handed over her coat. Inquisitive gaze flicking over the room, that smile became genuine as she set her sights on you sitting at the table already, and she walked through the room like she owned it as she made her way to you.Â
Standing as she approached, she let out a regal scoff âhow she managed to make a scoff sound so posh was beyond youâ and waved a hand in the air. âNo need for formalities, dear. Sit, please.â
She kissed both of your cheeks, before pointing to your chair, and you sank into it as she settled into hers. âItâs so lovely to see you, Narcissa. I was surprised you wanted to see me, alone. Draco isââ
âDraco is probably pacing in that little apartment you both live in that he insists upon. Why he forces you to live there when he could have much nicer accommodations is beyond me.â
âItâs a nice apartment. We bought some lovely throw blankets.â Hiding your smile in your glass, your laugh at her expression bubbled your water, and heat rushed to your cheeks as you lowered it and patted at your lip. âIâm so sorry.â
The woman before you only chuckled privately and raised her hand to a waiter. The young man hurried over, cracking open a bottle of white wine without even having to be told, and Narcissa smiled at your confusion. âI have the same wine every time I come, this quaint little place is a favourite of mine. Did you know Lucius attended this same university when he was your age?â
You tried not to hang on the word quaint, thanking the waiter as he poured you a glass too, before hurrying from the table once again. Instead, you moved on to something else, âWhich university did you attend, Mrs Malfoy?â
âOh, no. I didnât attend university, dear. In my day, a woman was never supposed to be more intelligent than her husband. Educated, of course, but not too smart.â A fond look passed over her features, âThough, Lucius has never seemed to mind. I have read enough to possess multiple degrees by now, he is not intimidated by my curiosity for knowledge. It is one of the reasons I love my husband. But, enough about me.â
Your breathing hitched as her eyes sharpened on you once again. She toyed with the bracelet on her wrist and plucked off a small charm. Placing it on the table, with a single muttered incantation, a gorgeous, pure-leather briefcase with her initials embedded on the side in gold, filled the available space. The clasps popped open, and she peered at you over the lid.Â
âLetâs skip the small talk, shall we, dear? We have much to discuss. You know what youâd like to eat, I presume?â
You did not, in fact, know what you wanted, but you nodded regardless, and picked the first thing from the menu that came to mind. When your order was given, Narcissa placed a delicate pair of reading glasses onto her nose and began to pull out papers and folders to stack beside her wine glass.Â
âYou shall host the Christmas Eve party this year, but despite it being loosely called a âpartyâ, it is so much more. It is a social event, a business event, and one of the most desired gatherings of the year. It is exclusive, thousands of wizards globally vie for a spot on this guest list and most are disappointed year in and year out. It must be spectacular, splendid, and unique. Repeated themes are the death of any social event, as Iâm sure you know.â Peering over the rim of her glasses at you, she raised a manicured eyebrow inquisitorially. âAre you taking notes?â
With a jump, you reached for your far less elegantly-stored bag on the back of your chair, and rooted through for your notebook and QuickQuill, setting it to work atop the table as she continued to speak.Â
âI have brought my records for the last ten years, and a list of the themes dating back the last thirty, in order to help you. I have also included a copy of any and all documents I typically use, to help you out a little. Nobody helped me when I first began. Merlin, Luciusâ mother hated me until the wonderful day the old hag died, she wanted to see me fail. I do not want to see you fail.â She looked up as the scribbling of the quill on your paper stopped at her small rant. âWhy are you looking at me like that?â
âI, uhh, Iââ You stumbled over your words, clearing your throat as she closed the briefcase and linked her hands, setting them upon the tabletop with poise as she waited, âIâm just wondering why?â
âWhy?â She sniffed, pushing her glasses further up her nose and raising one brow into a high arch. âWhy what?â
âWhy youâre giving this to me? Itâs an honour, truly, but Iâm just wondering why you would put something so important, your familyâs name, into my hands?â
At that, Narcissaâs lips turned up into a fond smile, and her head tipped to the side. âMy son loves you.â
After a momentâs pause, you nodded, throat feeling thick. âHe does.â
âI am happy for him. He adores you, as he should. You are a wonderful girl, my dear. I do not want you to have the harsh break into this world that I did. I thought I had been prepared to become a wife, I was an heir of a Sacred Twenty-Eight family, but a union between the most noble House of Black and the most powerful House of Malfoy created something else entirely. You, you are clearly Dracoâs one. The men in this family love wholly, powerfully, and obsessively. You will be a Malfoy one day, and I wish for you to be ready. I wish to guide you in a way nobody guided me.â
Words froze in your throat, and tears prickled behind your eyes are her words. âYou really think that? You think Draco will marry me one day?â
âIâd be surprised if he wasnât already thinking about it. He is, at the end of the day, still a high-society boy raised to find a suitable wife.â She left her statement short and succinct, and you sniffed lightly to hold back your feelings. âDo not cry.â
âSorry, Iââ
âI mean it. Do not start crying. We have work to do.âÂ
You nodded, but then she smiled fondly, and a small and emotional squeak escaped you.
The number of notes Narcissa had given you at dinner alone had required their own folder entirely to properly organise. So this morning, youâd braved yourself on a journey out in the ice and snow to a local stationary store to pick up two more. Surrounded by open folders, QuickQuills, and some coloured tabs and inky pens deemed highlighters that youâd noticed some Muggle girls picking up, you had set to work hours ago.Â
Your neck ached, your back was sore, and two of your QuickQuills had broken while the notepad in your lap had more pages torn out in frustration than actually had useful ideas and notes.Â
That, and Draco had been needy since the moment heâd gotten home, laying himself out dramatically on the floor in front of you and trading refills on your tea for kisses. Some time ago, heâd convinced you to take a break for dinner and to do your homework together at the table.Â
Now, the sun had set, Mattheo had long since returned from his part-time job at the record store, and Daphne had come back from her weekend study group, gotten ready, and gone back out for a date, and you still felt like you hadn't quite done enough. If the stress of party planning didnât kill you, it was certainly going to cripple you.Â
Stretching your arms over your head from where you perched before the coffee table, you pushed your legs out into any space available. As you did, a relieved groan slipped free at the delicious pain of tight muscles unfurling in your back. Draco cupped your chin, tipping your head back to drop a kiss onto your lips as he passed by to go to the kitchen, leaving his book marked and closed on the side of the couch.Â
You listened to him make another cup of tea, rubbing blurry eyes and attempting to focus once again. Just before you could re-enter the zone, tapping on glass broke your focus, and you heard Draco sigh. Cracking open a window, he retrieved whatever had been sent, feeding the bird a few treats before sending it on its way again and closing out the cold chill of the December night.Â
He appeared moments later, his black and white Christmas-themed socks filling your peripherals.Â
âAnother letter for you, from my mother.â Draco drawled, passing the envelope to you as you glanced up from your folders. He waved it before your face, and you snatched it with a scowl, adding in a glare for emphasis when he only laughed. âYou know, she writes to you more than she writes to me these days.â
âYes, well, we complain to one another about the terrors of you Malfoy men and how weâre supposed to put up with you.â Your words were muttered amid distraction, skimming your gaze over the letter in your hands and frowning. âWord has already gotten out about this party, and now the Prophet wants to run an article on it.â
Your voice climbed higher and higher as you spoke, until your boyfriend winced at the shrill tone you had taken on. âI wouldn't worry too much about that.â
âWouldnât worryâ itâs the party, Draco! And now the media wants a piece! If itâs a failure, the entire Wizarding World is going to know about it by eight the following morning!â
âMore like six, if they hurry it though printingââ
âDraco!â
He rolled his eyes, flopping ungracefully down onto the couch and stretching his body long out on it. Holding his arms open, you collapsed into them with a whine, and he kissed your forehead as he wrapped you into a tight embrace. With the letter crumpled between you both, you pressed your face into his neck, taking in a deep breath of his cologne and letting it calm you slightly.Â
âYouâll still love me even if I throw the worst party ever, right?â
âYes, Iâll still love you!â He spoke through peels of sudden laughter, and the shake of his chest underneath you brought a smile to your face. Propping yourself up to peer down at him, he puckered his lips, a request for a kiss that you eagerly indulged. âAnd I meant it. This isnât personal to you, this is just Skeeter trying to push a new weak point. I donât even think she knows youâre the host yet, she does this every year. She tries to wrangle her way into an invitation through her job, and every year, my mother sneers at her letters and burns them.â
âReally?â
âYes, my love.â Rubbing his hands up and down your back, Draco leaned up to press another loving, lingering kiss to your forehead. âNow, can you please put those folders away for the night? We havenât set up our Christmas tree yet, and you havenât given me proper cuddles all day.â
âJust five more minutes?â You bargained, and his lips tightened with annoyance for a fraction of a second.Â
âOnly as long as it takes me to make two hot chocolates.â
âDeal.â
âHi, baby.â You whispered, leaning against the doorframe. Draco peered up at you from over the top of his reading glasses, folding his book silently and placing it down on the bedside table. He laced his fingers together, resting his hands across his stomach, and waited. âWhatchaâ reading?âÂ
âA thousand and one ways to ruin your girlfriendâs Christmas party.â He deadpanned, and your smile fell, arms crossing over your chest. Straightening up and stepping into the room a little more, Draco smirked at the glare you gave him.Â
âIf you would just help me out a littleââ
âYouâve yet to apologise for what you said earlier.â He crosses his ankles casually, lounging on the bed.Â
âYes, well, earlier wasââ
âThatâs not how apologies start.â Draco chastised, clicking his tongue. With a strangled sigh, and a slightly childish stomp of your foot, you caved. Ignoring the urge to ask him what he knew about good apologies, you instead made your way closer to the side of the bed. As you approached, he reached out, wrapping his arm around the backs of your legs and looking up at you, waiting.Â
âIâm sorry for shouting at you and calling you a bad boyfriend when you messed with my sticky notes. It really wasnât that deep.â Your words were begrudging, certainly holding an underlying bitterness to them that wasnât hidden, but Draco grinned nonetheless. âIâm just really stressed out.â
âYouâre putting too much thought into this, darling. You need to relax. Itâs just a party.â
âItâs not just a party! Do you realise that these people willââ Will be our wedding guests one day? Will be the people who pass judgment on my suitability to be your wife someday? Will remember this social event for the rest of their lives? It all sounded too shallow to say out loud, but somehow, it still meant something to you. âWill be so disappointed if itâs not good.â
Your boyfriendâs brows furrowed, he knew there was more you werenât saying, but he didnât push. Instead, he wrapped his arms more securely around you, tugging you down onto the bed, and you squealed as he rolled you over, your back in the blankets and his lips closing over your own in a slow kiss.Â
Your fingers laced into his hair, nails dragging over his scalp and he hummed happily, lips pressing more insistently into your own. Every tug and drag, every beat of his heart onto his chest pressed to yours, helped to settle the raging nerves that were sending tremors through your body.Â
âI know you donât think it, love, but itâs going to be fantastic. You neednât be so worried.â
Smoothing your hands along his cheeks, you unhooked his glasses, folding them away with a sweet kiss to his nose. Putting them down on top of his forgotten book, you decided to try your luck one more time. âDoes this mean youâll help me? Because I could really use a second opinion onââ
âNuh-uh. My mother entrusted you with this job. And I know why.âÂ
At your gasp, he smirked. âYou do?â
âOf course, I do. This party is a tradition for generations of Malfoy women, so if youâre going to be a Malfoy woman, youâd better learn now.â At your scoff, he pressed a kiss to your lips, chuckling when you puckered and attempted to steal more.Â
âIf you donât help me, then youâd better find a new future woman.â
âShanât. Canât. Iâve already chosen you, and the men never party plan. Weâre terrible at it. Just ask my mother about when my father suggested a Weasley-orange banner forââ
âAlright, alright!â Your arms flung around his neck, pulling him in for more kisses, and leaving the conversation behind. For a little while, you were perfectly willing to let Draco help you forget your stresses.Â
âMy darling, what are you doing?â Dracoâs groggy voice split the silence of the room, and you blinked as you refocused on him. Pyjamas pants low on his hips and no shirt, a spattering of pale hair trailing down his lower stomach and disappearing into his waistband⌠Some absent part of your exhausted brain sparked with excitement at the sight of him. âItâs two oâclock in the morning.â
âWhat? No, itâs not. I said Iâd come to bed atââ
âAt midnight?â Draco yawned, covering his mouth with one hand and pointing at the clock with the other. True to his word, it was actually past two, and a sigh slipped out.Â
âOh.âÂ
âMhm.â Draco shuffled across the room, standing behind you and running his fingers through your hair. âThis is what weâre doing now? Weâre staying up all night?â
âNo, no. Iâll pack away and come to bed now.â Stacking up your papers, you turned to look up at him with a smile. âI did it.â
âYou did it?â
âYes. I have officially finished the whole of my planning stage. Now, I just have to⌠yâknow, actually put everything together and pull it off and hope itâs a success andââ His brows raised, and you took a deep breath, remembering all the steadying words heâd muttered to you over the last few weeks. âIâll just put all this away, and come to bed, okay?â
âOkay. Iâll wait up for you.â Draco promised, dipping to press a kiss to the crown of your head.
He padded away silently through the room, and as you scooped up a pile of papers, they slipped out of your sleep-trembling hands, spilling across the floor. âOh, crap.â
âAlright, thatâs enough.â He grumbled, returning across the room and leaning down, smacking the papers out of your hands where you attempted to clear them up. Dipping down, he hooked an arm underneath your legs, lifting you swiftly up into the air and cradling you to his chest. âTheyâll still be there in the morning. Sleep, now.â
An argument sat on the tip of your tongue, but he was right, and the moment your cheek touched his shoulder and your eyes slipped closed, you knew it too. You were half asleep before heâd even reached the bedroom, dropping you both onto the mattress, still warm from his body, and cradling you to his chest. A sweet kiss and a deep rumble in your ear were the last things you recalled, before curling into his chest and falling asleep.Â
Shaking out your hand, you whimpered a little at the pain taking over. âIâm going to end up with my hand locking in this shape.âÂ
Daphne glared at you from across the table, clearly still unhappy about the fact that two hours ago youâd managed to rope her into helping you with this job as well. Your eyes were blurring, your hand was cramping, and you were still only halfway through writing out the invitations. Youâd put Daphne on folder organisation, her voice was hoarse from reading out addresses, and creating a filing system for RSVPâs and replies for your records.Â
If you had to hear any more dietary requirements, special requests, or seating demands, you were going to lose your mind. Only a few more envelopes had been completed, joining the pile of ones still waiting to be sealed with wax and sent on their way, before a shooting pain shot up your arm as cramps set in.Â
Dropping the quill in your hand and messing up the letter before you, you cursed at the smeared ink. Rubbing your palm and digging your thumb into the tense muscles, you conceded that now was most definitely the time to take a break.Â
Swaggering into the room, Mattheo peered over at the mess that had become the shared kitchen table, his brows shooting up his forehead. âYou two look busy.â
âIâm being held against my will,â Daphne muttered, tucking away the pages into the folder and beginning to pack away, despite your protests.Â
âYou want some help?â Mattheo offered, and your gaze snapped to him.
âOh, Matty, thatâs so sweetâŚâ Your lips pressed together, wincing a little bit as he eyed all of the stationary and neatly-arranged piles on the table. âItâs justâŚâ
âYour handwriting is shocking and your organisational skills are even worse.â Daphne put bluntly, and you hid a laugh at the sulky expression on his face, even if he knew it was true. âBesides, donât you have a date tonight?â
âWell, yes.â He spun to give you both his back as his cheeks flushed pink, opening and closing random drawers in an attempt to look busy.Â
You gave an excited squeal as Daphne smirked at his bashfulness. âIs it withââ
âYes!â He huffed, the tips of his ears now turning red too.
âYou really like this girl, huh? You never see the same girl twice, and this is, what, your fourth date?â Your teasing made him relent, and he at last turned around. He was picking nervously at the sweater he mustâve bought just for this occasion, as youâd never seen it before.Â
âFifth, actually. We, uhh, bumped into each other last week after class and went for some impromptu coffee, andâŚâ He scratched the back of his neck, a sweet smile taking over. âDo I look okay?â
âYou look lovely, Mattheo.â Standing up, you fixed his collar for him, brushing off the shoulders of his sweater, and he preened into your touch. âOh, wow, Daph. You have to come and see this. Is this⌠what I think it is?â
âWhat?â Mattheo panicked, turning his head to his shoulder as you rubbed the fabric between your fingers. Turning him around, he attempted to peer over his shoulder as you turned the inside of his collar out. âWhat is it?â
âIt doesnât say it on the label, butâŚâ
âYou know, I think youâre right,â Daphne said, feeling the fabric stretched across his shoulders. âNo, no, it definitely is.â
âWhat? I donât have time to change! My jumper is what?â Mattheo gasped anxiously.
âBoyfriend material.â You said, very seriously, and it took a moment for the fear to melt out of his eyes and be replaced by annoyance.Â
âOh, fuck off.â Mattheo pushed you both away from him, scowling as your laughter filled the room, and the pair of you made your way back over to the table. âYou two are the worst.â
âYou love us.â
âI donât know why.â He mumbled, glancing at the clock, even as his cheeks stretched into a smile. âI have to go soon. But how about I make you both a snack before I do? I can at least make a good sandwich.â
âThatâs⌠everything.â You mumble, staring in awe at the two âalmost three, filled folders of notes, invitations, floor plans and more. âI canât believe thatâs it.â
âIt is?â Draco asked, through a mouthful of fried rice as he fixated on the screen. Since Mattheoâs introduction of a Muggle television into the flat, Draco had been hooked on a âsitcomâ a half-blood in one of his classes had introduced him to. He had written to Theo three times this week alone to update him on âRoss and Rachelâ. Theo had given up replying last week.
âYes. Everything, itâs all done.â
âMhm.â
âDraco!â You snapped, and he paused the show, wide eyes moving to you as he stared innocently. âIâm done.â
It took him a moment to process before his face split into a wide grin. âYou finished the party planning?â
âI did!â He put down his container of food as you dove across the couch to cup his cheeks, smacking giggly kisses onto his mouth as you took him down into the cushions with you. Large hands gripped your waist, a smile on his face as he chuckled by your ear.
âSo, does this mean I get my girlfriend back, at last?â
âYes, I suppose.â You rolled your eyes through a smile, flattening yourself out against him on the couch, content to melt into his body as he pressed play on the show. He picked up a new box, hand-feeding you dumplings in turns as the episode played on, and you chuckled between jokes and comedic pauses as you finally allowed yourself to unwind.Â
âDonât you think Pansy is just like Monica?â Draco asked after a while, wincing as you screeched a laugh beside his ear at the impromptu comparison. âThe need to control, that inherently irritating early-morning mentality, looking shockingly good in redââ
You pinched his side, just over his ribs, and he yelped but did not continue comparing how good other women looked in red. After a second or two of deliberation, you added, âTom is Ross.â
âWhat? No. Tom is Chandler! Tom is smart and ridiculously awkward and incapable of talking to women!â Draco argued, and you sat up in his lap, shaking your head.Â
âNo! No. Tom is Ross, the complete obsession with one specific thing and also being a massive control freak, plus, the commitment! He was adorably committed to Carol, and Rachel, bar that whole cheating momentââ
âThey were on a breakââ You pressed your finger over Dracoâs lips to silence him.Â
âAnyway, I can totally see Tom accidentally getting someone knocked up, and also, you have to save Joey and Chandler for Theo and Matty!â
Draco mulled it over, âOkay. Iâll give you that.â
He pulled you back down onto his chest, and you snuggled in. Between the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree and the dulled tones of the easy-going TV show to send you off into a hazy place, with Dracoâs fingers smoothing up and down your back.Â
âYou look perfect.â You smiled, hands clasped under your chin as you looked at Draco in his newly fitted dress robes. This was the first time he was seeing them, the look on his face unreadable as he took in the design, fit and patterns, but you thought it was just right. âDo you like it?â
Draco looked at himself in the mirror again, straightening out the sleeves and buttoning the rather modern front, tucking one hand into a pocket. At last, he turned to you and smiled. âWell, itâs nothing like what my mother normally makes me wear, but I love it. Are you finally going to tell me the theme?â
âNo! You said you didnât want to give any opinions, so now, itâs a surprise! Nobody knows, except me!â Smoothing your hands over his shoulders and down his arms, you admired the pretty picture he painted before you, even in the dim light of your bedroom so late at night. âI have a couple of handkerchief options for your pocket, and I was thinking we could pin a sprig of holly onto yourââ
Your words died in your throat in a sudden rush as a thought crossed your mind, and Draco waited, brow furrowing the longer you remained silent. âWhatâs wrong, you donât like it?â
âI forgot a dress.â You whispered to yourself, shock draining from your body as realisation set in. âI got so caught up with everything else that I never ordered a dress! Itâs next week, Draco! How am I supposed to find something by then, between classes andââ
âYouâre okay.â
âNo, this is so not okay!â
âDarling, breathe.â Draco cupped your face, kissing your lips quietly, âI have something for you.â
Opening up the wardrobe dedicated to his clothes, Draco pulled out a garment bag. Embroidered on the front in sparkling gold was the name of his family tailor, and he hooked it onto the front of the door. Unzipping it slowly, beautiful waves of green silk and jewels filled your vision, a sparkling corset and a flowing skirt that spilled out of the bag the moment it was open.Â
âI noticed a few days ago that youâd ordered me new robes, but not a dress for yourself. I asked my mother and Daphne, and you hadn't planned anything with either of them. So, I ordered you something.â
âOh, DrayâŚâ You whispered, stepping closer to admire the dress. Your fingers hovered just over the top of it, and Draco carefully lifted it out, laying it over his arm for you to better admire. âItâs perfect. How in Merlinâs name did you know?â
âWell, red, green and gold were some of the specified colours on the invitations, and I knew damn well you werenât going to dare dress me in red, so green it was. Plus, I mentioned to my tailor that I needed a dress for you that matched whatever secret outfit you had planned for me.â He shrugged, like it was no big deal, and your cheeks flushed as you looked between him and the dress. âDo you like it?â
âI love it.â
âGood, because I already picked up some jewellery for you too.â You quirked a brow, smirking at him as he rolled his eyes. âCanât have you pulling the same nonsense you did last year, so I fetched a couple of items from the vault.â
âCan I see?â
âNo. Itâs a surprise. Unless, of course, thereâs anything you want to tell me?â He bargained, and your jaw dropped at his audacity, shaking your head.Â
âI love you?â
âHm. No. But I love you too.â Kissing the tip of your nose, he held the dress up for you. âTry this on, I want to see you in it, and see us both side by side.âÂ
Taking it from his hands, the soft material slipped through your fingers and floated like clouds as you held it up. âDraco, IâŚâ
Words died in your throat, unable to properly convey just how much this meant to you. Despite his refusal to get involved with the ridiculously stressful planning of the party, Draco had made sure to dote on you and take care of you all the way through. He seemed to see right through you, his expression softening as he leaned down to press his forehead to yours. âHey. You take care of everyone else, and Iâll take care of you.â
Straightening out Dracoâs collar for the eighth time, you huffed anxiously when he batted away your hands. âDarling, my robes are fine. Tug on them anymore and youâre going to crease them.â
âIâm sorry. Iâm just so nervous.â
âDonât be. You planned a perfect party, and you worked so hard. Let yourself enjoy it now.â Draco took both of your hands in his as he chuckled, kissing your knuckles as you conceded to his point. He was right, this ridiculous batch of nerves was far more out of a need to impress his mother than it was to impress anyone else on that invitation list, but you couldn't shake the buzz of trepidation in your veins. âLet me distract you.â
âDistract me?â
âYes. Let me distract you.â Draco grinned, tipping your chin up with a finger underneath your jaw, and dipping his head down. His lips encased your own, a soft sound of pleasure bubbling from inside you as the taste of mint and lingering wine from his drinks with Theo spread to your tongue. Two large hands wrapped around your waist, settling on your lower back. He tugged you closer to him again, until you were crushed to his chest, no doubt wrinkling his robes, as your arms looped around his neck.Â
With every crush of his mouth against your own, your worries slipped further from you, letting the proximity and adoration of your boyfriend settle the unease brewing within you. Something cold brushed against your collarbones, the dipped neckline of the dress Draco had chosen for you showed goosebumps in its wake, and you pulled back with a gasp at a tug on your earlobe.Â
You raised your hand, a simple but elegant charmed bracelet was wrapping itself around your wrist, as your fingers brushed your sternum to feel the pendant of a necklace perfectly setting itself on your chest. In your ears, a string of diamonds now swung lightly from each one, completing your look at last.Â
âPerfect. Now youâre properly adorned, as Malfoy woman should be.â
âDonât tell me this necklace is your family crest like a brand.â You teased, pinching it between your thumb and forefinger, but only the precise cuts of a perfectly-carved gem were felt beneath your finger pads, not a name or brand to be found.Â
âWell, I was tempted, but no. I went a little subtler, instead, I chose a very recognisable piece from the Malfoy public collections.â
His smirk made a flush rush to your cheeks, but you didnât have time to address it before one of the Manorâs house elves popped into the empty space before you, curling a finger around its ear as it bobbed excitedly where it stood. âMisses first guests be arriving, the floo has been opened and the guestâs carriages be coming through the gates. Does miss or sirs be needing anything else, or should Fip be starting pouring the drinks?â
âPouring drinks would be excellent, thank you, Fip.â Draco murmured, sending the elf away with one final pat on your back as he stepped away, Draco smoothed a hand down the front of his robes. With the mere wave of a hand, the large wooden doors separating you both from the grand hall began to creak open, and Draco offered you an arm. âShall we greet our guests, my love? Iâm rather excited to see your party theme at last.â
You slid your arm through his, taking one more bracing deep breath, before at last turning to see the culmination of all your hard work.Â
As the doors parted further, you were left breathless at the sight of the room before you. It had been transformed, from something youâd seen so many times before in so many luxurious visions, to the dream of your own making. The enchanted ceiling was that of swirling clouds and a dark, starry sky. Snow that could pass for real floated around the outside of the room in glittering flakes that disappeared into thin air before touching the floor, creating a wintery setting that was countered by the cosy and warm feel of the crackling fireplaces around the room.Â
Floating around the dance floor were sparkling, swirling lights that would bob and weave between the guests, keeping the lighting low and romantic as candles flickered on the tables and gave the room a wonderfully golden glow. Tablecloths brushing the floors, centrepieces made of golden flowers, wreaths and holly berries. Snow-touched Christmas trees, twinkling lights and ornaments, red ribbons, green silk, accents of gold and silver, and it all came together so perfectly. Draco walked you slowly towards the centre of the room as he took it all in, his jaw dropped as he peered around the room.Â
âWell, weâve certainly never had anything like this before.â He whispered. âIt feels so⌠cosy.â
âDo you think theyâllââ
âWho cares what they think? Do you like it?â Draco pressed, cutting you off as the two of you stood squarely in the centre of the room, the spelled instruments in the corner starting to play classical versions of your favourite Christmas songs, and his lips flicked up at the corners. âAre you happy with it, my darling?â
âI love it.â You finally relented, pressing your lips together to quash nerves and choosing instead to revel in your masterpiece. âI wanted to tap into that old-fashioned, classical, comforting Christmas. I wanted to make my mark, I wanted something beautiful but simple, I wanted it to feel like an intimate gathering, not a social event.â
The doors at the other end of the hall opened slowly, voices from the other side filtering through, and your attention turned to that of your friends and their families. Theo whistled under his breath as he looked around, stopping abruptly at his fatherâs command, and he rolled his eyes when the older man wasnât looking. Across the room, he caught your gaze, and gave an approving nod and a smirk. Pansyâs lips were curled into a smile as Daphneâs jaw dropped, admiring the enchanted sky-scene with her sister.Â
You moved to greet them, accepting their approval and using the warmth their comfort offered to soothe the jagged feelings inside of you and put them to rest.Â
The more the crowds piled in, the better you felt, slipping into polite chatter and breezy small talk as you greeted each guest to pass through. The drinks were flowing, the music was playing, and most of all, people were smiling. Youâd only heard compliments, no whispered talk under anyone's breath of backhanded compliments, only genuine kindness.Â
By the time Narcissa and Lucius came gliding into the hall, youâd almost been reassured enough to let your guard down. However, as the regal older lady greeted all her old friends and favoured guests on her way to you, the nerves all seemed to reappear.Â
By the time she reached you, her hands had extended out and clutched your own as she smiled. âMy, my, dear. What a party you threw, and to think youâve been so worried. You had no need to be.â
Your jaw dropped, and you shook your head. âI-I wouldn't say worried, just a little concerned, thatâs allââ
âPlease, let us not hide things from one another. Draco has been writing to me, he told me you were panicking like a, what was that odd Muggle term you used, like a headless chicken?â Her nose wrinkled as you blushed, and Lucius rolled his eyes. Your glare turned to Draco, who only shrugged and sipped his drink, feigning innocence. âThis is a marvellous party, I hope youâre proud of it.â
âI am. It was exhausting, though. I donât know how you do it.â You sighed, and she smirked as she squeezed your hands before letting go.Â
âDid it.â
âHm?â You questioned, and her shoulders rose and fell delicately.Â
âOh, you did such a fantastic job here. Youâre all anyone is talking about, and truly, I am so tired of planning these events. I think itâs due time you take over them now. The next one is February, Iâll be sure to send you all of the details.â Your jaw dropped open at her words and Draco choked a little on his champagne. His father scowled, poking him in the ribs with his cane and telling him to stop slouching and spluttering, as you tried to find words.Â
âOh, Iâm not sure thatââ
âLucius, dear, I think I see Tauria Parkinson. Come, I must ask her about her gardens.âÂ
âYes, dear.â He mumbled quietly, and she had whisked her husband away before youâd even finished your sentence and turned to Draco. With your jaw still dropped in horror and shock, he covered his snicker behind his hand.Â
âI canât believe this.â
âWhat? Sheâs right. You planned a great party, and you were going to have to take over all of this one day anywayââ
âDraco!â
âYes, dear?â He drawled, and you smacked lightly at his chest with the back of your hand.
âYouâre a menace. I hope you know that you will be helping with party planning. If weâre to proceed down this road, weâll be a modern couple. None of your old-fashioned ways.â You scoffed, taking his drink from his hand and swirling the bubbly inside, before drinking the rest in a single gulp.
âNone of them?â He pressed, an arm snaking around your waist as his lips brushed your neck. His lips moved to your neck, whispering some sweet, some slightly inappropriate things into your ear about honeymoon traditions, drawing a laugh from you.Â
âAlright, maybe a few.â You caved, tipping your head up to him just in time to catch the growing sprig of mistletoe over your head. Snaking one hand around to cup the back of his neck, you pulled his lips down to yours, brushing your mouths together lovingly. âHappy Christmas, Draco.â
Summary: You're chronically ill, and you're also a parent balancing your schedule between working at the PTMC and custody of your young daughter. When you meet Trinity she's an R2, and you've taken up a fellowship program at the emergency department of the PTMC. You had told yourself you weren't going to date again after the divorce. Not for a long time. You needed to focus on your career and your daughter, but how can you not slowly fall for this sassy R2 who is so sweet, kind, and caring with every kid that comes into The Pitt
word count: 3K
Warnings: chronic illness and dynamic disability, POTS and presyncope, chronic joint pain, dizziness, tremors, medication and food management, medical workplace stress, divorce and shared-custody arrangements, references to strained co-parenting, pediatric emergency care, discussion of a pelvic exam, minor injury and stitches, blood, death of a young child following an accident, grief and emotional distress, and a brief conversation about death with a six-year-old
Authors note: Here is the series I talked about! I hope you all enjoy this first part!
You had three rules when you accepted the pediatric emergency medicine fellowship at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
The first was that your daughter, Malia, came before everything else.
The second was that your health came before your pride, a rule your rheumatologist, cardiologist, physical therapist, and increasingly irritated mother had spent several years forcing you to accept.
The third was that you were not dating.
Not casually. Not seriously. Not because someone was attractive, or funny, or happened to look particularly good with her sleeves pushed up while performing a central line.
Your divorce had only been finalized eight months ago. The custody arrangement was still new enough that Malia sometimes woke up on Sunday mornings and asked whether she was supposed to be at your house or her other motherâs.
You had a fellowship to survive, a six-year-old to raise, and a body that required more negotiation than most hospital administrators.
You did not have room for another person.
Then you met Dr. Trinity Santos.
âNew fellow?â
You looked up from the workstation where you had spent the last five minutes attempting to convince PTMCâs electronic medical record that you were, in fact, a licensed physician and not someone who had wandered in off the street.
The woman leaning against the other side of the desk wore black scrubs and an expression suggesting she had already found several reasons to be unimpressed by you.
Dark hair. Sharp eyes. Coffee in one hand. Trauma shears clipped at her waist.
Her badge identified her as a Doctor. Her mouth identified her as a problem.
âThat obvious?â you asked.
âYouâve been glaring at the computer like youâre trying to kill it telepathically.â
âIâm considering throwing it into traffic.â
âThat violates hospital policy.â
âShame.â
âAlso, Dana would stop you before you made it through the ambulance bay.â
You glanced toward the nursesâ station. Dana was currently managing an agitated family member, two arguing transporters, and a surgeon demanding a bed that did not exist without raising her voice once. You reconsidered your odds.
âThe computer lives another day.â
âCoward.â
The resident held out her hand.
âTrinity Santos.â
You accepted it. âI know.â
Her eyebrow lifted.
âYou were mentioned during orientation.â
âThat could mean anything.â
âIt was mostly warnings.â
âWarnings are compliments from people without imagination.â
You laughed before you could stop yourself. Trinityâs eyes flickered over your face, catching the sound with an attention that made you immediately wish you could take it back. Not because you disliked her. That was the problem. You had liked her within thirty seconds.
You introduced yourself. Her grip was warm and firm. She did not squeeze hard enough to hurt the joints in your fingers, which could have been coincidence. You told yourself it was coincidence.
âPediatric emergency medicine?â she asked, glancing at the fellowship designation beneath your name.
âPrimarily. Iâll also be working general ED shifts.â
âGood. We need someone who knows how to communicate with people who scream, throw things, and refuse to explain where it hurts.â
âYou mean children?â
âI mean surgeons.â
Your second laugh came easier.
It was still a mistake. Trinity did not become important all at once. She became important five minutes at a time. It started with coffee. Not romantic coffee. Not even thoughtful coffee. It was the burnt sludge from the staff room that Trinity placed beside your keyboard during the second week of your fellowship without asking how you took it. You stared down into the cup.
âThis has milk in it.â
âYou look like a milk person.â
âWhat does that mean?â
âI havenât decided.â
âAnd sugar?â
âTwo.â
You took a cautious sip.
It was exactly right.
Trinity did not look at you. She continued scrolling through a patient chart as though she had not somehow noticed your coffee order after working beside you for fewer than ten shifts.
âYou guessed correctly,â you said.
âIâm observant.â
âYouâre nosy.â
âThat too.â
The next time she brought you coffee, she said it was because she had accidentally made two. The time after that, someone had apparently given her an extra cup. By the fourth one, neither of you bothered pretending. You began leaving packets of her preferred sour candy beside her workstation in return. Not because you were flirting. You were simply feeding a resident. Residents required enrichment.
âYou know these are terrible for you,â you said one afternoon as Trinity tore open the packet.
âYou drink energy drinks with medication.â
âThat is a carefully calibrated medical system.â
âThat is fruit punch with enough caffeine to restart a heart.â
âItâs Pacific Punch.â
âSorry. I didnât realize it was artisanal.â
You watched her tip several pieces into her mouth. Her face tightened.
âYou donât even like sour candy,â you realized.
Trinity swallowed with visible effort. âI do.â
âYou look like youâve been poisoned.â
âThatâs how enjoyment looks on me.â
You snorted. She smiled at the sound. You noticed. You wished you had not.
For the first month, you knew Trinity almost entirely through movement. The way she came into a room quickly but never approached frightened patients too fast. The way she spun pens between her fingers while thinking. The way she leaned one hip against your workstation whenever she wanted to ask a question but did not want it to sound like she was asking. She was good. Not merely competent. Good.
She knew when to call for help. She knew when a patient needed reassurance and when reassurance would sound like condescension. She could be sarcastic with coworkers and gentle with patients without either version feeling false.
You watched her explain a pelvic exam to a nervous teenager without once using euphemisms or talking down to her. You watched her stay twenty minutes after sign-out because an elderly patientâs wife was frightened and had not understood what the admitting physician had said. You watched her kneel beside a childâs stretcher so often that you began to wonder whether her knees ever hurt. You also watched her steal your pens.
âThatâs mine,â you said one morning.
Trinity looked at the pen in her hand.
âNo, it isnât.â
âIt has my name on it.â
She rotated it.
Your name was printed in silver along the side.
âThis proves nothing.â
âIt proves you stole it directly from me.â
âI may have found it.â
âIn my pocket?â
âThatâs a serious accusation.â
âYou reached into my coat while I was wearing it.â
âAnd yet you did nothing to stop me.â
âYou said there was a bug on my shoulder.â
âThere might have been.â
âThere wasnât.â
Trinity clicked the pen twice.
âDo you want it back?â
You held out your hand.
She considered it.
Then she tucked the pen into the chest pocket of her scrubs.
âNo.â
You stared at her. Trinity walked away. You spent the next hour pretending the small grin on your face was irritation. She returned the pen before the end of the shift. There was a glittery dinosaur sticker wrapped around it. You kept it.
Your custody schedule entered the department before Malia did. It appeared in the way you never agreed to stay late on Tuesday evenings. In the way you left at exactly six on alternating Fridays, no matter how interesting the case. In the way your phone alarm went off at three thirty every Thursday with the label:
Confirm tomorrowâs pickup.
The first time it happened near Trinity, she glanced at the screen.
âPickup?â
âMy daughter.â
Trinityâs expression changed. Not dramatically. Her face simply opened.
âYou have a kid?â
âA six-year-old.â
âYouâve been here a month and neglected to mention youâre responsible for a whole human being?â
âIt hasnât come up.â
âYou told me about your landlordâs plumbing problem.â
âThat was affecting my ability to shower.â
âYou told me your neighbor keeps putting recycling in the wrong bin.â
âThatâs a community issue.â
Trinity leaned her elbows on the counter.
âWhatâs her name?â
âMalia.â
âHow old is she?â
âSix.â
âYou said that.â
âYou asked again.â
âI was building momentum.â
You tried to return your attention to the chart.
Trinity remained where she was.
âWhat does she like?â
You glanced over. The question was too sincere for the casual conversation you had expected.
âSpace,â you said. âDinosaurs. Painting. Anything with glitter, which is unfortunate because glitter never leaves. It only relocates.â
âSmart kid.â
âShe also thinks waffles are a dinner food.â
âThey are.â
âAnd she refuses to wear matching socks.â
âTheyâre on different feet. Why would they need to match?â
You narrowed your eyes.
Trinity looked pleased with herself.
âYouâre encouraging her hypothetically.â
âI support her independence.â
âYou havenât met her.â
âI already respect her.â
It was the first conversation you and Trinity had about something outside the hospital. It lasted three minutes. You thought about it during the drive to pick Malia up the following evening. That was how it happened. Small conversations followed you home. Trinityâs jokes surfaced while you packed Maliaâs lunch. Her voice appeared in your mind when you stood in the grocery store debating which electrolyte drinks would offend your stomach least.
Once, while helping Malia cover a solar system project in silver stars, you caught yourself wondering whether Trinity would approve of the scientific accuracy. You promptly got glitter in your eye. It felt like punishment.
The first time Trinity saw you become symptomatic, she did not make a production of it. That mattered more than you knew how to explain. It was midway through a Monday shift, several hours after the protein bar you had eaten in the car and roughly forty minutes beyond the point when your body had begun requesting salt, water, and horizontal positioning.
Your joints had been aching since you woke up. You had put on your most supportive shoes, taken your morning medication with toast, and promised yourself you would sit whenever possible. Then the department filled. Sitting became theoretical.Â
You ignored the pressure building behind your eyes. You ignored the faint trembling in your hands. You ignored your heart climbing into your throat every time you stood too quickly. You were reviewing imaging at a workstation when the edges of the screen began to gray.
âSit down.â
You looked sideways. Trinity had appeared beside you, expression flat.
âIâm fine.â
âYou just typed your password into the patientâs weight field.â
You looked at the screen. So you had.
âI was testing the system.â
âYou failed.â
âI need to call radiology.â
âYou need to put your ass in the chair before it puts itself on the floor.â
You bristled automatically. Trinity saw it. Her posture changed. Not retreating. Adjusting.
âTell me what you need,â she said.
The command was gone. The concern remained. You swallowed.
âWater. Electrolytes. A few minutes sitting down.â
âFood?â
âI have crackers in my bag.â
âWhere?â
âBottom drawer.â
Trinity retrieved them without commenting on the pharmacyâs worth of medication she found beside them. She set the crackers and electrolyte packet on the desk, then positioned a rolling stool behind you. She did not touch you. She did not call anyone over. She did not take the tablet from your hand until you offered it.
âI can finish the note,â she said.
âYou have your own patients.â
âAnd opposable thumbs. Itâs a versatile combination.â
You sat. Trinity mixed the electrolyte powder into your water bottle and handed it over. For the next several minutes, she stood between you and the main walkway, shielding you from curious glances without making it obvious.
âPOTS?â she asked quietly.
âAmong other things.â
âDo you faint?â
âPresyncope. Iâve never fully lost consciousness.â
âWarning signs?â
You looked at her.
âWhy?â
âSo I know what Iâm looking for next time.â
The answer tightened something beneath your ribs.
Not Whatâs wrong with you?
Not Can you work like this?
Not Should someone else be responsible for your patients?
Just what she should know.
âYouâll notice me getting quieter,â you said. âMy hands shake. Sometimes I lose track of what Iâm saying.â
âSo if you stop arguing with me, itâs an emergency.â
âPrecisely.â
âTerrifying.â
Your pulse gradually settled. The room stopped narrowing. Trinity remained until you were steady enough to stand.
âYou donât have to hover,â you told her.
âI wasnât hovering.â
âYou were guarding me from foot traffic.â
âI was standing.â
âStrategically.â
âIâm a strategic person.â
âYou once opened a supply cabinet and three bags of saline fell on your head.â
âThat was sabotage.â
You tried not to smile. You failed.Â
After that, Trinity began noticing things. Not in a suffocating way. She did not ask whether you had taken your medication every morning. She did not watch you stand and wait for you to wobble. She did not try to carry your bag without permission.
She simply learned. She learned that you needed to eat before taking certain medications. She learned that sitting on the edge of a desk helped your hips more than the low stools did. She learned that when you pressed two fingers against the inside of your wrist, you were checking your pulse without making it obvious. She learned not to ask whether you were okay in front of other people.
Instead, she would pass you and murmur, âGreen, yellow, or red?â
You had no idea where she had gotten the system.
You answered anyway.
Usually green.
Sometimes yellow.
Twice, red.
On those days, she covered your patients long enough for you to sit in the staff room with your legs elevated. She never called it helping. She called it protecting the department from your increasingly terrible handwriting.
You returned the favor. You noticed when she skipped meals. You noticed when a pediatric case left her quieter than usual. You noticed when sarcasm became less of a personality trait and more of a barricade.
One night, after a child came in following an accident you knew neither of you would forget quickly, Trinity stood at the sink scrubbing her hands long after the blood was gone. You did not ask her to talk. You stood beside her and dried your own already-clean hands. After a minute, she shut off the water.
âKids arenât supposed to be that small,â she said.
âNo.â
âThat shouldnât be allowed.â
âNo.â
Her jaw tightened. You reached into your pocket and placed one of her sour candies on the counter between you. Trinity looked down at it.
âThatâs your intervention?â
âItâs evidence-based.â
âYouâre a terrible fellow.â
âSo Iâve been told.â
She took the candy.
You watched her unwrap it, the plastic crackling loudly in the quiet space between you.
Then you placed your hand against her back.
Lightly.
Your palm settled between her shoulder blades, close enough to offer steadiness without trapping her beneath it.
Trinity went still.
She did not move away.
You reached into your pocket with your other hand and pulled out your phone.
âI think we could both use this,â you said.
Trinity glanced at the screen.
âUse what?â
You selected your ex-wifeâs name from your recent calls.
âA reminder.â
âOf?â
You pressed the call button.
âThat sometimes theyâre okay.â
Something in Trinityâs face shifted.
The phone rang three times before your ex answered.
âWhat?â
âHi.â
A pause.
âYouâre still at work.â
âI know.â
âIs something wrong?â
You looked at Trinity.
Her eyes were fixed on the sink, on the water circling the drain even though the faucet had already been turned off.
âNo,â you said. âI just wanted to talk to Malia.â
âItâs almost nine.â
âI know.â
âSheâs supposed to be asleep.â
âI wonât keep her up.â
Your hand remained on Trinityâs back.
Beneath your palm, her breathing was still too shallow.
Your ex sighed.
âWhat happened?â
âNothing happened.â
âYou donât call on my nights unless something happened.â
You looked down at the faint smear still caught beneath the edge of your nail.
âA patient came in.â
Your ex went quiet.
She knew your voice.
After a moment, you heard fabric rustling.
Then Maliaâs sleepy voice came through the phone.
âMommy?â
Your chest tightened.
âHi, bug.â
âWhy are you calling?â
âI wanted to say goodnight.â
âI already said goodnight yesterday.â
âThat was a different night.â
Malia yawned.
âDid you have a bad day?â
âA hard one.â
âDid somebody yell at you?â
Beside you, Trinityâs mouth twitched faintly.
âNo.â
âDid you give someone stitches?â
âNot tonight.â
âDid somebody die?â
Your fingers pressed slightly more firmly against Trinityâs back.
âYes,â you said quietly.
Malia was silent.
Then, âWere they little?â
You closed your eyes.
âYes.â
Trinityâs breath caught beneath your hand.
âIâm not little anymore,â Malia said.
âNo,â you whispered. âYouâre enormous.â
âIâm six.â
âPractically ancient.â
Trinity turned her head slightly.
The beginning of a smile appeared at the corner of her mouth.
âIâm going to be seven next year,â Malia reminded you.
âI know.â
âThen eight.â
âThat is usually how numbers work.â
âI miss you.â
âI miss you too.â
âAre you coming tomorrow?â
âIâm picking you up after school.â
âFor my weekend?â
âFor your weekend.â
âCan we have waffles?â
âFor dinner?â
âYes.â
You glanced at Trinity.
She was listening despite pretending not to.
âWaffles arenât dinner food,â you said.
âThey are.â
Trinity murmured, âThey absolutely are.â
Malia heard her.
âWho said that?â
You looked at Trinity.
Her eyebrows lifted.
âOne of the residents,â you said.
âThe funny one?â
Trinityâs expression changed.
Apparently you had discussed her more than you realized.
âYes,â you admitted. âThe funny one.â
âI want to meet her.â
Trinity looked down.
Something soft and startled crossed her face.
âMaybe someday,â you said.
âCan she come for waffles?â
Your hand remained against Trinityâs back.
âWeâll see.â
Your exâs voice came through faintly, reminding Malia that she needed to sleep.
âI have to go,â Malia said.
âI know.â
âI love you.â
âI love you too, bug.â
âTell the funny doctor waffles are dinner.â
Trinity leaned slightly closer to the phone.
âI already know.â
Malia giggled.
The sound was sleepy, bright, and wonderfully ordinary.
You felt Trinityâs shoulders loosen beneath your palm.
âGoodnight, Mommy.â
âGoodnight.â
The line went quiet.
You lowered the phone.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Trinity stared down at the candy in her hand.
Then she put it into her mouth and immediately winced.
âYou hate those,â you said.
âIâm recovering.â
âThat isnât how recovery works.â
âDonât police my process.â
Her voice was still quiet.
But it sounded like her again.
You let your hand remain on her back for another second.
âBetter?â
Trinity looked at you.
âYeah.â
You nodded.
âMe too.â
You stayed beside her until she was ready to leave. Neither of you mentioned it again.
summary: when you struck the arrangement with damian wayne to act as your fake boyfriend for a party hosted by your ex and ex-best friendâyou thought your choice made perfect sense. choosing damian wayne, the most logical, unattainable person you knew, removes the complication of feelings being involved. till of course, damian stops pretending.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: flufff, damian wayne is a yearner and takes his role of being your pretend boyfriend very seriously.
"You are suggesting I partake in a fake relationshipâ" Damian Wayne stares down at you, still dressed in his lab coat, with what may be the closest to genuine concern you've ever seen on him, all cramped into the crease of his brows. "To help with your dilemma?"
"Exactly." Your grin is the only positive staple throughout this entire exchange, after your successful cornering of only the most unattainable medical student of Gotham University. "It's like a fancy title for an assignment partner but removing the word 'assignment', right?"
"Assuming that your ambitious plan would even work." Crossing his arms, Damian looks more unimpressed over your carefully planned spreadsheet titled 'Fake-Dating Operation' than the earlier assigned pairings by Dr. Lake. "Do humour me on your astounding confidence that I would even offer my assistance."
"We're already assigned together for the semester." You shrug. "What's one reunion party, and an hour spent pretending you don't hate my guts like you do with everyone else?"
He stares at you for a long beat, before his lips twitch into the smallest smirk. "I appreciate your attempts at lowering my expectations further on how idlers are able to accomplish wasting hours in a day. I expect your section of the report to be done by Sunday."
"Wait!" Your hand reaches out to grab at the ends of his sleeve as he moves past you. "I am an amazing fake partner. I provide free dog walks, cookies, amazing work ethicâit's practically a free service just for a little acting on your part!"
"I appreciate the desperation, and the answer is still a no."
"Wayne!" You call out as his sleeve slips out of your fingers, stopping in your tracks right in front of himâblocking the exit. "Damian, please."
His head tilts to cast you a disapproving expression. "My word of advice, is to gain enough respect for yourself to not be bothered by what others think."
Your lips pull together into a frown, but you refuse to be dissuaded, not when you've already laid all your cards on the table. You didn't expect it to be easy, and you had already prepared yourself for his vicious tongue.
"My self-respect has already been trampled on when they decided to send me the invitation." You state honestly. "It's scheduled for its revival in five weeks, after the party. I'll be a changed person by then, scout's honour."
His brow pulls higher, as if silently questioning if you had even part of the Gotham Scouts, but you're not done.
"But before then, I plan on being the pettiest, deranged person in all of Gotham University." You declare. "And that includes you in my plans, because you, Damian Wayne, are the only person who checks all my requirements of a fake boyfriend."
"I'm honoured." He mocks, gaze flickering past towards the hallway.
"You are Walter's role-model, he would kiss the test tubes you lay your fingers on. Paige has a Pinterest folder labelled with your name, and it has all your news sightings saved by colour coordination."
"Sounds like your issues derive more from the company you keep." He mutters, expression pulled together in disgust.
"Point besides, I want it to be you, Damian Wayne." You confess.
It sounds ridiculous, but this was fully concerning your pride and something you've forgotten in your years of working yourself away for your dreams, which was the taste for controlled chaos. He blinks once, staring at you incredulously as if deciding where to place you in his ranking of newly discovered lunatics.
"You're the only person who will drive them as insane as they've made me." Your voice chokes, filled with determination or buried rage, the difference didnât seem to matter. "You could walk in there for just an hour to save my life, and I know that you won't have the slightest chance of complicating things, or falling in love with meâand that's what makes this perfect. This may sound crazy to you, but you're the only person that's made sense to me ever since my life was turned upside-down."
Your chest heaves, and your arms are still outstretched to stop him from leaving the lab. You're nothing like thisâimpulsive, frantic, verging on insanityâbut you're also done being complacent. Of letting things go just because it's the right thing to do.
After what feels like eternity, Damian's expression flickers. Implicit and almost undetectable, but his gaze is on you as if he's finally registering your existence and trying to catalogue you into a different box than the one he's placed you in.
"Send the spreadsheet to my email." He answers apprehensively, as if he can't believe the words coming out of his mouth. "I will review through the calendar on its... feasibility. Expect a response by eight p.m.."
You let out a held breath, a smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, reallyâ"
"On the condition that I expect you to finish your section by tonight."
Your expression freezes. "Tonight?"
"To prove your desperation's worth considering." He tosses you a mocking smile, all sharp edge and nothing considerable of warmth. "You have ten more hours before my interest wanes."
Your smile weakens, blinking rapidly as you calculate your remaining time to draft something of substance. "Okay, sureâ that's not going to be a problem."
It's worth it. Dealing with Damian Wayne is going to be worth it.
I have reviewed through your spreadsheet in detail. Do answer my enquiries on my comments below.
- I believe watching romance comedy as 'theory practice' is highly inefficient and prone to fantastical expectations. Do amend this.
- As for my 'meeting' availabilities, I am free on Thursdays and Fridays at noon to two, on the condition that at least an hour be reserved for actual assignment discussions. You are required to provide evidence of actual progress for the assignment, or this arrangement will be considered void.
- Provide me a list summary on details for answers regarding possible interrogation questions during the party. It will be more efficient as compared to you providing me the details in person.
As for the assignment, your section draft is acceptable, and I expect our lab findings to be updated into your table by the following lab session next week.
Regards,
Damian.
You can barely contain your grin, kicking into the sheets despite the exhaustion that plagues your bones from grueling non-stop over the section and multiple tabs later. He had looked through your multi-coloured spreadsheet calendar, and actually considered it with his own enquiries. Typing out your own response, you give serious thought into his enquiries.
To: [email protected]
Subject: Reply: 'Fake-Dating Operation' Spreadsheet Review
Thank you for your detailed consideration of my spreadsheet. Your efforts are acknowledged and appreciated.
- I believe we are required to watch at least one rom-com that involves fake-dating. Neither of us have had previous experience in this department (unless you'd like to share valuable information), and it will boost our success rate.
- Perfect! I'm available on Fridays, and scout's honour, I promise to have my progress brought for each meeting session.
- As for the list, I will provide you possible answers, but some may require in-person explanations. I'll explain more this Friday!
Can't even express my thanks on how grateful I am, you're the best Wayne in history!
Signing off your name, you close your laptop with the giddiest smile you've had sinceâat the reminder, your grin falters. Your chest thuds faintly, as if reminding you that the fun you've just experienced can still be dampened by reality. No, you refuse to let it ruin your enjoyment.
This is the most alive you've felt in weeks, and you're going to make the most of it. If your life feels like it's finally picking up through colourful spreadsheet rows and columns, and waiting on an email reply from the most terrifying student in Gotham Universityâso be it.
Damian slides your extremely lengthy list across the lunch table, and you can barely hide your shock that he actually printed it outâbefore you catch sight of many red circles marked neatly around your points.
"Your least favourite vigilante is Robin?" He interrogates.
You blink in surprise, not expecting him to start there. "Well, he's not exactly originalâI mean, câmon, theyâre multiple versions of him."
His lips part, aghast in a half-caught scoff. "He's one of the most prominent vigilante figures in Gotham."
You shrug. "Spoiler's cooler."
He clicks at his tongue. "You have horrible taste."
"You are not telling me that you, Damian Wayne, have a favourite and that is Robin?"
He doesn't blink. "There are several other questionable details in your list."
"Yes, I can see that." Peering back at your list, your brows furrow. "What's wrong with liking Gotham's Pizza?"
"Only that you're clearly fond of days-old grease and artificial cheese."
"Hey, that's where it gets its flavour."
He shakes his head, disgusted. "I refuse to be associated with someone who has non-functioning taste buds."
"Fineâwe'll say we often have dates at Romeo's instead." You shrug. "Not like I'll be caught there after our agreement's expired."
He raises a brow. "Expired?"
Pointing at your open tab, you reference a newly added row. "Our break-up, scheduled for Monday after the party."
He stares at the date, before his gaze roams over you with a questioning look. "Despite my lack of experience, should you not consider the likely suspicions if you were to end a relationship three days after the party?"
Your lips part into an 'oh'. "I thought you would want to get it over and done with as quickly as possible."
His expression closes in, gaze narrowing. "I will not put my reputation at stake by agreeing to this facade, if it means having our efforts go down the drain because of an obvious flaw.â
Your grin slips out uncontrollably. âYou just said âourâ efforts. Look at us, the perfect team.â
His expression remains impassive, before he raises a slow brow. âSwitch to the assignment tab.â
âYes, sir.â
Resting below a willow tree, your third Friday with Damian is spent resting below the shade on your picnic clothâone you used to share with Paige. The sight of its red plaid, stuffed behind your piles of clothes in your wardrobe, was getting sadâeven for you.
Damianâs back is resting against the tree bark, shoulders nearly taking up the widthâbrows impossibly furrowed as his gaze narrows on your laptop displaying âTo All The Boys I Loved Beforeâ.â
âThis movie is non-sensical.â
âI think itâs romantic.â You shrug.
He tosses you a judgmental glance. âHaving your own blood betray you by revealing your own personal letters, is your idea of romance?â
âI mean Lara Jean and Peter, Damian.â You snort. âThatâs our main source of inspiration.â
âHeâs hardly appealing.â He scoffs, arms crossing over the other. âIs this the standards you expect from our arrangement?â
âIf this is mediocreââ You respond, aghast. âYou have no idea how dire love can be nowadays.â
His frown deepens. âYou are not expecting me to perform in this manner?â
âWhatâfalling in love with me?â You grin. âNo, I do not expect you to be Peter Lavinsky.â
He stares at you with barely concealed frustration. Before you can tease him further, something purple is tossed into your face.
A yelp escapes your mouth, the light weight of an object falling into your lap.
âThatâsâthe discontinued, limited edition Spoiler cap!â You gasp, eyes widening in realisation. âHow did you get this?â
He shrugs begrudgingly. âMy sister used to be a collector. She doesnât mind giving it away.â
âGiving it away?â You mutter incredulously. âThis is actual gold. Your sister is my favourite person on Earth.â
His brow twitches. âI bargained for that cap.â
You snort. âWhat did you exchange it for, your dignity?â
âYou have no clue on my sacrifice." He grimaces.
âYour sacrifice is acknowledged." You tease, before letting out another huff of amazement. âThis is the best day of my life.â
When your gaze falls back to the cap, tracing your fingers over the logoâyou miss the twitch of his lips into a semblance of a smile.
You missed todayâs meeting without prior notice. Not that your absence has affected my ability to resume our assignment, but after your frequent reminders to not miss on our mandatory meetingsâit leaves me with doubt that you intentionally missed our sessions on your end. Do update me as soon as possible on your status.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent yesterday, 1.20 p.m.)
Subject: Reply: Reminder on Friday Meetings
I feel I must reinstate that my previous email regarding your absence, as well as this reply, should not be twisted in its meaning as more than a mere enquiry. Given previous evidence of the average speed of your responses, a full 24 hours with a lack of response prompts me to send another email. Do respond when you are able.
Regards,
Damian. (Sent today, 1.32 p.m.)
Three respectable knocks resound against your dormitoryâs door. A groan escapes your lips, your head pounding from the cold youâve caught from a late night running through pouring rain. You had missed the bus and had to make it back before curfew, and now your body is reminding you of its frail mortality, chills shaking throughout your limbs and rendering you heavily immobile.
The knocks echo again when you shift your head deeper into the pillows. You muffle curses into the cotton, gripping at your sheets to steady yourself as you force your body upright. The world sways on its axis as you make your wayâshifting pathetically with every step, towards the door.
Missing your lock a few times, you finally grab a hold of the chain and slide it off, clicking the door open. Youâre immediately faced with a broad chest, donning a familiar black sweater. Shifting your gaze up, youâre met with Damian Wayneâs narrowed gaze, sweat trailing down his temple.
âDamian?â Your voice croaks, and even the attempt of speaking hurts. âWhat are you doing here?â
He takes one glance, and immediately, his expression contorts in⌠concern? You barely have time to explain about the cold, or an apology for missing the meeting, when you feel the warmth of his palm press against your forehead.
You blink, stunned as he measures your temperature. He shakes his head slightly in a disapproving manner. âYour temperature is too high.â His tongue clicks with his observation.
You suppose he was right. You did feel one wrong step from keening over and lying on your welcome mat.
âI got caught in the rain.â You explain, trying your best to pull together a more reassuring expression, one less filled with nausea-induced tension. âIâll be fineâjust need rest.â
His frown creases deeper. âHave you taken medicine?â
You try shaking your head, but that loses whatever balance you had left. The world actually tilts, or maybe you are the one who's obeying gravityâbut strong arms catch you before you collapse.
âLook at your state.â Damian grits, pulling you back upright but closer. There's barely any space left between the two of you. âThis fever, has it worsened considerably?â
âYeahâbut I didnât have anyone to call.â You mutter in truth, cheek still smushed against his chest as support. âI ran out of medicine a while ago, and by the time I woke upâI couldnât get out of bed.â
You feel his arms tense around you. Above the crown of your head, you feel a soft sigh. âYou have me.â He mutters, almost reprimanding.
Your brows furrow in confusion. âYou would get me medicine?â
âThat would be a start.â He states, his grip shifting with his words.
The world shifts again when his hands wrap around the under of your thighs, lifting you into his arms gently to not worsen your state. If your mind wasnât completely swarmed by the symptoms of your cold, youâd stop to think of how strangely sweet it was that Damian had come all the way to your dormitory, and that he was carrying you bridal-style towards your bed.
âItâs not usually this messy.â You feel the need to point out, words muffled against his sweater. âYou just have impeccable timing.â
His lip twitches involuntarily as he sets you down against the thrashed sheets. âOrganised according to your system?â
You smile weakly at the thought of your colour-coded spreadsheet. âExactly.â
He places his palm against your forehead again, and you subconsciously find yourself leaning into his touch. âYouâre likeâreally warm.â You murmur. âDo you always run hot?â
He swallows, touch lingering on your skin. âYour temperature is dysregulated. Iâll return soon with medicine. Rest. I wonât be gone long.â
âOkay.â Your lids fall shut, the pounding lessening with your head burrowed into the pillows, and his touch a gentle anchor. âYou knowâyouâd be a great boyfriend for someone one day.â
You donât hear a response, and your honest thoughts continue to tumble out from your skull like a cracked jar. âYouâre really nice, Dami.â The shortening of his name feels like cotton candy stuffed in your mouth, and you barely register the stiffening of his fingers. âFierce, but I like that about you. I like you a lot, actually. Not in a swooning way, but in aâIâm really glad I met you kind of way.â
He doesnât pull away when your lips finally clamp shut, but the silence is almost deafening. You peek open with one eye, catching his expression. Heâs staring at you⌠as if no oneâs ever said that to his faceâever.
âDonât make it weird.â You tease softly, voice tethered with exhaustion. âIâm just giving you your deserved five stars.â
You hear the soft echo of his scoff, withheld from its usual bite, but you donât hear much else after. Only that the lingering touch of his fingers over your skin stays put till sleep catches up on you, and the world falls silent under the weight of Damianâs gaze. Okay, maybe you were lying a little about the swooning.
Fevers fade, but the warmth that lingers seems to seep past the well-defined borders of a spreadsheet, or the predictable order of a listâlike the one currently in your hand.
"Favourite vigilante?" You quiz, red pen bitten between your lips as you laid stretched on the wooden bench.
"Spoiler." He answers, tossing you an expression as if to convey that he couldn't believe you even bothered with such a question.
"Good job." You tease, fiddling with the cap of your pen, attached at the end. "Favourite date spot?"
"Gotham's Pizza." He huffs.
You blink. "Hey, it's supposed to be Romeo's."
"You prefer Gotham's." He mutters.
"But you don't." You remind him.
Averting his gaze to your lips, his fingers loop around the red pen, dragging it gently out from your teeth's grip, and adjusting the answer with a cross. "That's irrelevant. I'm merely pointing out an inconsistency."
Your lips quirk up into a smile. "You don't even need this list anymore. Why bother keeping it?"
Tension pulls briefly at his jaw, but it relaxes before you can trace it to an emotion. "You haven't tested me on all the questions."
You lean in, the crinkled paper resting below your fingers as you gaze into his eyes. "Alright? Something off the books." You hum. "What do I think of Damian Wayne?"
He blinks, surprised. You wait patiently, the warmth of summer carrying the scent of grass blades past the picnic table, the world narrowing into the space between the two of you.
His lips part after a moment. "Fierce." He answers. "Though you're one of the few who doesn't run from it."
"What's there to run from?" You hum. "I think he's nice, you should give him some credit for that."
His brow raises, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That's not a common perception."
"Yeah, but no one else gets to experience him being their partner." You tease. "He even offers to rearrange your dormitory to a better system if you're lucky."
He scoffs lightly. "That's only considering if the existing system barely works."
"Just say you hate colour-coding, Dami." You snort. "I know you're itching to fix our spreadsheet."
His expression flickers for a moment. "Not exactly."
You tilt your head, questioning. His gaze averts to the open spreadsheet, something familiar after the weeks spent together. "It's grown on me."
Grown on himâdespite it being everything he initially found horrendous, from the many details pasted in long paragraphs into the comments, and the bright colours for the special shared Fridays between you two. Something warm pools in your chest, and you find your gaze trailing to the red pen held between his fingers instead.
"You're more prepared for this party than I am." You admit softly.
You feel his attention switch onto you, trained on the nervous tick you have where you hyper-focus on something brightly coloured. He twirls the pen once, considering.
"You don't have to go through with this." He says. "Just say the word. I'll honour whatever decision you make."
His reassurance makes you consider it, you really do. With the dreaded anticipation finally reaching its peak, with the party being tonightâyou have stopped to think if it was worth it. To show up in a room where the story's long gone sour, and your presence is more likely to be a blight than a welcomed gift.
Then again, you hadn't prepared this all for nothing. You hadn't gotten to know Damianâfor nothing.
"No, it'll be fun." You smile, meeting his gaze. "We'll be just like Lara Jean and Peter, but with better standards."
Damian's mouth twitches, almost imperceptible. "Agreed."
Your fingers catch onto the silk-like fabric of your dress. Once bought as a birthday present, you never had the chance to wear something like this. Walter had called it overkill, and you convinced yourself that youâd eventually find a day to wear the gorgeous shade without feeling inadequate for it. Nothing required overkill more than tonight.
Damian's promised to pick you up, even when you had reassured him that meeting at the venue was fine. You stare at yourself in the mirror, and something quivers in your gut.
You don't feel as brave as you'd like, not even in your favourite dress. The thought of the two people you once trusted most being together, exchanging normal niceties with you as if nothing had ever happenedâyou're seriously beginning to overthink just how horribly awkward this situation was going to be.
What if it wasn't like the movies? What if Damian saw tooâjust how horribly small you feltâand decided you weren't worth the spreadsheets and lists and medicine kit he over-splurged on when you caught that cold?
The party was going to be over in an hour, you had promised Damian the both of you would be present for no more than that durationâand now, you feel ridiculous in your own skin. You're tempted to text him if he wanted to ditch and just head to Romeo's insteadâwhen you hear the signature three knocks of his against your door.
You swallow your fear-induced nausea back into your gut, and force yourself to open the door with something akin to a smile. Your expression freezes in place at the sight... of Damian tidied up.
You knew he was handsome, you obviously had eyes, but to see him in that white collared shirt that made his green eyes pop, loosened at the buttons, with his hair pulled back and justâwow. Damian Wayne, you were seriously going to the party with this guy? As your fake boyfriend?
You don't notice the way his own expression completely falters at the sight of you. Nor the way his fingers tightened into a fist, digging into his palms.
You only notice how the silence stretched out between the two of you lingers long enough to matter.
"Hey, handsome." You start, trying to regain your composure. "You cleaned up nice."
He blinks, as if stunned. His response comes out delayed, brows pinching together into something honest. "You are beautiful."
Not you lookâas if he's only noticed. No, he emphasised the 'are', as if he's always seen it. Your heart doesn't quite know what to do with that information, or how to catalogue the way he's looking at you as if he'sânot pretending.
"Thank you." Your voice comes out weaker than you intended, because for all his intensity, Damian being soft is what renders you stunned. "I still don't know if I should do this."
His gaze clears, something steady offered to you when you return it. "You don't need to be sure." He answers, offering his hand. "That's what I'm here forâso you will not be alone."
He's right. Despite your doubts, seeing him in front of you reminds you of the steady presence he's offered from the very beginning. Through your nonsensical email threads, the Friday lunches, the rom-com binging, rushing to the store to buy you cold medicineâyour fears always quieted when Damian was near. Your smile brightens, taking his hand in yours. "Let's get this operation over with."
Walter catches sight of you first. His vision is perfectly facing the entrance, your ex's gaze meeting yours as soon as you step through the doorwayâand he immediately taps on Paigeâs shoulder. An insincere smile arrives on his expression, but it freezes in place the moment Damian enters with you.
He isn't the only one to notice. You knew the effect Damian had on others, standing out without even meaning to, much less in an environment like this. Damian doesn't seem bothered at all, because you feel his attention acutely trained on you instead. His hand rubs a soothing notion over your lower back, as if you're the only person he's aware that exists in the room.
Walter's gaze drifts, from the dress he hated to Damianâs hand wrapping around your waist. He puts the facts together, faster than you had when he and Paige had approached you with the news. The warmth leaves his welcoming expression, and he whispers something into Paige's ear.
Damian registers this entire exchange in under a second, and his hand tightens briefly on your waist, as if reassuring you that he was right beside you.
The distance closes in between you and the two people your life once revolved around, and you train your gaze on Walter, because you can tell immediately that Paige is struck by Damian's appearance, more so by his hand on your waist.
"It's been a while." Walter starts off, though his gaze barely lingers on you before switching to Damian. "Wayne, I don't believe we've been properly introduced."
"There hasn't been a need." Damian shuts him down.
The atmosphere turns icy the moment Walter registers the tone of Damian's voice. He laughs, astonishedâand embarrassed. Paige finally recovers in an attempt to salvage the situation, pulling together her best smile.
"Well, it's lovely to have you both here." Paige starts, and her voice is distantânothing like the girl you used to know, hidden under the blankets of your beaten IKEA sofa when watching Scream for the tenth time. "You look amazing, andâsorry, I'm just curious on how the two of you know each other?"
Her question is directed towards you, but Damian takes the lead. "She's my partner."
"Partner?" Walter chokes on his breath. "As inâ"
You finally find your voice to speak. "We are seeing each other." It comes out levelled, matching Damian's.
Their shock registers in different levels. Walter's nears disbelief, while Paigeâlooks at you, betrayed.
"I didn't know about this." Paige stammers.
"Yes, you didn't." You answer shortly.
She stares at you as if she's seeing a stranger. "Right. I guess it's been a long time since we've caught up."
You're tempted to laugh. A long time is an understatement. You can feel Damian's low scoff against your shoulder, and the absurdity of the situation feels less gut-wrenching with him by your side.
"You know she's a real mess." Walter speaks involuntarily. "Like her apartment's an actual hazard. Isn't that right, Paige?"
Paige freezes, lips parting into a gap, but Damian's faster.
"I am awareâthat she has her own unique system." Damian states, gaze narrowing in discontent. "It didn't take long for me to understand it, or to appreciate it."
"Appreciate it?" Walter sneers. "Are you sure you're talking about the right person?"
"Yes." Damian doesn't hesitate, eyes steady, fixing yours. As if he was conveying it to you instead of the audience, he answers. "I'm sure."
You swallow dryly, unable to hide the softened smile you usually reserved for him only when it was the two of you. Both of them catch sight of it, and you can sense the question becoming less of whether it was real, and more of the how.
It's easy to act in love when Damian's this close, muttering words like that, with his familiar warmth grounding you through the stagnant conversation. So instinctive, that you think it's easier than breathing.
You sense Paige shifting closer and you force yourself to focus, and casting her another glance, only to finally catch a glimpse of the girl who used to be your closest person.
âHey, can we talk?â Her expression is vulnerable, tentative in her offer. "Y'know, catch up in private."
Damian immediately shifts you back slightly with his weight, but you place a hand tentatively on his arm. His gaze locks onto you, reading into your expression. His brow raises as if to ask, 'You're sure?'. You give him a nod.
"Fine by me." You murmur, because despite everythingâmaybe a part of you still wanted to hear the honest truth. For her decision, on when she decided you shouldâve been cut out of the picture then forcefully glued back into what they envisioned to be the perfect way to continue their lives. Maybe you just wanted to see if the Paige you knew still existed.
The moment you enter an unoccupied bathroom, Paige presses the door shut and immediately turns to you. "You have to spill."
Your brows furrow. "On?"
"Damian Wayne." She points out as if it's obvious. "You don't even know him."
You blink once then twice, and something colder settles in the cavity of your chest. "Things change, Paige."
âIâm just worried. It's all just so sudden.â Her hand reaches out to grasp yours, and you resist the instinctive flinch. âYouâve always been sensitive, and a guy like him is just bad news. I meanâDamian Wayne? I get that it feels exciting, but he barely knew of your existence before and now, he's suddenly dating you? I just want us to be on the same page here, that it doesn't really make sense."
A scoff rises up your throat, barely constrained as she continues on, her softened voice a perfect replica of how she had been when you first made your decision to break up with Walter.
âYou know Iâll always support you if you need me.â She reassures. âYou can tell me anything.â
The anger bubbles so violently, and it hits you. That despite everything, you had came into this party hoping that maybe a fraction of the girl you knewâwho cried with you on bathroom floors when you experienced homesickness, who celebrated when you managed to pass your first year of medical school, who was there for your entire life in Gothamâwould still exist. That something would give way, and her leaving would make sense, to have a reason. You realise now, that you've only been giving her excuses on the basis of what she used to mean to you.
Your wrath gives way to something cold, absent of griefâonly the need to rip your hand out of hers. You do just that, and her shock barely registers before you open your mouth. âNo.â Your voice carries a finality, strength youâve been trying to garner since the day you lost her. âYou donât get to define my relationship with Damian, when you never addressed ours.â
She blinks, affronted. âIs this about Walter? We've already explainedâwe only felt what we did after the two of you broke upââ
âNo, this isnât about Walter. This is about us.â The coldness in your tone finally strikes something honest in her expression. âYou broke my trust, Paige, and then you invite me to this party cause you thought it would help make amends? I thought you brought me in here, to at least explain to me on what happened to us."
"You should've told me." She says, a frown stretched at her lips. "If you weren't comfortable being around me and Walter, we wouldn't have forced you to come."
Weâthe word runs through your mind like a tire screech.
âYes, I wasn't comfortableâI nearly died inside when it happened." You raise your head. "I lost my best friend, who drove me to karaoke night whenever I needed to forget about home. I lost the girl who swore to re-watch all rom-coms that ever existed in the 90s before we both turned fifty. I lost the only person I trusted since I moved into this city, over whatâa man? Was it worth it, was our friendship worth it?â
She swallows thickly, and you see a fracture of the girl you recognise under the glitter, and the tears collecting at her lower lashes. âI thought you understoodâthat I love him differently than you did.â
Your gaze doesnât flinch at the admission. âYou were by my side when he broke up with me, when I told you that he called my dresses ugly, when he said my attitude was too much, when he made me smaller because it was more convenient for him when I was quieter, and you still got together with him. Maybe I thought you loved me enough too, to understand why I wasn't comfortable with it.â
Her expression shatters, and tears drip down her cheeks before she harshly wipes at them, smearing her eyeshadow. âYou donât get to say that.â She spits out. âMaking it seem like I chose Walter over you, when you brought in Damian Wayne.â
Your brows contort. âWhat are you talking about?â
âYou decided to come to the party toâprove you suddenly became better than us just by being with a Wayne?â She snaps. âYou're acting like this because you think he's going to stayâbut you donât seriously believe itâll actually last when Walter could barely stand you?â
That anger, buried deep, comes alive with a roar. You take a step forward, causing her to inch backward as you close in. âThat's all youâre taking from this?" Your scoff resounds coldly. "Damian was the one who was there for me when you leftâso yeah, I have more trust in him to treat me like an actual person."
She flinches, her lips parting in the same way she had done earlier when Walter tried to make you small. Silent, and unable to do anything but lay there in her guilt of absorbing an idea of who you are in Walter's head, and erasing what made you human in her eyes.
"Rest assured. You will never gain my trust again to even know whatâs going on in my life and the people in it, and you never will.â
Taking a step back, you look at her one last time. Of the mess of her makeup, the same puffy eyes whenever she cries that you used to immediately follow up with the instinct to comfort her. You feel none of that now. âGoodbye, Paige.â
She doesnât call out your name when you turn your back on her, and she doesnât come after you. You needed that, more than you needed her to be the person you thought she was. To be blunt, and truthful to yourselfâeven if no one but you believed in it.
The euphoric lightness of your body from finally severing the bond doesnât last long, when a rough hand grabs at your wrist. Being twisted around, youâre faced with Walterâs accusing expression.
âWhat did you say to her?â
âWhat I discussed with Paige stays between us.â You answer coldly, tugging at your wrist.
His hand tightens more, almost bruising. âYouâre bringing in that attitude of yours, when we were kind enough to think of you? To let you stick around our lives?"
Youâre sick of this narrative, of acting like you shouldâve been grateful they thought to include you into this sick little group from your past life as if they hadnât completely burnt it into flames.
âWalter, get your hands off before I shoveââ
A fist slams into the side of Walterâs face before you even have a chance to finish your sentence. Screams erupt from the crowd, or cheersâyou can barely tell because your eyes are locked onto Damian, whoâs grabbing Walter by the collar with chafed knuckles.
Multiple eyes are on them, but your own gaze is fixed on Damianâs expression, who has gone completely cold. Nearly murderous, and filled with uncontained wrath. His glare, almost deadly, is trained on his target in a way youâve never seen him before. The composed, distant Damianâis nowhere to be found.
"You stay away from her." Damian growls.
"What the hell, man!" Walter spits, blood sprayed over his nose. "Do you seriously think she's worthâ"
Damian drags him closer by the collar, and something inhuman flashes past his concentrated gaze. "She's worth more than you ever will dream of trying to be. You are nothing, and even daring to lay a hand on her is something you will pay for."
âDamian!â You shout.
That finally reaches him, past the simultaneous gawking and murmurs. Itâs as if heâs reentered his own body, and Damian immediately drops Walter to the ground with a loud thud. Walter lands embarrassingly on his bottom, and his entire face has gone red with shame.
His gaze switches to you, and his wrath fades immediately into concern. His eyes fall onto your bruising skin, and his emotions fall apart into something colder. You have a feeling if you donât get him out of this room, this fight may escalate into something much worse.
Pushing through the forming crowd, you reach out. âLetâs get out of here.â You plead, holding out your hand.
His gaze drops to your fingers, then back to the forming outline of a hand gripped around your wrist, and you see his calculating assessment. Damian leans lower, muttering something low into Walterâs ear. It is quick, but you see the way Walter completely freezes in placeâhis struggle evading from his body like a statue. When Damianâs eyes meet your frightened ones once more, he doesnât hesitate a second longer before grabbing your hand.
Damian doesn't waste time in leading you through the crowd, towards the exit and away from the escalating noiseâand into the night breeze. When the cold wind finally hits your skin, his hand remains firmly intertwined with yours as he guides you somewhere far awayâthe fact still lingers that Damian, perfect track record and Wayne prodigy, just punched someone for you.
âYou punched him.â You mutter faintly, seated at a bench youâve both found, crisp leaves surrounding you with the faint singing of crickets.
âHe was hurting you.â
âDamian, the whole schoolâs going to talk about this.â You stress. âYouâre going to get in trouble, possibly a suspension.â
His jaw clenches. âI am your partner.â
Damianâs agitated. Over the situation, despite there no longer being any witnesses to his supposed protection. His shoulders are tense, jaw clenched and his gazeâyou recall how he had looked at Walter when he landed that first hit, the pure anger that seized him.
âNot a real one.â
He flinches, as if struck, and you knew immediately that your words landed wrongly. His emotions topple over the other, and youâre unable to name any that arises before it all falls apart like his bodyâs regained consciousness. Concealed, and distant.
âMy mistake.â He mutters. âIâve forgotten my standing.â
âDamianââ
âI do not wish to inconvenience you.â He states, words leaving in a bitter rush. âI have overstepped, I realise that.â
âDamian.â You call out for the second time, fingers reaching for hisâand he finally breathes when your warmth seeps through his skin. Youâre relieved he doesnât pull away. âThat came out wrong. Iâm not mad you punched the jerk, I wouldâve done it myself. I am glad you stood up for me, but Iâm just confused on why you did it, because there's nothing at stake for you, only something to lose.â
His expression stiffens at the verbal admission of his visible frustration. This conversation sounds much too real, and the lines that have been carefully drawn are erasing themselves, leaving behind uncharted territory. One you werenât sure how to navigate.
âYou do matter to me, as more than a role.â You plead. âI donât want you to think youâre someone I chose out of convenience. Please donât believe that.â
His breath exhales low, controlled. His gaze flickers with the briefest uncertainty, and you realise how selfish youâve been. This arrangement had been perfect for you, that you simply assumed it was the same for him.
âNo, you are not at fault.â He mutters after a moment. âIt is not your responsibility to handle the consequence of my actions. We had agreed on no complications, and I have done exactly that.â
His jaw tightens, before he finally spits it out. âI punched him because the boundaries of what was was real or imagined between us has never made a difference to me. He had hurt you, not only physicallyââ His gaze shifts to your reddened wrist, and it darkens completely. ââbut he is a culprit to your existing pain. I was angry, because I couldnât comprehend that I was finally faced with the two morons who thought losing you was even a consideration, and to see them hold no remorse for it made me forget my place.â
âIâve always excelled in being what others expected of me.â He mutters. âWhen you approached me, it was the first time I had not wanted to be confined to a role. I did not want to partake in a façade, becauseâI had wanted your request to be for something real. Then, you mentioned that you picked me because I had not the slightest chance of falling for you. It was ironic, and I knew then that I should've rejected your request."
"But I started to earnestly believeâthat I could separate emotion and duty. I could be in your presence, and not feel the consequences if the arrangement endedâbecause nothing would be real.â
âTill I realisedâhow much it affected me to not have you truly at all.â He confesses. âI shouldâve been honest, that this arrangement had become the opposite of what weâve agreed upon. But I was afraid, of admitting that I wasnât capable of control, of driving you away."
âDamian." Your frown deepens. "Youâre not going to lose me.â
âI donât know.â He blurts honestly. âI do not know how to handle want. I am built of structure, of worth to prove why I deserve to keep my position, that has always been what Iâve provided. I do not know how to want without providing substance to covet a person.â
âBut I want you.â He exhales. âNot once has it been pretend for me, not when it had already existed before our arrangement. Every moment I reached for your hand, every time I checked that horrendous shaded calendar of yours. I rushed over the moment you went missing when you were sick, because I had wanted to look for you. I have never once hesitated in calling myself your partner, even knowing the role was temporary. I want you, in the real, complicated wayâthat I've failed in being what you needed me to be."
"That's not true." You break. "That's not what I need you to be at all, Damian."
He finally looks at you, a little less restrainedâand almost startled at your words.
"If you had been real about this the entire time, Damian, then so have I." You admit. "I chose you because I thought you wouldn't have fallen for me, that is trueâbut that is because I also thought it was safe because I knew I was going to fall for you."
"I wasn't kidding when I said I like you." You confess. "In all of the complicated, real sense of the word, and you were always going be the one I was going to choose. Even if you had said no, I wouldn't have asked anyone else. I wanted you from the start, Damian, and that hasn't changed. I was going to ask you at freaking Romeo's after this, if you wanted this to be real too."
The moment those words leave your lips, Damian closes in. His fingers tug you by your waist, his hand wrapping around the nape of your neck, and his lips are on yours. Damian Wayne, who still has forming bruises at his knuckles from a fight he landed in to defend you, is kissing you on a park bench in the middle of the nightâand you're not dreaming.
It's clearly his first, but there's something so tenderly sweet about it that your heart trembles uncontrollablyâenough to render something wet at your lashes by the time he's pulled back.
He pulls apart just to meet your gaze, and you've never seen him this relieved. "This is real." He restates, as if he can't quite truly believe it.
âWe did just have our first official fight.â You murmur, cheek pressed to his chest.
"Official." He hums in acknowledgement. "I like that."
Your smile teethers into something soft when you feel the soft press of his mouth against the shell of your ear. "Yeah, guess our operation tonight ended in a success."
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Jason Todd had been in love exactly once in his life, and it was the worst possible situation imaginable.
Not because you were evil. Not because you were dangerous. Not even because you were a criminalâthough you were, technically.
No, the problem was much simpler and infinitely more complicated:
You were Selina Kyle's daughter.
And Selina Kyle absolutely, categorically hated his guts.
Three Months Ago: The First Meeting
Jason had been tracking a weapons shipment through Gotham's East End when he'd quite literally run into you on a rooftop.
"Shitâsorry!" You'd stumbled backward, nearly dropping the very expensive-looking necklace you were holding.
"Watch where you'reâ" Jason stopped, taking in the sight. Black suit, sleek and practical. Goggles pushed up on your head. A grappling hook at your belt that looked suspiciously high-tech.
A thief. Great.
"Are you going to arrest me, or can I go?" you asked, already backing toward the edge.
"Depends. That stolen?"
"Define stolen."
"Did you pay for it?"
"Did the previous owner deserve to keep it?"
Jason found himself almost smiling. "That's not how property law works."
"Property law is a social construct designed to protect the wealthy." You were at the ledge now. "And this particular wealthy person funds illegal dog fighting rings, so I'd say he deserves to lose a necklace."
"Dog fighting?"
"Very illegal, very cruel dog fighting." You pocketed the necklace. "I'm donating the proceeds to animal shelters. You're welcome to stop me, but then you'd be siding with animal abusers."
"That's manipulative."
"That's effective." You grinned. "Nice meeting you, Red Hood. Try not to shoot anyone on your way home."
Then you'd backflipped off the building, and Jason had watched you disappear into the night like smoke.
He'd gone home and tried very hard not to think about you.
He'd failed spectacularly.
Two Months Ago: The Second Meeting
"We need to stop meeting like this," Jason said, finding you on yet another rooftop, this time outside a gallery.
"Then stop patrolling my neighborhood," you replied, not looking up from the window you were carefully opening.
"This is everyone's neighborhood."
"The East End has been my mother's territory for twenty years. I'm just following tradition."
"Your mother?"
You finally looked at him, and even in the dim light, he could see your smile. "You really don't know?"
"Should I?"
"Probably not. It's better for both of us if you don't." You slipped through the window. "Feel free to stop me anytime, Hood."
Jason knew he should stop you. Should call it in. Should do literally anything other than watch you work with professional admiration.
But you moved like water, efficient and graceful, and you very deliberately only took from one specific displayâa collection that, when Jason looked it up later, belonged to a known mob financier.
You emerged ten minutes later with a small painting.
"Monet," you said, showing it to him. "Stolen from a Jewish family in 1943. This asshole's grandfather bought it from the Nazis. I'm returning it to the family's descendants."
"You're an art thief with a conscience?"
"I'm a lot of things." You carefully packed the painting. "But mostly, I'm someone who thinks stolen things should go back to their rightful owners."
"Even though you're stealing it?"
"I'm correcting a historical injustice. Completely different."
"That's still theft."
"Then arrest me." You stepped closer, and Jason's breath caught. "Or let me go, and I'll tell you where the dog fighting ring is operating."
"That's bribery."
"That's cooperation." You pulled out a piece of paper, handed it to him. "Your choice, Hood."
Jason looked at the address. Then at you.
"You're trouble," he said.
"I'm efficient." You headed for the edge. "Same time next week?"
"I'm not making this a regular thing!"
"Sure you're not!" You were already gone.
Jason went to the dog fighting ring. Shut it down. Arrested everyone involved.
And absolutely did not spend the next week looking forward to running into you again.
One Month Ago: The Reveal
"Okay, we need to talk about this," Jason said when he found you outside a museum.
"About what?"
"About the fact that we keep running into each other. About the fact that I keep letting you go. Aboutâ" He gestured vaguely. "This."
You tilted your head. "You want to talk about feelings, Hood?"
"I want to understand what's happening here."
"What's happening is you're attracted to me, I'm attracted to you, and we're both pretending we're not because it's complicated."
Jason's brain short-circuited. "You'reâwhat?"
"Attracted to you. Have been since the first night." You sat on the ledge. "You're smart, you're capable, you have a moral code even if it's unconventional. Plus, you know, the whole dangerous vigilante thing is objectively attractive."
"Iâyouâwe can'tâ"
"Why not?"
"Because you're a thief!"
"And you're a crime lord. We're both criminals, Hood. I just have better PR."
"That's notâI'm trying to help people!"
"So am I. I steal from people who deserve it and give to people who need it. We're not that different."
Jason sat next to you because his legs felt unsteady. "This is insane."
"Most good things are." You pulled off your goggles, and Jason saw your face clearly for the first time. You were beautiful. Of course you were. "I'm going to tell you something, and you're probably going to run away."
"Try me."
"My mother is Selina Kyle."
Jason's stomach dropped. "Catwoman."
"Yep." You were watching him carefully. "And before you askâyes, she knows about you. Yes, she has opinions. Yes, those opinions are mostly negative."
"She hates me."
"She hates that you're not Bruce. She hates that you kill people. She hates that you represent everything Bruce tried to move past." You shrugged. "But she doesn't know about us. About this. Whatever this is."
"There is no 'us.'"
"Isn't there?" You looked at him directly. "You've let me go six times, Hood. You've taken my information, used it to help people, and never once actually tried to stop me. That's not nothing."
"I should stop you."
"But you won't." You stood up. "Because you know I'm right. Because you know the people I steal from deserve it. Becauseâ" You stepped closer. "Because you like me."
"I don't even know your name."
You smiled, pulling off your mask completely, and whispered your name.
"Jason," he said before he could stop himself. "Jason Todd."
"I know. I've known since the second time we met. You're not as subtle as you think."
"Apparently not."
You were close now, close enough that Jason could see the flecks of color in your eyes, the small scar on your cheekbone.
"So what now?" you asked.
"Now Iâ" Jason didn't finish the sentence because you kissed him.
He kissed you back, his hands finding your waist, pulling you closer. You tasted like mint and danger, and Jason thought distantly that this was the worst decision he'd ever made.
He didn't care.
When you pulled back, you were smiling. "Same time next week?"
"You're going to be the death of me."
"Probably. But what a way to go."
Present Day
"Absolutely not," Selina said when you told her.
"Momâ"
"No. No, no, no. Anyone but him."
"You don't even know him!"
"I know enough. He's violent, he's unstable, he kills peopleâ"
"So do you!"
"That's different!"
"How is it different?"
Selina paced the apartment, tail swishingâwait, no, that was just her coat. Jason had been spending too much time thinking about cat metaphors.
"He's Bruce's biggest failure," Selina said finally. "The Robin who died, who came back wrong. He represents everything painful about that life."
"Or he represents survival. Growth. Someone who made their own choices instead of following Bruce's rules." You crossed your arms. "You of all people should understand that."
"That's not fair."
"It's completely fair. You've spent twenty years doing things your own way, and now you're mad that I'm doing the same."
"I'm not mad that you're independent. I'm mad that you chose him."
"I didn't choose him to spite you. I chose him because he's good and kind and damaged and trying his best." Your voice softened. "Like you. Like me. Like all of us."
Selina stopped pacing, looking at you with an expression that was part frustration, part resignation.
"Does he make you happy?" she asked.
"Yeah. He does."
"Does he treat you well?"
"Better than I probably deserve."
"And if I say no? If I forbid it?"
"Then I'd ignore you and date him anyway, but I'd prefer to do it with your blessing."
Selina sighed, the fight going out of her. "You're just like me. Stubborn. Impossible."
"I learned from the best."
"Flattery won't work."
"Worth a shot."
Selina walked to the window, looking out at Gotham's skyline. "Bring him to dinner."
"What?"
"If you're serious about this, bring him to dinner. Let me meet him properly. Not as Red Hoodâas Jason."
"You want to have dinner with Jason Todd?"
"I want to make sure my daughter isn't dating a complete disaster." Selina looked back at you. "And if he can't handle one meal with me, he doesn't deserve you."
"This is a bad idea," Jason said for the fifteenth time.
"It's going to be fine," you said, fixing his collar.
"Your mother hates me."
"She's willing to have dinner with you. That's progress."
"That's her planning my murder."
"She's not going to murder you."
"She's Catwoman. Murder is definitely on the table."
You kissed him, and some of his panic subsided. "Just be yourself. Be honest. She appreciates honesty."
"What if being myself isn't enough?"
"Then she'll get over it, because I'm not giving you up." You took his hand. "Come on. We're going to be late."
Selina's apartment was in the nice part of Gothamâthe part that had actual security and didn't smell like garbage. Jason had been here exactly once, during a team-up that had ended with Selina threatening to claw his eyes out if he ever worked with Bruce again.
This was going well already.
Selina opened the door, looked Jason up and down, and said: "You're early."
"You said seven."
"I said seven-thirty."
"You definitely said sevenâ"
"Mom, you said seven," you interrupted. "Stop trying to throw him off."
Selina smiled, but it wasn't reassuring. "Come in. Try not to break anything."
The apartment was exactly what Jason expectedâexpensive, tasteful, with several items that were definitely stolen. There were photos on the walls: you as a child, Selina in her Catwoman suit, even one of Selina and Bruce that made Jason's stomach twist.
"Drink?" Selina offered.
"Sure. Whatever you're having."
"I'm having wine. You're having water because you're still on my bad list."
"Mom!"
"What? I'm being honest. He appreciates honesty." Selina poured three glasses of wine anyway. "Sit. Let's talk."
Dinner was awkward.
Selina asked pointed questions. Jason answered honestly, even when the truth made him look bad. You mediated, trying to keep the conversation from derailing into an argument.
"So," Selina said, cutting into her chicken. "You kill people."
"Mom!"
"It's fine," Jason said. "Yes. I kill people. Bad people. People who hurt kids, who traffic humans, who make Gotham worse. I know it's not what Bruce would do, but I'm not Bruce."
"Clearly." Selina sipped her wine. "And you think that makes you better than him?"
"No. Just different. I work in the gray areas Bruce won't touch."
"The gray areas."
"Crime Alley is safer because of what I do. The people there trust Red Hood more than they trust Batman. That counts for something."
Selina studied him. "You really believe that."
"I know that. I live there. I see the difference."
"And what about my daughter? Where does she fit into your violent crusade?"
"Mom, that's not fairâ"
"She fits exactly where she wants to fit," Jason said firmly. "I'm not dragging her into anything. She makes her own choices. Always has."
"And if I told you to stay away from her?"
"I'd be heartbroken. But I'd respect her decision, whatever it was."
You reached under the table, squeezing his hand.
Selina set down her fork. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more like Bruce. Rigid. Self-righteous. Convinced he's always right."
"I know I'm not always right. I just do the best I can with what I have."
"That's surprisingly mature."
"I've died and come back. Really puts things in perspective."
Selina almost smiled. "I suppose it would."
The rest of dinner was easier. Selina asked about his work in Crime Alley, his relationship with the other Bats, his plans for the future. Jason answered honestly, not trying to impress her, just being himself.
By dessert, Selina was actually laughing at one of his stories.
"You threw a grenade at Dick?" she asked.
"It was a smoke grenade! And he deserved it!"
"He definitely deserved it," you agreed.
"The Bats are all insane," Selina said, shaking her head. "Every single one of you."
"You're dating one," Jason pointed out.
"Casually. Very casually. We're not discussing Bruce."
"Fair enough."
After dinner, while you were in the kitchen getting more wine, Selina cornered Jason in the living room.
"I'm going to be honest with you," she said quietly.
"Okay."
"I don't like that you kill people. I don't like that you're violent. I don't like that you represent everything Bruce tried to move past after you died."
"I know."
"But." Selina's expression softened. "You make my daughter happy. You treat her well. You respect her independence. And you showed up tonight knowing I might hate you, because it mattered to her."
"It did matter. She matters."
"Then we understand each other." Selina extended her hand. "Hurt her, and I'll make your second death look pleasant by comparison."
"Understood." Jason shook her hand.
"Good." Selina smiled, and this time it was genuine. "Welcome to the family, Jason Todd. Try not to make me regret this."
Three Months Later
"I still can't believe my mom likes you," you said, curled up on Jason's couch.
"I think 'likes' is a strong word. 'Tolerates' is more accurate."
"She invited you to her birthday dinner. That's practically a declaration of love from her."
"Or a setup for an elaborate murder."
"Always so paranoid." You kissed his jaw. "She likes you. She told me."
"Really?"
"Really. She said, and I quote: 'He's not completely terrible. I suppose you could do worse.'"
"High praise from Catwoman."
"The highest." You settled against his chest. "Bruce is going to lose his mind when he finds out."
"Bruce already knows."
"What?"
"He cornered me last week. Did the whole 'what are your intentions with Selina's daughter' speech. It was terrifying."
"What did you say?"
"That I love you and I'm not giving you up, even if he disapproves."
You pulled back to look at him. "You love me?"
Jason's eyes widened. "IâshitâI didn't mean to say it like that. I had a whole plan, was going to take you somewhere nice, maybe not blurt it out while talking about Bruceâ"
You kissed him, cutting off his rambling. "I love you too, you idiot."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." You smiled. "Even though you're a disaster who somehow got my mother's approval through sheer stubbornness."
"I prefer to think of it as charm."
"You have many qualities, Jason Todd. Charm is not one of them."
"You love me anyway."
"I do." You kissed him again. "My mom's going to be insufferable about this. She's going to take credit for bringing us together."
"How does she figure that?"
"She'll say her excellent parenting created someone capable of seeing your potential."
"That's a reach."
"That's my mother." You settled back against him. "But she's right about one thing."
"What's that?"
"You are worth the trouble."
Jason held you closer, thinking about the impossible path that had led here. A chance meeting on a rooftop. A thief with a conscience. A dinner that should have been a disaster.
And somehow, impossibly, it had worked.
"Hey," he said.
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For giving me a chance. For standing up to your mom. For loving me even though I'm a mess."
"You're my mess." You looked up at him. "Besides, I'm a thief who's dating a crime lord. We're both disasters. We might as well be disasters together."
"Poetic."
"I have my moments."
Jason kissed the top of your head, and thought that maybeâjust maybeâhe'd finally found something worth more than revenge or redemption or any of the things he'd been chasing since he came back.
He'd found home.
In the arms of a thief.
Who just happened to be the daughter of one of Gotham's most notorious cat burglars.
His life was weird.
But it was his.
And he wouldn't change a thing.
Selina and Jason developed a grudging respect that eventually turned into actual friendship.
They bonded over their shared frustration with Bruce's emotional constipation.
You and Jason moved in together, to an apartment in Crime Alley that Selina personally secured.
Bruce was weird about it for six months before finally accepting that Jason was happy.
Dick thought the whole thing was hilarious and made you both a "Welcome to the Disaster Family" card.
Tim created a betting pool about how long before Jason proposed.
Damian declared you "acceptable" which was basically a declaration of love from him.
And sometimes, on quiet nights, you and Jason would sit on the roof of your building, and you'd steal small things from his pockets just to see if he'd notice.
He always noticed.
But he never stopped you.
Because some things were worth stealing.
And some people were worth keeping.
Even if they were complicated.
Even if they were disasters.
Even if their mother-in-law was Catwoman and regularly threatened to claw your eyes out at family dinners.
when the codys plan a heist for a luxury gentlemenâs club in los angeles, the last thing pope expects is to connect with the clubâs most coveted and profitable dancer. right away, he feels thereâs something different about you. little does he know, you arenât working there of your own free will. your father is indebted to the clubâs owner, and his life and yours are on the line if you donât keep bringing in money until the debt is paid.
warnings/tags: canon level violence, strip club/nightclub setting, shitty and abusive men (not pope duh), death (not reader or anyone in the cody family), reader knows how to pole dance, reader is afab and goes by she/her pronouns, love at first sight vibes, reader is kinda a man-hater but itâs justified, some angst and some fluff, pov switches, reader goes by a stage name but her real name is never stated, no use of y/n, possible strip club inaccuracies, kissing, not explicit smut but mdni, pope is protective af, no baz or smurf, takes place after lena gets adopted but pope is still living in bazâs old beach house. flashbacks are italicized!
authorâs note: woooo-weeeeee. my longest fic ever. holy shit. i cannot believe it is finally done. thank you endlessly to @fru1t4fr0gs and @thethyri for reading over this for me and letting me talk about it for weeks and weeks. this is by far the most challenging fic i have ever written and at times i wondered if i should just give up on it, but iâm very glad that i kept going and can share it with you all. i hope you love it as much as i do.
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Tonight was supposed to be your first Friday night off in years.
In hindsight, you had been an idiot to not realize thatâs too good to be true. Friday and Saturday nights are always Solsticeâs busiest nights, and you arenât exactly in a position to pick and choose your shifts. Weekends are mandatory for anyone who brings in decent money, and youâre no exception.
You shouldâve known it was a simple scheduling error, an oversight from whichever manager had been responsible for this weekâs schedule, but the thought of getting take-out and spending your Friday night catching up on a few of your favorite shows that youâve neglected the newest episodes of had been too tempting for you to think about questioning why your name wasnât listed under Friday, as it usually is.
Then, at 9:15 pm, precisely fifteen minutes after your shift's typical start time, your phone rang. Right away, a ball of nausea wound tight in your stomach. You didnât even have to look at the screen to know whose name was displayed across it.
You also knew better than to risk not answering.
âYes?â
âWhere the fuck are you?â
Silas is pissed. Thatâs nothing new. Silas has been in a perpetual state of pissed off since the day you had the misfortune of meeting him. Pissed is his default.
âNot at work.â
A loud, sarcastic guffaw sounds from your speaker. âYeah, I fuckinâ see that. Why the hell do you think Iâm calling you? To ask about your overall wellbeing?â
âOh, Iâd never think that,â you mutter under your breath, too low and quick for him to make out over the roar of R&B music that blares in the background. âI wasnât on the schedule tonight,â you say more clearly, digging your nails into your palm in an effort to keep your voice level.
âYeah, and your buddy Trevor is getting his ass chewed out for that, too,â Silas spits. âYou always work Friday nights. The only exception was the time you got food poisoning because I didnât want you shitting on a customer during a dance. You know that.â
Damn it. Trevor is your favorite of all of the floor managers - the only one who talks to you like a human being. Why couldnât it have been Gregory? That pervert getting in trouble would almost be worth this phone call and whatever punishment Silas has in mind for you not being at work right now.
âItâs not my fault that Trevor fucked up the schedule,â you say, voice still lethally calm. âI show up when Iâm told to. Nothing more.â
âI donât give a ratâs fat ass whose fault it is,â Silas hisses. âAnd Iâm telling you to show up now, so you better get here before ten oâclock orââ
You donât want to hear whatever heâs about to threaten you with. It could be anything from not letting you perform a solo routine on center stage tonight to taking a bigger cut of the money you make from private roomsâŚto even worse.
âOkay, okay. Jesus fuck. Iâm on my way.â
You hang up before his voice can give you a migraine before you even arrive at the club.
Forty minutes later, after doing your hair and makeup in record time, throwing on the first cute lingerie set you can find thatâs clean, and speeding at least ten over the speed limit the entire drive to the club, you show up with less than five minutes to spare.
Luckily, Silas is nowhere to be found when you enter through the back door. You know that heâll bitch at you some more whenever you see him, but right now, youâre relieved to start your normal rounds while heâs otherwise occupied. Likely smoking himself to death with a hotdog-sized cigar in his office.
You walk the main floor, making small talk with a few regulars that arenât complete pieces of shit as far as men who frequent strip clubs go. You book your first private room of the night, and Gregory is a little too happy to inform you that Silas will be taking sixty percent of your earnings tonight as opposed to the standard fifty.
As annoying as that is, you canât help but feel a little relieved. As far as punishments go, a ten percent increase in his cut is mild. Last time you were reprimanded (for not fucking smiling enough), Silas added an additional five grand to the already exorbitant amount of money that your father owes him.
The exorbitant amount of money that just so happens to be the very reason you are working in this shithole in the first place.
Not even two hours into your shift, and youâre already over it. So over it that you offer to take out a bag of trash for the bartenders just as an excuse to get some fresh air for two fucking minutes.
This part of Los Angeles isnât exactly quaint - thereâs a near constant stream of car horns blaring and police sirens wailing but itâs white noise to you at this point. At least the night air is a nice reprieve from the stench of cheap weed and cheaper cologne even for only a moment.
It says a lot that you consider hanging out by literal dumpsters more appealing than being inside.
You shouldâve been out of here a long time ago. It wasnât supposed to take more than a year to clear the debt that isnât even your debt to clear.
You didnât even know that your dad was sick. Not until you came home from college on a random weekend, hoping to surprise him, and found him far thinner and more frail than you had ever seen him, hooked up to a dialysis machine to keep himself from dying of kidney failure.
Heâd tried his hardest to keep it all from you. He didnât want you to worry, didnât want you to drop out of school to take care of him. He tried to handle the medical bills that accumulated rapidly on his own for as long as he could.
And when he accepted that he couldnât, he got desperate.
He thought Silas was just a lender. Someone who would help him stay afloat long enough to get a transplant, recover, and get back to work. He didnât realize exactly what kind of man he had borrowed from until Silas showed up at his house, uninvited and unannounced, waltzing right in like he owned the place.
So vividly you can remember the look of shame on your fatherâs face when Silas revealed the truth, and the panic that quickly bloomed when he looked directly at you and said the words that changed the trajectory of your life.
âYou failed to mention that you have a daughter,â Silas purrs. âShe sure is pretty. You know, I think sheâd do real well working in one of my clubs. Yeah, sheâd be popular. Make me a lot of money. How does that sound? You wanna help your poor, sick daddy out?â
Your dad had instantly refused, pleading with Silas to just give him a little more time, but you could tell that Silas wasnât really asking. He was telling you what you were going to do. And because you were scared, for your own life and your fatherâs, you agreed.
Here you are, three years later, with no true end in sight.
The clubâs back door screeches open, and you know that your ninety seconds of the closest thing you can get to peace around here has come to an end.
âThe hell are you doing out here?â Silas booms, interrupting the relative quiet of the alleyway. âItâs almost time for you to go on center stage. Youâre lucky that Iâm even letting you go on at all tonight. I wasnât planning on it, but thereâs a group of guys in there requesting you.â
You resist the urge to roll your eyes. The last thing you want is for him to change his mind at the last second and give your solo slot to one of the other girls. âIâm coming. I was just taking out the trash.â
You take a step to walk past him, but he blocks the doorway, his clammy hand shooting out to catch you by the elbow. His grip isnât quite hard enough to bruise, but still makes bile churn in your gut.
âDonât get cute with me,â he spits. âYouâre already on thin ice tonight.â
You donât say anything, biting your lip to hold back the overwhelming desire to spit in his face. Silas leans in, his breath foul with the stench of whiskey and cigar smoke.
âMaybe youâve forgotten whatâs at stake here.â His fingers tighten just a fraction around your arm. Just enough to make you wince. âMaybe your dad needs a reminder.â
You taste iron from where your teeth break the skin of your lip. âI said Iâm coming.â
Silas snorts, satisfied for now. He lets go of your arm with a shove that is more dismissive than violent and turns back toward the door.
âAnd try not to fuck up your set,â he snaps over his shoulder. âThose guys in there are blowing their money on you. Donât make me regret doing you any favors.â
And then heâs gone, letting the metal door slam closed behind him before you can follow him inside.
You stand there for a moment, breathing in and then slowly exhaling when movement from your peripheral vision catches your eye.
Great. Just what you fucking need right now. An audience. Men, of course. Two of them. Just close enough to have heard every word.
âWhat are you looking at, boys?â You call, voice void of emotion as you make direct eye contact with the stocky, curly-haired one.
Heâd be cute, you think, if he wasnât the kind of guy to spend his Friday night outside of a strip club. The sandy blond looks slightly surprised that youâre acknowledging them, but his buddy remains stoic.
You jerk your chin towards the door Silas slammed behind him.
âThe showâs inside.â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Pope all but forced Deran to switch tasks with him at the last second.
Originally, he was supposed to be the one keeping a close eye on Silas Leary, Solsticeâs owner, while Deran scopes out the clubâs main floor for the heist that Craig, of all people, is orchestrating.
He shouldnât be surprised. A luxury gentlemanâs club based heist is quite possibly the most Craig heist possible.
But now, instead of watching the balding, sweaty jackass who had berated you in the alleyway not even ten minutes ago, heâs watching you on stage.
Youâre more pleasant to look at, at least.
Heâs never really seen anything quite like it - the way you dance. This isnât his first time at a strip club. His brothers have coerced him into going to strip clubs before, though every time prior to tonight was for pleasure, not business. Still, he isnât unfamiliar with the scene. Heâs watched women pole dance before, but not like this.
Youâre the only thing in the room that he can concentrate on. For the entirety of the five minutes and some change that your set lasts, he forgets that heâs technically here for recon. He and his brothers made this trip to Los Angeles to get a feel for the buildingâs layout, to see how operations work, to check out the security systemsâŚnot watch the strippers.
He tells himself heâs keeping up appearances. It would be weird to not watch you. Everyone in the room is - even the other dancers, though they watch with less enchantment and more disdain than the patrons.
The song comes to an end all too soon, and Pope continues to watch as you make quick work of collecting all of the bills that had been thrown onto the stage. He stands just a few feet away, close enough that he can see the body glitter dusted across your chest sparkle in the glow of the neon stage lights.
When you stand up, thick stack of cash in hand, your gaze locks with his for one tense but fleeting moment. The look in your eyes is the same as when you had made direct eye contact with him outside the club.
Just as fast as you had appeared on the stage, you then disappear, leaving Pope staring after you.
He thinks back to what he and Deran had witnessed in the alley. He had instantly recognized Silas Leary from pictures heâd seen online, so he and Deran hung around to witness the brief interaction, hoping to get some idea as to what Silas is like in person before entering the club.
It came as no shock to Pope that his reputation precedes him. Harsh, volatile, cruel seemingly for the sake of being cruel. That isnât what made Pope freeze in place in the alley. Itâs what Silas had said to you.
âMaybe youâve forgotten whatâs at stake here. Maybe your dad needs a reminder.â
And your response. You didnât agree or disagree. Didnât fight him on it. You looked Silas dead in the eyes, expression unreadable, and barely flinched. Like you had heard the threat a thousand times before, like you were used to the way he grabbed you by the arm. Like it hardly even phased you.
Popeâs first instinct had been to intervene, but he knew doing so would have tanked the job before it began. He couldnât risk drawing attention to himself and Deran, and deep down, he also knew that stepping in would have likely made things worse on you, too, in the long run.
So he watched from the sidelines, feeling more at peace than ever at the prospect of stealing loads of money from someone, knowing Silas Leary deserves whatâs coming for him.
Deran knew it, too, playing it off with a joke that sparked an idea in Popeâs head.
âShit. You think she hates the fucker enough to help us rob him?â
Pope had said nothing at the time, but he was unable to shake the thought. The entire time that he watched you on stage, the look of unadulterated hatred on your face kept replaying in his mind.
But for just a few minutes, as you danced on the center stage, you seemed different than you did in the alley. Different than you did when you were collecting the dozens of tens, twenties, and hundred dollar bills off of the stage floor. For a few moments, Pope saw himself in you. The way you seemed to completely dissociate while you performed, like there was no one else in the room but you and nothing else mattered. In his own way, heâs been there. With skateboarding, and with boxing. For him, those things are escapes.
He canât help but wonder if thatâs what dancing is for you. An escape from this place.
He supposes thereâs really only one way to find out - if heâs right, and if Deran could possibly be right, too.
Good thing Craig had suggested they all bring plenty of cash with them. To keep up appearances, he had said. If youâre going to a strip club, you should always have cash on you. This is just recon, but you never know.
Heâd smirked when he said it, as if he already had plans to spend said cash in ways that werenât relevant to recon, but he still made a fair point.
Popeâs eyes scan the crowded room, searching through all of the dancers and customers in hopes of finding someone who might be of some help. He notices a short, pudgy, middle-aged man who appears to be scolding another dancer.
Gregory, Pope sees that his name tag reads once he approaches him.
âThe dancer that just finished up on stage,â Pope asks him, âWhatâs her name?â
A creepy, almost unsettling smile grows on Gregoryâs face. âOh, that would be Soleil. Why? You want a room with her?â
What Pope wants is to wipe that perverted look off of his face, but rationally he knows that would be counterproductive right now, so he settles for a curt nod. âYeah, I do.â
âHalf hour? Or a full hour?â
Pope knows that heâs supposed to meet his brothers and nephew where they parked a couple blocks away in less than an hour, so he isnât really sure why he lets the next words come out of his mouth, but for whatever reason, he does.
âFull hour.â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Gregory barges into the locker room without so much as knocking.
Youâre dressed (as dressed as you possibly can be in a place like this), just counting the money you made from your solo set, but his sudden presence still unnerves you.
âYouâve got a private room,â he barks, not bothering to be subtle with the way his beady little eyes trail up your legs. âRoom two. Full hour. This guy asked for you after watching your solo performance, so you better not disappoint him.â
You cram the rest of your money into the locker and snap it shut, trying not to give Gregory the satisfaction of seeing how irritated you are - at the way he thinks he owns this place and can enter a changing room without knocking, and especially at hearing you have to do another private room. For a full hour.
You donât bother asking who the private room is with. Youâre confident itâs one of the men who had convinced Silas to let you go on center stage tonight. A group of four or five sat as close as possible to the front, several familiar faces throwing bills at you every few seconds. Any given one of them looks like the type to drop six hundred dollars on an hour-long private room.
âOh, Iâll try my hardest,â you breathe sarcastically. âNow can I have a second to freshen up? Alone?â
âHurry,â Gregory snaps. âHeâs waiting for you.â
You wait until the door clicks shut behind him to curse under your breath. Sometimes, you think you might hate Gregory as much as you hate Silas - if thatâs even possible.
After reapplying your lipgloss and spritzing on a little more perfume, you reluctantly make your way to the private room where youâll spend the next hour of your life.
At least once itâs over, itâll be after midnight, which means the rest of the shift likely wonât be quite as busy, and youâll be able to go home soonâ
âHi,â you chirp, slipping into the room with a forced smile and your best customer service voice. âIâm Soleil. Thanks so much for booking a room with me tonight. And whatâs your naââ
You freeze as soon as you turn around from shutting the door behind you, the question dying on your tongue.
Not one of the men from the eager group that sat right next to the stage. You do recognize him, though. He too had stood close to the stage, by himself.
One of the men from the alley.
âOh,â you quip, voice rising an octave. âYouâreââ
âPope,â he interrupts, and youâre thankful for it, because you didnât really even know where you were going with that sentence. âMy name is Pope.â
âItâs nice to meet you, Pope,â you smile, taking a tentative step closer to where he stands awkwardly in the middle of the room. âWould you like to sit down?â You ask, gesturing towards the couch behind him.
He nods. You hover for a moment, giving him space as he lowers himself stiffly onto the couch. He looks around with uncertainty, like this entire process is completely unfamiliar to him and he isnât sure what exactly he is supposed to say or do.
âLet me guess,â he starts, settling into the velvet couch. He runs his palms over jean fabric that conceals his bulky thighs. âYour name isnât actually Soleil?â
You snort a laugh as you take a seat in the empty space beside him. You tuck your legs beneath you, one arm relaxing across the top of the couch, your hand coming to rest just behind his head. Instinctively, your fingers inch towards the base of his skull to toy with the reddish brown curls there, but you stop yourself at the last second, instead smoothing your fingertips over the soft, velvet material of the couch.
Normally, you wouldnât hesitate to show physical affection for such high-paying clientele - that is what at least 95% of them are here for, anyway - but something about the way he stiffens at your sudden closeness makes you think twice before touching him.
âThat depends,â you counter. âIs Pope actually your name?â
He turns his neck to look you in the eye - now close enough that youâre able to see his hazel irises and the light dusting of freckles across his skin.
Pretty, you think - even if he is the kind of man to spend an asinine amount of money on a nearly naked and complete strangerâs attention, you canât deny that heâs pretty.
âNo,â he says lowly. He pauses, swallowing. âPopeâs just a childhood nickname. My real name is Andrew.â
âAndrew,â you repeat with a slow nod. âAnd which would you prefer that I call you?â
A slight blush appears on the apples of his cheeks. âYou can call me whatever you want to.â
It doesnât really make a difference to you, considering youâll likely never see him again after the hour he paid for comes to an end, but you canât help but think the way he blushed when you said Andrew was oddly endearing.
âWell, Andrew,â you hum, âyou are correct in assuming that my name is not really Soleil. Thatâs just the stage name I chose to go by.â You nod towards the sign on the opposite wall that spells Solstice in neon, cursive lettering. You give a small shrug. âI thought it pairs well with the name of the club. Soleil at Solstice.â
Thereâs something close to a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. âIâm sure youâre already aware that soleil means sun in French.â
Yes, you are aware of that, but youâre slightly surprised that he knows that. Most men that come here donât know their left from their right.
âThat it does,â you agree. âKind of ironic, actually.â
His eyebrows pinch together a bit. âHow so?â
Because there isnât actually any sun in a place like this. A dark, dystopian fucking hellscape.
But you canât say that, of course. God forbid you say anything even slightly negative about this place and word somehow gets back to Silas. That would be your third strike of the night, and heâd likely tack on an additional twenty grand to your fatherâs outstanding balance for the hell of it.
You instantly regret saying anything at all.
âOh, nothing.â You shake your head in dismissal. âJust meant the only thing thatâs bright here is the strobe lights.â
He stares at you for an extended moment before responding, his gaze heavy on you. âI wouldnât say the only thing.â
You exhale a breathy laugh, your cheeks warming more than they should at the sentiment. It fills you with a bit of shame, really - the fact that youâd feel even slightly flustered over a vague compliment from a stranger paying for your company.
âSo, AndrewâŚâ you say, breaking the brief but loaded silence that had settled between you. âYou paid for this room. What would you like to do in it?â
You dread what comes next. You always do. The kind of âdancingâ that you hardly even consider dancing. The stripping, the touching. Thereâs supposed to be boundaries, of course, but most men think that if theyâre paying then that gives them a right to cross them.
But private rooms are part of the job. Silas has made that clear from day one. He lets you perform your solo routines because they generate too much revenue to deny you the one part of the night that you donât absolutely despise - but your sets last five, maybe ten minutes at most. Your shifts run about six hours. That leaves five hours and fifty minutes to keep the money flowing if you want to keep Silas appeased, which means doing every soul-sucking part of the job you hate: the floor dances, the private rooms, the mandatory mingling and endless flirting.
Every now and then, though, someone will book a private room and pleasantly surprise you.
âI just wanna talk,â Andrew says simply. âIf thatâs alright with you.â
You have to hold back the urge to sigh in relief. Talking you can do. And the fact that Andrew doesnât reek of body odor and stout liquor like the majority of your customers makes the thought of conversing with him for the remainder of the next hour even less painful.
Six hundred dollars (well, significantly less once Silas takes his sixty percent cutâŚ) and all you have to do is sit and talk to a decent looking man who isnât belligerently drunk? Youâve had far worse nights.
âOf course,â you smile, and for once it isnât completely forced. âYouâre paying. If you want to talk, then we talk.â
Andrew is silent for a moment, as if heâs considering what to say next. His stare is unyielding, but not in the way that would normally make you cringe so hard that you risk breaking a tooth. Instead, it feels like heâs really looking at you. Not Soleil, but you.
âI watched your set earlier,â he says when he finally speaks. âThat was very impressive. How long have you been dancing?â
Ah. Yes, you had noticed him towards the very front of the crowd when you finished your routine. Heâd looked every bit as serious and solemn as he had when you first saw him in the alleyway earlier tonight.
âDancing? Since I was four. Ballet, tap, jazz, lyricalâŚâ You list off all of the weekly classes you remember taking throughout your childhood. âPole dancing, though? About three years.â
Andrew looks surprised by the answer, his brows lifting slightly and hazel eyes widening. âOnly three years? I wouldâve thought a lot longer than that. Is that how long youâve worked here, then?â
You nod, retracting your arm from where it had been resting behind his head now that itâs clear that - for whatever reason - Andrew is only interested in conversation. You let yourself relax a bit, relieved that you donât have to put up the usual facade that makes most men swoon.
âYeah, right at three years now. I practice a lot at home, though. I even got a pole for my apartment. If you work here, youâve really gotta know your way around a pole, soâŚIâve put in the hours.â
He looks impressed at that - or maybe surprised. Or maybe something else entirely. You arenât sure. You canât read his facial expressions or his body language nearly as easily as most of the men that enter this room.
âWow,â Andrew hums with what appears to be a nod of approval. âThatâs dedication. You must have really wanted to work here to put so much effort into learning such a specific skill.â
You barely manage to hold back a cackle at that. If he only fucking knew.
You give a half shrug, playing it off. âWhat can I say?â You sigh. âGuess I really needed the money.â
Itâs the truth. Not the whole, disgusting, gritty truth, but it is accurate. As accurate as you can be without trauma dumping and jeopardizing your lifeâŚand your fatherâs.
Andrew nods, looking down at his hands splayed across the tops of his thighs. âYeah. I get that. Iâd be lying if I said that I havenât made money in some unconventional ways.â
That piques your interest. âOh? Anything youâd like to share with the class?â
He exhales a small laugh before bringing his eyes back to yours again. âAs long as you promise not to tell anyone. If I tell you, it canât leave this room.â
You make a motion with a hand across your mouth as if youâre zipping your lips and throwing away the key. âMy lips are sealed. Pinky promise.â Then, for good measure, you hold out your pinky finger to him in offering.
He stares at your littlest finger for a long moment, the slightest hint of a smirk beginning to tug at the corners of his lips again before he finally lifts a hand of his own, pinky finger upright. He wraps the digit around yours, giving it a firm squeeze before slowly pulling away.
âYears ago,â Andrew starts, âI robbed a bank. It didnât go as planned, and I spent a few years in prison for it.â
You blink, and wait for him to laugh, or say that heâs kidding. But then five, ten, fifteen seconds pass, and heâs still looking at you with the exact same unreadable expression.
âYou robbed a bank?â You ask incredulously. âJesus, I thought you were going to say that you sold pictures of your feet online or something.â
He doesnât smile or flinch, just holds your gaze for a second longer. âYeah,â he says simply. âI wouldnât say that Iâm proud of it, but I did.â
You know that your face must give away your surprise. His revelation should freak you out - if heâs capable of bank robbery, what else is this stranger capable of?
Maybe youâve become somewhat desensitized to the concept of people going to extremes for money. Your dad. Silas. Even you. A few years ago, you never would have imagined that youâd be here right now. But you have your reasons, and you are. Even though it isnât your first choice, you wouldnât want anyone to judge you too harshly for doing what you feel you have to do.
You donât know Andrewâs past. You have no idea what happened in his life that led him to make the decision to rob a bank. It probably wasnât because he woke up bored one morning and decided that it sounded like a fun thing to do. Desperate times call for desperate measures, and you know that all too well.
âWell,â you huff a laugh, âI canât say that I really blame you. I mean, Iâd never be able to execute something like that, but itâs fun to fantasize about on occasion.â
âOn occasion?â Andrew repeats in a low, curious tone. His brows lift in question. âLike when youâre here?â
You snort, shaking your head. âPlease, if I was planning a bank robbery every time that Iâm here, I wouldâve been locked up years ago. But this placeâŚâ You trail off, searching for the right words for what you want to say but know you shouldnât, âthis place can get to you sometimes. Makes stupid ideas sound less stupid. No offense.â
Andrew makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a hum. âNo offense taken.â
The rest of the hour drifts by far easier than you expect. Andrew tells you some stories from his time in prison, and about how he grew up not too far from here, in Oceanside. He talks about his siblings, looking down at his lap when he reveals that heâs a twin, but his twin sister, Julia, passed away somewhat recently. You try not to talk too much about yourself, but when he asks you questions, you answer as honestly as you can - telling him that you had been in your third year of college when you started working here, and that one day, when the time is right, youâd like to finish your degree.
By the time a knock sounds at the door signaling that the hour is up, youâre almost startled. It barely feels as if sixty minutes have passed.
âHuh,â you muse, rising from the couch as he does. âThat went by a lot quicker than time usually does here.â
Andrew is silent for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face, still as serious as when you had first made eye contact with him in the alley. Then, he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small envelope.
âHere,â he says quietly, holding out the envelope for you to take. âThis is for you.â He pauses. âJust you. Not your boss.â
Your eyes shoot up to his in surprise. Not at the fact that heâs offering what you presume to be a tip, but at the last three words. Not your boss.
When your brain catches up, you accept the envelope, clutching it in both hands. âThank you,â you murmur, trying to keep an even, neutral tone, though youâre sure your face betrays you. âIt was, uhâŚit was nice to meet you, Andrew.â
He gives a small, polite smile as he takes a step towards the door. âIt was nice to meet you, Soleil.â
Only when he reaches for the doorknob do you stop him by uttering a single word. He looks back over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised.
You repeat yourself once more. âThatâs my name,â you clarify. âMy real name.â
He says your name softly. Barely audible. As if just testing how it feels to say it. Then, with a slow nod, he turns the doorknob and exits the room without another word, leaving you staring after him.
Only after his footsteps fade down the hallway do you open the envelope and find that he has given you a thousand dollars.
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
âYouâre joking, right?â
Jayâs voice fills the silence that had settled over Smurfâs living room following Popeâs suggestion.
âNo,â Pope says, trying not to let impatience slip into his tone. âIâm not joking. I really think she would be willing to help us.â
The three men take turns looking at each other before turning their stares back to Pope.
âThe stripper?â Craig snorts. âThatâs your big idea? I mean, I love strippers as much as the next guy, but you canât be serious right now.â
âIt was technically Deranâs idea.â
âWhat the hell are you talking about?â Deran pipes up.
âWhen we saw her in the alley,â Pope says, like itâs obvious. âYou asked me if I think she hates her boss enough to help us rob him. The answer is yes. I think she does hate him that much. I think she hates that whole place that much.â
No, you hadnât blatantly said so, but you didnât need to. He could see it in your eyes, and hear it in your tone. It may as well have been written across your forehead.
âJesus Christ, man, I wasnât being serious.â
âStill,â Pope implores, âI spent an hour talking to her. Itâs clear she doesnât want to be there. And after what we witnessed in the alley? It wouldnât surprise me if she doesnât really have a choice in the matter.â
His brothers and nephew are silent again, exchanging glances amongst each other.
âSheâs been there for three years,â Pope continues. âShe knows the layout. She knows when Silas comes and goes. And Iâm willing to bet she knows exactly where that safe is and how to get to it, too.â
âSo she hates her job,â Craig shrugs. âDoesnât mean sheâs cool with risking a felony charge.â
Pope shakes his head. âShe didnât seem too put off when I told her that Iâve done time for armed robbery.â
All three voices erupt at once.
âYou told her what?â
âWhy the hell would you do that?â
âDude, are you insane?â
âI wanted her to know that she can trust me,â Pope says simply. âAnd she reacted fine. More than fine. She seemed to understand.â
Jay clears his throat. âLook, if we do this, she canât be a liability. She needs to know what sheâs doing, and she needs to keep her mouth shut.â
âShe will,â Pope says instantly. âI know she will.â
Deran squints. âHow? You spent one hour with her. You donât actually know her.â
Pope meets his eyes with an unblinking stare. âYou think Iâd risk all of our asses if I wasnât sure? I know enough to know that Iâm not wrong.â
Popeâs stare is locked on Craig. Itâs his operation and therefore he gets the final say. If it were solely up to Jay, or even Deran, he wouldnât think thereâs a chance of getting them to agree. But Craigâs a little riskier than they are. If he thinks thereâs even a slight chance that itâll increase the odds of the job being a success, heâs likely to agree.
âFuck it,â Craig finally mutters, shaking his head. âFine. Weâll try it your way. But we arenât sharing our cut with her. If she gets anything, itâs coming out of your share. Iâm not sacrificing my payday because you have a crush on the stripper.â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Pope knows a guy who knows a guy who somehow knows everything about everyone. And if that guy doesnât know, he has ways of finding out.
Well, technically Smurf knew him, but Pope uses that connection to his advantage.
The information doesnât come cheap, but Pope needed to know with absolute certainty before waltzing back into Solstice and asking you to help him rob your boss.
Except now he isnât just asking for help pulling off the heist. Heâs going to ask for help pulling off an execution, because he doesnât just want Silas Learyâs money, he wants him dead.
It may have cost him three grand, but Pope now has confirmation that his suspicions were correct and somehow worse than he had thought. Not only are you essentially being trafficked, but youâre doing so because your life and your fatherâs are on the line.
Now he knows, without a doubt, just how desperate you must be for a way out. And even though heâs only met you one time, Pope wants to give you that way out.
If only youâll be willing to take it.
Pope makes the hour and a half long drive from Oceanside to Los Angeles again the very next night without any confirmation that you would even be working, but itâs a chance heâs willing to take. Craig and the others want to get on with the job, and Pope wants to get you away from the likes of Silas Leary as quickly as possible.
He goes over it all in his head the entire drive to the club. Everything he knows about you, from what he had witnessed the moment he first saw you in the alley, to every word you said to him in the private room, to what the private investigator informed him of.
But thatâs not all he thinks about. He also thinks about the way your pinky finger felt wrapped around his when you offered the symbolic gesture to keep his secret, and the intoxicating smell of your perfume that he had to fight the urge to inhale the entire hour that you sat beside him on that tiny couch. He thinks about how sweet it sounded to hear you say his name, his real name, and how it sounded even sweeter when you told him your real name.
Maybe Craig is right. Maybe he does have a crush. Thatâs the most logical explanation for why Pope suddenly no longer cares how much money he pulls from this job. There will always be another job - if he wanted to, he could rob another bank by himself next week. He cares more about getting you out of the unfortunate predicament youâre in, and ensuring that Silas can never bring harm to you or anyone else ever again.
When he arrives, itâs close to midnight and the club is packed. He can barely get through the dense crowd of dancers and patrons that occupy the main floor, his eyes carefully scanning the crowd as he makes his way to the bar, where he orders a beer to keep up appearances until heâs able to spot you.
He waits for over half an hour. He doesnât move from his seat at the bar, where he has the perfect view of center stage, the main floor, and the doorway to the hallway that leads to the private room he shared with you last night.
Just observing it all is overstimulating. From the loud music that pulsates through Popeâs barstool, to the neon strobe lights that make his eyes throb, to the smell of bodies and liquor that hangs heavy in hot club air, he doesnât know how you have done it for three years without losing your sanity. Even just sitting here, all Pope can think about are all of the germs on every surface of this place.
When you finally appear at the mouth of the small hallway that leads to the private rooms wearing a pale pink, ruffled bodysuit that looks like it was custom made for you, Pope momentarily forgets why heâs here.
He watches as your eyes flicker around the main floor of the club, as if youâre dreading stepping back into the chaos of it all. When you finally glance towards the bar, your gaze locks with his and Popeâs skin warms at the way your face lights up with surprise. He offers you a small smile and wave of his hand, and thatâs all you need to walk the short distance to where he sits.
âAndrew,â you breathe, coming to stand next to where he sits. âI didnât expect to see you again so soon.â
âSoleil,â he greets, a teasing edge to his tone. He almost lets your real name slip out, but thinks better of it at the last second. He isnât sure why you trusted him enough to let him know your real name after only an hour together, but he gets the feeling that isnât something that you tell just anyone.
âI didnât expect to be back so soon, butâŚâ He trails off momentarily, glancing around the crowded room. Thereâs too many people. He has to speak too loudly in order for you to hear him over all of the voices and loud music, and he doesnât want to risk anyone overhearing. âAre you busy right now?â
You shake your head. âNo. I just finished up a private room. Iâve already done my solo set for the night. I was just going to walk around, make conversation with some regulars. Why? Are youâŚwanting a room?â
Pope canât help but think you sound a little hopeful. But maybe thatâs wishful thinking on his part. You are doing your job, after all.
âYeah, I am,â he says, standing up beside you. âIf you have time.â
You nod with a smile that reaches your eyes. âOf course.â
He follows as you lead him down the hallway, straight to the exact room that the two of you occupied last night. As he does, a terrifying thought occurs: you might say no. You might get scared, and deny everything, and refuse to help. You might tell him to get lost, and he doesnât know where the hell that would leave him. But as he walks into the room after you, he swallows that thought down, and focuses on what he does know: you want to be here even less than he does.
âIâm really glad to see you,â you say as you shut the door behind him. âAnd Iâm not just saying that because you tipped me a thousand dollars. Thank you, by the way. That was very generous of you.â
Pope takes a seat on the couch, the exact same spot he sat twenty-four hours ago, though he feels significantly more nervous now than he did then. âNo need to thank me,â he murmurs. âI really enjoyed talking to you.â
You take a seat beside him, relaxing against the couch. âIs that why you came back? To talk more?â
He nods. âIt is. If thatâs okay with you.â
âMore than okay with me. Is there anything in particular that youâd like to talk about tonight, Andrew?â
He hesitates for a second. He spent half the drive here rehearsing exactly what he was going to say to you to ensure that this would go as smoothly as possible, but now that heâs sitting beside you, he has forgotten how to string two words together.
He clears his throat slightly. âCan I ask you something?â
Your eyebrows twitch in curiosity. âSure.â
âIf you could walk out of this place tonight and never come back, would you?â
A small laugh escapes you, and you instantly drop his gaze, looking down at your hands in your lap instead. âThatâs a hell of a question. You know, most people that get me alone in this room just ask me if I have a boyfriend or what my favorite position is.â
Pope watches you for a moment. âWell, Iâm not most people.â
You look back up, your lips pursed. âNo,â you agree quietly. âYouâre definitely not.â You pause just long enough to make Pope wonder if youâre going to say anything else at all. âYeah. I would. What makes you ask?â
He exhales slowly, only mildly surprised by your honesty. âI heard what happened in the alley yesterday.â
Youâre visibly taken aback, your body going rigid and your eyes going wide, and he can understand why. In the entire hour you spent together last night, he didnât bring up the incident in the alley. You probably assumed he hadnât been able to hear what Silas had said, or that he at least hadnât thought anything of it, but now here he is, bringing it up unprompted.
âOh,â you start, your voice unnaturally high, âthat was justââ
He cuts you off by shaking his head. âIâm not asking you to explain anything to me,â says lowly. âBut I know who Silas is. Thatâs why me and my brothers came here last night. We were supposed to come here, get information, and leave.â
You donât move as you stare at him in silence, either too stunned or too scared to speak. He continues so you donât have to.
âBut then I met you. And now I canât just pretend I didnât see that.â
You study him for a long moment. âWhat kind of information?â
âRemember when I told you that I did time in prison?â
Your eyebrows scrunch together before realization blooms across your face a fraction of a second later. Instinctively, you change your position on the small sofa, putting more space between the two of you. âJesus,â you hiss. âYou were going to robââ
You donât finish your sentence, looking from Pope, to the door just a few feet away, to a security camera in the corner of the room.
âYouâre lucky that thing doesnât have audio,â you spit under your breath.
Pope holds back a laugh. âI know it doesnât have audio. I know what Iâm doing.â He pauses, then offers a small, almost shy smile. âMost of the time.â
âOh, most of the time?â
Pope shrugs. âMost of the time.â
You sigh, running a hand down your face as you look around the room again.
âLook,â you whisper, âI donât care what you and your brothers do to Silas, but I canât get involved.â
Pope doesnât respond right away. He was expecting you to say something along those lines. But you arenât screaming at him to get out, or running away to find a security guard, so he still feels hope.
He murmurs your real name for the first time since you had first told him what it is last night. It causes your expression to soften the tiniest bit, a glimpse of vulnerability appearing in your eyes.
âI know that heâs got something over you. And I swear I can help you, if youâll let me.â
You purse your lips as you stare at him, as if searching for any sign that he could be lying to you.
âI know you donât know me,â Pope adds delicately. âI wouldnât blame you for not trusting me. Iâm just asking you to hear me out.â
Another beat of loaded silence. âOkay,â you say, barely audible. âBut we canât talk about this here. Itâs too risky.â You nod towards the door. âI donât get off until three.â
âThatâs okay,â Pope says, and he hopes that his relief isnât too evident in his tone. âI can wait.â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
When you first noticed Andrew sitting at the bar, grinning as if just waiting for you to walk in the room, you wouldâve assumed that would be the most surprising thing to happen to you tonight.
That assumption proved to be dead wrong, because five minutes later, he revealed that heâs planning to rob your boss.
(Correction: heâs planning to rob him, and knows that heâs a huge piece of shit who is blackmailing you).
The surprises donât stop there, though. Next, you surprise yourself by inviting a practical stranger into your home.
Your self-preservation skills have always been lacking. That was evident the day that you willingly agreed to work for Silas to help pay off your dadâs debt instead of fleeing the state of California and never looking back.
But this might just break the record for most reckless and foolhardy thing youâve ever done.
Andrew waits for you in the parking garage down the block from the club until you get off just after three oâclock in the morning. Your body is exhausted, but your mind has never been more awake as you drive back to your apartment with him tailing you in his truck.
Your thoughts reel with all of the ways that this could go disastrously wrong.
You do not actually know this man. Youâve spent less than a collective two hours with him. Your gut tells you that heâs being honest, but is it worth the risk? Heâs a bank robber. A convicted felon, who apparently comes from a crime family. Is it possible that you could just be trading one Silas for another? Andrew claims he can help you, but how? And at what cost?
Moments after you arrive at your apartment, Andrew pulls into the parking spot directly next to yours and then follows you wordlessly to your unit.
You have every intention of telling him to make himself comfortable on your couch and offering him fresh coffee. It is well after three oâclock in the morning - most people who donât work the nightshift would be asleep at this time. But as soon as your front door clicks shut, you suddenly forget all pleasantries.
âYou said that you know heâs got something over me.â You stand before Andrew in your small kitchen, looking him dead in the eye. âHow much do you know, exactly?â
He meets your gaze with an equally level stare. It isnât harsh, but it is hard for you to read. Youâre quickly learning that to be the norm with Andrew. Difficult to read.
âI know enough,â Andrew says calmly. âI know Silas is a loan shark. I know youâre working for him to pay back money that you didnât borrow.â
You nod slowly, dropping your gaze to the floor as you lean against your kitchen counter. âAnd how do you think you can help me with that, exactly?â You glance back up. âDonât get me wrong, I would love to believe you, but I just donât see how you and your brothers robbing the guy magically frees me of him. I mean, if he were to find out that it was you, and that Iâve even talked you outside of the club, he wouldââ
âHe wouldnât find out,â Andrew cuts you off, voice even and low. âI would make sure of that.â
âHow?â You take a step towards him without thinking, your hands clasped in front of you. âHow would you make sure of that? If you know why Iâm working for Silas, then Iâm assuming you know about my father. It isnât just my life on the line here, Andrew.â
His hazel eyes soften at that. âI do know about your father. I also know thereâs a lot of people stuck in situations like you and your father, because of Silas. A lot of people who would all be better off if SilasâŚwasnât around anymore.â
Your eyebrows lift halfway up your forehead. âWasnât around anymore?â You echo. As soon as they leave your lips, the implication becomes clear.
Wasnât around anymore. Gone. Deleted. Erased.
Andrew doesnât verbalize a response. He just watches you from where he stands an armâs length away and waits for you to process what heâs telling you.
That heâs offering to kill Silas. Or have him killed. You donât really know. Thereâs a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears thatâs making it impossible to think clearly.
You finally manage to get two words out. âYouâre serious.â
It isnât posed as a question.
âI am,â Andrew says simply. âIf you want me to be.â
You snort at that, because what the fuck are you supposed to say? âYeah, off with his head!â and âoh no, please donât hurt him!â somehow feel equally wrong.
You look to the floor again. And then around the room. To your houseplants that need watered, and then to last nightâs dishes that still need to be put in the dishwasher. Anywhere but Andrewâs intense, unyielding honey colored stare that you could probably get lost in if it werenât for the bizarre circumstances for which he is in your apartment right now.
Finally, you exhale. âI thinkâŚI want some coffee.â You turn to the espresso machine behind you, and then glance at Andrew over your shoulder. âWhat about you?â
He looks surprised for a split-second, then nods. âYeah. Coffee sounds good.â
Upon your invitation, Andrew takes a stiff seat on your couch while you use the few minutes that it takes you to brew and prepare the drinks to attempt to process what the fuck has transpired since the two of you entered your apartment.
It does little good. You still have just as many questions as you did on the drive home. Even more now. Andrew is offering to kill for you? Has he killed before? Was he really in prison for bank robbery? Or was it something else? Should you be trying to secretly dial 911 on your watch right now?
Probably. If you were smart. But youâre not smart. Youâre desperate, and Andrew might just be offering you a way out on a silver platter.
Although it could come back to bite you in the ass, right now, youâre willing to be an open book. You meant what you had said to Andrew at the club tonight - you donât care what he and his brothers do to Silas. Rob him, or worseâŚhe deserves it. And after the hell he has put you, and your father, through these last three years, you have very little hesitation helping Silas get his karma.
âHypothetically,â you start, sitting down on your small loveseat directly across the table from him. âLetâs say I agree to thisâŚwalk me through it. How would you and your brothersâŚgo about this? What would you need from me? And what aboutâŚafterwards? What would I owe you?â
The questions pour out of you faster than you can stop them.
Andrewâs brows scrunch together. âYou wouldnât owe me anything,â he says, like itâs obvious. âIâm not Silas. I just want to help you. And if you have any information that could potentially help us, then that would be great, but if notâŚI still want to do whatever I can to get you out of this mess.â
He says every word so sincerely that it makes you feel silly for even thinking otherwise.
Of course he isnât Silas. You might not know Andrew very well, but you know that he isnât Silas. Silas takes what he wants with zero regard for anyone but himself. Andrew has given you every opportunity to express discomfort, to change your mind, to tell him to fuck off. Even now, if you told him to get lost and never contact you again, you donât doubt that heâd honor your wishes.
Andrew stares so heavy that you swear he can see right through you. His voice is low and steady when he speaks again. âYou donât deserve what Silas is doing to you. But he does deserve whatâs coming to him.â
You donât know if the next words out of your mouth mean that youâre crazy, or just desperate.
âWhat kind of information do you need?â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Pope didnât want to leave you in Los Angeles, but he had to come back home to Oceanside to work out all of the details of the heist with his brothers.
He knows youâre capable of taking care of yourself. Youâve been doing it for years. You donât need a man that you met two days ago playing bodyguard. But heâd be lying if he said that the thought of you working even one more shift at Solstice, or the thought of you being in close proximity to Silas, or the thought of a random sleazebag laying so much as a finger on you in that place doesnât make his blood burn white-hot.
He takes comfort in knowing that after tonight, you only have to step foot into that place one more time. And that time, he will be there, too.
Still, he hates knowing that as he sits on his couch in Oceanside, youâre at the club in LA. Pope had suggested that you call out tonight, but you had shot that idea down quickly. You explained that you always work Sunday nights, and you didnât want to risk drawing any negative attention to yourself before the heist that is now planned for this upcoming Friday night.
Currently, it is 3:46 in the morning, and Pope is wide awake, even though he shouldnât be, and thinking of you, even though he probably shouldnât be doing that, either. He wonders if youâve made it home from work yet, and if your shift went okay or if Silas was there tonightâŚand he subconsciously grits his teeth at the thought of that.
He manages to hold out until 3:58 before he finds your name in the recently added section of his contacts and presses call.
You answer just after the first ring.
âAndrew,â Your voice pours from his speaker softly, slightly hoarse. âIs everything okay?â
Right away, heâs relieved at the lack of background noise. No music blasting and no drunk frat guys yelling over it. No car horns honking or sirens wailing. Itâs safe to assume that you have made it home already.
âEverythingâs fine,â he answers. âI just wanted to make sure you got home safely. See how your shift went.â
You exhale a hum of soft laughter. âJust walked through the door a few minutes ago. Work was busy. Really busy for a Sunday night. Iâm glad itâs over. Almost.â
âAlmost,â he agrees. âAt least youâre off for the next few days. The next time you step foot in that place, itâll be the last.â
Thereâs a brief pause before you speak. âAs long as everything goes according to plan,â you murmur, and Pope can hear the nerves in your voice.
âIt will,â he assures you. âLet us worry about that, alright? You just try to relax in the meantime.â
You snort. âEasier said than done.â
âKeep yourself busy so you donât think about it too much,â Pope suggests lightly. âDo you have any plans this week?â
âNot really,â you grumble. âLos Angeles isnât really my scene. I wouldnât be here at all if it werenât forâŚâ You trail off momentarily. You donât have to finish the sentence. âAnyway. I go to work, I go home, and sometimes I go to the beach. Thatâs about it.â
âYou like the beach?â
âI do,â you hum. âItâs one of the very few things I like about living here. My apartment is only about a twenty minute drive from Venice Beach. Well, really more like forty with all of the trafficâŚâ
Pope is silent for a moment. During those few seconds of silence, he can hear waves crash against the shore just beyond the front door of the small beachfront house. If he were to step outside and walk mere yards, his feet would touch sand. He can glance out of the window in front of him and see moonlight dance across the water. Thereâs nothing separating him from the ocean but the walls of the house.
âI live right on the beach, you know,â Pope says, going for casual but probably failing. âThe beach is my front yard.â
âReally?â You chirp. âGod, that must be nice. I mean, you saw where I live in LA. Just about anywhere beats this shitty apartment, and the shitty traffic, and all of the endless noise, but living on the beach? I can only imagine how peaceful that is.â
Thereâs an idea forming in Popeâs mind, and he knows itâs irrational and naive, but he has already offered to kill for you after knowing you for one day, so how crazy could anything else really be?
âYou ever been to Oceanside?â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Against your better judgment, later that day you drive to Oceanside with the address Andrew sent you typed into your GPS.
You almost turn around at least a dozen times.
You donât want to turn around, but what little common sense you possess nearly convinces you to do so. What would you say if one of your coworkers told you that they have packed a bag and are going to stay with a mysterious man who booked a private room with them only forty-eight hours ago, tipped them a thousand dollars, came back the very next night, and revealed that heâs planning to both rob and kill your boss?
You would tell them that the next time you see them, itâs going to be on a missing personâs poster or a Dateline episode.
Yet here you are. Doing exactly that. Because for reasons you do not fully understand, Andrew makes you feel safe. Maybe youâre just so used to feeling unsafe that true safety has become a foreign concept to you. Maybe your judgment is clouded. But when he told you that he has a spare room and offered it to you for the days leading up to the heist, it hardly took any convincing for you to say yes.
Now, less than twelve hours later, with only a duffel bag in your passenger seat stuffed full of beach attire and toiletries, youâre driving to him.
Andrew had offered to come get you, too. And even though you ultimately insisted that you were fine with driving yourself to Oceanside, you canât deny that the offer made your whole body feel irrationally warm and fuzzy - the fact that heâd be willing to make a third trip to Los Angeles in the last three days because you had made an off handed comment about your distaste for LA traffic.
Youâre excited. Not only to get away from the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles for a few days, but also to see Andrew again. This time not inside a private room at Solstice or in your tiny apartment at four oâclock in the morning. Youâre eager to get a feel for who he really is outside of the club environment, to see how he is when heâs somewhere that heâs comfortable, to learn about the man who has done nothing but surprise you time and time again since you met him only days ago.
When your carâs GPS announces your arrival, you donât have to question whether or not youâre at the right place. Heâs waiting for you on the front porch.
Like every time that you have seen him so far, he wears a short sleeve button-up shirt and a grave expression that would make you question if heâs actually glad to see you if it werenât for the fact that he wastes no time trotting down the porch steps to greet you at your car.
He opens your door for you before you have the chance.
âYou werenât exaggerating when you said that the beach is your front yard,â you laugh, grabbing your duffel bag from your passenger seat that Andrew immediately reaches to take from you. âIf you were any closer, youâd be in the water.â
When you stand up, Andrew shuts your door behind you and then rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, his cheeks flushing slightly. It dawns on you that this is the first time that youâve seen him in the daylight. Before now, youâve only seen him in the neon fluorescents of the club and the low lighting of your apartment in the middle of the night. But now, in broad daylight without so much as a cloud in the sky, you feel like youâre really seeing him for the first time.
You already knew he has freckles, but now you could count every single one, if you wanted to. You knew that his eyes were hazel, but now you can see the tiny flecks of gold around his irises. And you thought that he was pretty the very first time you saw him in the alley, but you canât help but think heâs even prettier in the sunlight.
âI may have said that to make you want to come,â he admits sheepishly. âBut it wasnât a lie.â
Your own face warms at the admission. âWell, clearly it worked. I came.â
Andrewâs mouth upturns slightly at the corners, his eyes crinkling around them. âCome on,â he nods towards the house. âIâll show you around.â
The place is relatively small - a single story two bedroom, but in comparison to your studio apartment, it feels like a castle. And itâs clean. Spotless, actually. You hadnât been expecting a pigsty by any means, but the exceptional tidiness is still a pleasant surprise. Thereâs not a decorative pillow out of place or so much as a dirty dish in the sink.
He carries your bag to the doorway of the first bedroom and lets you enter before him.
âThis is the, uhâŚâ Andrew trails off for a fraction of a second, searching for words, âThis is the guest room. All yours while youâre here.â
You take in the appearance of the small room. Like the common areas of the house, itâs clean, but thereâs certain characteristics that stand out to you. A pastel pink, floral comforter. A stack of childrenâs books on the dresser. A handful of small clothes hangers in an otherwise empty closet, and a ladder of pencil markings on the wall right beside it. At first, they look like random scratches in the paint, but as you take a step closer, you realize that they are height measurements. Each spaced a few inches apart, with dates scribbled next to each line. Some of the handwriting appears more feminine, whereas the more recent markings seem childlike.
You glance at Andrew over your shoulder, where he still stands in the doorway, watching you. âDo youâŚhave children?â You ask, curiosity getting the better of you.
His gaze shifts past you, to the pencil markings in the far corner of the room. âNo, I donât,â he answers, a hint of melancholy in the words. âThis room was my nieceâs, but she doesnât live here anymore. I justâŚcanât bring myself to erase it.â
Judging by his tone and dejected expression, he doesnât seem particularly eager to talk about the subject, so you donât press it any further, instead locking the information away with everything else youâve learned about him in the last few days.
His childhood nickname is Pope. He had a twin sister named Julia. He drinks his coffee black. He has a niece, and as of last summer, she was approximately 45 inches tall. He did time in prison for armed robbery, and heâs prepared to kill someone for a woman he barely knows.
You offer a small nod. âWell, itâs a really nice place. Thank you, again. For inviting me. You have no idea how glad I am to be away from LA, even for a few days.â
Andrewâs expression softens. âYou donât have to thank me,â he says, voice calm in a way that youâre quickly growing to find very comforting. âIâm happy that youâre here.â
You plop down on the edge of the mattress and grin up at him. âSo, whatâs the plan for today? You gonna show me around Oceanside?â
âI was planning on it.â He leans against the doorframe, his thumbs in his pockets as he smirks at you. âWe can do whatever you want. Go to the beach, the pier, just ride around. We do need to go to the grocery store at some point so I can grab some things for dinner.â
Your eyebrows lift in surprise. âWe can do whatever I want and youâre going to make me dinner? Youâre quite the host, Andrew.â
He blushes at that, the apples of his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. The thought crosses your mind right then and there - you would never in a million years guess that heâs capable of doing what he plans to do later this week just by looking at him. This blushing, thoughtful man who has been nothing but respectful and considerate of you since the moment you met. Heâs going to put a permanent end to the problem that has plagued you for years?
Thereâs more than one side to people, clearly. But that doesnât bother you. Not in the slightest. In fact, youâre interested in getting to know every side of Andrew Cody. The soft-spoken version of him standing before you, and the version of him capable of the kind of violence youâve only ever let yourself fantasize about.
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Oceanside is - quite literally - a breath of fresh air compared to Los Angeles.
It isnât exactly a small town, but it feels like one by comparison. Thereâs less people, less noise, less traffic, less smells. The ocean is five minutes away no matter where you go.
Los Angeles may be less than a two hour drive from Oceanside, but it feels like itâs worlds away. You feel like you can actually fucking breathe here.
By the end of your very first day here, you dread ever returning to LA. To Solstice (even for just one more shift). To your cramped, overpriced studio apartment that youâve tried your hardest to make feel like home but never really has.
But here? Oceanside? Even just a few hours after your arrival, you can tell that this is a place that could easily start to feel like home to you. Partially due to the relaxed nature of the beach town, and partially due to the curly-haired man who is currently cooking you dinner as you watch from across the kitchen bar.
âWhatcha gonna make for dinner?â You ask as Andrew pulls into the grocery store parking lot.
He puts the truck in park and unbuckles his seatbelt before turning slightly to face you. âThat depends entirely on what youâd like to eat.â
You had tried to insist that you were fine with whatever, but Andrew is quite convincing when he wants to be. He had refused to leave the grocery store until you told him what to make for dinner. Not wanting to be an inconvenience, or high maintenance, or too picky, you suggested the first relatively simple and inexpensive meal that you could think of on the spot.
Now, you sit across the counter from him, watching as he cooks fettuccine alfredo for the both of you.
As hard as you try not to let your eyes wander, you canât stop yourself. Andrew seems oblivious, and if he notices he doesnât say anything, but your eyes are drawn to his broad shoulders, thick arms, and bulky chest. His curls are wind-blown and skin sun-kissed from an afternoon spent walking on the beach near his house, making his freckles more visible than ever.
He catches you smirking at him as heâs plating up the food. A bashful grin appears on his face. âWhat is it?â
You shake your head with a small shrug. âNothing. Youâre justâŚnot at all what I thought youâd be when we first met.â
Andrewâs eyebrows arch slightly. âYou mean the kind of guy that normally books private rooms with you at the club?â
You snort a laugh. âYeah, something like that.â You pause, grinning. âI mean, obviously most of them donât recruit me to help them rob my bossâŚâ Andrew chuckles lowly at that. âBut they also donât cook me Italian food and let me stay at their beach house.â
âWhat can I say?â Andrew slides your plate across the counter. âIâm full of surprises.â
You canât disagree with that.
Andrew takes a seat beside you and the meal is eaten in companionable silence for the most part, giving your thoughts time to stray to all of the things that you have tried your hardest not to dwell on too much since you arrived here today.
Youâve tried not to think about whatâs to come at the end of the week, and all of the ways that it could go disastrously wrong. As hard as you try to think positively, you canât help but worry about someone getting hurt. Andrew, or one of his brothers, or a random dancer at the club who somehow gets caught in the crosshairs, or even yourself. Your brain conjures worst case scenarios, causing visions of anyone other than Silas dying to replay on a loop until you snap yourself out of it.
But with Andrew sitting next to you, itâs a little easier to silence those scary thoughts and replace them with better ones. Like maybe, just maybe, if this whole operation doesnât go to shit, there could be more moments like this.
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
Pope isnât particularly eager for you to meet his family, but he knows itâs bound to happen sooner or later. Especially if he hopes to maintain a regular presence in your life once this week is over.
He doesnât expect you to want the same, but he does hope.
So, on your second day in Oceanside, he bites the bullet and drives you both to the family home after asking his brothers and nephew to meet there to go over everything for the heist a final time.
You assure him you donât mind, but youâve never met his family before. Heâs slightly comforted by the fact that he never has to worry about you meeting Smurf, but thereâs still Deran and Craig, who act like teenagers more than half the time.
âLook,â Pope stops you with a gentle hand on your arm before he reaches for the front door, âIf they say anything inappropriate, or weird, just ignore them. Theyâre children. Weâre just here to go over the plan and then weâll leave, I promise.â
You exhale a laugh. âI can assure you that Iâm used to inappropriate and weird, Andrew. They cannot possibly be any worse than the men that I have dealt with on a regular basis the last three years.â
He hesitates a moment, his hand still on your arm as he watches for any sign of reluctance, but you give none. Grudgingly, Pope opens the door and lets you enter before him.
Inside, thereâs less noise than Pope expects, and it gives him the tiniest bit of hope that everyone will be on their best behavior. He leads you through the house, where the two of you find Craig, Deran, and Jay already gathered in the living room.
All three pairs of eyes immediately land on you as soon as you and Pope enter the room.
âStill,â Craig shrugs. âI didnât believe that she would actually be willing to hear Pope out and not immediately run screaming to the cops.â He stands then, walking the short distance to where you stand beside Pope, extending a hand to you in offering. âCraig, by the way.â
âAh,â you sigh, briefly shaking his hand. âThe mastermind behind this operation, I hear.â
Craig winks, clicking his tongue. âYouâve heard correctly.â
Jay and Deran then introduce themselves, clarity blooming on your face as you recognize Deran from the brief encounter in the alley. Youâre perfectly friendly, but the tension in your shoulders and the way that you clasp your hands in front of you doesnât go unnoticed by Pope.
He canât blame you for being nervous. You are in a room full of criminals, all of whom are strangers to you - himself included - to plot not only the financial but also physical demise of the man who has made your life hell for years.
Anyone sane would be nervous. But it speaks volume to Pope how much trust youâre putting in him (and how desperate you must be for any chance at freedom, no matter how risky it may be).
With a featherlight hand on the small of your back, Pope nods to an empty section on the couch for you to take a seat. He sits directly beside you, just close enough for the side of your thigh to brush against his.
Craig immediately launches into the logistics of the plan for Friday night. Jay is to disable all security cameras inside and around the perimeter of the club, and then waits with the getaway car. After the cameras have been disabled, Craig, Deran, and Pope will all enter through the basement. Once they are in the safe room, Pope is to signal to you through a discreet communication device that youâll wear in your ear.
ââŚand then youâll tell your creepy floor managerâŚâ
âGregory.â
âGregory,â Craig repeats, âthat you saw a customer open the basement door and go downstairs. But only if you know that Silas is distracted at the time. We donât want Silas coming down before we make Gregory open the safe.â
âRight,â you nod. âSo then Gregory opens the safe, Deran takes the money and leaves, you and Andrew make Gregory call for Silas to come downstairs, and thenâŚ?â
âAnd then Craig and I take care of the rest,â Pope answers simply. He doesnât want you worrying about the specifics as to what happens once Silas enters the basement. The less you know at that point, the better. âWhatever you do, you stay upstairs. Finish your shift just like you would any other night. By the time you get off, itâll all be finished.â
Youâre silent for a moment, glancing around at each of the men in the room before you turn your head just enough to look Pope in the eyes. âAre you sure thereâs nothing else I can do to help? Kinda feel like Iâm not really pulling my weight here.â
âWeâre sure,â Pope says before any of the others have a chance to speak up, his tone final, leaving no room for objection. âBetween the information youâve given us and what youâll say to Gregory, youâve done more than enough.â
You glance down to where your hands are interlocked in your lap. Then, in a smaller voice with a humorless laugh, âEnough for you to kill a man for me? To risk going back to prison?â
The question makes him forget that the two of you are in a room with three other men. He instinctively reaches out, placing a hand on top of both of yours. Your eyes dart down in surprise to where his hand rests on yours and a thick silence settles over the room before Pope slowly retracts his hand before answering you with absolute resolution.
âYes,â he implores. âIâve told you once, and Iâll tell you again. You donât have to do anything to earn this. Iâm offering. Because I want to.â
He wants to for you. Since the moment he first saw you in that alley and he stood and watched as Silas grabbed you by the arm, a part of him has wanted to ensure that Silas never touches you again. That desire has only grown stronger since meeting you, talking to you, and getting to know you these last few days. The only thing that could possibly stop him from sending Silas to an early grave is if you personally begged him not to, and even then, Pope would still want to with every fiber of his being.
You stare at Pope, pursing your lips, and he halfway expects you to argue. But he doesnât drop your gaze, doesnât even blink, and eventually you exhale a shaky breath.
âLetâs do this, then.â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
âYou nervous about tomorrow?â
Youâre hardly able to make out the words over the crashing of waves against the shore and the squawking of a seagull just a few yards away from where you and Andrew sit on the beach.
You turn your gaze away from the sun that has started to set over the Pacific Ocean to find that Andrew is already looking at you.
âOf course,â you admit with a breathy laugh. âAre you nervous?â
Andrew lifts his shoulders in a small shrug, looking back out to the water. âWeâve pulled off more complicated jobs than this before. Not too long ago we infiltrated a military base. A strip club is nothing compared to that.â
Your eyes widen in surprise, as they tend to do anytime youâre learning new information about the man sitting beside you. âA military base?â You echo in disbelief. âJesus. How exactly did you guys even get into this kind of thing, anyway?â
Robbing banks. Offering to kill a man for a woman heâs only just met. And apparently, infiltrating military bases. That kind of thing. The kind of thing that should send you running in the opposite direction but for some reason makes you want to lean in closer.
Andrew shakes his head, a quick snort of laughter escaping him. âOur mother,â he answers. âShe taught us everything we know. Iâve been doing this since Craig and Deran were still in diapers.â
âJesus,â you mumble. You donât know the exact age difference between Andrew and his brothers, but he canât possibly be all that much older than them. He was just a kid. âAnd youâŚenjoy it?â
Andrew thinks about it for a moment, leaning back with his palms pressed into the sand. âI wouldnât say that enjoy is the right word. Itâs just all that Iâve ever known.â
You nod slowly, contemplating the words. This lifestyle is his baseline for normal. If you struggle to remember what life was like before you got dragged into working at Solstice only a few years ago, you can only imagine the complex feelings that come with being groomed into an entire lifetime of crime.
âHave you ever thought about what else you would do?â You ask hesitantly. âIf you werenât doing this?â
Again, he doesnât answer right away. You watch as his eyes narrow in thought, his stare locked on the pink and orange horizon ahead of you. âIâve thought about it,â he murmurs, a hint of restrained emotion in his tone. âNever for long enough to act on it, butâŚmaybe Iâd open a skatepark. Eventually settle down, start a family of my own.â
âReally?â You canât hide the surprise from your voice. You arenât quite sure why the answer surprises you as much as it does - you did literally just meet this man less than a week ago, but you didnât exactly peg him to be the chasing toddlers, Pee-wee soccer game on a Saturday morning kind of guy. âYou want to have kids?â
âMaybe one or two,â he shrugs. âI probably wonât, though. Itâs just something I like to think about sometimes.â He pauses. âWhat about you? What are you gonna do when this is all over?â
Thatâs a question that youâve been asking yourself for years. Up until now, it has only felt like a distant fantasy. Even now, youâre trying not to get your hopes up too high for fear that it wonât work out. That things will take a turn for the worst. That someone will get hurt, that Silas will somehow get away and find out what youâve tried to do. Even with freedom almost close enough to touch, you wonât let yourself believe itâs yours until youâre actually holding it in your handâŚand until you are, itâs difficult to imagine what life could possibly look like.
You exhale. âIâll probably start by visiting my dad. I havenât seen him in a while. I wanna let him know that me and him are gonna be okay. And thenâŚâ You trail off momentarily, âand then Iâm gonna get the fuck out of LA. Maybe go back to school eventually,â you shrug. âI guess I havenât let myself think about it too much either.â
Andrew hums in thought at the response. Then, he sits up straight, pulling his knees awkwardly to his chest and looking at you with the same serious expression that youâre no closer to being able to read than you were the night you first met him.
âYouâre always welcome here. If you need a place to stay while you figure out what you wanna do.â
The offer warms you more than the evening California sun. Not only the words, but the way you canât help but think he sounds nervous, and maybe a little hopeful, when he speaks them.
And because you donât know how to express your gratitude in words, you place your head on his shoulder, instead. He tenses in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxes into the embrace, nuzzling the side of his cheek against the top of your head.
âI do like it here,â you hum. I like you, too, you think to yourself. âI might have to take you up on that.â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
âCameras are officially offline. Soleil, if you can hear me, cough two times.â
Jayâs voice pours through the tiny communication device that Andrew had helped place in your ear only an hour ago. Youâre able to make out Jayâs words, but theyâre muffled, as the club is already extremely busy tonight - which youâre far more grateful for than you usually would be. Tonight, the more noise, the better. Boisterous laughs and obnoxiously loud music means that patrons and dancers are less likely to hear anything out of the ordinary.
As inconspicuously as possible, you raise your arm and cough twice into your elbow.
âGood,â Jay replies. âEveryone keep to the plan. Pope, let us know when you guys are in.â
The line then goes silent, leaving you to attempt to act calm, cool and collected for however long it takes Andrew, Craig and Deran to get into the basement and then the safe room without being caught.
You havenât even been here for an hour yet, and you already feel the need to reapply deodorant due to the intense nervous sweats that youâre currently experiencing. Youâve already been to the bathroom twice because your stomach is so tied in knots that you are convinced youâre going to get sick.
Maybe you should have listened to Andrew and called out tonight. He had tried to assure that they would find a way to make everything work without you there, but you stubbornly insisted on helping.
What if your anxiety gets the best of you and you get sick on center stage tonight? What if someone notices how antsy you are? What if your earpiece falls out while dancing?
Oh, thatâs just a hearing aid. I somehow went partially deaf in the last few days.
It doesnât help that Silas is exceptionally irritable tonight, barking at every dancer and employee for every little thing. You spend the first part of the night maintaining as much distance between yourself and him as you possibly can while also keeping a careful eye on him. Itâs sheer dumb luck that no one requests a private room with you during the first hour of the night so youâre able to monitor both Silas and Gregory from a reasonable distance while simultaneously conversing with customers.
And, if you were having any second thoughts about playing a part in Silasâ demise, those go out the window the minute that he approaches you that night.
Youâre standing at the bar, waiting on some drinks for a table you have been entertaining, when he eases up beside you. Call it a sixth sense, but the way that your skin crawls at the sudden presence tells you itâs him before you even glance over.
âEnjoy your days off?â Silas asks, voice low enough for only you to hear. You cut your eyes in his direction to find him smirking at you, the look in his eyes making it clear that he isnât just making friendly conversation.
âI did,â you answer shortly, eyeing the bartender to see where sheâs at with the Jack and cokes. Not that itâs any of your concern, you bite back.
Silas hums, swirling the ice in his glass. âIâm glad to see you tonight, you know. I was starting to worry that maybe you skipped town.â
Your hands clutch the edge of the bar to steady yourself, your stomach sinking. He doesnât know. Thereâs no way that he knows. How would he know?
âAm I not allowed to go out of town for a few days when Iâm not working?â You snort, trying to play it off, hoping your horror isnât displayed across your face. You donât deny it, because if heâs bringing it up, then he already knows. You just donât know how much he knows. âI have to run my vacation plans by you now?â
A low chuckle escapes him as he takes a slow sip of his drink. âWhatâs in Oceanside, anyway?â
Fucking hell.
Just as the last word leaves his lips, and the room around you seems to freeze, the bartender slides the tray of drinks across the counter to you. Your hands are shaking, but you force yourself to pick it up. Youâre vaguely aware of Andrew whispering your name in your ear, his voice panicked, but you canât respond yet.
âThe ocean,â you spit, turning around and walking away with the drinks before Silas can say another word.
When youâre halfway across the room, Andrewâs voice pours through the communication device again.
âAre you okay? What the hell was that?â
You still donât risk responding. You drop the drinks off at the table with exaggerated pleasantries and quickly excuse yourself before the men have a chance to drag you into whatever it is theyâre now animatedly conversing about. A fleeting glance in the direction of the bar lets you know that Silas is now occupied by a customer, and only after confirming that his attention is no longer on you, do you take off in the direction of the employee bathroom and lock the door behind you.
âAndrew?â You hiss under your breath. âHow much of that did you hear?â
âAll of it,â Andrew answers right away. âHow the hell does he know?â
âI have no idea,â you whisper, sitting down on the closed toilet. Now that youâre alone and can begin to process what the hell just happened, your heart is racing and your body is shaking and youâll be lucky to walk back out of this room without collapsing. âI havenât told anyone about my trip to Oceanside. He must have someone keeping tabs on me when Iâm not here.â
The realization makes bile churn in your gut. Heâs watching you. Even when youâre not here, heâs watching. He knows when you come and when you go, and he knows where you go. Who fucking knows how many times heâs had someone spying on you when you were just buying groceries or getting your nails done orâ
âBreathe,â Andrew says, somehow able to detect your panic without even seeing you. âHeâs just trying to scare you. He might know that you went to Oceanside, but he doesnât know our plan. This doesnât change anything, okay? Weâre already in. Weâre doing this. And you wonât have to worry about him anymore after tonight.â
You inhale, then exhale, then repeat, trying your hardest to convince yourself that what heâs saying is true. You know he believes it, and you trust that he wouldnât lie to you, but right now the small amount of self-preservation that you possess is screaming at you to abandon ship.
But then you think of Andrew, in the basement, only one floor separating you from him. You think of all heâs risking by what heâll do for you tonight. You think of your time spent together in Oceanside, and how you long for more, and how that isnât a possibility unless you leave this bathroom and do what you came here to do.
One more deep breath. âOkay,â you exhale. âOkay, Iâm okay.â It sounds like youâre trying to assure yourself as much as you are him.
âGood,â Andrew encourages softly. âWeâre in the safe room now. No sign of anyone down here. I need you to get Gregory to come downstairs now, okay? Remember the plan?â
Even though he canât see you, you nod. âI remember.â
Just in case someone is standing outside the door, you flush the toilet and turn the sink on momentarily for the sake of keeping up appearances as you take in your own appearance. Your makeup is slightly patchy from beads of sweat that have gathered on your forehead, but all things considered, you look normal enough.
You pause with your hand on the bathroom doorknob, taking one last, steadying breath before reentering the main floor of the club. A large group of men are huddled around center stage as another popular dancer performs her solo set, and sensuous music blasts loudly through the room.
Silas has moved from his seat at the bar, relocating to a far corner where he sits conversing with a table of regulars with his back to you. Good. And as for GregoryâŚ.
Gregory stands next to one of the newest dancers, who currently looks as if sheâs being held hostage by whatever Gregory is saying to her.
Now or never, you suppose, forcing one foot in front of the other as you walk across the room.
âHey, Angel,â you greet her with a cheerful voice and smile, hoping it sounds genuine. âThereâs a guy at the bar asking for a private dance with you. I told him Iâd send you over.â
Right away, she looks relieved to be freed from her conversation with Gregory. âThanks,â she breathes before heading in the direction of the bar.
Gregory starts to walk off - knowing that you wonât engage in casual conversation with him like the newer hires who feel obligated to - when you speak up.
âHey, I saw a guy trying to open the basement door just a minute ago,â you tell him, relieved when the words come out with just the right amount of faux concern. Gregory immediately looks in that general direction, beady eyes narrowing as he tries to find who you could be referring to.
âHe was jiggling the handle,â you continue, hoping it prompts him in that direction.
âA guy?â He repeats. âWhat guy? What did he look like?â
You shrug. âNever seen him before. He was about your height, middle aged, short black hair.â
Gregoryâs eyes dart between you and the hallway behind you. âOkay,â he huffs, taking a step away from you. âIâll tell Silasââ
âI already told him,â you blurt without thinking. âHeâs busy. He told me to tell you to check it out.â
To both your surprise and relief, he doesnât question you further. He just huffs in annoyance, muttering something under his breath about having to do fucking everything around here and storms in the direction of the basement stairway.
For the briefest of moments, you almost feel bad for him. Then, you remember all of the times he has walked in on you and other dancers in the changing room, or tattled on you to Silas for not smiling enough, or stared directly at your tits with zero shame, and then your guilt disappears just as quickly as it had appeared.
You arenât quite sure what Andrew and his brothers plan to do with Gregory. You didnât ask, and you arenât going to. You figured that Andrew would likely give you the same answer he has to the majority of questions youâve asked over the last few days: the less you know, the better.
You do your best to appear subtle as you watch Gregory approach the door that leads to the basement of the club. He glances around, seemingly looking for the mystery man that you had made up a description of on the spot. When he sees no one that looks as you had described (because of course he doesnât), he jiggles the handle to find it still locked. Your stomach sinks as you worry that Gregory will chalk that up to good enough and turn around to report to Silas, but then he reaches into his pocket and retrieves a set of keys, still visibly muttering under his breath and shaking his head.
You breathe an audible sigh of relief when he opens the door and he slips into the stairwell without drawing any attention from Silas, who still has his back to the entire incident on the other side of the room.
âHeâs coming,â you murmur under your breath, âGregory is coming downstairs now.â
Thereâs a quick whisper of confirmation, so fast and low that you arenât even sure whose voice it was, and then the line goes silent. Your part of the job is over, and youâre left to wait. Wait until you see Silas walk to the stairs when Andrew makes Gregory call for him. Wait as you hope that he never walks back up those stairs. Wait until you hear from Andrew, wait until your shift is over.
And waiting might just be the hardest part of it all.
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
âIâm gonna ask you one more time to open this fucking safe.â
Like a rat after a piece of cheese, Gregory had walked right into the trap. He clearly had not actually expected anyone to be down here, because he walked right inside the safe room, muttering to himself about not getting paid enough, where Craig and Deran snuck up behind him, overpowering him within seconds. He didnât even have a chance to yell before a handkerchief was crammed into his mouth.
Popes gotta hand it to Gregory, though. He fully expected the cowering, sniveling little shit to open the safe the very first time the three masked men demand he do so. But so far, he has yet to cave. Even with the barrel of Popeâs gun pressed to his temple.
Heâs trembling, and whimpering, and he has definitely pissed himself, but he is also refusing to put the code in the fucking vault. Heâs loyal to Silas, even if heâs nothing else, and that makes Pope feel the slightest bit better about what he plans to do with Gregory whenever they no longer have any use for him.
Pope and his brothers like to avoid casualties if at all possible. But after all youâve told him about Gregory and now how stubborn heâs being? Pope has a hard time feeling bad.
âI donât fucking have time for this,â Pope grunts, pulling the Glock away from Gregoryâs forehead and instead aiming it towards the lower half of his body. He tries to shout, tries to protest, but the cloth crammed inside his mouth makes it all sound like muffled gibberish.
Pope doesnât hesitate to pull the trigger, sending Gregory crumpling to the floor with a shot to the thigh that has him screeching around the gag; a high-pitched, animalistic sound. Upstairs, the music continues to blast, the bass vibrating through the floor. Even if Popeâs gun didnât have a suppressor, he doubts anyone would have heard the shot over all the noise in the club.
Craig and Deran yank Gregory back upright despite his cries of pain. âThe next shot wonât be to your leg. You think weâre bluffing?â Craig bellows. âYouâre gonna find out if you donât open that fucking safe right now.â
Gregory frantically nods. Craig and Deran haul him forward, and he raises his bound wrists to the safeâs keypad and begins typing with shaking hands. After a few seconds, the safe door clicks open. Deran pulls Gregory out of the way, allowing Pope to open the door.
âOh, fuck yes,â Craig laughs in relief at the sight inside. âThis has gotta be even more than I thought.â
It is a lot - too much for Pope to take an accurate guess as to exactly how much, but it has to be in the hundreds of thousands. He canât get too excited yet, though. Not when Gregory here is bleeding through his pants and youâre still upstairs with Silas.
Pope and Craig make quick work of emptying the safe, shoving the stacks of cash into backpacks that Deran and a soon to be masked Gregory will wear out of here to where Jay awaits with the getaway car while Pope and Craig deal with Silas. But firstâŚ
âYou got your phone on you?â Pope asks Gregory.
Gregory nods with an unintelligible noise of confirmation through the handkerchief still in his mouth.
âGood,â Pope lifts a hand to remove the gag, pausing before pulling it out. âIâm gonna take this out now. You scream, you die. Understand?â
Gregory nods, eyes wide with fear. Pope then yanks the cloth out of Gregoryâs mouth, and he immediately begins to hyperventilate.
âWhereâs your phone?â Craig demands.
âBack - back pocket,â Gregory pants.
Deran reaches into the back pocket of Gregoryâs pants, retrieving the cell phone and tosses it to Pope. Pope holds the phone up to Gregoryâs face, letting Face ID unlock the screen. He goes through Gregory's call history and quickly finds Silasâ name.
âHereâs whatâs going to happen,â Pope says coolly, looking Gregory dead in the eye. âYouâre going to give your boss upstairs a call. Youâre gonna stay calm, and tell him that you need him to come down here right now. When he asks why, you tell him thereâs an issue with the safe. If he tries to question you, you pretend you canât hear him over the music and reiterate for him to come down here. Am I clear?â
Craig speaks up before Gregory has a chance to agree or disagree. âIf you try to warn him, youâll be bleeding from your other leg, too. Or worse. Got it?â
Gregory nods with a panicked sound of agreement, and Pope presses Silasâ name. He answers after the second ring, pop music pouring through the phoneâs speaker.
âWhat?â Silas barks.
Gregory doesnât speak right away. He opens his mouth like heâs going to, but then closes it, his eyes darting between Pope, Craig, and Deran. Pope wiggles the phone in his face, giving Gregory a look that dares him to test his luck.
âHey,â he squeaks. âI - uh - I need you to come downstairs for a minute.â
âWhat?â Silas snaps. âWhy? What are you doing downstairs right now?â
âIâŚIâŚuhmââ Gregory stutters, his voice unnaturally shrill and shaky. He looks between Pope and his brothers again in hesitation, unable to force the next words out. Deran nudges Gregoryâs ribcage with his gun in a reminder of whatâs at stake.
Thereâs one last, loaded second of silence before Gregory opens his mouth and seals his fateâŚand yours.
âSoleil told me she saw a man going to the basement, Iâm sorry Silas, they made me do itââ
･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ą
You watch Silas from across the room the moment that he raises his cell phone to his ear.
It could be someone else calling him. Maybe it isnât Gregory, yet. But it only takes about ten seconds for any doubt to fade away, because Silas looks over his shoulder, his eyes scanning the room until they lock with yours.
You try to look away, to play it off, to pretend you werenât just watching him like a hawk, but itâs too late. He noticed. He definitely fucking noticed. And whatever was said to him during that short phone call, makes him stand up and head directly towards you.
âWhy donât we take a little walk?â Silas says, low enough for only you to hear. âThereâs some things that we need to talk about.â
Your knees buckle and the room around you begins to spin. âIâŚhave a private room in a few minutes. Canât it wait?â
Thatâs a lie, but youâre trying to do whatever it takes to do what Andrew had asked of you. Stay upstairs.
âNah, it canât.â Silas glances around briefly before sliding a hand into his coat pocket. The movement looks innocent enough but then the unmistakable outline of a gun straining against the material catches your eye. You look back up, your blood running cold, and heâs smirking at you. âAnd Iâm not asking.â
He doesnât give you the chance to object before he grabs you by the arm and starts hauling you across the overcrowded dance floor, everyone too drunk and distracted to pay any mind to either of you.
âWhere are we going?â You ask, trying to play dumb. You say the words loudly enough that Andrew, or anyone listening downstairs, will be able to hear.
He vibrates with low, chesty laughter. âI think you already know the answer to that.â
It takes every ounce of concentration just to put one foot in front of the other and keep yourself upright. Your thoughts are reeling with worst case scenarios. What will you find when you enter the basement? Did Andrew and the others get caught? Did Gregory have a gun on him? Is someone hurt? Once you walk down these stairs, will you ever walk back up?
Neither of you speak again until Silas opens the stairwell door, pushes you inside, and pulls it closed behind him.
âIâve always known that youâre a flight risk,â Silas grumbles, steering you down the stairs with one hand gripping you by the shoulder and the barrel of his gun now pressed to the small of your back. You couldnât escape even if you tried. âYou really think I wouldnât notice if you left town for four days? To fuck off to Oceanside?â
You donât answer. His grip on your shoulder tightens enough that youâll still feel the imprint of his hand hours later.
âThe tracker that I put on your car sure came in handy,â he chuckles low, the sound sending chills down your spine. âLed me right to the Cody residence. I had to do a little digging after that, but imagine my surprise to learn that the Codys have quite the reputation.â
You reach the bottom of the stairs, and he shoves you up against the concrete wall and brings the gun to the side of your temple. You canât stop the whimper that escapes your lips.
âI just didnât think you would risk your dadâs life trying to pull some bullshit like this. Clearly I underestimated just how stupid and naive you really fuckinâ are.â Heâs close enough that spit sprays across your face with nearly every word that he says.
âSo this is what you are going to do if you want your sweet old daddy to live to see another day,â he murmurs, voice lethally calm in a way that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand straight.
Your dadâs face the night Silas first showed up at his house to collect flashes through your mind. The night that would eventually butterfly effect into you standing right here, right now.
âWeâre going to walk in there exactly like this.â He presses the gun harder against your temple for emphasis. âAnd youâre going to tell whoever is in that room to put my money back where they found it. After theyâve done that, youâre going to tell them to get the fuck out of here unless they want to clean your brains off of my floor. And then Iâll deal with you after.â
He pulls the gun away, and the small device in your left ear suddenly feels impossibly loud despite the silence on the other end.
You can only hope that Andrew has heard every word and knows what is coming.
･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ą
The door to the safe room is wide open, and you see Gregoryâs motionless body crumpled on the floor before you even step foot inside, a bullet wound dead-center of his forehead.
The second thing you notice is that Craig and Deran begin to lower their weapons as soon as you, and Silas directly behind you with his gun still aimed at your head, come into view.
The third, and most concerning thing? Andrew is nowhere to be seen.
After you get over the initial shock of realizing that Gregory is dead, presumably killed by one of the boys after saying whatever the hell he said that made it click in Silasâ head that you have very much played a part in all of this, the realization that you have no idea where Andrew is and that Craig and Deran are surrendering their weapons hits you like a brick.
You were so, so stupid to have ever thought this would work. To have actually believed that things wouldnât go to shit, that everything would go according to plan, that this would end in your freedom. Now itâll be a miracle if you and every member of the Cody family makes it out of this building alive.
Where the hell is Andrew?
He wouldnât leave his brothers behind. He wouldnât leave you behind. Youâre sure enough of that. Not if there were any other way.
âWell?â Silas barks, pressing the muzzle of the gun into your temple. âTell them.â
But your mouth has gone bone dry. Andrew. Andrew. Where is Andrewâ
Craig and Deran exchange a look that lasts a mere second before Craig opens his mouth to speak. âLook, man, we donât want anyone else to get hurt. Let her go and weâll leave. Just take it easy.â
âEasy?â Silas repeats incredulously. âYou conspire against me, break into my club, kill one of my employeesâŚâ He tips his head in the direction of Gregoryâs lifeless body. ââŚand you want me to take it easy?â
Craig and Deran are both silent.
âKick the bags over,â Silas sighs, his patience already wearing thin.
âDo what he asks, guys,â you manage to force out. âHeâll let you go. Just give back the money.â
Another second of hesitation, another glance between themselves, and then they nudge the backpacks across the floor.
Silas laughs quietly from behind you. âSmart choice.â
Itâs then that you notice Craigâs eyes shift past Silas, the movement too quick and minute for Silas to even register as he starts to reach down for one of the backpacks.
Then all hell breaks loose, and the following thirty seconds feel like something out of a fever dream.
One second, Silasâ gun is pressed against your head, and the next, itâs flying across the room with a shot that goes right through the wall. Your body gets propelled forward by a blunt force from behind you, and you go tumbling to the floor with a sharp cry.
When you look up, thereâs chaos all around you, but most importantly, thereâs Andrew.
The door to the safe room, which had been wide open just seconds ago, is now nearly shut. He had been here the whole damn time, just waiting for the perfect moment to pop out and strike Silas from behind.
Andrew drives into him like a freight train, wrapping both arms around Silasâ torso and carrying him into a metal shelving unit. The entire thing rattles violently on impact, random boxes and loose paperwork falling from the shelves and scattering across the floor. Silas lets out a startled, animalistic grunt, but he recovers surprisingly fast for a man pushing sixty.
Then Craig and Deran jump in, and the four men crash together in an aggressive tangle of limbs and curses. It all happens so fast that itâs impossible to tell who throws which punch and whose blood is dripping onto the concrete.
All you know is that youâre the reason that they called Silas down here in the first place, and you see someoneâs gun on the ground, no more than an armâs length away from you.
Before you can give it a second thought, you grab the gun and force yourself to your feet.
Your hands are shaking so hard that it looks as if you have Parkinsonâs disease, and youâre terrified to take the shot for fear that youâll hit anyone other than Silas, but every horrible thing he has said and done in the last three years is suddenly replaying in your mind as your finger dances over the trigger and you know without a doubt that you have to do what youâre most scared to do.
You yell. A deep, guttural sound that tears through you, loud enough to get the attention of all four men in front of you. Deran, whoâs positioned slightly in front of a beaten and bloodied Silas, instantly moves out of the way, giving you a clear shot.
You hear Andrew say your name, you see Silas start to attempt to lunge towards you, but you donât let either of those things stop you from squeezing the trigger.
Time slows down. Despite the fact that the gunshot hadnât been very loud thanks to the suppressor attached to it, thereâs still a shrill, high-pitched ringing in your ears.
For only a fraction of a second, you wonder if you hit him at all. Then, your question is answered when dark crimson begins blooming across the fabric of his cream colored button-down, just over his heart.
Silas opens his mouth to speak, but only blood comes out, and then he falls forward, collapsing on the ground beside Gregory.
Youâre still aiming the gun right where Silas had been standing with shaking hands when Andrew takes a tentative step towards you.
âI killed him,â you whisper, voice trembling. âI killed him.â
Andrew slowly and carefully peels your hands away from the gun and takes it from you. Youâre still glued to the spot, both your mind and body in shock from what just happened. From what you just did.
You killed him. You killed Silas. You killed someone. Murdered them. And yes, they deserved it, but you still fucking pulled the trigger and shot them in the chest.
âNo, you didnât,â Andrew murmurs, giving Silas a kick to the shoulder with his foot. Silas lets out a weak groan that makes you instinctively jump back. âHeâs still alive.â Then, before you can spiral any further, Andrew aims the gun directly at the man lying on the floor and fires it again, hitting Silas in the head.
He turns to face you, holstering the gun. âSee? You didnât kill him. I killed him.â
âSo much for not shooting him in front of her,â Deran grumbles as he picks up one of the backpacks and slides it on. Him and Craig begin to move around the room, but you arenât paying attention to what they are doing, because your eyes are locked on the body on the floor in front of you.
Bodies. Plural. Two of them. Silas, and Gregory. And blood. A lot of it.
Andrew steps in front of you, blocking your view of it all.
âWe need to clean all of this up now,â Andrew tells you gently. He raises his hands as if heâs going to place them on your shoulders, but stops himself at the last second, his hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before dropping them back to his sides. âI need you to do one last thing for me, and then this will all be okay. Okay?â
His voice is steady and calm, but his hazel eyes are serious and pleading, like itâs taking every ounce of his willpower to maintain composure for your sake.
You give him a shaky nod to confirm that you heard him.
âI need you to go back upstairs. I need you to keep watch and make sure that no one tries to come down here, and warn us if they do.â
Youâre shaking your head before he finishes speaking. âWhat? No, no. I canât go back up there. I canât. I wonât be able to keep it together. I canât pretend likeââ
âYou can,â Andrew interjects, voice firm. âItâs for your own safety, too. People will be suspicious if you disappear at the same time as Silas. You need an alibi. Go upstairs, show your face, book a private room or two, and pretend like everything is normal. Just for a few more hours.â
You swallow, inhaling and exhaling. What he says makes sense. All of the individual words make sense. But how the fuck are you supposed to walk back upstairs and act like everything is normal when you just killed a man?
Okay, Andrew technically killed him. But you still shot him in the lung. He would have eventually died from that alone even if Andrew hadnât taken the gun from you and put a bullet in his brain.
âJust stay until the end of your shift to cover your own ass. Do you know if anyone noticed you come down here?â
âUhââ you stutter, trying to remember everything that led up to this moment. âUh, no. I donât think so. The clubâs really crowded tonight, everyone seemed busy and distracted.â
âGood,â Andrew nods. âYou were never down here, okay? The cameras are offline, so you were never here.â
You nod, still unsure of how youâre going to will your legs to carry you back up those stairs, or how youâre going to keep the utter shock of what has transpired in this basement off of your face for the next few hours.
âWhat - what about you guys?â You ask him. âHow are you going to get rid of all of this?â
Andrew shakes his head in dismissal. âYou donât need to worry about any of that. Weâll handle it. The bodies, the blood, the money, weâll take care of all of it. Just go upstairs and keep an eye out for us.â He pauses, his eyes scanning your face. âYouâve trusted me so far, yeah? I just need you to trust me again for a few more hours.â
You have. You do. You donât know if you trust yourself to not have a full blown panic attack in the middle of the club, but you do know that you trust Andrew.
You canât quite bring yourself to verbally agree, but you nod.
Andrew takes a step closer and raises a tentative hand to your face, gently tilting your head to the side. âEarpiece is still in place,â he murmurs.
You expect him to pull away once heâs satisfied with his inspection, but he doesnât. Instead, the soft pad of his thumb sweeps beneath your eye, wiping away a streak of smudged mascara. The touch is so tender that under different circumstances, you might have leaned into it. Might have closed the distance between you entirely. But right now, with blood still drying on the floor, all you can do is stand there and let him.
It gives you the much needed inspiration to get through the next few hours without completely falling apart, at least.
･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ą
It takes every single last ounce of Popeâs self-restraint to not abandon Craig, Deran, and Jay to deal with the aftermath of the heist by themselves while he whisks you far the hell away from the city of Los Angeles in the middle of the night.
Truthfully, the only reason he doesn't do just that is because he doesnât want it to come back to bite you in the ass.
He has to make sure everything is cleaned up. Everything. Every last drop of blood, every fingerprint, every strand of hair that could have fallen from your person to the floor of that safe room has to be eradicated before he feels comfortable leaving the clubâs premises, and he sure as fuck doesnât trust Craig or Deran to be as thorough as him. Deran lets his dish sponges get filthy and he doesnât trust Craig to properly wash his own ass.
Finally, in the early hours of morning just before dawn, Pope can confidently say that the job is finished. Through the combined efforts of Craig, Deran, Jay, and himself, the safe room is cleaned spotless, the bodies of Silas and Gregory are disposed of, and the haul of cash makes it back to Oceanside.
Getting both bodies out wasnât exactly easy, but Pope had planned for shit to go sideways. Jay was on standby in the getaway truck with an appliance dolly in case they were unable to retrieve the money from the safe while inside the club.
It was Craigâs idea, actually, to cram both bodies inside the safe and haul the entire thing offsiteâŚto the middle of the fucking desert where all four men spent several hours digging a hole big enough for a six hundred pound safe.
No, things didnât go according to plan, but they rarely do. It all proved to be worth it when the cash count ended up being just shy of half a million.
And if Popeâs share of more than a hundred grand wasn't enough to make the entire ordeal feel worthwhile, the relief on your face and the way you fling your arms around his neck when he shows up at your apartment later that day sure as hell does.
Maybe itâs a combination of everything that has happened in the last twelve hours and sleep deprivation, but it takes Pope a moment to register that youâre hugging him in your doorway. When he does, he wraps his arms around your torso and hugs you back, pulling you tight against his chest without a word.
âSorry,â you breathe when you pull back, just far enough to look up at him. âIâm sorry, IâŚIâve been so worried.â
He instantly feels guilty. He had sent you a singular text to let you know that they had left the city when they were on their way to the desert, but after that, he had been so preoccupied with disposing of Silas and Gregoryâs corpses that he hadnât provided you any further updates. He had been operating on autopilot, going through the motions of shoveling dirt, driving his brothers and nephew back to Oceanside, and then driving all the way back to Los Angeles after only a shower and two shots of espresso.
âNo, Iâm sorry,â Pope murmurs, reluctantly dropping his arms back down to his sides. âI shouldâve texted, or called, I justâŚâ He glances around to make sure that none of your neighbors are lingering around outside. You notice his hesitation and move to motion him into your apartment. He steps inside, only continuing once you pull the door closed behind him. âJust wanted to make sure everything was taken care of.â
âAnd?â You ask, biting your bottom lip in the way Pope has noticed that you tend to do when you are especially nervous about something. âIs it? Taken care of?â You add in a smaller voice.
Pope nods. âYeah. Everything has been taken care of. Thereâs nothing that you need to worry about now. No one will ever find them.â
You audibly exhale in relief, your shoulders visibly relaxing as you lean against your kitchen counter and cross your arms over your chest. âAndrew, IâŚI donât even know how to say thank you.â
âYou donât have to thank me at all,â he says simply.
Heâs told you already, but heâll tell you again, he did this because he wanted to.
He saw you in that alleyway and knew you didnât belong in that place. He saw you dance on that stage and knew that he had to talk to you. He had one conversation with you and knew that he would be willing to kill for you.
And he would do it all over again, even if he didnât gain a penny from it all.
Which reminds himâŚ
He pulls out a large, thick envelope tucked beneath the waistband of his jeans and holds it out to you. âActually,â he clears his throat, âyou can thank me by taking this.â
Your eyebrows scrunch together as you accept it from him. âWhatâs this?â
âItâs your cut.â
You pause before starting to open it. âMy cut?â
âYeah,â Pope shrugs. âYour cut from the money we pulled last night.â
You donât even look inside before youâre trying to hand it back to him. âAndrew, no. I canât take this. You killed a man - two men - for me, and then cleaned up the mess and dumped their bodies in the middle of the oceanââ
âDesert, actually,â he corrects softly, and your mouth snaps shut into a tight line, but he can tell by your eyes that youâre fighting a smirk.
âStill,â you implore. âYou have done more than enough for me. Taking your money wouldnât feel right. Not when youâve already given me a second chance at life. Thatâs worth more than any amount of money ever could be, Andrew.â
God, he needs to go to sleep, because the last thing he should be thinking about right now is how much he likes to hear you call him by his name.
He hums a laugh, reluctantly accepting the envelope that youâre practically shoving against his chest, then takes a slow step towards you that leaves very little space between you. Youâre slotted between him in front of you and your kitchen counter behind you, but you donât appear the least bit put off by the tight space.
âThought you said that you wanna get out of LA?â He murmurs. He reaches beside you, placing the envelope on the counter behind you. Then, instead of dropping his hand back to his side, it hovers for an awkward moment before falling to the edge of the counter, right next to your hip. He isnât quite touching you, but if he moved his hand over a quarter of an inch, he would be. âGo back to school eventually? Start a new life?â
Youâre smirking up at him now. âI did say that.â
He quirks a brow. âThen youâll need money to do that.â
Youâre silent for a moment, your eyes trailing over his face. You raise a tentative hand to his jaw, the soft pad of your thumb brushing a featherlight touch over a bruise that he had sustained in the brief but intense scuffle with Silas. Without thinking, he leans into the touch. The bruise is tender, but the feeling of your skin against his outweighs any discomfort.
âI thought you said that Iâm always welcome at yours,â you hum. He opens his eyes to find you grinning slyly. It makes the back of his neck warm.
âYou are,â he answers automatically. âAlways. Is thatâŚsomething you think you would want?â
You donât answer with a yes, or a no, or even a nonchalant shrug. You just stare at him with that same soft, teasing expression as your eyes flicker between his eyes and his mouth, your hand still caressing his face.
Thereâs barely enough time for him to wonder if youâre thinking of doing what he has wanted but held back from doing since you pulled into his driveway in Oceanside before you lift onto your toes and press your lips to his.
His breath catches in his chest as your lips, tentative and impossibly soft, brush over his and every coherent thought leaves his mind at once. One moment, heâs standing in your kitchen trying to convince you to take sixty thousand dollars in cash, and the next he canât remember how to breathe because the feel and smell and taste of you is overtaking his senses.
You linger just long enough for him to pull away if he wants to.
He does not. Of course he doesnât.
His hand moves from the counter to your waist, and yours still resting on his jaw shifts to the back of his neck where your fingertips toy with the hair at the base of his skull. He leans down into the kiss, angling himself closer until thereâs barely any space left between the two of you.
Itâs soft, and hesitant, as if youâre both worried that if you move too fast, the moment will end all too soon. Warm lips move tenderly against his, your tongue sweeping lightly against his in permission that he eagerly grants.
Itâs probably the last thing he should be thinking about in this particular moment, but heâs glad that he didnât talk Craig out of his idea for a gentlemanâs club based heist. Really, really fucking glad.
When you pull away, you release a small, breathless laugh that ghosts across his lips.
âDonât worry,â you breathe, âthat wasnât me trying to say thank you or anything. I just wanted to do that.â
âYeah?â He murmurs, brushing his lips over yours a final time. It isnât quite a kiss, but it sends goosebumps down his spine nonetheless. âI take that as a yes, then? Youâll come to Oceanside with me?â
You nod, the tip of your nose nudging his. âI think Oceanside with you is exactly where I need to be.â
･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ą three months later ･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ą
âAre you sure you canât see anything?â
Your eyes are wide open, and all you see is pitch darkness. Andrew is apparently as meticulous at securing bandannas around a personâs forehead as he is everything else he does in life.
No surprise there.
âHoney, Iâm positive,â you laugh, repeating yourself for the third time since you got home from class no more than five minutes ago. Andrew had been waiting to greet you, as he usually is, with a blindfold in hand. That part was unexpected, but you have quickly learned to expect the unexpected when it comes to Andrew. He never disappoints.
He had asked if you trust him (he knows that you do) and proceeded to secure the black cloth around your eyes before guiding you down the hallway to the spare room of yours and his new place, which he recently set up as a study room for you.
âReady?â He murmurs, one hand on your lower back as the door creaks open.
You step into the room. âI donât know. Am I?â
He chuckles softly, bringing his hands to where the cloth is tied behind your head and then pauses. âIf you donât like it, Iâll take it down.â
âTake it down?â You echo, brows scrunching beneath the fabric.
He answers by letting the cloth fall away from eyes.
What you see is the very last thing you expect.
Right in the very center of the room, directly in front of where you stand, is a dance pole. Damn near identical to the one you had in your Los Angeles apartment. The one you hadnât bothered to bring with you to Oceanside, because you had been so eager to leave everything about your life there behind. Everything.
Or so you had thought, until very recently when you began to find yourself missing one, and only one, thing. Dancing.
Not dancing for money, not dancing for men, but just dancing. By yourself, for yourself.
You had mentioned it to Andrew in passing only yesterday, that you wish you had kept your dance pole when you packed your entire life into your car and happily drove from Los Angeles to Oceanside to be with him.
Now, not even a full twenty-four hours later, he has both acquired and installed one since you left for class this morning.
You donât even realize that youâre just staring at the pole, wordlessly, until Andrew clears his throat.
âLike I said, I can take it back down. It isnât a big deal.â
âWhat?â Your gaze snaps to him. âNo, itâs notâŚitâs perfect. I was just thinking,â you murmur.
His eyebrows lift slightly. âWhat are you thinking about?â
Since you came to Oceanside three months ago, you and Andrew have taken things relatively slow in your relationship, aside from the obvious of living under the same roof.
Things started in such an unexpected and unconventional way, but once you got here, your newfound dynamic was able to settle with a sense of normalcy. You may have met in a strip club, killed your boss together, and had your first kiss all in a weekâs time, but Andrew still took you out on a proper first date and has been nothing but patient with letting the relationship progress at a pace that youâre comfortable with - physically, mentally, and emotionally - while processing everything that youâve been through in the last few years and starting your life over at the same time.
Never, in a million years, would you have expected such beauty to come from such trauma, but it did. Because of him, it did. He was the light waiting for you on the other side of the darkness.
You shrug, grinning softly. âAbout how much I love you.â
Andrewâs hazel eyes widen in surprise. Itâs the first time you have said those three words aloud. Itâs not the first time you have thought them, but it is the first time you have verbalized them.
After the initial shock fades from his face, itâs replaced with the grin that youâve fallen in love with waking up to every morning. He takes a step toward you, closing the distance between you by taking your face in his hands and slotting his lips against yours. Your arms instinctively wrap around his thick torso, melting into his embrace as he kisses you in a way that is both familiar and takes your breath away.
He murmurs the next words out of his mouth against yours in between kisses, his voice low and sincere.
âI love you very much.â
â･â§ËĘâĄÉËâ§ď˝Ąâ
thank you SOOOO much if you read to the end of this!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very much appreciated and will make me love you forever.
also, if anyone reading has watched season 2 of the punisher, iâm sure you caught the reference in the heist scene đ
summary:Robin falls into your life and you say I love you first
warnings: grappling hook used for transport, Damian uses Habibi which according to a couple tiktok comments you guys actually hate but I think it's really cute, Damian speaks Arabic and mandarin, brief mention you're not trilingual, also you don't know Arabic or Mandarin IN SORRY, Damian lies to you abt what Habibi means, you drink coffee (not black coffee), damian calls dick white man and dick does not find it funny and him and damain get into an argument abt dick being Romani, If you find the way i handled that conversation offensive please reach out i will fix it, I know that as a white person I am likely blinded by privilege to see certain microaggressions, But I love to learn so lmk, I think it is okay bc its not a racejoke TM if yk what i mean, it's not smth a dickhead on tiktok would call 'dark humor' yk i think it's more sibling banter that happens to be based around dick and damian's race, amen glad we had this chat, joke abt dick's dead mom, mention that talia loves Damian, must be love on the brain that's got me feeling this way
When you went into the grocery store, the sun was barely slipping past the horizon. As you stepped out of the sliding doors with your three bags, you sighed out. Being stuck in concrete walls with all those people, only for a few minutes, really killed you. People rarely talked about how exhausting grocery stores were. A small child in overalls chased after his mother pushing their cart. You felt a small grin pull at your lips. The kidâs foot caught on a rock and stumbled right into the pavement. You grimaced, quickly walking in the direction of your car so you wouldnât hear the cries. The sun was completely down now. You missed it already.Â
You finally reached the trunk of your car, popping it open. You should be getting home soon, Gotham was the worst place ever. Just as you set your third bag into your trunk, glass shattering startled you. The roof of your car was caved in, wrapping around a ball of red and black. Robin was splayed across the roof of your car, one of his boots hanging off the edge. You slowly started to realize it was entirely possible you had a dead Robin on your car. Batman was going to fucking kill you. Oh. Batman was going to fucking beat your ass. You stepped away from your car, pressing your hands to your mouth. A woman on the other side of the parking row paused in her packing up her groceries.Â
âWhat the fuck?â She asked, more confused than startled. Which you admired. You were more shocked than anything else. Scared was also a prominent feeling. She took a careful step forward.Â
âIs he dead? If he is you need to take pics youâll get big bucks from newspapers.â She advised, widening her eyes at the mention of big. You shrugged.Â
âI donât know.â You muttered. How were you to get home? What are you supposed to do with Robinâs dead body? Do you take him to the batcave and lay him at Batmanâs feet? Hereâs your sidekick, I swear it wasnât me. Maybe you need to bury him. Hide him, heâll disappear. One call to your best friend and Robin is gone.Â
A low groan floated from your broken car.Â
âOh stars.â You sighed, dropping your hands onto your knees. You hung your head, catching your breath. You didnât have a dead Robin on your car, just a maimed one. Batman was not going to beat your ass. The woman behind you sighed disappointedly.Â
âDamn shame, you couldâve paid your rent for months.â She grumbled as she went back to her groceries. You wanted to call her greedy and unempathetic, but you were aware of the third man syndrome so you were still uncertain she wasnât your subconscious. You heard another groan, this time louder. You straighten up, staring at Robin. He slowly peeled himself off your car, groaning for every inch he moved. He sat forward, flopping his arms between his legs. He stared over the back of your car. He caught your eyes. Robin glanced around himself, assessing his situation.Â
âIs this your car?â He asked, his voice scratchy like the crash broke his voice box too. You frowned.
âYes.â You answered. Robin pressed a gloved hand to his eyebrow. He slowly stood up, straightening his back into a scarily straight posture. He stared down from the top of your car, making you crane your neck back to look at him. Robin hummed.Â
âApologies. I will replace it at a later date.â Robin declared. He turned his head from you. He started looking around the sky like he was plotting his way out.Â
âWell, now wait a minute.â You scoffed. Robin turned his head. The top edge of his mask curved with his eyebrow.Â
âYou canât just total my car and ditch me in a parking lot. How am I supposed to get home safely? You of all people should know how dangerous Gotham is.â You crossed your arms as you watched him. You obviously had a lot of respect for the vigilantes of Gotham. And many of the ones in other cities. Robin here was practically throwing you to the wolves.Â
âOf course. You make a good argument.â Robin said. He jumped down from the roof of your car, landing hard on the pavement next to you. He straightened up, staring into your eyes as he did it. What. A. Freak.Â
âAre there any belongings within your car you wish to take with you?â He asked. You leaned over the trunk of your car, pulling the bags out again.Â
âDo you always talk like a robot?â You joked, grinning at yourself. You slammed your trunk shut. You hoped your car was left alone. It was bad enough it was practically shattered. The windshield was busted and a giant could use your roof as a cereal bowl. Just give your poor baby some grace for one night. Robin gave you a small look of disapproval.Â
âI prefer proper grammar.â Robin stated. You hummed.Â
âDork,â You mumbled. You looked back to him, squaring your shoulders. Time for the longest walk of your life.Â
âLetâs get this hike going.â You chuckled, pointing your hand over his shoulder. Robin tilted his head to the side.Â
âHike?â He repeated. You nodded.Â
âWell, yes. Did you plan to fly to my house? Whereâs the BatJet?â You quipped, already giggling at your own joke.Â
âWe refer to it as Building Swinging but I suppose flying could be accurate.â Robin grumbled, pulling his grappling hook from his utility belt. You took a step back, shaking your head.Â
âI am not jumping over rooftops with you. I thought you were walking me home.â You stared at the hook in his hand in shock. Robin groaned.Â
âI beg of you not to make this difficult. This is a perfectly safe form of travel. You will not get hurt.â Robin insisted. You glared at him.Â
âIf itâs so safe, why are you falling onto my car?â You rebutted. Robin paused. He glanced up at the sky.Â
âUnrelated.â He finished. You scoffed.Â
âHow so?âÂ
âVigilante business unfit for citizen mind.â Your mouth parted at his brashness. He reached his hand out, motioning you forward.Â
âYou are wasting time.â He glared at you as he said it. You huffed at him.Â
âYou are incredibly blunt.â You complained. You stepped forward, entering back into his sphere. He pulled you closer by your waist, pressing your tightly against him.Â
âThank you.â Robin muttered.Â
You screamed more than you would admit, as he swung you both through the city skyline. You held tightly onto your groceries and his shoulders. You squeezed your eyes shut for most the trip, which made you suddenly dropping through the air incredibly terrifying. Halfway through it, you finally caught the pattern of it. You swung through the air like the ocean waves. Up and down. Once you got the hang of it, you peeled open your eyes. You hooted in joy more than you would admit.Â
Robin finally landed in front of your apartment, his arm slowly slipping away from your body. You were slightly wobbly on your legs as you finally reintroduced yourself to the ground again. He watched you carefully as you stepped away from him, almost like he was searching for injuries. He dragged his eyes up the length of your apartment building, craning his neck back to catch the roof.Â
âWhatâs your apartment number?â He asked. You glanced back at him, raising a brow.Â
âYou know, I think Batman himself visited my elementary school telling us not to give our addresses to strangers.â You turned away from him, stepping towards the glass door of your apartment building.Â
âYou are incredibly irritating. I have to know where to send the money for your car.â Robin grumbled. You shook your head. You gave him a mocking frown.Â
âNope, if you want to make that wrong right youâll have to wait out here to give it to me.â You declared before pulling open your apartment building door.Â
Two days later a thick fucking envelope arrived in your mail. It was addressed with your full name in stunning cursive letters. The return address was blank except for an R. You furrowed your brows, tearing open the envelope. Your mouth dropped open at the number of crisp 100 dollar bills staring up at you. The only not green thing was a small folded piece of paper. You pulled it out, unfolding it.Â
Found your address through the BatComputer. If you need more we have a private tipline online.Â
-R
You had more than 800 dollars left over after all the repairs to your car. The Mechanics fixing it back up had a real giggle about your Robin story. You felt guilty for having the extra money. You loved money as much as the next guy but you felt you needed to return it. So you typed up a quick message to the tip line.Â
This message is for Robin specifically.Â
How do I get the leftover money back to you? This is far too much to keep.Â
Tim had a bit of a conniption when he found said message deep into the tip line. He read it out to Damian, expecting some kind of embarrassment. Maybe even anger at being vulnerable. Instead Damian just hummed and turned away from Tim.Â
A letter turned up pressed between two pieces of junk mail. The return address was just R again. There wasn't a letter inside, only a square piece of paper.Â
Keep it.Â
-R
From there a friendship sparked. You sent him messages through the tip line. He sent you letters, each one signed with only R. You grew used to it, looking forward to the swirly cursive showing up in your mail. You sent so many messages you started addressing it to just R not even bothering to write out Robin.Â
Damian was scolded for using the professional tip line for personal business. So he sent you his personal phone number. From there, you grow even closer.Â
He was a slow texter but you gave him grace seeing as he was Robin. Before you knew it you were spending hours on call with him. He was Robin for a very long time before he finally revealed his face to you. The pieces clicked together when he told you he was Damian Wayne. Of course he has no problem paying to fix your car. He was a friggin billionaire.Â
He grew from Robin, to your friend, to Damian, and then to your partner. You couldn't be happier he crashed into your car. He started spending nights in your apartment. He even had his own toothbrush now. Typically he would wake up long before you even considered peeking an eye open. He would make himself breakfast and sit down at your table to eat it. Heâd even shoot you a confused look when you grumbled about it.Â
Damian appreciated your looks every part of his day. He liked when you grinned at him before you cracked a particularly bad joke. He liked when your eyes would widen when he peeled his shirt off. He liked when you jokingly frowned at him when he mumbled. But Damien had a very large soft spot for when you glared at him. Especially in the morning.Â
You stumbled out of your bedroom. You rubbed at your closed eyes, swerving around each piece of furniture. Damian raised his eyes from your small table. He tracked every move. You were tightly wrapped in your robe, far too tired to pick out actual clothes. You finally peeled your eyes open. You slipped behind the kitchen counter. You kicked at the counter, pushing your slipper back up your foot. You raised a brow at Damian before pulling open one of the cabinets. You pulled down your coffee, pressing it into the machine.Â
âFreak.â You muttered. Damian hummed in disapproval. You pulled your favorite mug from the cabinet. You finally pressed the brew button, letting the hot liquid drip into your cup. You left the coffee behind, approaching Damian. You slipped your hands around his shoulders. Damian pulled himself from his breakfast, wrapping his arms around you. He pressed his chin into your chest, staring up at you. You pet the top of his head. His hair stuck up in loud spikes. The sunlight peeking out from the curtains caught in your hair. You gave him a small smile, your eyes brightening. Damian wanted to frame this moment in his mind and let the smell of your robe and the smile on your face be a permanent fixture.Â
âHabibi.â He whispered to your chest. He hoped the word pressed through your skin and past your ribs. Damian hoped it swirled around your heart like it did to his. He wanted you to melt into him and whine about how sweet it was. Unlucky for him, it was early in the morning and you didnât know Arabic. Your face twisted into confusion. You looked away from him, looking around the ceiling.Â
âWe have bees?â You asked. You looked back down at him. Now your eyes were jumping over his skin, searching for a bee sting. How did bees even get inside your apartment? Damian groaned. He pulled his arms from you, returning to his breakfast.Â
âItâs Arabic.â He explained. His tone was flat like you not being trilingual was a personal failure. He really got quite cocky about his language talents. Heâd make you sit and watch movies with him. The only problem was the actors would be speaking Arabic with Mandarin subtitles. You couldnât catch a lick of it. You had a suspicion he did it on purpose so he could take on the role of translator.Â
âOh, sorry darling.â You mumbled, rubbing at the back of his neck. When you first used the baby nickname he had taken incredible offense against it. You were trying to work him into comfort with it but he was rather hard headed. Darling was good choice, he liked it. That was plenty.Â
âItâs a nickname.â Damian grumbled. You paused, your heart swelling. You had a million nicknames for him. He only ever referred to you by your name, like every date was a business meeting. You thought itâd be years before you got a nickname. 30 years at least for maybe a shorting of your name. You pressed your hands to your heart.Â
âYou gave me a nickname?â You cooed, pulling him back to your chest. Damian nodded against you.Â
âWhatâs it mean?â You asked, tilting your head down. Damian paused, his eyes flickering away from you. He thought through his options. A, Tell you what it means and in the process tell you he loves you (scary). B, lie and end up lying to you which was heavily frowned on for whatever reason. C, make a distraction and hope you forget about it. B seemed good to him.Â
âPain in the ass.â Damian stated, looking back to you. You groaned, pushing him away.Â
âIâve told you to stop muttering.â You glared at him as you returned to your coffee. Damian felt his heart swarm. He pushed his grin down, looking back to his breakfast before you could spark a heart attack. Within a few minutes you were sitting down across the small table with your coffee. Just as you set it down, Damian picked it up. He brought it to his lips, taking a sip. You watched him knowingly as his face twisted up in disgust. You nodded as you took the mug from his hands. He coughed, patting his chest.Â
âThat is foul. Coffee is meant to be black.â Damian gagged. You rolled your eyes, bringing your coffee to your mouth.Â
âThen make your own coffee.â You rebutted. Damian scoffed before pulling your mug from your hands and taking another drink.Â
âI have to make sure you donât poison yourself.â Damian set your coffee down, returning to his plate.Â
You grew comfortable with the Wayne family. There were a lot of names you had to memorize. At first, you couldnât visit the manor without Damian or youâd get lost. Everytime you had to pee he had to walk you to the bathroom and wait outside the door to walk you back. He showed you to each of his pets, giving you every name. You had to take notes and when you got home you added pictures next to the names.Â
Eventually you were perfectly fine spending nights in their theater room with Damianâs brothers. It was a routine to spend Friday nights with a movie and Damianâs family. Bruce typically sat in his armchair, with all four of his sons on the couch pressed next to it. Tim started spending the movie nights on the ground. He usually rolled around throught the movie, almost never finding a comfortable seat. You usually ended up between Dick and Damian. Dick held the popcorn so you were fine with it.Â
âHabibi, I would appreciate a drink from the kitchen.â Damian called to you as he dug through the large pile of DVDs with Jason. Dick had flung himself across the couch, his arms resting along the back. You groaned, titling your head back in irritation.Â
âPlease.â Damian added as a second thought. You nodded, moving to stand.Â
âHabibi?â Dick repeated, his brows furrowing. You hummed.Â
âItâs a nickname.â You explained. Jason glanced up, looking between you and Damian.Â
âCute.â He mumbled, still burying his hands in the DVDs.Â
âIt means pain in the ass, so not as cute.â You revealed. Dick paused, tilting his head to the side. You stood from the couch, making your way out of the movie room.Â
âI thought habib meant-â Dick started.Â
âShut up, Grayson. White man telling me what words mean in my own damn language.â Damian grumbled. Dick quickly sat up, pointing an accusatory finger at Damian.Â
âHey! We already had a conversation about me being Romani!â Dick barked. Damian kept his eyes on the movies as he scoffed.Â
âWhatever, Richard.â Damian mocked. You minded your own business as you left for the kitchen.Â
When you finally returned with a soda, Dick and Damian were still arguing. You stepped between the two of them, holding out his glass to him. Damian gently took it from your hands. He caught onto your fingers with his free hand. He tilted his head down, pressing a soft kiss to your hand. You patted his shoulder before you settled back onto the sofa next to Dick.Â
âJason, come on, back me up here.â Dick groaned. Jason shook his head.Â
âIâm not crossing Damian. I have Saturday plans.â Jason mumbled. Damian nodded in approval. Dickâs mood shifted quickly, leaning forward onto his knees in interest.Â
âYeah? With who?â Dick asked. You raised a brow in question, just as intrigued. Jason grinned evily, looking up at Dick from the floor.Â
âYour mom.â Jason joked. Dick groaned, fowning at him.Â
âThat shitâs not funny, Jason. My mom is dead and you know thatâs a sensitive topic for me.â Dick grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. Jason scoffed.Â
âI donât think anyoneâs parents arenât a sore subject here.â Jason muttered. The whole house has daddy issues. Damian looked up, finally lifting his head from the pile of DVDâs.Â
âNot me. My mother loves me.â Damian pointed out. Jason glared at him.Â
âI love everyone here.â Bruceâs deep voice boomed behind you. You jumped, turning on the couch to see Bruce and Tim carrying multiple bowls of popcorn.Â
Damian was incredibly grateful that you left the window to your apartment open. Though in the morning he was likely to scold you for it. He pulled at the mask off his face, dropping it onto the table. He stepped forward, pulling at the cape attached to his suit. He kept moving across the apartment to your bedroom as he pulled at his costume. He gently set his sword on your couch, before yanking his boots off. Damian sighed as he finally shed down to his underwear. He stepped past the open door of your bedroom, glancing back at the trail of his clothes he was leaving behind.Â
You were wrapped in your blankets, your cheek pressed into your pillow. You left a space for him on the other side of the bed. Damian grinned, quickly joining you under the covers. You sucked in a deep breath, turning around in the blankets. Damian dug through the blankets as he searched for your body. He wrapped his arm around your torso.Â
âI did not mean to wake you.â Damian whispered. You opened your eyes, shaking your head.Â
âI wasnât asleep.â You replied, sitting up on your elbow to stare down at him. Damian sighed as he traced your features. He hoped he had the time and memory to sketch this out later. You raised your hand, rubbing your thumb over his cheek. Damian closed his eyes. He tried to memorized the path of it. He felt his muscles finally relax through his entire body. He hadnât realized how uptight heâd been all night until right now.Â
âDamian.â You whispered. Your tone was too sad, like just saying his name was a confession of a horrific crime. He opened his eyes. He waited patiently as you stared at him. Your mouth parted before you gently closed it again. Damian wished he could read your mind, that would make it extremely easier for you. You wouldnât have to worry about the words getting caught in your mouth.Â
âI love you.â You breathed. Damian felt his stomach drop in fear. He could barely cough the words out to Dick. He couldnât even start with his other brothers. Heaven forbid he wanted to tell Bruce. It was almost like his mouth was broken. He knew he felt love. He knew he loved and was loved. But saying it, felt like he was signing someoneâs death wish. Like every moment after he says it had him waiting for the other shoe to drop. He felt his eyes fog over as he thought of all the ways you could be taken and abused by the plethora of villains waiting in the darkness of Gotham. You nodded. You leaned forward, pressing your lips to his. Your kiss was gentle, only meant as a way to soothe him. A quiet promise that you didnât mind.Â
âDonât say anything. I just wanted you to know.â You smiled softly as you stared at him. Your thumb rubbing against his cheek to pull him back to the present. Damian closed his mouth, pressing his lips into a line. He pulled his head from his pillow, returning your kiss. You hummed in approval. You pulled from him, laying back down. Just as you settled against his chest, he felt his words return to him.Â
âHabibi means âmy loveâ.â He confessed, staring at the ceiling. You froze, your eyes shooting open. For months now you thought you were being called a pain in the ass. The whole time you were his love? Every time you grumbled about the nickname being mean he was grinning at you like that because of this. You didnât think twice about it.Â
âOh.â You muttered. You should say something extravagant and ask why a million times. But you didnât really care. You were his love. His one and only for months. He was telling you every day multiple times over how much he loved you and you had no idea. You whined. You sat up, grinning down at him.Â
âOo you love me.â You sang, a teasing smile pulling at your lips. You poked his chest. Damianâs face split into a massive grin. He groaned in fake annoyance. He turned his face away from you, pretending you were irritating him so bad he couldnât stand to look at you. You knew he was embarrassed and pretending. His hand found the back of your head, pushing you back onto his chest.Â
âRest now.â Damian grumbled. You chuckled as you settled against him, squeezing him closer. Damian pressed his nose to your hair, his hand running over your arm.Â
âUhibbuk.â He whispered into the smell of your shampoo. You grinned into his chest.Â
âWhat does that mean?â You asked. You knew.Â
âPain in the ass.â Damian answered. He knew you knew.Â
âOr, wÇ fÄichĂĄng Ă inÇ. Pain in the ass in Mandarin.â Damian added. You felt your cheeks starting to burn with the wattage you were smiling.Â
âAgain.â You demanded. Damian huffed.Â
âAna maghrim bik jiddan lidarajat annani la astati' altafkir fi ay shay' akharâ He slowly dragged through his words, making sure you heard every syllable. You felt like the ocean was trying to tell you something, but you couldnât hear the whispers over the crashing of the waves.Â
âThatâs not what you said before.â You pointed out. Damian hummed in agreement.Â
âIt means, you are the biggest pain in my ass. No one can compare-â His voice fell. Damian sucked in a breath, pressing his cheek to the top of your head.Â
âNo one else compares to how much you irritate me.â He sighed lovingly. You cooed, pressing your nose into his skin.Â
âYouâre being very sweet.â You mumbled. Damian huffed out a chuckle.Â
âYes, I am horrendously sweet.â Damian snarked. You sighed against him, happier than ever. And in the morning when he called you Habibi you grinned wider than he ever saw you. He decided that look eclipsed your glare.
yk ive been thinking about this recently but the guy who was exclusively an unrequited crush like haunts me I see his face in a bunch of actors and like specifically actors ive found attractive for a long time and then ill see a picture of them and all I'll see is his face which I find so interesting because my real life ex boyfriend who I thought (while dating) that i was madly in love with has never affected me that way and I see him no where but like this other guy I gen see in everything like im not even playing he's in the walls he's in the trees he's in the ocean and that makes me wonder if i didn't love my ex bf or if I became so madly obbessed with this other guy that it gen outshines the love i felt for my ex bf and I really hope that he dies a painful death and actually I think all men should be strung up by their toes and eaten by wolves specifically him because how dare you make me a paramore song I will not be belittled in that way you absolute shit eating bitch
barbie dolls: Mattheo riddle x gn!halfblood!reader
words: 6.3k
summary: he meets you at a party when you accidentally hit him in the nose with your elbow, he couldn't be happier about it (also you spend the night of the war w him and it's a traumatizing experience for you both)
warnings: mattheo's got the dark mark đŹ, mentions of mattheo being abused, some small descriptions of it but not a lot, theres a lot of blood, draco is called a bitch by narrator, mattheo thinks tom will kill him in the future so he like j doesn't gaf abt life, mentions of heaven and hell and god mattheo doesn't really believe in it he's kind of j grasping at straws praying to anyone who might listen, you have loving parents, your mom is a witch dads a muggle, Your mom paints moving portraits and your dad is a therapist, mattheo feels nauseous there's a lot of like anxious stomachs mentioned in the beginning, he does not vomit tho, mattheo was shamed for crying but he cries w u, it is mentioned quite a few times that he cries đ, mentions of sex but it's like a way that he's grown into himself, you'll get it when you read it trust, okay so pretend the war happened after graduation okay sick thanks so much, tom kills mattheo's bird but it's not described it happens off screen, mattheo's mark cause him a lot of pain the night of the war and he like is sobbing screaming, He bites you so hard you bleed and it leaves a scar and it is latter seen as a romantic mark so yk, you kept having to put mattheo to sleep the night of the war using your wand, you also have to restrain him, anyway, he scratches himself so hard he bleeds, hes a lil ooc but i think its fine
Mattheo was born from violence, and he was sure it was the reason his life had shaped out the way it did. His father didnât believe in love. Love was a weakness as Mattheo had been reminded many, many, many times. His mother was told sheâd be bringing the Dark Lordâs prince into the world. His arrival would mean the proper end of the world. It had nothing to do with love; it was a mission. This Dark Prince would be almost as powerful as the Dark Lord. That was their goal, anyway. His mother wanted to bring him into the world, but she had no interest in raising him. Much as The Dark Lord felt.
When Mattheo was born, he looked like nothing but a regular baby. The âDark Princeâ was never born. Mattheo was a powerful wizard, but he didnât shine a light on Tom Riddle at all. His plans fell through when his baby was not born with a wand in his hand and evilly grinning with no teeth. He was just a regular baby who giggled at his fatherâs face. Tom felt that he had wasted all this energy on some pathetic, stupid wizard baby. What was he supposed to do with a dumbass baby?
His disappointment quickly became aggression. Mattheo was beaten, screamed at, shamed, and starved. His father never gave him a warm look or soft hug. His mother didnât care about him now that the whole âDark Princeâ plan fell through. Leaving Mattheo in a basket on the side of a road or on a random doorstep did cross Tom Riddleâs mind. The thought of giving up his free punching bag made him reconsider.
In a few years, Mattheo had reached school age. His father partially hoped Mattheo's finally going to Hogwarts would awaken some kind of power in him. Aside from that, the only rule his father set for him was âOnly Purebloodsâ. He was only allowed to spend his time with purebloods. Of course, given any chance to punish Mattheo, his father would take it.
So imagine Mattheoâs surprise when violence, the very thing that promised him a life of torture, brought the love of his life.
Mattheo had, in fact, found quite an enjoyment in parties. Especially with his group of friends. Despite his innocent looks, Lorenzo really was the partier of their group. He was rowdy after a few drinks, and he found fun with everyone. He loved the eyes on him when he started dancing, and he loved the hands on him when heâd grind with whoever wanted him.
Theo was the closest to Mattheo and would be the one to pull him out of his shell. Heâd get him to let loose after a bit. Mattheo was eternally grateful for Theodore Nott. Theo himself would spend most of his time dancing or relaxing on the couches. Theo quite enjoyed it when the Mary-Jane lovers would join him on the couch. He was a low-energy enjoyer of life and all its pleasures.
Draco was a bitch when he was sober. He was a sap when he drank. He would drape himself over his friends and lament about how much he loved them and could never imagine his life without them. Draco would smear drunk kisses on their cheeks and whine when his friends tried to pull away from his hugs. But come his hangover, he was back to being a bitch.
Blaise would get giggly with just one drink. Blaise refused to get drunk or high like the rest of his friends. He always made comments about them frying their brains and ruining their future careers. Blaise had plans, and he was not going to let Hogwarts fun ruin that for him.
Mattheo didnât plan a future. He doubted his father would let him live long enough to get a job or even consider one. He was honestly astonished that he was even this old.
Mattheo was similar to Lorenzo in that he found the highlight of his night was when his body was moving on its own on top of a coffee table. By the end of the night, he was like Theo and relaxed on the couch with him. He would laugh at every joke his friends made, like Blaise. And he got sappy, like Draco. Heâd start following his friends around to make sure nothing happened to them.
He had been following after Lorenzo, on their track to the center of the dancefloor, when a cracking lightning struck his nose. He gasped as pain radiated through his face, pulling tears to his eyes. Mattheo gently cradled his nose with both his hands, his eyes widening when he felt something wet dripping into his palms. Mattheo could hear murmurs of concern next to him. He was sure whoever was talking to him was yelling over the music, but the rushing in his ears made it particularly hard to hear. Mattheo pulled his hands from his face, finding his palms covered in blood.
âOh my god!â He heard from his right, in a voice he did not recognize.
âEw, dude.â Said Lorenzoâs voice on the left. Mattheo glared at Lorenzo. He hitched his brows together as he still felt the blood rushing down his chin. It felt like his skull was vibrating under his skin.
âIâm so sorry! I didnât see you behind me.â The unrecognizable voice said. Mattheo glanced at the source, his mouth parting. He had met plenty of pretty people. He had met beautiful people. He had met cute people. But absolutely never had he met someone jaw-droppingly gorgeous.
Until this exact moment.
Your hands were flying around as you tried to apologize. Your brows were pinched together in concern as you stared at his nose. There was a light behind you, crowning your head. Mattheo had half a mind to think he was already dead, and you were the angel leading him to the staircase to hell. You paused when you saw his face, turning your head to the side.
âHi.â He huffed out dreamily.
âOh boy,â Lorenzo muttered. You furrowed your brows, giving him a confused smile. Mattheo grimaced at the taste of blood in his mouth. He was suddenly reminded of the pain buzzing in his face. He groaned as he tipped his head back, pinching the bridge of his nose.
âOkay, let me get you to Madam Pomfrey.â You said, your hand finding his shoulder again. Mattheo startled at that, tilting his head back down.
âOh no, itâs fine. Iâll walk it off.â Mattheo muttered. It seemed a bit ridiculous to him that he should go to the medical wing just for a nosebleed. It wasnât broken. Heâs had a broken nose before, and this was not how it felt. His nose still has a scar on it from that time. You shook your head quickly.
âAbsolutely not, Iâm not leaving you until you go to the Medical wing.â You stated, setting your face in determination. Your friend started hovering at your shoulder, whispering in your ear. You kept your eyes on Mattheo. He wanted to tell you to get lost and find someone else to bother. But he didnât want your face to leave his view yet, and something in his stomach was swirling. He must have drunk something bad, and now his stomach was threatening him with nausea. Mattheo looked to Lorenzo. Lorenzo raised his brows.
âYouâre seriously going?â Lorenzoâs expression said silently. Mattheo bumped one of his shoulders.
âWhy not?â Lorenzo shook his head slightly and pursed his lips.
âWhatever, man.â Mattheo ignored Lorenzo as he stepped up onto the coffee table, already finding a dance partner. He looked back at you, finding you staring at him expectantly. You flipped your hands at your side, raising your brows.
âFine, Iâll go.â He grumbled. You nodded, leaning back to your friend and telling them where you were off to. You held onto the bottom hem of Mattheoâs shirt as you led him out of the common room. The blood from his nose had already stopped gushing. He could feel that the dried blood had clogged his nose, and the bottom half of his face felt dry and tight. He couldnât wait to wash his face; he hated the feeling of dried blood.
He expected you to drop his shirt hem the moment you pulled him into the corridor. You didnât. You just kept leading him like he was some kind of lost puppy.
âYou know, I can walk by myself. Itâs not like Iâm going to faint.â Mattheo said, smacking his mouth in disgust when he tasted blood again. You glanced back at him, raising a brow like you hadnât expected to find your hand still pulling him. You dropped his shirt and walked to the other side of the corridor.
âIs this better for you? We just happen to be going to the same place?â You asked. A smile pulled at your lips, like he was the funniest person you talked to tonight. It wasnât better, now that Mattheo thought about it. He really wanted you to come back and keep dragging him. He was feeling sick to his stomach again.
âI know where the medical wing is. I donât know why you think you have to escort me there.â Mattheo said. You grimaced.
âItâs the least I can do, since I mightâve broken your nose with my bad dance moves.â You said, glancing at the floor in embarrassment, just for a split second. Mattheo shook his head.
âItâs not broken.â He stated matter-of-factly. You reeled back at his bluntness, snorting a bit at him.
âHow do you know? Are you a doctor?â You asked. Mattheo wet his lips with his tongue and immediately regretted it.
âMy nose has been broken before,â Mattheo said mockingly, like it was obvious. You scoffed.
âOkay, well, sorry I forgot you get into fights every week. Some people lead other lives.â You giggled when you finished your sentence. He felt his stomach lurch again, and he was really starting to think back through his meals. Toast and oatmeal for breakfast.
âFirst of all, Iâve only been in two fights. People exaggerate. Secondly, I didnât break my nose in a fight.â Mattheo corrected, immediately wishing he hadnât. You were already tilting your head to the side with a follow-up question.
âSo how did you break your nose? Falling down the stairs?â You half-joked, chuckling. It is ridiculous to think the well-known violent fighter, Mattheo Riddle, broke his nose slipping down the stairs. Mattheo huffed out his mouth, though he wished he could sigh with his nose.
âSomething like that.â Mattheo grimaced. His father shoved him into a wall. Mattheo didnât want to think about his father back home. He wanted to stay right here in this hall with you. His father would be upset Mattheo was at a party at all, much less one and a half drinks in. Or visiting the nurse for his nose. Mattheo stopped in the hall, making you pause and turn around. You were two steps ahead of him.
âSheâs not going to contact my father, is she? Or tell the headmaster where we were?â Mattheo asked. You smirked, letting out a tiny snort. Mattheo would've grinned if he werenât thinking about the punishment he would receive at home.
âIs The Mattheo Riddle worried about getting detention?â You mocked, slinking across the hall to stand in front of him. You pressed your lips into a tight line to hold back your laugh. Mattheoâs hand reached out without his consciousness, his pointer finger pinching the fabric of your shirt to him.
âIâm worried about my father. You know, the Dark Lord. You may have heard of him.â Mattheo whispered as if there was someone around to overhear. Even in his whispers, he dropped his voice at his fatherâs title. You paused, your smile slowly falling. Your eyes started searching his face like you just now realized he had scars covering his skin.
âYouâve only been in two fights?â You asked, your voice lacking all its humor now. Mattheo wanted to go back and tell you he was absolutely terrified of detention. Maybe then he would hear a full laugh pulled from you. Mattheo nodded.
âAnd they were only fists?â You furthered. Mattheo drifted his eyes down, suddenly aware of his hand pulling at your shirt. He was glad he wore a long sleeve to the party. You wouldn't have to ask about his tattoo. Everyone knew what that sign meant. It was branded into his skin like he was a cow being led to his slaughter. His father didn't even think he was helpful enough to give him tasks. His father just wanted to remind Mattheo his life was his fathers to take.
âI see.â You whispered. Mattheo doubted you really understood the severity of his situation. You could âseeâ all you want. He didnât want to see Pomfrey. You could take care of him. He wasnât hating it so far. You hummed.
âNo, she doesnât tell anyone about what she sees. Iâve brought drunk friends here before, but she doesnât say anything.â You tilted your head down, forcing him into eye contact. Mattheo lifted his head, staring into your eyes.
âI promise you.â You said, widening your eyes in seriousness. Mattheo raised a brow at you. He wanted to mock you. He could call you dramatic, but all he could focus on was the color of your eyes. He had a sandwich and an apple for lunch so it couldnât be that causing his stomachache.
You turned back toward the direction of the medical wing, his hand falling to the back of your shirt. He knew he should remove his hand, but you had to be from heaven. You were a ghost or something. Whichever, you were going to disappear the second he took his eyes off you; he knew it. You were too good, too gorgeous, too smart, too kind. He should really turn and run from you. You could be lying to him; who's to say youâre not a part of some big, huge scheme against him? You glanced back at him, your eyes snagging on his hand pulling at your shirt. You smiled.
âYou know, itâs not like Iâm going to faint. I can walk by myself.â You parroted. Mattheo snickered, looking away from you to hide his amusement. He dropped his hold on your shirt, itching at his arm like that was his plan all along.
Pomfrey was annoyed to be woken up so late, but swallowed her annoyance when she saw Mattheoâs face covered in blood. She pointed him to one of the small beds set up for patients. She handed him a wet rag, letting him wipe his own face clean. Pomfrey left the two of you, turning to the medicine cabinet and working on something for Mattheo. You settled next to him on the edge of the bed. Mattheo knew how to wipe his face clean. This was clearly not his first rodeo. Yet you still watched his face intensely as he wiped at it.
You reached for his face, making him shoot back. You took the rag from his hand, slowly raising it to his face. You watched his eyes closely as you softly pressed it against his cheekbone. You swiped once, twice. Your finger slipped from the rag and grazed against his cheek. It was soft, gentle, and warm. Mattheo closed his eyes to savor it for just a moment before you took it all away again and handed him back the rag. Mattheo looked down at it, wiping his hands.
âYou missed a spot.â You explained quietly. Mattheo raised his eyes, looking your expression over.
God.
God, please make there be no heaven or hell so he can spend all of his life with you and never worry about the two of you being separated in the afterlife. Though if there is no heaven or hell, there's no God.
Universe, please never separate him from you. Not after your death, or before. He can die first, but you absolutely may not.
He doesnât know your name. Oh, he doesnât know what to put on his marriage certificate. He doesnât know what to whisper before he goes to bed. What to picture written into his skin in permanent ink. He could get a magical tattoo, one thatâd never leave. But maybe this next one would mean more to him, with all the letters of your name.
âWhatâs your name?â Mattheo muttered, keeping his voice low so Pomfrey wouldnât pull her eyes from the medicine she was making. You whispered back, glancing over his shoulder at Pomfrey. He liked that you followed his lead. He liked your name. It fits you well. If he had to work backwards and find you with just your name, he thinks he could manage. He whispered it to himself, feeling it on his tongue for the first time. It felt like he had been holding his breath underwater for years, and this was the first time his head popped over the waves.
âWhat are your parents like?â He asked, still keeping his voice low, but his eyes stayed glued to you. You smiled, glancing away from him. You sat up straighter on the small bed.
âMy momâs an artist; she makes moving portraits. Itâs pretty cool. Iâve got a lot of portraits of my dad and me. My dadâs a therapist, so he always takes arguments at home very seriously. Heâs always using big words and saying we need to communicate how weâre feeling during fights. My mom told my dad she was a witch three months into dating. He totally flipped. He thought she was kidding until she made him float with her wand. But after that, he started to love it. He kind of got a kick out of it. Heâs totally obsessed with her now.â You squished your lips to the side like you were embarrassed that you said so much. Mattheo nodded as he thought.
Halfblood. He shouldnât talk to you. He should actually be pulling his wand out and trying to hex you, as his father told him. He lifted his eyes from the ground, meeting yours again. He might need to call Pomfrey to get him a wastebin; he feels his stomach lurching again. He had a turkey leg- Its butterflies, isn't it? Oh man, heâs more lost than he thought. Mattheo tilted his head at you.
âI shouldnât talk to you.â He mumbled weakly. He didnât want you to go; he didnât want to not talk to you for a day of his life. He wanted to grab onto your arm and tuck you both into the bed youâre sitting on. He wanted to wrap the blankets around you both so tightly that no one could pull you out. He wanted to hold onto your hand and jump into the Black Lake and learn to live underwater with the sirens. You snorted at him.
âI shouldnât talk to you.â You repeated. Mattheo hummed. He glanced at Pomfrey behind him. He turned back towards you.
âThen I guess weâre both rule breakers.â He muttered. You cringed, pulling away from him. You looked away from him, laughing at his absurdity.
âEw.â You held your palm at him, pressing your other hand to your mouth. He laughed at your reaction, finally laughing fully tonight. You joined him, giggling along. Pomfrey brought him a painkiller, but the pain had disappeared the moment you looked at him.
Your relationship was kept quiet. Few people were allowed to know about it. You were exclusive, obviously, but âmy boyfriendâ was used rather than 'Mattheo'. His friends took a while to warm up to you, as most of them reminded him of his fatherâs rule. At some point, they started to notice the way he looked at you, and they began to understand the situation. After a few weeks, you were allowed to join their private hangouts. Public appearances were an absolute no, as anyone could send a letter to their parents, and word could get out to his father.
Your relationship was everything to Mattheo. He could breathe around you. Your hands were gentle with him and warmed him. He hadnât realized that physical affection really did change his entire world. He felt incomplete without your hands on him. Mattheo just wanted to listen to your heartbeat for most of the day. You let him cry, which was a new feeling. He had only ever freely cried in front of Theo. That only happened once, and he thought heâd never cry in front of someone again. But you just pressed his head to your shoulder and ran your fingers through his hair. You didnât shush him. You didnât try to make him stop. You didnât try to wipe them away. You just let him sob against you. When the cries stopped wracking his body, his mind was blissed out from exhaustion. He was so glad you were there to hold him.
He finally let himself dream. Mattheo pictured a home with you, a bright home. One with big windows and fuzzy blankets. One with warm furniture. One full of laughter. Thatâs what he wanted, not the cold, barren house he had now. He felt like he was growing into a new person. One who giggled. Mattheo learned new sides of himself. He learned that he could be gentle and soft. He never wanted his hands to scare you or make you flinch away. You always melted into his palms, your body following wherever they took you. You never frowned at him unless you were faking, and he was growing to truly appreciate your smile. Making you grin was his daily goal. He couldn't rest until you did.
Your head rested against his chest as you traced the scars of his forearm. You lifted your head, keeping your fingers pressed to one of his scars.
âCan I see all of them?â You asked. Mattheo opened his eyes, glancing at where your hand was.
âWeâll be here all night.â He grumbled, pulling your head back to his chest. He let his hand slip from your head to your shoulder. You sat back up.
âI have time.â Mattheo sighed, knowing he was such a pushover for you. He slid away from you, standing up from the bed. He stood in front of the bed, glancing over his shoulder to see you waiting patiently. His back was turned to you. He lifted his arms, digging his fingers into the back of his shirt. He tugged on it, pulling it off over his head. Mattheo straightened up, showing the expanse of his back to you. You sat up on your knees, gently reaching out for him. He startled when you touched his back, peeking over his shoulder. You hummed an apology that he ignored. You ran your hands over the lines and burns, gentle as ever. It almost made him sick how sweet you were to him. You slid your arms over his shoulders, pressing your chest to his back. You tilted your head, pecking at his cheek.
âUgly?â Mattheo asked, tilting his head towards your touch.
âNo.â You whispered. You slid your hand over his bare chest, digging your fingers in. âShow me the rest,â you added. Mattheo turned around in your hold. He leaned forward, messily kissing your mouth before dropping his hands to his pants.
Mattheo grew connected to his body. It wasnât just a prison designed to hurt him anymore. It was something that brought pleasure to both of you. You have kissed almost every inch of him, and the few parts you haven't, you soothed your hands over. He could always feel every single part of himself. Like moments where he was bare with you were the times his soul finally spread throughout all of his body instead of the cage he kept it in. You moved together in a mesmerizing way. Your love went so far that he knew what you wanted and how and when. He felt completely tethered to you. You kept his world from losing its gravity.
Over winter break, he spent his time in your home. His father didnât care if he spent his winter break at Hogwarts. So he did spend it at âHogwarts,â at least thatâs what his letter said to his father.
Your family was kind to him. They werenât overly touchy, but it was clear they wanted to be. He had a suspicion you had a private conversation with them before he came. Your mother kept rubbing his shoulder when she passed him. For the first few days, it made him jump, but he eventually grew fond of it. Your father seemed to hover his hand over Mattheoâs back and hand a lot. Like he wanted to pat Mattheo on the back when he did something well. Or pet his hand when he looked sad.
Mattheo had not met a Muggle, but he hoped they were all like your father. He always tried to include Mattheo in your conversations. He was not once called a name or hit. Mattheo realized the home he fantasized about sharing with you in the future was yours. Mattheo couldnât be happier that he spent that holiday with you and your family. It taught him what he wanted for home.
Graduation passed, and Mattheo had to spend his time at home. He sometimes was able to waste some time at Dracoâs, but it was short-lived. He kept in contact with you using your owls. He was cautious, only sending his owl out in the dead of the night and writing in a code only you know. He even jinxed the letters to only open for you.
He had a feeling it wouldnât be enough.
He knew it wasnât the second he found his owl dead on his bed.
When your owl tapped at his window that same night, he sent a letter with only four words.
Halfway?
Yours forever, Mattheo
He had no time to wait for a response. If he waited much longer, heâd be dead. He knew his father well enough to know heâd kill him for disobeying the only rule the second he caught the free time. So Mattheo didnât waste time with a bag. He took his wand and Apparated into town. He kept his head down as he caught the nearest train. The further he got from his father, the better.
You dropped everything at the sight of the letter. You stuffed a bag full as quickly as possible before racing down the stairs. You kissed your parents goodbye and said youâd send them a letter the second you got to pen and paper. You had to do this. Youâd be safe with Mattheo; there was no need to worry. Though you knew there was always a reason to worry with Mattheo, they didnât need to know that.
You didnât fly as that could bring attention. You would apparate, but you didnât know the location well enough. So instead, you took train after train to finally reach the town halfway between your home and his.
You tugged your bag off the train, your head on a swivel as you searched for him. There were so many people there that you could hardly move your elbows without bumping someone. You started to worry that he had been stopped before he could flee. You thought of all the ways his father could kill him without any trace. Your eyes snagged on a curly head of hair across the station. He was facing the other direction, staring at the wrong train.
You yelled his name, making him spin around. His face broke into a grin when he saw you, already trying to squeeze through the crowd to get to you. You pushed past people, muttering apologies. A break in the crowd made you run for him, moving as fast as you could. You dropped your bag when you were only a few more strides from him; it was weighing you down. He broke from the group of people, finally running towards you as fast as you were. You held your arms out, not slowing your pace at all.
You finally collided with him, knocking all of the air from you. He wrapped his arms around you, pressing you closer. Mattheo rocked from side to side as he caught his balance. He gently held the back of your neck, pulling your head back. Your body followed his hands blindly. He pressed his lips to yours, slipping his hand from your neck to your cheek. You swept your arms around his shoulders, so glad to finally have him back in your arms. Mattheo pulled away from your mouth, gasping for his breath again.
âYou okay?â You asked, no laughter in your voice.
âHe killed my fucking bird,â Mattheo muttered. You sighed pitifully and gently rubbed his back.
âIâm glad youâre okay.â You said. Mattheo nodded, lurching forward to smack a kiss on your forehead.
He tugged your bag from the floor as you both walked to a more secluded area to apparate out of town. You would both be on the move for a while now. Mattheo whispered to you his plans in a quiet corner. You would be swinging from town to town, likely camping here and there. Until things were safe. If his father could track either of you down, heâd kill you both. Your parents would be safe. Mattheo had charmed their home before he left for vacation. He had an anxious thought peaking in his brain that this would happen.
You actually didnât fully hate bouncing around all the time. Somehow, Mattheo made it feel like a vacation. He charmed a tent so it was massive inside and full of everything you needed. A shower and a cozy bed. It had a kitchen and a dining room. He gave you beautiful spots to spend the night. You took pictures with a camera your mother gave you a few years ago. You made him pose at every spot. Youâd spend the nights on river banks, mountain tops, and next to waterfalls. You spent a few nights in a wooded area near the ocean. He made you special even when all you had was each other.
Then after a few months, The Night came. The night when his arm started to burn. So bad you pressed his head to your chest and rocked back and forth. There was nothing to do about the pain. He sobbed so loud you worried your silent charm would wear off.
Mattheo bit at your shoulder. The pain in his arm radiating through his entire body so violently, he bit down harder. He only gasped when he tasted blood. When met with the messy sight of blood and his saliva, he only sobbed harder, pressing his cheek to your shoulder like he could erase the wound with his tears. Blood smeared across his face. He seethed in anger, tearing at his arm with his nails. He made himself bleed, coating his hands and arms in red.
Only an hour or two into the night, you had to restrain him. You put him to sleep with a spell. You felt awful doing it, but he was in such extreme pain you couldnât think of another way to stop it. You healed your shoulder using a spell Pomfrey taught you a while ago, though she advised it was for emergencies only. You watched as your skin scabbed over the bite mark, the scabs falling off into fresh, new scarred skin. It was sore and oddly soft but scarred nonetheless.
You had hoped the sleeping charm would keep him out until morning. But he woke up only a few forty minutes later, screaming in pain. When you gently touched his forearm, your hand shot back with the heat coming off the black ink. You tried to soothe him by wiping his tears away and humming to him, but it didnât seem to help at all. The tears only kept coming, and he started choking on his sobs. You sent him to sleep again. You worried that if you used the spell too much, it might damage his brain. You sat next to him on the bed with your ear pressed to the radio.
Hogwarts was under attack by the Dark Lord himself. You wished Mattheo were awake. You set the radio down on the nightstand and pressed yourself into Mattheoâs side. You listen to the live updates as you lie against Mattheo. You kept your wand clutched in your hand and pressed it to his chest.
You wished your mother were there to pat your shoulder and tell you something encouraging. You wished your father were there to rub your back and tell you you were stronger than you thought you were. Or something else equally cliche and calming.
The moment you would feel Mattheo stirring, youâd whisper the spell to put him to sleep again. Every time you had to, you wished you were back home and in your own sheets. And maybe that the whole thing wasnât happening and was all a dream.
After three hours, the reporter finally said He was dead. You lay frozen against Mattheo as the reporter quietly started listing off the deaths and missing persons. You pointed your wand over your shoulder, whispering to turn the radio off. You muttered a charm to release Mattheoâs restraints. You fell asleep with your wand still clutched to your chest and tears staining your cheeks. The waves crashing outside the tent calmed you down as best it could.
When you did wake up, Mattheo was not in bed. You shot up in bed, searching the tent with your eyes. When you found it empty, you stumbled out of bed and out of the flaps of the tent. He was sitting on the sand, with his knees pulled up. Mattheoâs elbows rested over his knees. He was staring out at the water. You slowly approached him, settling into the sand next to him.
He had bathed himself while you were asleep. He no longer had blood on him, which was good. You could still see staining under his nails, but you didnât see the point in mentioning it. He was fiddling with your wand, twisting it back and forth between his fingers.
âI listened to the radio this morning,â he stated, keeping his eyes on the water. You hummed in response. Mattheo turned his head, meeting your eyes.
âIâm sorry you went through that without me.â He mumbled. You shook your head. It was hard, and you knew it would definitely be multiple conversations with your father. Youâd need to spend a very long time working through it. You gave him a gentle smile. Mattheoâs shoulders relaxed a little.
âIt was light work.â You joked, grinning at him. Mattheo chuckled, swaying to the side to bump into you. He sighed through his nose, looking back out at the waves.
âFunny.â He mumbled. You reached forward, tipping his arm to the side. You both looked down at his arm. His scratch marks had scabbed over, but they were still red and angry. You gently took your wand from his hands, whispering to his arm. His skin healed over, leaving the raised lines cutting through his black ink. They split the image in different directions, reminding you of when someone scribbled out their writing. You traced down the lines, almost worried youâd feel the same heat you did last night. You pressed your palm over the mark, settling your heart when it only felt like Mattheoâs skin.
You pressed a kiss to his jaw. Mattheo turned his head, meeting your lips properly. You couldnât fight down your smile as you pulled away. He pecked your lips again, dropping his hand on top of yours.
âCan I see your shoulder?â He muttered, glancing at your shoulder on the other side. You turned to the side, pulling the collar of your shirt. He stared at the teeth marks. He reached out, running his thumb over the bumps. He sighed so deeply you felt like you could catch part of his lungs.
âIâm sorry, that looks like it was deep.â He whined, rubbing at it more like it might wash it away. You swatted his hand away.
âI donât mind it. I think it looks kind of badass. Like I survived a cannibal.â You remarked, looking out at the ocean, so you wouldnât laugh at the look on Mattheoâs face.
You returned home soon after that, hugging your parents tighter than ever in your life. You showed them every picture you took. You spent a long afternoon in your fatherâs study as you talked about your night of the battle. The next day, Mattheo spent more time with your father. Your mother was incredibly happy to let you both move back in. You were more than overjoyed that you finally had a home with Mattheo. You thought of your new scar as a sign of the permanence of his love. Mattheo was glad you could see the beautiful side of his bloody mess. Your mother painted a portrait of you and Mattheo standing on the beach. She referenced the background with your pictures and had you both pose for a few hours. You had your scar on your shoulder, and Mattheo had his scars and ink. In both your gazes was pure and complete love. You loved each other in totality. You looked happy on the beach, and that's how you remembered it.
 As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
Chapter Summary: After finding out you're pregnant with his child, Titus must secure his family's approval in order to make you a unique proposal: Become the new Mrs. Danforth.
Tags/Notes: marriage before romance, established sugar relationship, also ft. ursula and daddy danforth, meeting the family, possessiveness & protectiveness, obscene wealth, predator/prey dynamic, brat!reader, piv, mating press, creampie, oral (f receiving), messy sex, edging, denial, spitting, mouth covering, titus lowkey whipped already
Content: pregnant reader, canon-typical content, a brief instance of body shaming
A/N: since I already posted most of what was initially chapter one as a teaser during my 3k celebration, i decided to be silly and give you a mega chapter one instead!
Word Count: 14.1k
Ursula Danforth slaps one perfectly manicured hand across her twin brotherâs cheek. He doesnât even flinch; heâd been expecting worse. âYouâre so selfish. Stupid and useless like a child. Knocking up a sugar baby, of all things.â
Father paces across the large sitting room with a clenched jaw. Eventually, he stops in front of his son. âHow dare you do this to us? Right before the most important hunt of this familyâs life, too. I canât believe youâd be so irresponsible.â
Ursula sneers, âI believe it. This is what happens when a spoiled brat grows up. Poor baby Titus always has to have everything exactly how he wants. Probably never bothered with condoms because âit just doesnât feel as good, sweetheart.ââ
âDonât be so crass, Ursula,â Father spits in her direction before returning to his son. âI assume youâve communicated that abortion isnât an option.â
âOf course,â Titus replies, keeping it curt to avoid a verbal lashing. Or a physical one, given the tension thick in the opulent room full of blades and guns. Father demanded the conversation be moved to the innermost room of the estate when Titus told them in front of a few members of staff. This sort of thing is best discussed in private, even with the most discreet staff money can buy.
The abortion discussion had gone better than expected, considering you told him youâd be keeping it before he could even get to the âmy family would sedate you through delivery and then discard you before they let you abort a Danforthâ thing. Heâd given you a line about supporting you however you needed in order to stall you while he discussed what to do with his family. Ultimately, your fate wasnât his decision but a collective decision for the betterment of the Danforth name.
But Titus does, admittedly, dislike the idea of abandoning you. Despite your lack of status, money, or power, he feels anâŚaffection for you. Similar to the affection one might have for an injured bird. Heâd been raised to put creatures like that out of their misery, but your only brokenness was being part of the masses. That could be improved upon. So, to advocate for you, Titus swallows hard and offers, âThis may not be a bad thing. Our family needs an heir, after all.â
âNot under circumstances like this,â Ursula scoffs. âYou should marry advantageously. Within the seven families, at least. How could you even think-â
Father raises his right hand.
Silence falls.
âYou may be right, Titus. Weâre long overdue for a new generation of Danforths and neither of you seem particularly close to finding anything akin to a real relationship. Your mother would be horrified.â Father drapes himself in his authentic Jacobean austere velvet armchair in the corner, beneath a grand window heâs spent hours and hours ruminating out of through the years, especially since his wife died. Without looking at his son, he asks, âThisâŚgirl of yours: Is she good stock?â
Titus considers that. He imagines how very lovely you look obediently presenting yourself for him on the hotel beds where heâs taken you multiple times a week for the last six months, gazing up at him with reverent eyes and an innocent sort of expression that doesnât necessarily match your occupation of choice. âIâd say so. Sheâs young. Pretty.â
Ursula rolls her eyes. âOf course.â
Father gives her a lethal gaze. âDonât interrupt. This is important.â His eyes turn back to his son and he asks, âHer personality?â
âSweet,â he answers right away. Thatâs the first word that comes to his mind. Itâs the thing he likes most about you; youâre so, so far from everyone he knows. Kind and tentative and eager to find reasons to smile. The kind of girl who brakes for pigeons. After a moment of thinking, he relents, âA bit stupid, at times, but charming. Docile. Iâve never seen her disagree with someone.â
That seems to please Father. He doesnât like women who fight back, even his own daughter at times. He probes further, âDoes she have any family?â
âSheâs estranged from her parents. No siblings.â
âGood. How about education?â
âSheâs getting a masterâs degree.â
âIn what?â
âI donât know,â he replies with a chuckle. âSomething with books, maybe. Iâm not usually with her for the stimulating conversation, Father.â
âDonât be vulgar. Does she have a criminal history? Any connections in our world?â
âNo. I vetted her thoroughly before selecting her as aâŚcompanion.â
âBoring. But that could be useful in its own way.â Father thinks it over as he watches the gardeners outside tending to the hedge maze across the pond. Winter is beginning to melt off the extensive grounds and theyâre preparing for the glory of spring blooms. For vibrant fresh blood, too, in the coming months with the vernal equinox and other traditional celebrations fast approaching. He asks the final question, the only one that matters: âCould she be a Danforth? Or will we have to be rid of her once the baby is born?â
Titus thinks of your laugh, your ease, your total lack of darkness. Itâll be difficult to balance the reality of his world with you, but heâs intrigued by the challenge. With a steady voice, he admits perhaps the deepest secret of this whole situation: âIâd like to keep her.â
The tension eases at that. Keeping up appearances will be best. And if thereâs one thing the Danforth family does well itâs keeping up appearances.
With the first smile of the day, Father stands, embraces Titus, and announces, âWe can make this work, son. We will.â
Titus stiffens at the rare show of affection, trying not to reveal that heâs pleased with the decision. That would only show a chink in his armor. He wouldâve handled the other option, keeping you in the dungeon as a toy of sorts until the birth, but itâll be better for everyone if he has a wife and his child a mother instead of a nanny. âThank you, Father.â
âSheâs going to have to move in,â Ursula tsks as she, too, gives her brother a short but earnest embrace. âWe canât take risks with the baby.â
Father adds, âAnd there will have to be a wedding, of course. With all the families invited.â
âA wedding?â Titus gripes, âIsnât it enough to just-â
âNo,â Father interrupts. His fingernails dig into his own palms. âJust because you started this improperly doesnât mean youâll continue it that way. In two monthsâ time, before she starts showing, weâll have a wedding.â
âEveryone will know itâs a shotgun wedding,â Ursula points out. âEven the most asinine of our associates can manage basic addition and subtraction.â
âThatâs irrelevant,â Father insists. âItâs the 21st century. The baby will be born with its mother sharing the Danforth name. Nothing else matters.â He levels his gaze at Titus. âGo and tell her. I expect to see her moving in here before the weekendâs up.â
âYes, Father,â Titus agrees, already taking his phone from his pocket to dial you. Before leaving the room, he takes a deep breath and says once more, âThank you. I wonât disappoint you.â
Father gives him a wink. The thought of the first baby born to the Danforth family in four decades lifts everyoneâs spirits. Itâll be a good change. âCareful, or youâll make us think you like the girl.â
He expects you to make a fuss about it. Fully prepares himself to have to drug you, tie you up, kidnap you, and make it clear you donât actually have a choice in the matter, as distasteful as that would be to him. At the very least, he anticipates resistance. For it to take more than one brunch. Modern women want careers, donât they? Itâs part of why heâs always sworn off girlfriends and dating in the standard sense. Ever since it became relatively acceptable for the elite, heâs strongly preferred paying for the company of simple, complication-free women procured by the family lawyers. He doesnât want a girlfriend. He wantsâŚa pet. A well-trained companion. Something reliable and reliant. A pretty, obedient creature to recline on the couch who makes no demands and listens with rapt attention to his every order.
So heâs pleased beyond belief at your reaction to his offer, outlined to you at your favorite chichi breakfast place in one of the nicer hotels downtown.
You gaze up at him over your streaming mug and ask bluntly, âWhatâs the catch?â
âThere isnât one,â he lies. Smooth as butter. âI want to take care of you and the baby and I have the means to do so.â
âYouâd already be doing that just by paying me at the rate you already do. With my job and your payments, I can afford a comfortable life,â you point out. âBut you want me to marry you. Move in with you. So I have to assume there are rules. Catches.â You take a sip of the caffeine-free tea heâd ordered for you, savoring the spicy and citrusy notes. The ginger helps soothe your stomach. âLook, youâre obviously very wealthy. And I know youâre not rich because of somethingâŚnormal, if you donât mind the word.â
Titus snickers, âNot at all. Go on.â
âBefore you made us exclusive, Iâd been with a lot of secretive, rich men,â you explain slowly, âbut you donât seem like most of them.â
The waitress approaches your table. Titus rattles off quickly, clearly annoyed at the intrusion, âWeâll both do the three-course menu. Iâll have the foie gras torchon with prosciutto and figs, the filet mignon as rare as youâll serve it, and the caviar trio in lieu of dessert.â
The order doesnât surprise you after countless meals spent together. His food is always expensive and tastes of life cut short.
The waitress gives you a warm smile. âAnd for you, darling?â
âDonât call her that,â Titus says, curt and emotionless. âSheâll have the yogurt parfait with the pistachio granola, lobster eggs Benedict, and the baked apple strudel.â Then he gives you a glance that borders on affectionate. âAnd Iâm guessing sheâd also like the gelato flight after.â
âYou spoil me,â you lilt with batting eyelashes. Then you tell the waitress, âAnd a ginger ale, if you donât mind. Thank you.â
As she disappears, Titusâ typically flat expression transforms into one of concern, which you havenât seen on him often. He observes, âGinger ale. Ginger tea. Morning sickness?â
You sigh and confirm, âThatâs been the theme of week seven.â
âSeven weeks,â he muses, sounding almost wistful. âDoes that mean youâll have your first ultrasound soon?â
âMonday morning,â you tell him with a tentative smile. âYou can come, if you want.â
âI will. Definitely.â Titus sits up straighter and adjusts the sleeves of his charcoal-gray button-down, a nervous habit since his custom-tailored clothes always fit perfectly on his chiseled body. âYou were asking about rules. Saying I donât seem like most men.â
âRight, yes.â You touch his hand across the table and he lets you. Titus never asks for affection, but you know he craves it. Deeply. Otherwise he would never have sought you out in the first place. Sex is cheap; companionship is priceless. While rubbing the back of his hand with your thumb, you muse aloud, âYou donât brag about your money, which means youâve always had it. Itâs just a part of you; youâve never been without it. Your schedule has too much freedom to be a doctor, you donât dress like a lawyer, youâre too private to be a CEO or anything youâd want to peacock about, and youâre not annoying.â
He smirks at your analysis. âWhat does that rule out?â
âTech bro. Anyone who works in blockchain or AI.â
âSmart girl,â he praises with a short chuckle. âWhatâs your theory, then?â
âSomething dark and secretive,â you tease, clearly joking with the low, spooky voice like a Halloween recording you put on. He doesnât react like itâs a joke, though. So, more seriously, you say, âMaybe private security? Something with weapons; I know you try to be subtle, but Iâve always seen your carrying a gun.â That pleases him; youâve already noticed his danger and didnât flinch away. âI doubt itâs really illegal, like drugs, because youâre so clean about everything. I mean, my main point of contact the first three months was your lawyer,â you remind him with a laugh. Then you lean forward and continue, âRegardless, I can tell you have the kind of life where youâre not just going to marry and whisk away the first girl you knock up without some rules.â
Sounding amused, he sips his expensive cocktail and teases, âI canât just want to be an honest man for the mother of my child?â
âYou can, sure. But thatâs not you.â
âYouâre right about that,â he concedes after a moment. With a deep breath, he sits back in his chair and tells you, âI wouldnât call them ârulesâ so much as, perhaps, guidelines. Expectations. I wonât force anything on you. And I wonât abandon you if you go against them.â
Thatâs a patent lie, but he doesnât think youâll defy him, so he keeps it to himself.
You cross your arms over your chest. âLetâs get down to it, then, because I can imagine worse fates for this baby and me than having a rich, handsome daddy to take care of us. But I want to know what Iâm getting into.â
âVery sensible. I can appreciate that.â The first round of food arrives and he gestures for you to dig in while he begins, âYour first priority would be growing a healthy pregnancy, of course. Go to all of your doctorâs appointments, follow their recommendations to the letter. Youâd quit your job. Continue your classes if youâd like, but youâll need to cut out any unnecessary stress. Youâd move into the family estate; you can decorate and rearrange our building however youâd like as the lady of the house. I donât care about things like that.â
âWhat do you mean by âthe family estateâ?â You give him a teasing raised eyebrow; youâre the only person he allows to look at him like that. âYou live with mommy and daddy?â
âMy father lives in the primary mansion on the grounds, yes. Mother is dead. There are a lot of different outbuildings along the property; it goes on forever. I donât even know how many acres anymore; the lawyers buy up adjacent properties whenever they go for sale. Weâd be in my private house, which is further back on the estate.â
âLike a guest house?â
âAn eight-bedroom guest house, but yes.â Without giving you much time to process that, Titus goes on, âYouâd have some social responsibilities as my wife. My motherâs passed now, so youâd be the official host when our family holds events, which we do often. Youâd just have to look pretty, though, which youâre phenomenal at already.â As your cheeks warm, he assures you, âWe have a whole team to handle the planning side if you arenât interested in those sorts of things.â
You give a timid smile. âI like planning and hosting parties. Itâd be nice to have some occasions to show off all the fancy dresses youâve bought me.â
That makes him smile. Really smile. Like he can see you slotting into his life. âGood. Great. Well, you can have as much or as little involvement in our social circles as youâd like as long as youâre willing to put on one of those dresses and sit next to me adoringly when needed.â
âSo far, that fits my resume to a tee.â
âAnd, in that vein, there are certain standards of dress and, letâs say, etiquette, for lack of a better word, that my sister can help you with getting used to.â
âYou have a sister?â
âYes. Ursula.â He toys with his fork, hovering it over the decadent spread. âI suppose we still have a lot to learn about each other.â
âIâm an open book,â you retort with a cheeky smile. âYouâre the one with the secrets. I donât even know your last name.â
âDanforth,â he says quietly. Like itâs a secret. Maybe it is. âTitus Victor Danforth.â
âVery stately name.â You wrinkle your nose a bit. âDoes our baby have to have a name like that? Itâs hard to imagine calling a newborn Titus Victor.â
âWeâll agree on a name like any other couple,â he chuckles. âBut, for the record, I have family with much worse names than Titus.â
âLike Ursula,â you joke, earning a conspiratorial snort. You nod and drink some more of your tea as you consider everything thus far. âSo I have to learn to sit pretty and do tricks. Got it. What else?â
His voice darkens and so do his hazel eyes. âThe most important thing is that youâll allow me to keep you safe and protect you. Against anyone and anything. By any means necessary.â
Your own voice drops to a whisper. âYou say that like Iâll be in danger.â
âSometimes you will be.â
Not taking it all too seriously, you check. âBut youâll always protect me? And our baby?â
He puffs up his chest and insists seriously, âWith my life.â
No matter who or what tries to get in my way.
You narrow your eyes at him. âAnd youâll take care of everything financially?â
âYes.â Zero hesitation. âAlways.â
You donât doubt he can keep that promise, at least. When you take on sugar clients, you make sure to have proof of funds before agreeing to any arrangements. Titus passed that test with flying colors; youâre sure thereâs incalculable wealth behind the many, many zeroes youâve already seen. Heâs always driving around in tinted luxury cars, wearing suits by $10,000-a-piece designers, handing over heavy black cards for quadruple digit dinner dates with no dobut on whether theyâll clear.
With a tiny smile, you press, âAnd youâll marry me?â
âAs soon as possible.â
âCan I have a real wedding?â
âHere I was thinking Iâd have to convince you of that,â he laughs. Something unfamiliar is knocking around pleasantly in his ribs. âOur wedding would be very, ah, socially significant. Youâll be impressed by the guest list, Iâm sure.â
âGive me a teaser.â
âLetâs just say if a bomb were dropped on it, the worldâs economy would collapse.â
âYeah, alright,â you giggle. Heâs looking forward to the day you realize heâs telling the truth on that matter. âSo Iâd be a wife. Hm, okay.â You jokingly tap your chin and squint like youâre really thinking hard about it. âDoes that mean Iâll have to cook for you?â
âNot if you donât want to.â
âHow about cleaning? Laundry? I hate doing laundry.â
âThatâll all be handled.â
âSo weâll haveâŚservants?â
Titus canât help but notice the way youâre already saying âwe.â He doesnât mind the sound of it; youâre right where he wants you. Needs you. âWe prefer to call them staff, but yes, we do.â
Curiosity piqued, you press, âHow many?â
He starts running through the mental rolodex; the estateâs goings-ons donât interest him much, so theyâre at the periphery of his mind. âFull-time, on-site staff? We have three chefs â one in each houseâs kitchen, of course â and an estate manager who oversees a handful of groundskeepers, gardeners, and housekeepers. Thereâs an incredibly effective security team. Part-time? Lawyers on retainer, naturally. And we have connections for anything youâd want. Ursula has her tennis coach and her pet pool boy. Father has his favorite mixologist and, ah, massage therapist. Iâve got my golf caddy as well. Each of us has our own driver, but youâd probably share mine a while. Thatâs a high-trust position; Iâd want to personally hire yours for the safety of the baby. Youâd also have your own personal assistant to help with whatever you need day-to-day. And youâll be in charge of hiring out any childcare support you want, when the time comes. Nannies, tutors, those sorts of things.â
âWow.â Your fork is stuck mid-air. âSo you and your family areâŚrich rich.â
His lips curl up slightly. Itâs nice to be around someone who isnât used to snapping their fingers and having whatever they want in moments. Charming. âThat would be a fair assessment, yes.â
Titus notices a selfish, almost cute little shimmer lighting up your eyes as you ask, âSo I can have whatever I want?â
He cocks his head to the side and considers that. What it might mean to someone who didnât grow up in the world he did. âWithin reason.â
Your eyes narrow. âHow about a car? Like a really ridiculous one â a neon yellow Lamborghini?â
Almost offended at the idea, he scoffs, âA car? Of course you can have a car. I thought you were going to say something ridiculous like an elephant.â
You pout and cross your arms playfully over your chest. âSo youâre saying I couldnât have an elephant if I really, really wanted one?â
Feeling indulgent beneath your delight, he sighs dramatically, âI suppose I could reopen and repurpose the stables for the mother of my child.â
âThe stables?â
âMy mother loved horses. We were raised on dressage but never really took to it. When she died, my sister and I-â let those wretched horses free and hunted them with arrows â-decided not to keep up the responsibility.â
âCould I have a horse?â
He almost winces at the memory of countless on-site animals becoming casualties in the family games, intentional or otherwise. Still, because itâs important, he relents, âIf you want, sure. I donât see the appeal, but youâll have whatever hobbies make you happy and keep you occupied.âÂ
âDonât worry; I hate horses. Just curious.â You can tell heâs amused by your version of an interrogation, so you go on, âWill you still take me on dates?â
That puzzles him. Do you like these dates with him? Heâs always assumed you just see him as a paycheck, which he doesnât mind, but the idea of a real relationship does tantalize him to a certain extent. So he says, âIf youâd like that. I do enjoy your company, after all.â
âAnd sex whenever I want?â
A laugh punches out of him. Theyâre rare from Titus, so it makes you grin, too, for a second. He rolls his eyes and nods. âOf course; thatâs one of my favorite parts of your company.â
âGood. I wouldnât want to give that up with you, considering the, ah, quality.â
Blush tinges the apples of his cheeks and you know better than to point it out. Titus has never been shy about his sexual prowess, but he also grew up in a family where itâs not acceptable to talk about those things over brunch. Titus clears his throat and checks, âWhat else do you want to know to decide?â
âTo recap, Iâll be fed and housed and safe and spoiled beyond my wildest dreams?â
He nods, pleased. âExactly.â
You bite your lower lip and ask, âBut what if something happens to you? Iâd be giving up all my independence and relying on you. I donât want the babyâs security depending on whether or not youâre around for us.â
He doesnât assure you that nothing will happen to him the way youâd anticipated. Instead, he admires your practicality. You can tell his life is dangerous, but you arenât flinching. âYouâll be written quite handsomely into the family estate. Above my sister, actually, since youâll be the mother of an heir. Thatâs permanent, even in the event of death or divorce.â
âAn heir?â You almost choke on your food. âYouâre not royalty, are you?â
He laughs, âNot in the sense youâre thinking of, certainly.â
Softer and more seriously as you consider the implications of everything said so far, you touch your lower abdomen and ask him, âWill our baby be safe?â
âSafer than youâve ever been in your life here in the âreal world,ââ he says with actual sarcastic finger quotes. Then he squeezes your hand, meets your eyes with a new kind of warmth in his, and affirms, âI swear that nothing will ever harm our children.â
You smirk and tease, âDidnât realize we had more than one on the way.â
He shrugs modestly. âI always liked having a sister.â
âAnd I always wished I had siblings.â
âSounds like you agree.â
You let out a sharp laugh, the ridiculousness of the conversation hitting you at once. This is the kind of arrangement people agree to in the dark romances you read when youâre ovulating and here you are actually considering it for the rest of your life. After a minute of eating and thinking, you tell him, âI just have one more question.â
âAnything.â
âWill you love me, Titus?â
He takes his time thinking about the answer, which you appreciate. He isnât just going to tell you what he thinks you want to hear. Honesty is more attractive to you than his silvering curls or glass jawline, though those definitely do it for you. Always have.
Youâve wasted a lot of time on men who lied to you, who strung you along, who took advantage of your lack of security. As strange as it may be, the thought of someone being very clear about their expectations and giving you everything in return has an appeal after all of that. Youâd never have to worry about the things that currently absorb 90% of your time again.
Youâve finished your dish by the time Titus collects his response. Slowly and carefully, he lifts your hand to his lips and kisses each finger; you canât stop the fluttering of your heart in response. Titus murmurs, âYou may have to teach me how, bunny.â Gradually, he meets your eyes and offers, âIf it matters, in the time weâve known each other, Iâve already grown quite-â he struggles to find the word; you wonder if heâs ever been given ones for this variety of feelings â-fond of you. Which is unusual for me.â
A smile blooms over your lips. Relief punches Titus in the gut and heâs not so sure why. You take your hand from his and press it gingerly to his silver-scruffed cheek. âFondness will do.â
âAre you sure about this?â Your best friend, Natalie, asks for the fiftieth time as you finish packing your suitcase. Titus had arranged for professional packers, movers, and cleaners for your entire apartment over the weekend, so all you had to do was pack for a long weekend. âIt just seems a little fast to me.â
You shrug and try to brush it off, âIâve known him for six months already.â
She balks, âAs a client.â
âWell, unplanned babies tend to rush relationships,â you cut back. âItâs not like heâs a murderer or something; heâs just a rich guy who needs company. Plus, look at these pictures he sent me.â
You unlock your phone and toss it to her where sheâs rifling through your closet, taking her turn to pick over it since youâre going to be switching to maternity clothes soon enough and, it seems, designer after that. Natalie scrolls through the grand Danforth estate and her mouth slowly falls open the same way yours did when Titus showed you. Water features both natural and man-made, meticulously maintained flower gardens, a hedge maze, marble sculptures around the grounds. Not to mention the interior. Heâd only sent pictures of his residence on the property, which was styled minimalistically compared to the opulence elsewhere, but you could already imagine outfitting it exactly how you want.
Natalie scoffs, âAre you serious? I didnât even know places like this still exist. Are you sure this isnât all, like, a catfishing scheme and heâs just going to lure you into the woods and keep you chained up in a cabin or something?â
You roll your eyes and tell her, âAfter he made the offer, he showed me everything on his iPad. Titles, holdings, all the legal stuff. I guess his great-great-times-a-million grandparents built half the trade infrastructure in America and then used the money for real estate and investments and now they just have mega money. He told me that there are a lot of families like his that have old money managed by lawyers thatâs just accruing more and more money by being in banks.â
She raises a curious eyebrow. âSo he doesnât have to work?âÂ
âSort of.â You try to explain to the best of your understanding, paraphrasing from the spiel Titus gave that you admittedly kind of zoned out during, âSince his dad retired, heâs got a seat on the board of basically every company in the country, so he has a lot of meetings and travels a lot.â
Natalie changes into one of your dresses and inspects herself approvingly in the mirror. âDoes that mean your baby is gonna have to be a boring businessman?â
âOr boring businesswoman,â you laugh. âThis oneâll be the oldest, so theyâll have responsibilities, yeah.â
âThe oldest?â Her eyebrows go up again. âYou and gramps are having more than one?â
âHeâs not that old,â you start, a bit more exasperated now, âand heâs going to be my husband. If I want more kids, who else would I have them with?â
âJesus, youâre really serious about this, arenât you?â
âYouâre here pilfering my closet, arenât you?â The intercom buzzes by the door and you tell her, âFinish up; thatâs my ride.â
âIs that him? Mr. Moneybags?â
You peek out the window and see the dark-tinted black Rolls-Royce idling in front of the door. The white-gloved, black-capped chauffeur whoâs driven you around a handful of times before stands by the passenger side with his hands linked in front of himself. You mutter, âNo, itâs his driver.â
âHis driver? Damn.â Natalie takes the things she wants off their hangers and starts to walk you out. âWhen do I get to meet this guy, anyway?â
The two of you take the stairs together and you suggest, âAt the wedding, I guess. Two months or so.â
Natalie scoffs and shakes her head. âTwo months to plan a bachelorette party for a pregnant bride.â She squeezes you into a tight, warm hug. âItâs a challenge, but Iâm up to it.â
âI know you are,â you giggle. âI can have the driver drop you off somewhere, if you want. Iâm sure Titus wouldnât mind.â
âNo, thanks; Iâve got a job interview right up the street.â
Natalie insists on bringing your suitcase down the stairs, setting it on the stoop and scampering away before she has to âpretend to be fancy in front of one of your servants.â As she disappears around the nearest corner, you wave and smile at the driver, hopping off the raised entry to meet him by the road. âHi, Chip, thanks for coming to get me.â
âGood morning,â he says warmly. He hefts your luggage easily into the trunk and assures, âItâs no trouble at all, Mrs. Danforth.â At your curious look, he explains before you can question, âMaster Danforth instructed all the household staff to refer to you with your new title so you get used to hearing it.â
You raise your eyebrows. âMaster Danforth?â
Chip cracks a rare conspiratorial smile. âThe usual title for the eldest son while his father is still alive. His father is Sir Danforth, but Iâm sure youâll call him Father like Titus and Ursula do.â He opens up the back door for you and assures, âItâs a lot to get used to, but you can ask any of the staff for help with anything.â
You slide onto the smooth leather, lowering the partition between the driver and the back, which Titus never does. As the car leaves the city and starts the winding path into the countryside, you glance at Chip and pose, âIâve wanted to ask before, but now that Iâm gonna be family I think Iâm allowed to know: How much do the Danforths pay you?â
Surprised by your frankness, he just laughs, âMore than enough.â
âCâmon, you can tell me,â you lilt like youâre doing a heist together. âI can dig it up anyway; Titus says I get free rein of the whole property.â
âReally?â Chip chuckles under his breath. âYou must be awfully special to him.â
âWhat makes you say that?â
âNot even Miss Danforth has full access to the entire estate. Their father mainly stays in the front house these days, too,â he explains, âso Titus must think highly of you to allow you unsupervised access.â
You joke, âOr heâs lying to make me feel safe and thinks I wonât meddle.â
Chip glances at you in the rear view mirror, no joking in his expression. âThatâs also a possibility.â
You chew on that for a second and then press, âThat doesnât mean you get out of answering me, by the way. If Iâm marrying into a family where the staff are underpaid, then-â
Chip almost wheezes out a laugh, caught off guard by the assumption. âI suppose I shouldnât let you think that about your future husband.â He takes a long breath and explains, âDiscretion is expensive. Security is expensive. And loyalty is priceless. Iâve worked for this family since Titus started high school and needed his own driver. Most of the staff have been with the Danforths for a decade or more. Iâm sure the hiring process for your personal employees will be rigorous â background checks, security clearances. My starting salary was $80,000. By year ten, that had doubled. Iâve never had to ask for a raise; my salary just gets silently adjusted at the start of the year. Especially since Titus took over the familyâs management, their generosity has been staggering. If you include all the above and beyond benefits â he pays for my daughterâs private school tuition outright, covered every penny when my wife went through chemo a few years back â and the bonuses, it has to be about a quarter million by now.â
You let out a low whistle. âJesus.â
âSecurity all makes twice that,â he goes on as he pulls the car off the main road through a massive automated iron gate. Your skin prickles at the knowledge of getting closer. The view is shrouded by thick trees, making the whole estate feel hidden. âTrust me: Youâre surrounded by the most loyal, discreet staff in the world.â
You huff out half a laugh. âShould that make me less nervous?â
âNothing to be nervous about,â he lies lightly.
As the car finally breaks through the trees, the magnificent grounds come into view and the air leaves your lungs. You press your forehead to the glass to get a better view of the property. At the base of the grand front house with its storied old stone and hand-carved Grecian details being devoured by brilliant green ivy, you see the unmistakable shape of Titus in one of his usual charcoal gray suits, strong and broad in a soldierâs stance. Heâs waiting at the bottom of a staircase which opens onto a large half-circle drive that reminds you of something out of The Princess Diaries. A man you recognize as a member of his security detail flanks him; youâve only spotted him at the periphery before, lingering at the entrances of the restaurants Titus takes you to or waiting in the lobby of hotels. He makes a point of being unnoticeable, but you make a point of rarely letting your guard down.
You hear the gate shutting behind you, a thud instead of a click. Deep. Final.
Stopping the car a few feet from Titus, Chip slides out, opens your door, and smiles earnestly. âWelcome home, Mrs. Danforth.â
The moment youâre out of the car, Titus is lifting his arm for you to slip into, which you do.
âHello, darling.â Titus loops his hand around your lower back and pulls you close enough to smell his brisk, masculine aftershave. He plants a chaste, claiming kiss to your forehead and then holds your chin between his thumb and forefinger. âHow are you feeling?â
âGood. Nervous,â you tell him sheepishly. Before he can jump on that, though, you add, âNausea hasnât been too bad today.â
He nods slowly, examining your expression carefully. âIâm glad. Let me know if that changes; you can have whatever you want whenever you want now that youâre here.â
âIâm still waiting on my elephant,â you reply lightly, leaning up onto your toes to kiss him.
He hadnât been planning to let you kiss him in front of any staff, but heâs pathologically unable to resist you when you look so soft and so ready to submit to his plans for you. Your wide eyes are longing for reassurance, for steadiness, for him to produce the scaffolding of your new life together. When you step back down, he cradles your face and teases, âAll in due time, princess.â
Then Titus gestures for his bodyguard to step forward. Up close, you can see pockmark scars over all the skin visible around his dark sunglasses and black-on-black suit. Thereâs also a feathery brown bruise on his jaw and you canât help but wonder if he got it in the line of fire, so to speak. Titus introduces, âSmith, my personal security detail, will be yours while I hire a new one.â
You cut him a sideways look. âYou donât need your own security detail in the meantime?â
He gives you a cocky, handsome smirk in return. God, heâs devastatingly beautiful when heâs like that. The ruler of his domain. âI can handle myself, bunny.â
You needle, âThen why have one in the first place?â
âI like to be underestimated,â he replies easily. Not wanting to let you dwell on the implications of that, Titus continues, âSmith will check any and every room before you go into it and then remain stationed by the nearest door. Heâll also do some personal training with you on the family security protocols to make sure youâre prepared.â
You swallow hard and nod, extending your hand toward the bodyguard. âGood to meet you.â
Smith glances at Titus, who nods briefly. Only then does the security guard shake your hand â once, firm, quick. More scars over his knuckles. âItâs an honor, maâam.â
You gesture between them with a suspiciously pointed finger. âWhat was that?â
A smirk flickers on Titusâ mouth. Youâre too observant for your own good and he hates how much he likes it. So he explains honestly, âNobody is allowed to touch you without my permission.â
You narrow your eyes. âAnd if I give them my own permission?â
You canât.
My word is law.
A chill goes down your spine at the possessive darkness in his eyes. You might have your own security guard now, but thereâs a level of safety above that, one that only comes from being under the protective wing of Titusâ unyielding power.
Titus chews on his response a moment and then amends, âMale staff are not allowed to touch you unless itâs an emergency.â
You tsk and tease, âJealous, jealous.â
âYou really shouldnât talk to me like that,â he admonishes, but you know itâs more of a contradictory plea. Titus craves being challenged as much as he hates it. He canât tolerate it in business or from family in case itâs perceived as weakness, so he yearns for it from you, the one person who has no desire to actually challenge him. With a shake of his head, Titus dismisses Chip and then says, âIâll give you a tour of the central grounds and our home. Then I have to go out on business for the afternoon before dinner with my sister and Father in the main house. In the meantime you can get settled and play.â
You laugh, âPlay?â
âWhatever it is you want to do to entertain yourself,â he replies with a hand wave and a shrug. âExplore the grounds, interrogate the staff, snoop around all the places you shouldnât.â
You offer a small conspiratorial smile. âSounds good to me.â
Then Titus does something new and unexpected: He threads his fingers through yours. You get the sense that heâs practicing behaving like a normal, convincing couple. But you still notice that his palm is slightly clammy. Nervous. Titus Danforth gets nervous about holding a pretty girlâs hand for the first time. Cute.
For half an hour, he guides you around the few acres of land that sit between the three main houses, which are in a U formation. Thereâs a hedge maze that he warns you not to go into unless you have a few hours to kill, a drone to map it out from above, or a helicopter on standby. Then a tennis court (âyou can page our trainer from the gateâ) and a pool thatâs half inside and half outside (âheated, of course, with a hot tub attachedâ). At the center of it all sits a series of fountains with emotive sculptures captured in such vibrance youâd believe they come alive at night.
âThe tableau of Artemis and Actaeon,â Titus explains as he points out the features â a beautiful nude woman in a righteous stance with a bow raised, a muscular stag fleeing, a hoard of gnashing dogs tight on its heels. âActaeon wandered away from his companions and found the virgin goddess Artemis bathing when she didnât want to be seen. To punish him for breaking the boundary between the mortal and the divine, she turned him into a deer and sent his own dogs after him.â
You study the series of sculptures, water running down features like blood, and ask softly, âAnd your family liked that story enough for this whole water tribute thing?â
Titus chuckles and explains, âArtemis is sort of the Danforth version of a patron saint.â His hand drags slowly, pointedly down the center of your back until you shiver. âGoddess of the hunt. Sheâs a good omen for the family.â
âGoddess of the hunt,â you repeat curiously. âInteresting.â
He raises an eyebrow and starts to lead you toward the second largest house on the left side of the property. âIs it?â
You snicker and match step with him. âMost families go for, yâknow, saints of unity, love, that sort of stuff.â
âSheâs also the patron and protector of women and children,â Titus adds on the walk through the rose garden that leads to your new home. âAnd she chooses when to bring wellness or illness. Sheâs a good woman to have in your corner.â
You give him a coy sideways glance and muse, âIâll try not to piss off her statue, as then. I want to stay on the good side of anyone whoâs going to protect me and TJ.â
âTJ?â
âOh, yeah, the baby,â you giggle far too adorably to be allowed on the deathly quiet Danforth Estate. âIâve been calling him Titus Jr. in my head to try to get used to all of this.â
Something you havenât seen before glitters in his eyes at the comment. âYou think itâll be a boy?â
âItâs too early for me to even think itâs real,â you reply with a soft laugh. âI canât believe weâre going to actually hear the heartbeat on Monday.â
âI canât wait.â He gives your hip a little squeeze that feels much more relationship-y than he usually gets. Then he gestures proudly at a large swath of empty land. âWelcome to the final stop of our tour before the house.â
âItâs, um, lovely,â you offer as you gaze at the undeveloped ground, parts of it divided up with unintelligible spray paint marks. âIâve always wanted a half acre of empty space. My dream.â
âItâs going to be a space for the children,â he explains with something close to softness in his voice. Like heâs scared youâll reject the sweet idea from a man you know mostly to be harsh, biting. âI thoughtâŚWell, I thought it might be nice for them to have a playground, a splash pad, those sorts of things. The property isnât very child-friendly; there hasnât been a baby here in more than forty years now. Time to change that.â
Your heart grows about three sizes at the thought. Titus isnât just inviting you into his life; heâs carving out space for your shared future. âIf you didnât have anything to play with here at home, what did you and Ursula do for fun as kids?â
âWe didnât have fun,â he almost scoffs. You can tell the memories behind the sound are painful but far away, like reaching through a broken chain link fence. If he pulls back, the pain will become real. âMy parents were-â Titus searches for the right word a while before deciding on one thatâs close enoughâ-severe. Dour, often. They thought children should be trained and disciplined, not raised. Father thinks the idea of cherishing a child is the same as spoiling them.â
You shrug and give his hand an affirming squeeze. âI guess they got what they wanted; youâre successful, clearly. Driven, strong, powerful.â
âBut not fulfilled,â he murmurs, only loud enough for you to hear. He wouldnât want the staff knowing his feelings. He takes his hand and rubs your back almost absently, like a nervous habit. With a sideways glance, he labors out, âI think being a parent should be about giving your children more than you got. But I got everything. Always. So what can I give to my children, who will have more than theyâll ever need?â
âA space to play,â you finish for him. You lean up on your toes and plant a kiss on his scruff, unable to conceal the smile that comes at Titus talking about fatherhood so softly. âYouâre going to be a great dad.â
He blinks hard a few times. His organs feel like theyâre in the wrong order, but itâs not unpleasant. Winding his fingers with yours once more, he almost smiles. âYou really think so?â
âWouldnât have agreed to all of this-â you gesture to the ridiculous property all around â-if I didnât. Iâd kind of figured being the softie would be my job, but Iâm happy to share the load.â
Titus downright pouts. âI am not a softie.â
You nod toward the grass and lilt, âThe evidence to the contrary is pretty compelling, sweet pea.â
âThatâs too far,â he sighs, suppressing a laugh, âeven for you, my little terror.â
As you approach Titusâ house â your house â Smith steps out in front and opens up the ornate wooden door. Thereâs a golden, roaring lionâs head knocker that clicks slightly as the door swings open to reveal the marble foyer. No amount of pictures Titus texted you could do the place justice. Every detail is strikingly opulent from the golden chandeliers and Italian marble checkerboard floors to the sheer embroidered curtains and high ceilings.
The only thing you donât love is, well, Titusâs taste. You wrinkle your nose as he shows you through the sitting room and dining room. âYou really like black and gray, donât you?â
He watches you inspect his living space. Itâs been a very, very long time since heâs had a woman here. At home. âThey match everything. Itâs easy.â
âI guess,â you mutter, running your hand over a black leather couch thatâs smooth and cool beneath your fingers. You point out, âItâs a little cold for a family. I canât really imagine a baby toddling around, can you?â
âNo,â he replies honestly, âbut thatâs why I have you. Iâd like you to change it all so itâsâŚwarmer. Hire a designer or pick out everything for yourself, whatever makes you happiest.â
As your eyes rove along the under-decorated hallway toward the living wing, already imagining how you might redesign the space, you ask him, âAnd how would I do that? Will you give me a check or something?â
Titus rolls his eyes and laughs. âA check would imply a budget and supervision; I donât want any part in it unless you truly think my input would be valuable.â
âThatâs hot,â you laugh. âMore men should act like that.â
He hums, amused, and then reaches into his jacket, removes a sleek wallet, and hands you a heavy black card. The Black Card, you realize as you stare down at the centurion engraved on dark steel. âThat card is yours for whatever you like. Youâre already an authorized user on the account; I had the legal team take care of that. It auto-pays every month and I wonât even look at it, so I better not catch you overthinking your spending habits.â
âOoh la la,â you say, taking the card from him and turning it over in your hand. Youâre more than familiar with money, even his money, but itâs never been yours to spend however and whenever you want. No budget, no restrictions, no instructions. It feels almost like getting your first car; that shitbox meant freedom. Your eyes go to his and you ask, âWhatâs the limit?â
Opening up one of several bedroom doors, he tells you like it isnât even interesting, âItâs NPSL.â You swallow hard. No Preset Spending Limit. Before leading you inside, he turns around and gives you a mischievous smile. âIn fact, thereâs a minimum. To maintain our status with the company, youâll need to spend $350,000 a year on that card.â He smirks at your open-mouthed shock and muses, all cocky and coy, and touches the tip of your nose affectionately. âCan you do that for me, princess?â
âAre you joking?â
âI donât joke often.â
You balk, âWhat would I even spend that kind of money on?â
He laughs out loud. âUrsula could spend that much in an hour; Iâm sure youâll find something. For example, where have you always wanted to buy jewelry from?â
You bite your lower lip and reply, âTiffany.â
âRight, of course. I got you those earrings for Christmas,â he remembers fondly, especially fond of the mind-numbing orgasm youâd ridden out of him wearing nothing but said diamond earrings. âAny time you want, you can take your cute little ass downtown to the shop and get everything else from that collection. Better yet,â he goes on, taking his phone from his pocket and sending a few texts, âIâll get an appointment for you at their flagship in New York and you can use your fun new card on some first-class tickets for you and a friend and buy out the damn store just to show off.â Before you can roll your eyes and scoff out a response, he presses his index finger to your lips, kisses your forehead, and coos, âYouâre filthy rotten rich now, kitten, youâll have to discover ways to act like it. Now, may I continue my tour?â
You give him a giggly mock salute. âYes, sir.â
He debates jumping on it but bites his tongue, trying to keep a modicum of self-control with his regular staff lingering nearby. So he takes a breath and leads you through the open door into a vast, relatively blank bedroom, leaving Smith stationed outside. He tells you, âUntil weâre married, youâll stay here in one of the guest rooms. Anything else would be inappropriate.â
You nudge him with your hip, a little too confident. âInappropriate like all the kinky premarital sex weâve already had?â
In response, Titus grabs you hard by the waist, flipping you around and pushing you against the nearest wall, hand behind your head. Thereâs a caution to his touch, though, and it steals your breath away. Heâs certain not to be too rough with you. He cups your face in one large hand and studies your features intently. Your eyes widen as you look up into his stoic hazels, finding something dark and unreadable in them.
And then he kisses you. Deep, serious, claiming. Your knees go weak as he presses the curve of your spine, pulling you as close as possible to his body. It feels like a warning more than an act of affection. When he pulls back, he gently touches the tip of your nose with his pointer finger, drawing out a smile, and tuts, âYouâre going to have to learn not to talk like that in front of others. Itâs bad form.â
âNo sex jokes in front of the posh folk,â you tease with a serious nod. âGot it.â
âGood girl.â
âYou shouldnât call me that if you want me to behave.â With embarrassingly warm butterflies taking flight in your stomach, you push out your lower lip and give him your best puppy dog eyes. âI really have to sleep alone?â You wrap your arms around the back of his neck, leaning your weight on him. âIn an unfamiliar place?â You drag your lips up his rough neck and suck his sensitive skin, smiling to yourself when he draws in a sharp and wanting hiss. âWith my big strong fiancĂŠ all the way across the house?â
Titus gives a low chuckle, looking at you like a puzzle. He traces his finger up your neck and along your jaw until he reaches your chin, tilting it upward. He turns your face from side to side, examining you, and you shiver from the intensity. His lip twitches at the corner. âWould you really prefer to sleep in bed with me? Why?â
You take his hand in yours and guide it down to your hip. His other hand instinctively follows and they roam around to your ass, which you arch out to be more enticing. He follows by squeezing your flesh and grunting softly under his breath. You ruck your hands up beneath his shirt and rake your fingernails over his abs until you feel him tremble ever so slightly. On your toes, you whisper against his ear, âI get cold at night.â
Titus sucks in a sharp breath when you take his earlobe between your teeth and nibble ever so slightly. He leans his head back and groans, âMmm. Youâre too powerful for your own good.â
âJust powerful enough.â Then you nibble your lower lip, avert your eyes, and add bashfully, âAnd I might need you.â
His brows furrow in genuine confusion. âNeed me? For what?â
You shrug and try not to sound too vulnerable. âI mean, Iâm pregnant. What if I wake up and somethingâs wrong?â
Titus sets his jaw, considering that. He brushes his thumb over your cheek and studies one of the many emotions he doesnât have much experience with: Worry. Lowering his voice, he assures you, âNothingâs going to go wrong. Not if I can help it.â
With a sad little smile, you reply, âMoney can buy a lot of things, but it canât stop me from being scared of complications. Or worse. I donât want to have to wonder where you are if I wake up afraid.â
At that, he nods solemnly, takes your hand, and starts leading you to the opposite wing of the house. He may not experience anxieties like that, but he understands that his job is to quell yours. âCome on, then; Iâll show you our bedroom. Donât tell Father; he wouldnât understand.â
Your eyes narrow. âWill you get in trouble if he finds out?â
âYes,â he says with a dark humor in his tone and a glint in his eyes. âHeâd put me in time out and take away all my favorite toys.â Heâd have one hour to hunt me while I remain unarmed. Titus presses a kiss to the center of your forehead. âDonât worry, bunny; I can handle myself. Handling you is what Iâm worried about.â
As he pushes open a set of opulent double doors, you poke his firm shoulder and protest, âIâm a perfect angel.â
âPrecisely my concern.â As you step into the suite, he raises a silent hand to stop Smith from following. Closing the doors, Titus strides to where youâre admiring the space, wide eyes greedy over the California king, the floor-to-ceiling windows with grand velvet curtains, the massive his and hers closets. âI know itâs plain right now; I donât have much of an eye for taste â except in women, of course.â
You smack him lightly on the arm. âFlatterer.â
His deeply ingrained instincts urge him to flip your arm around, pin it behind your back, twist you into submission. But then you smile at him and itâs so warm and open and trusting and earnest that he almost smiles back. âOnly for you.â
âIâm sure thatâs not true.â You traipse into the adjoining bathroom suite and gawk at the oversized soaking tub, practically its own pool with jets and a head rest, and add, âI get the impression you have to flatter a lot of people in your world.â
âThey have to flatter me,â he corrects. You feel his hand on your back and catch sight of him watching you in the large mirror above the double vanity sinks. His first finger trails up your spine and he smiles when you shiver. âAnd soon theyâll have to flatter you, too.â
âIf they have to suck up to you, and you have to suck up to me,â you muse, turning around into his arms, âdoes that make me the boss of the whole world?â
Titus cradles your face in one hand. His expression is completely and totally confident as he tells you, âI spent the first thirty years of my life watching my mother snap her fingers-â he punctuates it with a click of his own â-and get whatever she wanted from whoever she was speaking to. She commanded attention, power, money. Everyone listened when she spoke. She was the only woman â person â my father ever acquiesced to or listened to. Nobody on earth has more power than Mrs. Danforth,â he finishes, pressing a kiss to your forehead, âand very soon that will be you.â
For a second, youâre breathless, taking in the intensity simmering in his eyes. Then you avert your gaze a second, swallow hard, and look back at him with your usual mischief. âMommy issues much?â
Rolling his eyes dramatically, Titus swats your ass and laughs, âFather is going to hate you.â
With a raised eyebrow, you needle him, âYou say that like it might actually be a good thing.â
Titus confirms, âBeing hated by my father is always a badge of honor. He canât stand me.â Then he takes your hand, leads you back to the bedroom, and sits you down on the ottoman at the foot of the bed. âNow, I have to leave for some business before I introduce you to the family tonight, but I do have one thing I need to give you in the meantime.â
âA welcome home gift?â
âSomething like that,â he replies, walking over to his bedside table and removing a black velvet box. He kneels in front of you, your legs on either side of his shoulders, and your heart starts to pound. As he opens it to reveal the ridiculous ring inside, he begins, âNow, bunny, if you want a proper proposal with a string quartet or a sunset on the beach, Iâll do that, but for-â
âTitus, shut up,â you whisper. âIs thisâŚfor me?â
Your eyes are glued to the ring. Youâve never seen anything like it. Clearly itâs an antique piece; the metalwork and stones have been meticulously maintained and show a high level of craftsmanship. The large center diamond is black â an almost surreal color, both drawing light in and flinging it out, seeming at once opaque and transparent from different angles â and surrounded by a halo of small pearls and diamonds set in fine platinum. Itâs not eye-catching so much as jaw-dropping.
Your heartbeat thuds and whooshes in your ears as Titus removes the ring from the box and takes your left hand in his. You splay your fingers to give him better access.
âMy great grandfather had it made for his wife and my mother held onto it for me to give to mine, not that she believed Iâd ever find one. It wonât be the most expensive piece in your collection, but itâs the most precious and rare to our family name.â Titus slides it onto your finger and then kisses the skin just above it, his lips softer than youâve ever felt. He holds your hand in his and urges. âI never want to see you without it.â
âI should take it off to shower and sleep,â you point out absently, still staring at the ring. You flick your eyes up to his. âAnd I assume youâd still like to see me those times.â
âIâm going to have to start punishing you for all this flirting, you know.â
You raise an eyebrow. âIs that a promise?â
He shakes his head and lets out a sharp, amused breath. âOh, youâre in for it now.â
In the next breath, Titus smirks and lifts you easily, tossing you up onto the bed. As you shriek out a laugh, the plush fabric and thick mattress catch you like a cartoon cloud. Titus pounces on you like a panther while youâre still getting your bearings, hiking your skirt up around your waist and yanking your panties down hard enough to rip the elastic. You donât complain; for every pair of your underwear heâs ruined, Titus has always gifted you five more from nicer shops.
His fingers circle your clit hard and fast, working you up frantically, and you know exactly what his game is. Itâs one he plays often and well. Youâve got no choice but to enjoy the expert way he touches you, months of knowing how to get you off and bring you down painstakingly memorized.
Then, as you expect, the very moment your walls start to clamp down, Titus stops all touch and slaps your clit hard. The sting rockets up your spine and you gasp. Your thighs shake and he laughs at your mewling.
Before you can even start to think , he pulls his shirt off, casts it aside, and crawls onto the bed next to you. Then his middle two fingers are on your clit again and his lips lock onto yours and youâre moaning and whining and hoping, hoping, hoping he wonât-
He slaps your clit once more and you nearly knee him with the force of your bodyâs reaction. He stills your leg with a smirk and coos, âCareful, princess, youâll pull a muscle. Canât have that.â
You challenge him with narrow eyes. âThen how about you pin me down and fuck me so I donât squirm?â
âSo goddamn greedy,â he huffs. âYouâre lucky Iâm in a good mood today.â
âI wonder whose fault that is.â
You watch, mouth watering, as he takes off his belt and slacks. You even notice the brief hesitation as the leather belt runs over his fingers; youâve been known to beg for a whipping with it on more than one occasion. But heâs being gentle with you â for Titus, at least. He returns to you on the bed with a wolfish gaze, spreading your legs apart and admiring you for long enough to make your breath hitch. When you feel the tip of his swollen cock nudging at your entrance, itâs with a toe-curling gentility that makes your body sensitive.
Titus always thrusts into you agonizingly slow, no matter how worked up either of you are. He savors the little flutters and twitches that come with filling your pretty cunt millimeter by breathless millimeter. Once heâs seated inside of you, feeling the way your hips instinctively roll back into his and how your cunt is clamping onto him like it needs reassurance, Titus presses his thumb to your lower lip and orders, âBeg.â
And even though youâre having to actively hold back from squirming and moaning, you know he loves the chase, so you grip his curls tight and reply, âWhy should I?â
âGod, you fucking brat.â He spits on your face and you lick it off your lips, never dropping his eyes that trace your movements. âIf you wonât beg for what you want, then I expect you to stay there and take whatever I give you.â
Your eyes widen in a mix of lust and fear, right on the primal line that Titus so loves to play with. One of his hands goes down to cover your mouth. Thereâs a millisecond where his eyes flick up to yours, asking permission, and itâs gone as soon as you give an imperceptible nod. When you and Titus fuck, your minds run parallel to one another; the same temptations and ideas call both your attention.
Once his salty, heavy palm is clamping your mouth shut, Titus fucks you like he needs. Your pleasure becomes entirely secondary to him; he only touches your clit because it amuses him to watch you squirm and kick and writhe, unable to speak or moan or do much of anything besides take it.
When he hikes your legs higher, working you into a full mating press that lets him fuck you hard and deep, your eyes roll back and your moans turn into squeaks. His thumb continues its strumming on your clit as you start to shake from pleasure. He purrs, âThere we go.â
And then he cums.
Unannounced, unplanned, unrepentant. He pulls out and gives your thigh an affectionate pat.
You grab his hand and wail, âNo, no, no no no nonono! Titus!â
He lifts your fingers to his lips and kisses each one softly, âDidnât I say this was a punishment? You have to learn to behave yourself.â
You lean back, raise your arms above your head so that your tits are on beautiful display, and look up at him like an innocent, needy puppy. After a beat of charged silence where his eyes ravish your body, you say the one word youâre always careful to withhold from him until the right moment: âPlease.â
Above the bed like a god, Titus gazes down at you, panting and disheveled and leaking his cum. He tsks and sighs, âHow am I supposed to punish you when you take me so well?â Then he drops to his knees, hooks his arms beneath your legs, and tugs you to the end of the bed as if you weigh nothing. âWhen youâve done everything Iâve asked without complaint?â He slides two fingers into your sopping cunt, curling them toward himself and grinning when you arch your back and whine out in pleasure. He nips your inner thighs with his teeth and rests his free hand on your lower abdomen, over your womb. Leaning toward your wrecked pussy, he murmurs at last, âWhen youâre carrying my child? I couldnât possibly deny you.â
And he descends on your swollen, aching clit. The taste of his own cum mixed with your juices drives him wild. The taste of his ownership. After all the edging, youâre mere moments from tumbling over the precipice.
He doesnât make you wait any longer.
He growls into your cunt as you spasm around his fingers, the orgasm burning up your spine and boiling beneath your cheeks. Your back arches and he refuses to let you stop cumming, keeping his tongue just as firm and fast as you punch into overstimulation. Itâs so good it borders on painful and thatâs what he loves the most. The moment when you cry out his name and try to push his shoulders back because itâs just too much and only he can finally release you.
Your chest heaves as you collapse back onto the bed. Titus slowly withdraws his fingers from your pussy and licks them clean, drunk on the taste of the two of you becoming one. You canât talk or think as you rest the back of your hand on your forehead to cool it down. After a few moments of breathing, you smirk up at him and tease, âI knew youâd cave, you big softie.â
He kneels over you again. âI assure you it was completely selfish; making you cum strokes my ego.â
âMhmm. Whatever you say.â
Titus tuts out a chuckle and checks his watch before swearing under his breath. After a searing kiss that gives you the sense he wants nothing more than to start a second round, Titus sighs, âThree hours as my live-in trophy wife and youâre already making me late.â
You nip his collarbone. âBite me.â
âDonât tempt me.â He holds your chin and orders gently, âAsk Chip to take you downtown. Designer district. Buy an outfit that makes you feel perfect and be home in time for dinner at six.â
At 5:58, Titus knocks on the door of his own home with a bouquet of white roses. He can already imagine you rolling your eyes at his display before Smith opens up the door on your behalf. Titus is pleased to see that you let him open it without argument, already beginning to accept having others watch out for you.
You step into the moonlight and Titus hands off the flowers to Smith, who falls back behind you. For a moment, Titus is at a loss for words. Youâve always made a point of dressing up and looking beautiful for him; thatâs a part of your arrangement, a part of the business of being a professional sugar baby. Heâs even paid for you to get plenty of lovely pieces to add to your wardrobe.
But this?
Youâve spent the handful of hours since he left (and attended several excruciating meetings) pampering yourself into a state more akin to divinity than humanity. He may not have the eye for fashion that his sister does, but he can easily identify the trappings of a woman feeling confident about herself: Freshly French-tipped nails, sleek high heels with a thin strap around your ankle, makeup subtle and feminine. The burgundy halter dress hugs your curves, the silk crepe just structured enough to be formal but swinging enough to be sweet and flirty.
He wants to devour you.
And when he kisses you hello, he makes it obvious, dipping you far backwards and gripping your hip like it owes him money. He can feel the designer quality of the dress, soft as butter, under his fingertips. Then he rakes his hands up your thighs and growls against your ears, âIâm not going to be able to keep my hands off you in the one situation where I absolutely have to.â
You give him a modest twirl and ask, âYou really like it?â
 With his hand on your lower back, Titus guides you toward the main house and purrs, sounding both proud and possessive, âYou look perfectly at home in luxury, kitten.â
You try to quell your nerves as you walk up the marble steps to the back entrance of the home, where Smith opens the large glass doors to usher you both inside. Unlike Titusâ â and your, you have to keep reminding yourself â house, the main house is opulently designed, drenched in old-school grandeur. Everything is antique, hundreds of years old, in dark woods and rich silks. Itâs more like walking through a museum than a home.
When Titus brings you into the grand dining room, you can see just how well his father and sister match the decor. Thin, severe, expensive. His sister is drop-dead gorgeous in a very â90s leading lady way while his father has the sort of face and demeanor usually reserved for stereotypical evil wizards or vampire counts. Titus has to push you into their eyeline when you find yourself shrinking beneath their stares.
Mr. Danforth and Ursula both stand to greet you but donât move otherwise. Titus takes a deep breath and announces, âFather, Ursula, Iâd like to introduce the future Mrs. Danforth.â
Father offers you his hand first, but youâre clearly not supposed to shake it, so you just present your own. He lifts your hand to his lips and kisses your skin softly. âHow lovely to finally make your acquaintance. My son has sung your praises extensively.â
âThatâs very sweet.â You bite your tongue despite how easy it would be to tease Titus because you know for a fact he never wouldâve mentioned you to them at all if it werenât for the baby. You stick with a polite albeit slightly stiff, âMr. Danforth, itâs an honor to meet you.â
Titusâ gentle, affirmative pat to your arm almost makes you laugh â the situation is too weird for words â but you still hold back. Itâs a truly herculean effort not to point out how otherworldly this whole thing is. You havenât exactly met people who just reek of power and status, their presence so effortlessly commanding that you want to laugh so you donât cry or hide.
Then itâs Ursulaâs turn with you. She doesnât shake hands, doesnât hug, doesnât even speak for a solid thirty seconds. You can feel Ursulaâs eyes on every inch of you, dissecting and analyizing. Itâs like sheâs trying to see through your skin or maybe telepathically peel it off your bones. Youâre holding your breath until she finally says, âYouâre very pretty.â
âThank you.â Swallowing hard, you force a wobbly smile and tell her, âYou look stunning, exactly like I expected from how your brother talks about your fashion sense.â
She waves her hand dismissively. âPlease; Titus wouldnât know fashion sense if I smacked him over the head with it. And Iâve tried.â Before you can try to come up with any possible response, she gestures to your dress and asks, âWhere is this little number from? It looks appropriately expensive for the occasion. A gift from our Titus, I assume?â
âUm, yes, he sent me shopping today.â
She gives you a pitying sort of smile and squeezes your forearm in a way that feels truly predatory. âHeâs always so generous with his playthings.â
Titus clears his throat. âUrsula.â
âIâm just teasing,â she laughs without any humor. Then her narrowed eyes return to you. âReally, though, where did you find a dress like this in our dingy little city?â
You smooth out the fabric and tell her, âItâs, um, itâs Yves Saint Laurent.â
âLooks like something I would wear.â
You try on a soft, self-deprecating laugh. âI told Chip to take me somewhere you would shop.â
âMaybe Iâll go and pick one up in my size,â she muses, still scanning your body for every flaw, which youâre suddenly painfully aware of, coming up with brand new insecurities every second her focus moves. âIâd ask to borrow it, but yours would drown me.â
Titus cuts her off sharply, âThatâs enough.â
She pouts at her brother. âDonât be so sensitive, ducky; Iâm sure she can-â
âNo.â Youâve never heard Titusâ voice as stone cold and commanding as when he tells her, an order and a punishment, âNever speak down to her. Never.â
Ursula rolls her eyes and plops herself dramatically in one of the oversized dining chairs. She pouts and says, âFatherhood is already making you so boring. Now Iâm going to have to weaponize her against you so I have someone to complain with about how boring you are. Sigh.â
And dinner goes just about like that.
Mr. Danforth unabashedly interrogates you about your life, your family, your history. Ursula critiques your answers. Titus snaps at them both when they push too far. You just try to hold onto your fork and sneak bites of decadent food in between the family bickering. You can tell thereâs a kind of affection entirely foreign to you in the way they jab and dodge each otherâs barbs. The way rich people talk to each other â all subtext and speed â is surreal to listen to. Eyes rolled about memories in St. Barts and arguments over clients in Aspen; itâs like theyâre speaking a different language from the one you learned growing up.
By the time youâve finished pretending to like flan because youâre terrified of being rude, they seem to have hashed out all their regular arguments, everyone beyond ready to leave the rest alone. Titus can tell youâre getting overwhelmed by their equally intense presences fighting for dominance, so he slides his hand protectively onto your knee and announces, âI think weâve kept my fiancĂŠe awake late enough, havenât we?â
Ursula pouts, leaning across the table and snatching your left hand into hers for examination. âYou already gave her motherâs ring and I missed the grand proposal? How tragically unromantic.â
Father sighs, âTheyâre doing things a touch out of order, darling.â
âI wouldnât want an extravagant proposal anyway,â you manage to squeak out. âA nice private moment between the two of us was perfect.â
âAh, so sheâs the one making you boring,â Ursula laughs. Then she lowers her gaze and adds, âIf you donât like extravagance, you may be marrying into the wrong family. Your wedding guest list is already 250 people long.â
âIâm definitely looking forward to all of it,â you assure as you desperately try not to sound either meek or ungrateful, âbut Titus is being kind enough to ease me into the waters. Trust me: The beautiful estate and stunning, personal ring made as much of a statement as any proposal.â
Father smirks at you with a pleased satisfaction that seems to surprise Titus and his sister. âWhat a diplomatic response. My daughter will be lucky to learn from your decorum.â
As Titus stifles a laugh, Ursula stands up dramatically from the table and reminds him, âIâm literally a diplomat, Father. Try telling the people of Monaco that Iâm anything but diplomatic when I personally broke ground on the countryâs latest arts center.â
âThat was for optics,â Titus cuts back, adding under this breath, âunlike my work in Geneva.â
Ursula brandishes her knife like she might really use it on him, making you gasp gently under your breath, and thatâs when Father officially clears his throat and stands with a curt, âI think thatâs enough family time for one night.â
âI completely agree,â Titus replies, rolling his shoulders before he stands up. After pulling your chair out and guiding you to your feet, he says, âWeâll see you both at the Governorâs Ball on Saturday.âÂ
Titus shakes his fatherâs hand at the end of dinner and, once again, you have to remind yourself not to tease him. Thankfully, itâs a surgical extraction from there and Titus has you walking back toward your house in no time.
After Titus dismisses Smith for the night and arms the extensive home security system, he meets you in the primary bathroom, where youâre unclasping your jewelry and examining yourself in the mirror. Titus mustâve had someone on staff put away your things because your bedtime skincare routine is laid out on the countertop. Before reaching for any of it, you bite your lip and ask Titus, âBe honest: Did I do okay?â
He comes up behind you, slipping his strong arms around your waist. âYou did great. Iâm only sorry Ursula was so very-â he struggles to find the right word â-Ursula.â
âI expected worse,â you tell him with half a smile. âI didnât expect you to stand up for me, though. To your sister.â
âUrsula is the family the universe gave me. Sheâs my best friend and my closest confidant â and sheâs a nightmare. A hellion.â Titus kisses your forehead and gently touches your stomach. âYouâre the family Iâm choosing. That means you come first, button. Iâm not going to have my children watch their father sit idly by while their mother is insulted. Iâm practicing setting a good example.â
You stand up on your toes and kiss him on the cheek. âThank you.â
Titus runs his hands up your spine and fiddles with the halter tie at the back of your neck. âNow letâs get you out of this very lovely dress so you can sleep. Do you need a back rub? Some ginger tea?â
You raise an eyebrow as you slowly take out your cleanser and reusable cotton rounds. âAre those real offers or are you teasing me?â
âReal offers. From either a masseuse I can have here in fifteen minutes and our chef or from me personally.â He tugs the dress down your body, guides you to step out of it, and discards it in the bathroom hamper like you didnât pay $3,200 for it a few hours ago. âNo funny business, just relaxation and rest, especially well earned after spending a few hours with my family.â
âI could probably tolerate a foot rub before bed,â you giggle as he kisses across the tops of your shoulders.
âGo on, then.â He strips off his own shirt and makes quick work of his belt and slacks, too. Looking deliciously sturdy in just his black boxer briefs, he leans against the bathroom doorframe and says. âFinish getting un-ready and come lie down with me, princess. Iâll make sure to get you nice and relaxed before bed.â
âYou want me to do my whole bedtime routine topless?â
âIâll grab you something from your closet,â he offers, frowning a little because he admittedly does like the idea of watching you traipsing around with your tits out. When he returns with a tank top and silky shorts, he notices you still havenât started taking off your full face of makeup. Too knowingly, he strolls into the bathroom with the pajamas and asks, all low and teasing, âAre you nervous to take off your makeup in front of me?â
You toy with the damp cloth, studying him in the mirror, and admit, âA little. And not just the makeup.â
He crosses his arms over his chest and laughs, âIâve seen you naked, kitty.â
You scoff, âNaked and made up with at minimum highlighter and mascara. Or in very manicured outfits.â
He offers, âIâve also seen you in pajamas before.â
âLingerie,â you correct. âYou donât really think I sleep in slutty little negligees and teddies, do you?â
âA man can dream.â
âWell, if you hadnât noticed, typically you rip those off me, fuck me unconscious, and then leave before my actual bedtime routine,â you reply, poking him in his hard chest. As you tug on the tank top and shorts, you go on, âI usually wake up around midnight, get room service on your tab, and sleep in my ugly sweats since you never spend the night.â
Clearly amused by the whole thing, he presses, âAre you worried Iâll rescind my proposal to the mother of my child because you arenât a model in your sleep?â
âI donât know!â You huff and glare at him, knowing full well youâre being hormonally dramatic now. âThis is all very new to me, Titus. I have to wear a four-figure dress to dinner and go to the fucking Governorâs Ball, I guess, but I still have to be me at bedtime? All while figuring out how to be your fiancĂŠe and not just your sugar baby? Itâs weird.â
Titus closes the space between you, each step stern and confident. He takes the makeup removal pad and cleanser from you, gently lathers the cloth, and starts to work it over your face without saying a word. Titus says the most when he's silent. Right away, you melt beneath his touch. His totally sturdy gaze. Quietly, he relents, âItâs a lot. I know that. You donât have to come to the big social events right away; we can start smaller than the fucking Governorâs Ball.â He smiles when you crack one of your own. âIf you arenât ready to jump right into being my wife, there are plenty of other bedrooms you can stay in and have your own space.â
âI donât want my own space,â you whisper back. âIâm just scared of taking up too much of yours, I guess. Or not fitting into your life the way you expect. Of being Mrs. Danforth correctly. Not looking expensive enough or beautiful enough or-â
âQuiet now,â he interrupts, words harsh and clear but tone nothing but warm. âDo you know what I want from Mrs. Danforth?â Titus finishes wiping your face of its mask and then examines your products and selects your moisturizer. He massages it into your face and neck with fingers so tender you could cry. When heâs finished, he holds your face in one large hand and murmurs, âI want you to sit by my side and sleep in my arms. You. We have the rest of our lives to work out the details.â
For the first time, you feel the real you slip out in front of Titus. No flirting, no pushing, no hiding. All you can manage to whisper is, âThank you.â
He gives you a soft kiss and then goes on, quiet but urgent. âAs for worrying about your appearance, you have never been lovelier to me than you are right now,â leading you to the bed and sitting you down with your feet in his lap, he finishes, âbecause youâre mine. And thatâs the most perfect thing you can be.â
ACROSS THE HALL (MICHAEL "ROBBY" ROBINAVITCH) | MASTERLIST
12 Part Series Completed
Michael "Robby Robinavitch x F! Teacher/Neighbor Reader
Summary: Youâve lived across from Michael "Robby" Robinavitch, an ER doctor, for a year. Your interactions have always been briefâpolite smiles and small talk in the elevator. In your own relationship, you often feel invisible, reaching out for someone who never quite reciprocates. One evening, after your boyfriend flakes on you and leaves you feeling disappointed, Michael unexpectedly steps in, offering a kind gesture that turns the night around. What starts as an act of casual kindness begins to shift into something deeper, and you start to realize that Michaelâs quiet presence might be exactly what youâve been missing.
Warning: Age Gap (mid 20s / early 50âs), swearing, romantic/intimate content, head injury (fractured skull), non sexual nudity
Summary: On your first flight with your six month old daughter, you struggle to get her to settle. That is until the man seated beside you, Jack Abbott, steps in to help.
CONSTANT AS SCARS (ANDREW âPOPEâ CODY) | MASTERLIST
Andrew âPopeâ Cody Ă F! Friend/Paramedic Reader
Summary: Scrapes, gashes, cuts, bruises, gunshot wounds from some reckless job, seemed to cling to Andrew Cody like a shadow he could never shake. Every time he plunged into danger, every time he crossed a line, it all somehow led him back to you. You were there to patch him up, to steady him when the world left him raw and bleeding. His trouble was constant, unavoidable. And somehow, against all odds, so were you.
SUMMARY: Jack Abbot is not an overly-neighborly person. He has secret nicknames in his head for most of the people on his floor and actively avoids any and all types of neighbor politics. However, he canât deny his growing fondness for the single mom and toddler in apartment seventeen. (Nor his burning hatred for your baby daddy).
WARNINGS: this series includes a very chaotic reader with an even more chaotic toddler, mentions of abandonment, Jack's inability to consider anything good and worthwhile for himself, eventual smut, friends to lovers, mentions of previous abusive relationships, mentions of mental health struggles, miscommunication, age gap (reader is around 27 and Jack is in his 40's), medical inaccuracies and more.
A/N: I am very very excited to share this series and bring it to life. It started as a very random idea that quickly transpired into a huge story in my head within a matter of minutes. It does touch on some potentially triggering topics but warnings will be given in each chapter!
PAIRING: Jack Abbot x Single Mom!Reader
STATUS: Ongoing
âââ â CHAPTERS â
PART ONE đ¤âĄ â Jack Abbot values his routine and structure. Work, SWAT, gym... and for the past six weeks, spending his Sunday mornings admiring the enigmatic single mom who's apartment balcony sits across from his. [3k]
PART TWO đ¤âĄ â A scuffle in the hall causes Jack to accidentally take Phoebeâs wallet to work instead of his. He gains himself a new nickname amongst the Pitt and finally learns a thing or two about you and your daughter. [7.3k]
PART THREE đ¤ â A trip to the ED, a retirement meal, and a phone call with Robby. One leaves you up close and personal with your neighbor, one has Phoebe spilling secrets like it's an Olympic sport, and another has Jack realizing he's got a fucking crush on the single mom in apartment seventeen. [7.1k]
PART FOUR đ¤âĄ â Phoebe's birthday party consists of four sets of eyes ogling Jack from the second he enters your apartment, screaming children, your mom noticing something rather interesting, and a night on the balcony that changes the trajectory of everything. [8.7k]
⤡ PART 4.5 đ¤ â You don't hear from Jack for three days after the kiss. But despite being swamped at the hospital, after he reaches out via text, he doesn't stop. [SMAU]
PART FIVE đ¤â â When Jack offers his company in the form of a date to celebrate your book release, he gets to understand the inner workings of your mind a bit more. Unfortunately, it does leave him with an ache he has to tend to using nothing but his own imagination. [7.8k]
PART SIX đ¤â â Three months of dating with no label and no real sense of security has you spiralling a bit when Tom demands to meet Jack. And you quickly start to realize that despite your attempts of keeping Phoebe and Jack apart, some bonds form whether you intend for them to or not. â June 23rd
PART SEVEN đ¤â â June 27th
PART EIGHT đ¤âĄ â July 2nd
PART NINE đ¤ â July 7th
PART TEN (FINALE) â July 15th
âââ â EXTRAS â
#APT.17 (a tag for anything related to this series)
SUNDAY FUNK DAY SPOTIFY PLAYLIST
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Coffee. Compliments. Lingering touches. Lines so obvious they may as well come with annotations.
Unfortunately, Robby appears to believe this is simply excellent nursing care.
Dana finds this deeply entertaining.
Five times he doesnât notice.
One time you finally make him.
Word Count: 11,5K
Rating: general
Tags/Content warnings: workplace romance, flirting, Robby is completely oblivious, humor, mostly fluff, soft moments, idiots in love, confessions, first kiss, happy ending, second person POV, no use of Y/N
AN: you cannot convince me this man wouldn't be oblivious to flirting. I think he wouldn't even think someone would want to flirt with him. Anywayâenjoy đ¤
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Your crush on Dr. Michael Robinavitch has been an open secret to everyone except the man himself.
Which feels statistically improbable, given the number of people involved, but here you are.
You try subtle.
Very subtle.
Subtle in the way a moth is subtle when it keeps reappearing near the same porch light.
You find reasons to be within armâs reach when he dictates ordersâclose enough to hear the quiet rasp at the back of his voice when heâs been awake too long, close enough to smell antiseptic and coffee and whatever soap he uses that smells aggressively utilitarian.
You pass him instruments before he asks. Youâre already holding the chart when he turns. You anticipate him the way nurses do when theyâve worked with someone for a decadeâor the way someone does when theyâve been paying far too much attention and need to maybe go outside and touch grass.
You tell yourself itâs professional. You tell yourself youâre just good at your job. You tell yourself a lot of things, actually. Youâre very articulate in your own head.
In your head, youâre devastatingly charming.
Out loud, you mostly nod.
The ER hums the way it always does: fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant clinging to everything.
You lean in as Robby dictates discharge instructions, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that makes him look perpetually one bad cup of coffee away from homicide.
You hand him the pen before he asks.
He doesnât even look at you. Just takes it, continues talking.
Which is fine. Totally fine. This is how professionals behave. This is normal.
Dana watches you clock out at the end of the shift, arms crossed, expression sharp with the kind of amusement that comes from knowing too much.
âYou keep orbiting him like that,â she says mildly, âsomeoneâs going to start calling it gravitational.â
You pause mid-bag-shoulder-sling. âIâm being subtle.â
Dana snorts. Itâs inelegant. Itâs devastating. âYouâre being invisible.â
Rude. Accurate. But rude.
So you decide to take matters into your own hands.
⌠â ËË ŕ¨ŕ§ ËË â âŚ
You start with caffeine, because caffeine is universal. Reliable. Non-threatening. Also, if nothing else, it will keep him alive long enough to notice you, which feels like a reasonable goal to set for yourself. Manageable. Achievable. Low emotional risk.
You learn his coffee order by observation alone. A little milk. No sugar. Strong enough to raise the dead. You learn this the way one learns all dangerous things: quietly, carefully, without admitting to anyoneâincluding yourselfâthat youâre doing it.
You begin making sure it appears on his desk during shifts.
Not announced. Not labeled. Just there. Steam curling faintly in the air. A benevolent force of nature. Like weather. Or fate. Or a very tired nurse with poor impulse control.
The first few times, he doesnât comment. He just drinks it. Which feels⌠promising? Maybe? You try not to read into it. You read into it anyway. You read into everything.
One night, on a whimâon a deeply questionable whimâyou write his name on the cup.
You stare at the blank cardboard for a full thirty seconds, marker hovering. You weigh the pros and cons. The pros: he might notice you. The cons: you might die from embarrassment.
You add a tiny smiley face.
You immediately regret it. You commit anyway.
You set the cup down and walk away like nothing in your life has ever mattered less.
He picks it up without comment.
You pretend to reorganize a drawer you reorganized an hour ago. You are very busy. Extremely focused. A paragon of productivity.
âWho made this?â he asks the room.
Your heart does something profoundly unprofessional.
âI did,â you say, leaning against the counter, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near strained confidence. You meet his eyes. You give him a look you are certain could crack glass, or at least communicate hello, I exist, please acknowledge this fact.
He studies the cup. The name. The smiley face. His mouth twitchesânot quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.
âGood call,â he says. âSaved my life.â
And then he turns back to his computer.
Thatâs it.
No follow-up. No lingering glance. No dawning realization that you are, in fact, a person with a face and a personality and a truly alarming amount of affection for him.
You wait.
You linger.
You give him another look, this one sharper, more deliberate, the kind that has historically been effective on bartenders and one regrettable ex.
He doesnât get it.
He never gets it.
You sigh internally, telling yourselfâagainâthat this is fine. That this is just a crush. That you are a grown adult with a job and a life and absolutely no business falling for a man who doesnât notice smiley faces on his coffee cups.
Later, you overhear him tell an intern:
âThe nurses here really look out for you.â
You freeze mid-step, one hand wrapped around a stack of IV kits, the other hovering uselessly in the air like youâve forgotten what hands are for.
Really look out for you.
Nurses.
You stare at the supply room door in front of you, the beige paint chipped from years of gurneys clipping the frame, and seriously consider screaming directly into it. Not a polite scream. Not a dignified one. A feral, banshee-level howl that might echo all the way down to radiology.
You donât. You are, tragically, an adult.
Inside your head, however, you are already screaming.
Nurses. As if the coffee just materialized out of thin air. As if caffeine itself clocked in for the shift and decided he looked especially exhausted. As if a disembodied union of scrubs and competence collectively decided to adopt him.
You picture the smiley face on the cup. The tiny one. The one you debated like it was a life-altering moral decision.
Apparently, it died for nothing.
You retreat to the nursesâ station, jaw tight, brain buzzing with the static of unspent emotion and overthinking. Dana clocks you instantly, because of course she does. Sheâs been doing this longer than youâve been alive. She can smell romantic distress the way some people smell rain.
She leans back in her chair, arms folded, eyes bright with restrained amusement.
âOh no,â she says. âYou heard it.â
âHe thinks Iâm a collective,â you say flatly. âIâve been absorbed into the nursing hive mind.â
Dana snorts. âAt least he appreciates the hive.â
You drop into the chair beside her, spin it once, stop abruptly. Your leg bounces. You cannot stop it.
âI wrote his name on the cup,â you say quietly. âThere was a smiley face.â
Danaâs eyebrows climb. âBold.â
âI lingered,â you continue. âI linger. I make eye contact that should legally require a warning label.â
âAnd yet,â Dana says gently, âhere we are.â
You scrub a hand down your face. The ER hums around youâmonitors chiming, a trauma bay curtain snapping shut, someone arguing in triage. The world continues on, indifferent to your suffering.
âHeâs not being dense on purpose,â Dana says, still watching you spiral. âHeâs just⌠like that.â
You glance at her. âLike what?â
She tilts her head, considers. âOblivious to romance. Exceptionally competent about everything else.â
You let out a humorless laugh. âThatâs the worst possible combination.â
âTell me about it,â Dana says. âBrilliant hands. Terrible radar.â
You glance down the hallway where heâs standing now, shoulders hunched slightly as he listens to the intern, nodding along, offering calm, precise advice like the very embodiment of competence and control. He looks tired. He always looks tired. Something in your chest softens despite yourself.
âThat man could diagnose a patient through a wall,â you mutter, âbut canât recognize a crush if it hands him coffee with a smiley face.â
Dana hums. âTo be fair, youâre very subtle.â
You shoot her a look.
âIâm being strategic,â you say. âThis is a slow burn.â
âSure,â she says. âJust know you might have to light the match.â
You donât respond right away. You watch him laugh at something the intern says, just a brief huff of sound, gone almost as soon as it appears. It does something deeply inconvenient to your internal organs.
You sigh.
âNext time,â you say, resigned, âIâm drawing a heart.â
Dana grins.
⌠â ËË ŕ¨ŕ§ ËË â âŚ
You abandon subtlety.
Not dramaticallyâno grand declaration, no sudden hand on his chest in the middle of the trauma bay. Just the quiet, weary realization that implication is a language he does not speak. Or if he does, itâs one he refuses to acknowledge out of stubbornness, self-preservation, or a tragic devotion to professional boundaries that borders on ascetic.
Fine. Words it is.
The ER hums around you in its usual state of controlled chaos: monitors chirping like anxious birds, the low murmur of nurses exchanging vitals, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant clinging to everything, including your clothes. Youâre leaning against the counter near the charting station, arms folded loosely, watching him finish dictating notes from the last trauma.
Heâs still riding the aftershock of itâadrenaline not quite spent, shoulders tight beneath his scrubs, hair a little mussed in that irritating way that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine titled Overworked But Competent. Blood stains have been scrubbed from his forearms, but you can still see faint water marks where he rushed through it.
You clear your throat.
âYou were incredible in that trauma,â you say, tone deliberately even, like this is a completely normal thing colleagues say to each other all the time and youâre not testing a hypothesis.
He looks up, startled just enough to notice. His expression softens into something easy, open.
âThanks,â he says. âGood teamwork.â
Of course. Of course thatâs what he says.
You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to point out that teamwork does not usually involve him giving orders with surgical precision while you anticipate them half a second before he speaks. Teamwork does not usually make your pulse jump when he looks at you like thatâfocused, trusting, utterly unaware of the effect.
âRight,â you say instead. âTeamwork.â
Heâs already turned back to the computer, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Compliment absorbed, neutralized, filed away under Professional Affirmation. You feel a strange mix of irritation and grudging fondness. Mostly irritation.
Fine.
You try again later.
Different shift. Different light. Same him.
Itâs quieterâone of those rare lulls that feel like borrowed time. The overhead lights have been dimmed slightly, casting everything in a flatter, softer glow. Heâs standing near the med room, sipping vending machine coffee like itâs a necessary evil rather than a beverage, shoulders slumped in the particular way of someone who has been awake too long but refuses to admit it.
You approach with intent.
âYou look good today,â you say, deliberately casual, as if youâre commenting on the weather or the state of the supply room. You donât smile. You donât soften it. You just let the words sit there between you, unadorned.
He blinks.
Once. Twice.
âOh. Uh.â He glances down at himself, like the answer might be written somewhere on his scrubs. âLong shift,â he says. âProbably just the lighting.â
You stare at him.
Not glaringâno, this is worse. This is the slow, incredulous stare of someone watching a grown man walk directly into a glass door and then apologize to it. You feel deeply, personally offended. By his humility. By his complete inability to parse meaning. By the fact that you have now complimented him twice and he has somehow managed to dodge both like they were incoming projectiles.
The lighting.
Right.
âSure,â you say. âThe lighting that makes you look⌠competent.â
He frowns, confused. âIs thatââ
âItâs a compliment,â you interrupt, a little too quickly. You can feel heat creeping up your neck, annoyance prickling under your skin. Youâre not embarrassedâno, that would imply regret. This is more like being thwarted by an unexpectedly dense puzzle.
âOh.â He smiles then, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. âThanks.â
There it is again. That smile. The one that makes you forget, briefly, why youâre annoyed at all. Itâs open and unguarded, like he genuinely doesnât understand why anyone would look at him and see something worth commenting on.
Which is absurd. Objectively.
You turn away before you do something reckless, like point out the exact list of reasons he looks good todayâbroad shoulders filling out those scrubs, the silver streak in his beard and on his temples, the way his voice drops when heâs tired.
Still, you donât stop.
If anything, you escalate.
You start finding reasons to be near himâcharting beside him, handing him supplies he didnât ask for, lingering just long enough to say things like, âNice call back there,â or âYouâre really good with patients,â or, once, when he manages to de-escalate a particularly hostile family member, âYou have a calming presence. Itâs annoying.â
âThat doesnât sound like a compliment,â he says, amused.
âIt is,â you reply. âIâm just mad about it.â
He laughs at thatâactually laughsâand for a moment you feel like youâve cracked something. Like maybe, finally, heâs seeing it. The intent beneath the words. The way youâre watching him, not just as a colleague, but as someone who is increasingly, inconveniently important.
Then he says, âYouâre good too, you know. Really sharp. Patients trust you.â
And just like that, it slides back into safe territory.
You smile, because youâre not cruel. Because you do like him. Because part of you suspects that if you pushed any harder, heâd retreat entirely, and youâre not ready for that yet.
But as you walk away, you canât help thinking:
This shouldnât be this hard.
Youâve stopped hinting. Youâre using words now. Clear ones.
If he still doesnât catch on?
Well.
Youâll figure out something else.
You escalate further.
Not recklesslyâno, this is a calculated escalation. A measured one. Youâve ruled out subtlety, exhausted compliments, survived the humiliation of watching him interpret flirtation as atmospheric lighting. This is the next logical step: honesty, softened just enough to be deniable if it goes poorly.
Itâs late. Of course it is. The kind of hour where the ER finally exhales after hours of holding its breath. The trauma bays are quiet, the monitors mercifully steady, the fluorescent lights humming with that faint electrical buzz that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Your feet ache in a deep, structural way. Your coffee has gone cold twice.
Heâs at the counter across from you, sleeves pushed up, reviewing labs with the concentration of someone who refuses to half-do anything. Thereâs a pen tucked behind his ear. You notice it. You always notice stupid things like that.
You hover. Casual. Definitely casual.
âYou know, I like working with you,â you say.
Your voice comes out softer than intended. Less banter, more⌠something else. You hate that you can hear it. You hate more that he can too.
He looks up immediately. That part is promising. His expression warms, easy and genuine, like youâve just handed him something uncomplicated.
âLikewise,â he says without hesitation. âYouâre one of our strongest nurses.â
There it is.
You feel something inside you shrivel politely and die.
Strongest nurse.
Not favorite person to share a shift with. Not I feel steadier when youâre here. Not even I like you too in the dangerous, human way. Noâthis is a performance review. This is the sentence that gets written in emails to administration.
You blink once. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you move too fast, you might scream.
âWow,â you say, because silence would be suspicious. âHigh praise.â
He smiles, entirely sincere, entirely oblivious. âI mean it. You anticipate needs, you keep your head under pressure. Patients respond to you. Makes a difference on shifts like this.â
You nod, because that is objectively nice. Because he is being kind. Because it is not his fault that every word he says lands half an inch to the left of where you need it.
Inside your head, you are already standing on a bridge.
The Allegheny is cold, you think distantly. Efficient. A little dramatic, but honestly? Fitting.
âYeah,â you say aloud. âTeamwork.â
Again with the teamwork. You are haunted by this word.
He glances at you, brow furrowing just slightly. âYou okay? You look⌠tired.â
That does it. Thatâs the final insult. You have bared your soulâwith softened honestyâand he has diagnosed you with fatigue.
âIâm fine,â you reply quickly. Too quickly. âJust contemplating my life choices.â
He chuckles, assuming this is a joke. You let him. Itâs easier.
âJoin the club,â he says. âIâve been doing that since med school.â
You imagine explaining it to him. Laying it all out. When I say I like working with you, I mean I like the way you look at me when weâre in sync. I mean I trust you with my back and my heart, apparently. I mean Iâm flirting so hard I should get written up.
Instead, you straighten, plaster on a professional smile, and push off the counter.
âWell,â you say, already retreating, âthanks for the feedback. Iâll add it to my annual self-worth assessment.â
He laughs again, shaking his head. âYouâre impossible.â
You pause mid-step, glance back at him.
âYou have no idea,â you say.
He watches you go, still smiling, still clueless.
You walk toward the supply room, toward the locker area, toward literally anywhere that is not within conversational distance of him. Your chest feels tightânot painfully, just enough to register as something youâll unpack later, preferably with snacks.
Strongest nurse, you think.
Fantastic.
At this rate, youâll confess your feelings outright and heâll hand you a commendation certificate and ask if youâd like to precept next semester.
The Allegheny River continues to call to you.
Later, Dana finds you aggressively restocking gloves.
Not restocking in the calm, methodical sense. This is personal. Boxes are being yanked open with more force than necessary, gloves shoved into dispensers until they bulge slightly, like theyâre being punished for something they personally did to you. The nitrile snaps sharply every time you pull a pair free, a sound that feels far too satisfying.
Youâre on your third dispenser when Dana leans against the supply room doorframe, arms crossed, eyes bright with the particular interest of someone who has clocked everything.
âYou know,â she says mildly, âthose gloves are innocent.â
You donât look at her. âThey know what they did.â
She hums, watching you for a moment longer than strictly polite. The supply room smells like cardboard and antiseptic. The fluorescent light flickers once overhead. Of course it does. Even the building is tired.
âIâve known him fifteen years,â Dana says finally. âYou could flirt by skywriting and heâd ask about air traffic regulations.â
That gets you.
You stop mid-shove, one glove dangling uselessly from your hand. You turn slowly, staring at her like sheâs just delivered a formal diagnosis.
ââŚThatâs the most upsetting thing anyone has said to me tonight,â you reply.
She grins. âAccurate, though.â
You exhale, dropping the glove back into the box with a defeated little flick of your wrist. âI told him I like working with him.â
Dana winces in sympathy. âOof.â
âAnd he said Iâm one of the strongest nurses,â you continue flatly. âStrongest, Dana. Like Iâm a structural beam.â
âWell,â she says thoughtfully, âyou are load-bearing.â
You glare at her. She holds up her hands. âHey. Compliment. Sort of.â
You lean back against the shelf, arms crossing tight over your chest. The irritation is still there, buzzing under your skin, but now itâs mixed with something elseârelief, maybe. Validation. The comforting knowledge that you are not, in fact, losing your mind.
âSo itâs not me,â you say.
âOh, absolutely not,â Dana replies. âHeâs just⌠like that. Emotionally illiterate unless feelings arrive with a consent form and a peer-reviewed study.â
You snort despite yourself. âThat tracks.â
She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now. âYouâre actually trying, though.â
You hesitate. Just a fraction. Enough.
âYeah,â you admit. âApparently that was my first mistake.â
Danaâs expression softensânot pitying, but kind. She pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, lowering her voice even though no one else is around.
âHe notices things,â she says. âJust not the things people usually mean.â
You pick at the edge of a cardboard box. âGreat. So I need to flirt in bullet points.â
âClear objectives,â she agrees. âMinimal subtext.â
You consider this. The idea of looking him dead in the eye and saying I am attracted to you and this is not about teamwork makes your stomach do something unpleasant and acrobatic.
âOr,â Dana adds, smirking, âyou could just keep escalating until he accidentally figures it out.â
You laugh, short and breathy. âAt this rate, Iâll propose marriage and heâll ask if this is about shift coverage.â
She laughs with you, the sound easy and familiar. Then she glances back toward the hallway, where voices echo faintlyâhis voice among them.
âYou okay?â she asks more quietly.
You nod. âYeah. Just⌠thinking.â
Dana bumps her shoulder lightly against yours as she passes. âGood. Because watching you flirt with him is the most entertainment I get on days like this.â
You roll your eyes, but thereâs a smile tugging at your mouth now.
When she leaves, you finish restocking the glovesâthis time with less hostility. Your pulse has steadied. The sting has dulled into something manageable. Almost fond.
You straighten the last box and take a breath.
Skywriting, you think. Air traffic regulations.
Fine.
If implication wonât work, and escalation keeps getting rerouted into professionalism, then eventually there will only be one option left.
You grab a pair of gloves and snap them on, resolve settling in your chest.
Next time, you wonât let him miss it.
⌠â ËË ŕ¨ŕ§ ËË â âŚ
You decideâfoolishlyâthat if directness failed yesterday, then banter will surely succeed today.
Because banter is safe. Banter is deniable. Banter lets you pretend youâre not standing one ill-timed heartbeat away from emotional free fall.
The ER hums around you, the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything like a second skin. Itâs late enough that the adrenaline has softened into something duller, heavier. The kind of hour where everyoneâs shoulders slope forward and voices drop without anyone consciously deciding it.
Heâs standing at the counter, reviewing labs on the computer, brows knit in concentration. One hand braces against the laminate, the other scrolls absently, as if his body knows this ritual so well it no longer requires supervision. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms. You notice this. You always notice this. You tell yourself itâs purely observational. Anatomical. Clinical.
Liar.
You approach under the pretense of dropping off a coffee and a protein barâagain. This has become a pattern. You tell yourself itâs because he forgets to eat. Which is true. You also forget to eat, yet somehow no one is shepherding you with snacks like a feral cat.
You lean in slightly, lowering your voice. Casual. Easy. Playful.
âYou know,â you say, tilting your head just enough to suggest mischief, âif I keep saving you coffee and snacks, people might start thinking I like you.â
There. Light. Teasing. A line with plausible deniability baked right in.
You wait.
He doesnât look up at first. Just hums thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the screen.
Then he snorts.
Actually snorts.
âThey should,â he says easily. âYouâre excellent at your job.â
You blink.
Once.
Twice.
Your brain stalls like a car refusing to turn over in winter.
ââŚThatâs not what I meant,â you say, because apparently today youâre choosing honesty in the most pathetic increments possible.
He finally glances at you then. Just briefly. A faint smile tugs at his mouthânot smug, not teasing. Earnest. The kind of smile that suggests he truly believes what heâs saying.
âStill true,â he says, then turns back to the screen as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.
Ah.
Yes.
Of course.
Naturally.
You stand there for a half second too long, holding a coffee you suddenly resent deeply. Your internal monologue is a mess of static and profanity and the slow, dawning realization that you have once again underestimated just how profoundly literal this man is.
You wanted subtext.
He handed you a performance review.
You force a smile that probably looks more like mild indigestion and slide the coffee toward him.
âWell,â you say, voice pitched professionally neutral now, âdrink that before it turns into a science experiment.â
âAlready halfway there,â he replies absently.
You pivot on your heel and walk away before your soul physically exits your body.
As you pass the nursesâ station, you can feel your face burning. Not a cute flush. A full-body betrayal. Your brain helpfully replays the exchange on a loop, annotating it with commentary like bold of you to assume.
You duck into an empty supply alcove and lean back against the cool metal shelving, exhaling slowly through your nose.
Great. Fantastic. You tried flirting and somehow managed to sound like an HR email.
The worst partâthe truly unforgivable partâis that he meant it. He wasnât dodging you. He wasnât deflecting. He just⌠answered the question he thought you asked.
And some traitorous, inconvenient part of your chest tightens at that. Because sincerity like that is dangerous. It doesnât bounce off you cleanly. It lodges.
You straighten, roll your shoulders, and plaster professionalism back into place. Youâve survived worse than this. You will survive a man who cannot, under any circumstances, read a room.
Still, as you step back into the noise and motion of the department, you canât help thinkingâ
Next time, youâre bringing diagrams.
You make the executive decisionâquestionable, but boldâthat the previous disaster was a fluke.
Everyone deserves a second attempt. Possibly a third. Science demands replication.
The day has settled into that strange ER lull where chaos hasnât stopped, exactly, but it has learned to whisper. Monitors beep softly. The overhead lights feel harsher when youâre tired enough to notice them.
Heâs at the charting station againâof course he isâshoulders slightly hunched, jaw set, glasses pushed higher on his nose than necessary. He looks⌠focused. Grounded. Annoyingly competent.
You approach with the confidence of someone who has not yet learned.
Heâs typing when you stop beside him. You lean your hip against the counter, deliberately invading the edge of his personal space. Not aggressively. Just enough to be noticeable. You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head.
âSo,â you say lightly, âdo you always look this intense while charting, or is this a special occasion just for me?â
This time, he does look up.
Progress.
He studies your face for a beat, expression thoughtful. Analytical. As if heâs running differentials on your sentence.
Then he nods.
âUsually worse,â he says. âTonightâs actually been decent.â
You stare at him.
He goes back to typing.
You wait.
Nothing.
Incredible. Truly. A masterclass in missing the point.
You try again. Because you are nothing if not persistent.
âWell,â you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, âI was hoping I was at least partially distracting.â
He pauses mid-keystroke.
Looks up again.
Brows furrowed.
âOh,â he says. âNo, youâre fine. Youâre not distracting at all.â
You feel something in your chest give a little cough and die.
âGreat,â you say weakly. âThatâs⌠reassuring.â
âI mean that positively,â he adds, earnest to the core. âYouâre very focused. Itâs good in a high-acuity environment.â
You nod slowly, the way one does when absorbing devastating news.
âRight. Yes. God forbid I interfere with the sanctity of the high-acuity environment.â
He blinks.
âYou okay?â
You smile. Bright. Artificial. The kind of smile you could hang on a wall and call decor.
âNever better.â
A nurse passes behind you and gives you a look. Not subtle. A look that says girl, I saw that and wow, heâs dense in equal measure. You pointedly ignore her.
You straighten, tapping the counter once.
âWell,â you say, regrouping, âif you ever need a distraction, I take requests.â
He nods seriously, filing this away like a note for future reference.
âGood to know,â he says. âIâll keep that in mind if we have a mass casualty.â
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Open it again.
Decide against speaking for the good of everyone involved.
âFantastic,â you mutter. âIâll bring juggling pins.â
He hums, already back in his chart.
âThatâd probably violate policy.â
You walk away.
Again.
Your footsteps echo louder than necessary as you retreat, dignity fraying at the edges. You pass the supply room, the trauma bay, the break room where someone has abandoned a half-eaten sandwich like a cry for help.
You stop near the medication fridge and lean your forehead briefly against the cool glass.
Okay, you think. New hypothesis: he is either completely oblivious or clinically immune to flirtation.
Possibly both.
And the truly infuriating partâthe part that makes this worse instead of easierâis that none of it feels intentional. He isnât deflecting you. He isnât uncomfortable. Heâs just⌠honest. Straightforward. Utterly unguarded in a way that makes your carefully calibrated attempts at subtlety bounce right off him like rubber bullets.
You exhale, lifting your head.
Fine.
You can play the long game.
Orâalternativelyâyou can accept that if you want him to understand what youâre doing, you might eventually have to use actual words.
You grimace.
God help you both.
The breakroom hums softly, a refrigerator rattling in protest, fluorescent lights flickering just enough to make you vaguely homicidal. Someone has burned popcorn at some point in the recent past, and the smell has settled into the walls like a warning.
Youâre sitting at the small table, elbows braced, staring at the far wall with the intensity of someone hoping it might blink first.
It does not.
Your coffee has gone cold. Again. You donât drink it. It feels symbolic now.
Your brain replays the night in unwanted highlight reelsâevery missed cue, every earnest response that landed like a perfectly executed dodge.
Youâre contemplating whether you could feasibly fake a page to Radiology just to escape your own thoughts when Dana appears in your peripheral vision, plastic-wrapped sandwich in hand, eyes sharp with recognition.
She takes one look at you and snorts.
âOh,â she says. âThatâs the stare.â
You donât respond. You donât blink. You might be dissociating slightly.
She drops into the chair across from you and leans back, studying you like a fascinating case study.
âAt this point,â she says, peeling open her sandwich, âyou could flirt by interpretive dance.â
You exhale through your nose.
âAnd heâd ask if I needed an ortho consult,â you mutter.
Dana chokes on a laugh.
âOh my god,â she says. âYouâre not wrong.â
You finally look away from the wall, rubbing a hand over your face. Your palm comes away faintly smelling like antiseptic.
âI tried,â you say. âI really tried. Banter. Tone. Proximity. I leaned. I lowered my voice, Dana.â
She winces sympathetically. âDamn. You lowered the voice?â
âI lowered the voice.â
âThatâs serious.â
âI told him people might think I like him.â
âAnd?â
âAnd he told me Iâm excellent at my job.â
Dana slaps her sandwich down on the table.
âNo.â
âYes.â
She stares at you, appalled.
You sink back in your chair, staring up at the ceiling now, because the wall has judged you enough for one night.
âI swear,â you say, âif I straight-up said, âIâm flirting with you,â heâd nod and ask if I wanted feedback.â
Dana is fully cackling now, shoulders shaking.
âHeâd be like, âNoted. Thank you for the clarification.ââ
You close your eyes.
âKill me.â
âNo,â she says cheerfully. âThis is too entertaining.â
You open one eye, glaring at her. âYouâre supposed to be on my side.â
âI am,â she says. âBut alsoâthis is incredible. Youâre watching a masterclass in emotional obliviousness in real time.â
You sigh, long and theatrical.
âThe worst part,â you admit quietly, âis that heâs not doing it on purpose. Heâs just⌠sincere.â
Dana softens a little at that. She tilts her head.
âYeah,â she says. âThat tracks.â
You drum your fingers against the table, frustration buzzing under your skin. âI donât know how to flirt with someone who treats everything like a chart note.â
She considers this.
âYou could be direct.â
You recoil. Physically.
âNo.â
âBlunt,â she corrects. âClear. Use words.â
âI am using words.â
âYouâre using riddles,â she says. âSexy riddles.â
You groan, dropping your head into your hands.
Dana grins. âHey. Look on the bright side.â
You peek up at her.
âWhat bright side?â
âIf he ever does figure it out,â she says, âyou know heâll mean it. No games. No bullshit.â
You lean back again, chewing on that despite yourself.
Great. Fantastic. Even your consolation prize is emotionally sound.
From somewhere down the hall, you hear his voiceâcalm, steady, calling out an order. Your stomach does an unhelpful little flip.
Dana watches your face with interest.
âOh yeah,â she says. âYouâre screwed.â
You close your eyes.
âInterpretive dance it is,â you mutter.
⌠â ËË ŕ¨ŕ§ ËË â âŚ
You escalate to touch.
Not inappropriate. Not anything anyone could point to in a deposition or whisper about over bad coffee. Just⌠intentional. Precise.
The ER hums the way it always does. You move through it on muscle memory and caffeine, your body already angled toward the next task before your brain finishes naming it.
Heâs at Trauma Two, shoulders hunched slightly as he leans over the gurney, hands moving fast and steady. Thereâs blood on his gloves, a smear on the cuff of his scrub top. Someoneâs yelling out vitals. Someone else is fumbling with suction. Itâs loud, itâs tight, itâs controlled chaos.
You step in closeâcloser than necessaryâand reach for the collar of his gown.
âHold still,â you murmur, already doing it.
Your fingers catch the edge of the fabric, tugging it back where itâs twisted awkwardly against his neck. Itâs nothing. Itâs practical. Except you let your hand linger just a beat too long, knuckles brushing warm skin at the base of his throat. You feel the heat of him there, solid and alive beneath your touch.
He doesnât react. Not even a flinch.
Of course he doesnât.
You withdraw your hand like you meant to all along, turn smoothly to grab another pair of gloves. Your heart is doing something stupid and unprofessional in your chest, but your face stays neutral. Calm. Competent.
Congratulations, you think dryly. Youâve officially flirted with a man mid-code.
Later, the hallway outside triage is too narrow, bodies passing in both directions like blood cells through a clogged artery. You spot him coming toward you, tablet in hand, brow furrowed in that way that means heâs already thinking three steps ahead.
You donât sidestep.
You brush past him instead, shoulder to chest, close enough that you feel the solid press of him through scrubs. No apology. No âsorryâexcuse me.â Just the brief, undeniable contact of two people occupying the same impossible amount of space.
âHey,â he says automatically, half-turning as if to check whether heâs collided with equipment instead of a person.
You keep walking. You donât look back.
Your mouth twitches despite yourself.
That one mightâve been a little obvious, you think. If he were anyone else.
But he isnât. Heâs still standing there, already absorbed. l
The blood draw is quieter. Routine. The patient is anxious, veins skittish and hiding deep. Heâs focused, eyes narrowed slightly as he palpates, searching.
âHere,â you say softly, stepping in.
You place your thumb gently against the inside of his wrist, just below the glove line, steadying his hand. Your thumb rests right over his pulse, warm and unmistakable. You feel it thereâstrong, regular, a living metronome beneath your skin.
Itâs intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip. Youâre acutely aware of how close you are now, how your arm brushes his, how the space between you has vanished entirely.
âYou okay?â you ask, your voice low, pitched for him alone.
He glances at you, surprised, then gives a small, almost sheepish huff of a laugh.
âYeah,â he says easily. âWhy?â
Because Iâm touching you like this on purpose, you think. Because I noticed your hands are warmer than mine. Because I wanted to see if youâd notice.
Out loud, you just smile.
âJust checking,â you say, and release him once the needleâs in, smooth and clean.
The rest of the shift passes in fragmentsârooms, patients, clipped exchangesâbut youâre hyper-aware now. Of proximity. Of angles. Of how easily your hand finds his arm when you pass something over, how naturally you stand just a little too close when you talk.
None of it draws comment. None of it earns even a flicker of suspicion.
That should be comforting.
It isnât.
Laterâmuch laterâthe department finally exhales. The noise drops a register. The adrenaline fades into bone-deep fatigue. Youâre both charting at the counter, shoulder to shoulder, the glow of computer screens painting everything in tired blue light.
He stretches, rolling his neck once before glancing your way.
âHey,â he says. âThanks, by the way.â
âFor?â you ask, already bracing yourself.
He smiles, sincere and unguarded in a way that feels almost cruel.
âYouâre very attentive,â he says. âMakes a difference.â
There it is. The gentle praise. The professional gratitude.
You stare at the screen a second longer than necessary, then nod.
âPart of the job,â you reply lightly.
Inside, something collapses with horrifying clarity.
He thinks this is excellent nursing.
Not flirting. Not tension. Not you very deliberately closing the distance inch by inch like youâre testing a weak point in a wall.
Just competence. Just teamwork.
You swallow a laugh that borders on hysterical and go back to typing, your fingers flying with unnecessary force.
Okay, you think. New plan.
Youâre going to have to try harder.
Or accept that this man could be hit over the head with a metaphorical brick labeled as and ask if he needed an ice pack.
You keep going.
Carefully. Methodically. Like everything else you do.
The trick, you discover, is making every touch defensible. Plausible. Something you could justify to yourself in a court of lawâor at least to a charge nurse with a raised eyebrow.
You hand him things directly instead of setting them down. Syringes placed into his palm instead of the tray. Your fingers brush hisâaccidentally, obviouslyâand linger just long enough to register heat before pulling away.
Nothing. Not a flicker.
Incredible, you think. Truly. A marvel of selective perception.
The department is crowded again, bodies stacked too close, sound bouncing off tile and glass. You stand beside him at the central station, reviewing labs. He leans in to look at your screen without asking, shoulder nearly touching yours.
You donât move away.
Instead, you shift closer under the pretense of making room for someone else. Your arm presses lightly against his, the contact steady, unbroken. You can feel the solid warmth of him through thin fabric, the subtle tension in his muscles as he focuses.
He squints at the numbers.
âCreatinineâs climbing,â he says. âWe shouldââ
Your hand comes up without conscious permission, resting briefly against his forearm as you interrupt.
ââswitch fluids,â you finish. âAlready paged nephro.â
Your thumb presses, just slightly. Not a stroke. Not a caress. Just⌠contact.
âOh. Good catch,â he says, nodding.
You drop your hand like you never meant to put it there in the first place.
Inside, you are screaming quietly.
Later, a patientâs IV pump alarmsâshrill, insistent. You step in before he can, silencing it with practiced ease.
âYouâre hovering,â you tell him mildly.
âAm I?â He leans back, giving you space. âSorry.â
You glance at him. Heâs smiling faintly, relaxed. Comfortable. Entirely unbothered by the fact that you are very deliberately standing close enough that your hip brushes his thigh when you turn.
âItâs fine,â you say. âI like hovering.â
That earns a short laugh.
âGood,â he says. âBecause I do it constantly.â
We are not talking about the same thing, you think.
You start finding excuses.
You smooth wrinkles from his sleeve when he rolls it up hastily. You reach past him to grab supplies instead of asking him to move, your chest brushing his arm, your breath briefly catching against his shoulder.
Once, when he startles slightly at a sudden alarm, you steady him with a hand to his backâbroad, warm, undeniably there.
âSorry,â you say reflexively.
He shakes his head. âAll good.â
No comment. No pause. No awareness that your hand lingers for half a second longer than necessary before you pull away.
I could probably hold his hand for a full minute, you think, deadpan, and heâd thank me for emotional support.
The most egregious one happens near the end of the shift.
Heâs tired. You can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the way he rubs at his neck absently while reading a chart. You step behind him, ostensibly to look at the screen over his shoulder.
Your fingers lift, then settle at the base of his neck, just where tension knots.
âYouâre carrying this up here,â you say quietly.
Before he can respond, you press your thumb in gently, circling once. Itâs not a massage. Not really. Just pressure. Helpful. Kind.
He exhales.
âOh,â he says. âYeah. Thatâsâthanks.â
You keep your hand there for another heartbeat. Then another.
He doesnât turn. Doesnât comment. Just keeps reading, calmer now, like this is the most natural thing in the world.
You withdraw slowly, heart pounding.
He glances at you afterward, smiling faintly.
âYouâre very good at that,â he says. âYou should teach residents stress management.â
You stare at him.
âIâm managing something,â you reply, because if you donât make a joke you might actually combust.
He laughs, already moving on.
When he finally leaves for the night, you watch him go with a mix of fondness and disbelief.
You have brushed, steadied, lingered, hovered, pressed, leaned, and touched him in every socially acceptable way short of writing THIS IS FLIRTING on your forehead.
And he remains serenely, profoundly unaware.
You rest your head briefly against the cool counter and close your eyes.
Fine, you think. If subtlety isnât working, thatâs on him.
Then you straighten, pick up your tablet, and followâalready planning the next escalation.
Dana finds you in the supply room.
Of course she does. Because the universe has a sense of humor, and Dana is apparently its chosen instrument.
Youâre standing in front of an open cabinet, staring at a row of saline bags like they personally betrayed you. One hand is braced on the shelf, the other rubbing at your forehead as if you might physically knead the frustration out through bone.
Behind you, the door swings shut with a soft click.
You donât turn around. You already know.
âSo,â Dana says pleasantly, far too pleasantly, âhow's it going with Robby?â
You exhale through your nose. Slowly. Carefully. Like a person trying not to commit a felony.
âIf you say one more word,â you tell the saline bags, âIâm going to fake my own death and transfer to dermatology.â
Dana hums, delighted.
âThat bad, huh?â
You finally turn. Sheâs leaning against the counter, arms folded, expression bright with the kind of interest people usually reserve for reality television or particularly messy breakups. Her badge swings slightly as she shifts her weight, catching the fluorescent light.
âHe thanked me,â you say flatly.
âOuch.â
âFor being attentive.â
âOuch,â she repeats, stronger this time.
You drop your head back against the cabinet with a dull thunk.
âI adjusted his collar. Dana. During a code. I brushed his wrist. I held his pulse. I practically massaged his neck.â
Danaâs eyebrows climb higher with every itemized sin.
âAnd?â
âAnd he suggested I teach a seminar on stress management.â
She bursts out laughing.
Not a polite chuckle. Not a restrained snort. A full-bodied, hand-to-mouth, shoulders-shaking laugh that echoes off the shelves.
âOh my god,â she gasps. âOh my god.â
You glare at her. âIâm glad my emotional ruin is entertaining.â
âIâm sorry,â she says, not sounding sorry at all. âI justâwow. I mean. Wow.â
You cross your arms, suddenly aware of how keyed-up you feel, how your skin still remembers every accidental-on-purpose point of contact.
âI am being obvious,â you insist. âI am flirting like a human woman with intent.â
Dana wipes at her eyes. âYes. Yes, you are.â
âThen whyââ You gesture vaguely toward the rest of the ER. Toward him. Toward the problem. ââis he still acting like Iâm just exceptionally good at my job?â
Dana straightens a little, studying you now with something like fondness layered over her amusement.
âBecause,â she says gently, âhe is spectacularly oblivious.â
You groan.
âThatâs not reassuring.â
âOh, Iâm not done.â
She pushes off the counter and steps closer, lowering her voice conspiratorially.
âEveryone knows.â
You blink. âEveryone what.â
âEveryone,â she repeats, smiling. âThat youâre into him.â
Your stomach drops.
ââŚEveryone?â
Dana nods. âNurses. Residents. Iâm pretty sure at least one paramedic has money riding on it.â
âYouâre lying.â
âI am not.â She tilts her head. âYou literally orbit him.â
âI work with him.â
âYou glow,â she says. âLike. Physically. Itâs unsettling.â
You press your lips together, processing this. Replaying the last several shifts in your head through a new, horrifying lens.
âOkay,â you say slowly. âBut surely heââ
Danaâs smile turns sharp. Victorious.
âExcept Robby.â
Of course.
Of course.
You sink down onto a stool, elbows on your knees, face in your hands.
âI hate this,â you mutter.
Dana perches on the counter across from you, swinging one leg.
âHe genuinely thinks youâre just very competent and kind,â she says. âWhich, to be fair, you are.â
âThatâs not the goal.â
âI know.â She pauses. âHave you considered words?â
You lift your head just enough to glare at her.
âI have used words.â
âYouâve used adjacent words.â
âI complimented him.â
âYou complimented his teamwork.â
âThat was vulnerable!â
Dana snorts. âThat was a performance review.â
You slump again.
âHeâs not doing this on purpose,â Dana adds, softer now. âHeâs just⌠wired wrong. Or very carefully wired.â
You think of the way he moves through the department. Focused. Earnest. Entirely present with patients. How he accepts touch as support, not signal. How safe he seems inside his own assumptions.
Your frustration dulls, replaced by something warmer. More complicated.
âThat almost makes it worse,â you admit.
Dana studies you for a moment, then smilesâless teasing now, more knowing.
âLook,â she says. âYouâre not subtle anymore. Youâre just⌠quiet about it. And when it finally clicks for him?â
She grins.
âItâs going to hit like a truck.â
You huff a weak laugh despite yourself.
âGreat,â you say. âIâll make sure to stand clear.â
Dana hops down, squeezing your shoulder as she passes.
âFor what itâs worth,â she adds, âthis is the most entertained Iâve been in months.â
She leaves you there with the saline bags and your spiraling thoughts.
You sit for a moment longer, breathing in antiseptic air, heart still stupidly hopeful.
Okay, you think. If everyone knowsâŚ
You stand, straighten your scrubs, and head back out.
⌠â ËË ŕ¨ŕ§ ËË â âŚ
Late shift has a way of stretching time until it feels elastic, thin as pulled sugar.
Rain taps steadily against the ambulance bay doorsâsoft at first, then harder, a persistent percussion that seeps into the bones of the building. The ER is quiet in a way that makes your shoulders tense instead of relax. Not asleep. Just⌠waiting.
This is the hour where everything feels too intimate.
You sit at the nursesâ station beside Robby, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch. Paperwork sprawls between you in a messy truce: charts, lab printouts, half-scribbled notes. Someoneâs abandoned a pen with bite marks near the cap. Probably not a patient. You try not to think about it.
He slides half a granola bar toward you without looking up.
No comment. No eye contact. Just the soft scrape of wrapper against laminate.
You blink at it.
Domestic, your brain supplies immediately. Suspiciously so.
You eye the bar like it might explode. Or confess something.
âYouâre aware,â you say, dryly, âthat sharing food is how relationships start in prison movies.â
He exhales through his nose. Not quite a laugh. More like a concession.
âEat it or donât,â he says. âIâm not proposing.â
Shame, you think, and tear the wrapper open anyway. The bar is slightly stale, aggressively oat-forward, and somehow still comforting. You chew, glancing sideways at him.
Robby is hunched over a chart, glasses perched low on his nose, dark circles carved beneath his eyes like theyâve been earned through long, grueling laborâwhich, to be fair, they have. His sleeves are rolled up, forearms corded and pale under fluorescent light, a faint smear of ink near his wrist. You wonder, not for the first time, if he ever sleeps long enough to fully wash the hospital off himself.
The quiet presses in. You can hear rain hitting metal, distant thunder grumbling like an old man with complaints. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeps once and stops. No one runs.
Rare. Dangerous.
You decide to poke the bear.
âSo,â you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless, âdo you ever do anything outside this place?â
He doesnât look up.
âSleep,â he says.
You wait. He keeps reading.
ââŚThatâs it?â you prompt.
A beat.
âSometimes read.â
You tilt your head, studying him. âThrilling. You must be a hit at parties.â
âI donât go to parties.â
That earns him a small smile, the corner of your mouth ticking up before you can stop it. You scribble a note on the margin of a chart just to have something to do with your hands.
âWhat do you read?â you ask.
âWhateverâs around.â
âThatâs not an answer.â
âIt is if youâre not trying to impress anyone.â
You hum thoughtfully. âBold assumption. Maybe Iâm deeply invested in your inner life.â
This time, he does look at you.
Just briefly. Assessing. Sharp eyes that miss very little. You feel that look like a fingertip pressed to your sternumâlight, but intentional.
âWhy?â he asks.
There it is. Not why are you asking, but why do you care. Subtle difference. Annoying man.
You shrug, deliberately loose. âBecause weâre sitting shoulder to shoulder sharing granola bars while the rain stages a dramatic monologue outside, and it feels rude not to.â
He snorts despite himself, then goes back to the chart.
âHistory,â he says after a moment. âBiographies. Medical journals. Sometimes fiction if Iâm too tired to think.â
âWhat kind of fiction?â
He hesitates. Barely perceptible. You catch it anyway.
âDoes it matter?â
You glance at him. âNo. But Iâm curious.â
He sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. âWhateverâs already on the shelf.â
You grin. âYouâre allergic to specificity.â
âIâm efficient.â
âYouâre evasive.â
âThat too.â
The rain intensifies, drumming louder against the bay doors. A gust of wind rattles them slightly, and you both glance up out of instinct. Old habits. The kind that never really leave.
You finish the granola bar and brush crumbs from your scrub pants. Your shoulder bumps hisâlight, accidental, but you donât move away immediately. Neither does he.
You become acutely aware of the warmth there. The solid presence of another person in the quiet. Itâs⌠unsettling. And, annoyingly, a little grounding.
âWhat about you?â he asks suddenly.
You blink. âWhat about me?â
âOutside this place.â
Ah.
You lean back in your chair, considering the ceiling tiles like they might offer a safer answer.
âSleep,â you echo.
He arches a brow
âSometimes draw,â you add. âOccasionally forget to eat. Once tried pottery. It was a disaster.â
âI can imagine.â
âRude.â
He shrugs. âAccurate.â
You laugh quietly, surprised by it. The sound feels too loud in the hush, so you rein it in, pressing your lips together. Something in your chest loosens anyway.
Silence settles again, but itâs different now. Less sharp. More⌠companionable. You return to your paperwork, pen scratching softly. He flips a page. The rain keeps time.
You glance at him once more, unguarded this time.
Heâs still here. Still steady. Still offering half his granola bar without ceremony.
And for reasons you donât entirely trust, that feels like something worth noticing.
You hum, low and thoughtful, the sound vibrating somewhere in the back of your throat.
Itâs a stall tactic and you know it. Your brain is rifling through safer topicsâweather, lab values, literally anything that wonât get you emotionally maimed at the nursesââbut your mouth has already decided itâs feeling brave.
Or stupid.
Possibly both.
âYou should let someone take you out sometime,â you say, aiming for casual and landing somewhere near reckless optimism. âDinner. Drinks. Sunlight. Normal human things.â
The words hang there, fragile as blown glass.
For half a second, nothing happens. Then he looks at you.
Really looks.
Not the quick clinical glance he gives patients or the sharp evaluative scan he uses on interns. This is slower. Focused. His eyes lift fully from the chart and settle on your face like heâs actually taking inventoryâexpression, tone, intent.
Your heart trips over itself.
Full-on stumbles. Misses a step. Does that awful little flutter that feels suspiciously like hope and dread shaking hands.
You keep your face neutral through sheer force of will, like this isnât the emotional equivalent of standing in the middle of traffic and daring the cars to stop.
âThatâs good advice,â he says.
Earnestly.
No teasing. No deflection. Just calm, thoughtful agreement.
âBurnout sneaks up on you.â
And just like that, he looks back down at the chart and keeps writing.
Pen moving. Page flipping. Crisis averted. Life goes on.
You stare at him.
Actually stare.
Your mind scrambles, skids, tries to regain traction. That was notânotâthe response you were braced for. Youâd prepared yourself for a brush-off, maybe a sarcastic quip, possibly even gentle discomfort. You had not prepared for him to accept your suggestion like a continuing medical education module.
You blink once.
Twice.
Right. Of course. He thought you were talking about self-care.
You feel something inside you deflate with a quiet, undignified wheeze.
âYeah,â you say, because silence would be suspicious and screaming would be frowned upon. âVery⌠sneaky. Burnout.â
He nods, still focused on the chart. âPeople donât notice until theyâre already exhausted. Or angry. Or making bad calls.â
You tilt your head, watching him. The way his jaw tightens just slightly. The faint crease between his brows that never quite leaves anymore.
âAnd you?â you ask lightly. âYou noticing anything?â
He pauses, pen hovering.
For a momentâjust a momentâyou think he might actually answer honestly. That he might look up again, say something real. Something unguarded.
Instead, he shrugs.
âIâm fine.â
Ah. There it is. The universal lie of overworked physicians everywhere.
You snort before you can stop yourself. âCompelling. Iâll write it in your chart.â
He glances up again, this time with the faintest ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. âVery professional.â
âI contain multitudes.â
He hums in acknowledgment and goes back to writing.
You turn back to your own paperwork, pen dragging a little slower now. Your pulse is still loud in your ears, refusing to calm down, like itâs offended by the misunderstanding.
You told him to let someone take him out.
You had meantâwell.
You sigh softly through your nose, shaking your head at yourself.
Of course he didnât hear it that way. Of course he didnât. This is a man who can triage three traumas at once and still miss a blatant invitation sitting three feet away sharing his granola bar.
You glance at him again, irritated and fond in equal measure.
âBurnout,â you think dryly. âRight. Thatâs definitely what I was diagnosing.â
The rain keeps tapping against the ambulance bay doors. The ER remains suspended in that quiet, intimate lull. He charts. You chart.
And you sit there, shoulder to shoulder, wondering how someone can look straight at you and still not see a thing.
Later, the lull breaks.
Not with sirens or shouting or a trauma rolling in at full speed, but with the soft return of movementâphones ringing, footsteps quickening, the ER shaking itself awake like a dog coming out of water. The rain outside eases into a steady drizzle, less dramatic now, like itâs gotten whatever it wanted out of the night.
Robby disappears down the hall with a tablet tucked under his arm, already halfway back inside his own head. You watch him go for half a second longer than strictly professional, then turn back to the nursesâ station and pretend your notes suddenly require your full, undivided attention.
They donât.
Dana materializes beside you the way she always doesâsilent, efficient, terrifyingly perceptive. Sheâs got a coffee in one hand and a look on her face that says sheâs been waiting patiently for this moment.
She doesnât even try to be subtle.
âYou practically handed him an invitation,â she says, voice pitched low but delighted.
You donât look up. You highlight a line on the chart youâve already highlighted once.
âI opened the door,â you reply calmly. âHe walked into a wall.â
Dana snorts. âA wall?â
âA very sturdy one,â you say. âPossibly load-bearing.â
She leans an elbow on the counter, watching you with open amusement. âYou told him to let someone take him out.â
âI did.â
âAnd he gave you a lecture on burnout.â
âHe did that too.â
Dana takes a sip of her coffee, eyes never leaving you. âYou know heâs not dense about most things.â
âOh, Iâm aware,â you mutter. âThatâs what makes this so impressive.â
You finally glance up at her. Sheâs grinning now, the kind of grin that says she has Opinions and none of them are kind.
âYou okay?â she asks, tone softer beneath the teasing.
You consider that. The question lands heavier than expected.
You roll your shoulders once, loosening tension you hadnât realized was there. âYeah. I meanâyes. Itâs fine. He didnât do anything wrong.â
âNo,â Dana agrees. âHe just completely missed you flirting with him like it was a pop quiz he didnât study for.â
You huff a quiet laugh. âThatâs generous. I think he thought I was offering a continuing education course.â
Dana chuckles, shaking her head. âIâve worked with him a long time.â
âCongratulations,â you say. âHowâs your blood pressure?â
âHigh, but manageable,â she replies cheerfully. Then, more seriously, âHe doesnât clock that kind of thing easily. Especially when itâs aimed at him.â
You angle your body slightly away from the station, lowering your voice. âSo youâre saying this is a known⌠condition?â
âOh, absolutely,â Dana says. âMan can diagnose a ruptured spleen from across the room. Romance? Entirely different department.â
That shouldnât make you feel better.
Annoyingly, it kind of does.
You glance down the hallway again without meaning to. Robbyâs nowhere in sight nowâswallowed up by exam rooms and corridors and responsibility.
âI wasnât exactly subtle,â you say, more to yourself than to her.
Dana raises an eyebrow. âNo. You were brave.â
You make a face. âDonât rebrand it. Iâm trying to be embarrassed in peace.â
She laughs softly. âLook, if it helpsâhe did look at you. Really look. I saw it.â
Your heart does that stupid little stumble again.
You shoot her a look. âYouâre not allowed to say things like that without evidence.â
She shrugs. âIâve got eyes. And decades of experience watching idiots fall in love at work.â
âComforting,â you deadpan.
Dana straightens as a call light flicks on down the hall. âGive it time,â she adds lightly. âEventually, itâll click.â
âOr,â you say, âIâll die of secondhand humiliation.â
âAlso possible.â
She squeezes your shoulder onceâwarm, groundingâbefore heading off toward the noise.
Youâre left at the station again, the hum of the ER settling around you. You exhale slowly, tapping your pen against the counter.
You hadnât planned on wanting anything from him. Certainly not this. Not the way your chest tightens when he looks at you, or the way you replay his earnest tone in your head like itâs evidence in a case you canât stop building.
Burnout sneaks up on you.
You shake your head, a rueful smile tugging at your mouth.
âYeah,â you murmur to yourself. âApparently so does obliviousness.â
You pick up your chart, square your shoulders, and step back into the noiseâalready bracing yourself to try again, someday, when youâre feeling just reckless enough.
⌠â ËË ŕ¨ŕ§ ËË â âŚ
The breakroom smells like coffee and antiseptic and someone's reheated dinner.
Someone has left a protein bar wrapper on the counter like a crime scene marker. The microwave hums ominously, as if it, too, is judging your life choices. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead with the enthusiasm of a dying insect.
Robby stands at the counter, pouring coffee he absolutely does not need into a mug that reads WORLDâS OKAYEST DOCTOR. You bought it as a joke. He uses it earnestly. This alone should have tipped you off months ago.
You lean back against the table, hip pressed to the edge, arms crossed looselyânot defensively, just⌠strategically. Your badge swings forward, taps lightly against your sternum. You donât move it out of the way. You absolutely notice.
âSo,â you say, casually. Too casually. âYou ever notice how weâre always alone in here together?â
He doesnât look up. âStatistically unlikely,â he replies. âBreakroom traffic peaks around twenty past the hour.â
You blink.
Of course heâs done the math.
You try again.
You step closerâinside his personal space now, deliberately so. Your arm brushes his when you reach past him for the sugar packets you do not need. Your fingers linger against his wrist for half a beat too long. Pulse. Warm. There.
He glances at you. Smiles, faint and distracted.
âYou want the last creamer?â he asks.
You stare at him.
âI want you,â you think.
You say, âNo, Iâm good.â
You watch him stir his coffee. You watch the tendons in his forearm shift. You have watched those tendons save lives. You have also imagined biting them, which feels like something a better-adjusted person would unpack in therapy.
You sigh.
âRobby,â you say, lightly, âif I leaned any closer, HR would materialize out of the vents.â
âHm?â He takes a sip. Grimaces. âGod, this is awful. Did they switch brands?â
You close your eyes.
Count to three.
This is not happeningâ
You snap them open.
Thatâs it.
You straighten, heart kicking hard enough to be rude.
âRobby,â you say, and this time your voice is steady only because sheer force of will is doing most of the work, âIâve been trying to flirt with you for months.â
Silence.
Actual, physical silence. The microwave clicks off somewhere behind you like punctuation.
He freezes.
Mid-motion. Mug halfway to his mouth. Eyes flicking to you like his brain is trying to reorient gravity.
You donât soften it. You refuse. Youâve earned this moment.
âThe coffee,â you continue, ticking it off with your fingers. âThe compliments. The touching. The lingering. All of it.â
His mouth opens slightly.
Closes.
You can practically see the internal slideshow start playing. Frames flashing past his eyes: you leaning in too close, your hand on his arm, your voice going softer when you say his name, the way you always find him during shifts like itâs coincidence and not muscle memory.
Understanding crashes into him all at once.
ââŚOh,â he says.
Stunned. Genuinely. Like someone who has just realized theyâve been standing in the rain for an hour.
You exhale, sharp and humorless.
âYes. Oh.â
He sets the mug down slowly, like sudden movements might break something fragile and expensive between you.
âYou wereââ He stops. Tries again. âYou were flirting.â
You tilt your head. âGold star.â
âI thought you were just⌠friendly.â
Your laugh comes out before you can stop it. Dry. Almost hysterical.
âRobby, I donât touch friends like that.â
His ears turn red.
Actually red.
He rubs the back of his neck, a habit you know too well. His eyes donât quite meet yours yet.
âIââ he starts, then stops. âI didnât want to assume.â
âThatâs admirable,â you say. âIn theory.â
âIn practice,â he says quietly, âI might be an idiot.â
You consider this.
âDebatable,â you say. âBut not because of this.â
Thereâs a beat. Another. The air feels thicker nowâcharged, buzzing, like the seconds before a storm breaks.
âIâm sorry,â he says finally. âIf I made you feelââ
âYou didnât,â you cut in. Softer now, despite yourself. âYou just⌠didnât see it.â
He looks at you then. Really looks. Not distracted, not half-thinking about labs or consults or the next disaster waiting to happen.
You feel suddenly exposed. Like youâve taken off armor you didnât realize you were wearing.
âI see it now,â he says.
Your pulse stutters.
âFor what itâs worth,â he says, âyouâre⌠very good at it.â
Heâs still looking at you like the room has tilted and heâs trying to stay upright.
Something in you snapsânot angrily. Not dramatically. Just⌠decisively.
You step closer.
Not rushed. Not reckless. One measured step that puts you well inside his space, close enough that you can smell the coffee on his breath, feel the warmth coming off him like a steady current.
He goes very still.
You donât give him time to overthink it.
You rise just enough onto the balls of your feet and kiss him.
Itâs brief. Controlled. No teeth, no urgencyâjust your mouth fitting to his with unmistakable intent. Your lips are soft but deliberate, pressing once, twice, as if punctuation matters.
For half a second, he doesnât move.
Then his breath catchesâaudibly, embarrassinglyâand he kisses you back.
Not clumsy. Not hesitant. Just⌠surprised into honesty.
His hand comes up, almost like he doesnât realize heâs doing it, fingers warm and sure against your jaw, thumb resting just below your ear. He pulls you a fraction closer, enough that your chest brushes his, enough that your carefully maintained composure dissolves into something warmer and far less clever.
You melt.
Annoyingly. Completely.
The kiss deepensânot longer, just fullerâhis mouth moving with yours like heâs finally caught the rhythm youâve been offering him for months. Thereâs no rush, no hunger yet, just confirmation. Yes. This. You werenât imagining it.
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
Your forehead nearly touches his. Your pulse is loud in your ears, traitorous.
âThat,â you say, voice steady despite everything, âwas me asking you out.â
For once, thereâs no confusion on his face. No mental math. No missed subtext.
His breath stutters.
âOh,â he says againâbut this time itâs different. Softer. Warmer.
Then he smiles. Small. Genuine.
âIâd like that,â he says quietly. âVery much.â
Something settles in your chest. Not fireworksâsomething better. Something solid.
You step back before either of you does something that will absolutely require paperwork.
Laterâmuch laterâDana catches your eye from across the ER. She doesnât say a word. Just gives you a slow, deeply satisfied nod, like someone watching a long-running bet finally pay out.
You smile to yourself, turning back to your chart.
Some people, you think, really do need things spelled out.
paring:Â andrew pope cody/stripper!reader
tags: 18+, starts in s1, erectile dysfunction, lap-dances, second-hand embarrassment, slow burn, implied age gap, no use of y/n. reader has fake names, a large family, and a past (that is catching up). medical inaccuracies. mental health issues. canon-typical violence. eventual smut.
summary:Â Who says you canât meet the love of your life in a strip club dressing room after his brother paid another girl a thousand bucks to wish him a happy birthday?
Okay, so heâs a bit strange and he might be stalking you and his mother is terrifying and youâre really just trying to make enough money for rent and tuition without getting into any kind of trouble, but on the bright side, at least heâs not a cop.
It was just a normal morning.
An overworked, emotionally exhausted single father snapping at his daughter.
A stubborn, defensive teenage daughter snapping back.
Three words that should have never gone unsaid remaining unspoken.
Just a normal morning - until a boy brought a rifle to school.
Part 1 | Part 2
Words: 10,3k
Content: School shooting, Hurt/Comfort, Gun violence, injury, single dad!Robby, Reader!daughter, No major character death, suicidal ideation (it's Robby after all)
No use of Y/N
Read on Ao3 or below the cut:
A/N: I know nothing about medicine, so if you do, please squint at the medical bs I wrote based on sleep-deprived research and ended up sounding halfway decent to me :D
Jack burst through the doors of the ambulance bay. The wheels of the gurney he pushed along at a merciless, break-neck pace squeaked under the assault. A shrill, high-pitched tone that his brain latched onto because thinking about the girl bleeding out beneath his fingertips was just too cruel-
Robby shouted your name.
A sound made up of guttural heartache and pure, unfiltered, raw grief.
Jack had never seen the man run so fast. He almost collided with the gurney. His trembling hands found your face, brushing away sweat-drenched strands of hair sticking to your skin and wiping tears off your cheeks while his own tears dropped down on you.
âShe grappled for a gun with the shooter.â Jack hissed through teeth clenched so tightly he was surprised they hadnât shattered yet.
Baran rushed into the trauma room, listening intently to the report of the paramedics while Jack stopped just outside the trauma room doors, grabbing Robby less than gently to hold him back.
Jack's hands were covered in your blood. There hadnât been time for gloves.
âSheâs my daughter!â Robby snarled, trying to tear free.
âExactly!â Jack hissed back. âYou canât treat family! I didnât stop you when you worked on Jake's girlfriend, when I should have! I knew I should have, but I didnât, and look what it did to you! I am not going to let you do this to yourself! Baranâs got her, Robby!â
Robby deflated. The fear of the day demanded its tribute as he sagged against Jack. Dana brought over a chair for him. He sat there, long limbs folded awkwardly, more reminiscent of a wet tissue than the usually so headstrong man Jack knew.
Once Jack was convinced he would get up again to rush into the trauma room the second he turned his back, Ahmad standing on the side ready to step in should he try to anyway, Jack took Dana aside.
He stared at his bloody hands - your blood. Jack had to squeeze his eyes shut against the thought and the nausea it came with - and set his helmet aside.
âRobby jr got her nipples pierced."
âWhat?â
Jack gestured for Dana to not interrupt him. He could barely string two thoughts together, he didnât need interruptions or distractions right now.
âRobby doesnât know. He doesnât need to find out like this.â
âWhen did she- How do you know?â
Jack shot her an exhausted, wry smirk. âBecause the kind of piercer who accepts the obviously fake ID of a sixteen-year-old isnât the kind you want to do your piercing. It got infected. She asked me for help. Just- he doesnât need to find out like this, and she⌠daughters deserve to have some secrets from their fathers, no? Just- sheâll feel horrible enough once sheâs better and realises sheâs been naked in the ER. Just- can you take them out for her?â
He found a chair and dragged it over to Robby, too exhausted even to pick it up. He slumped down next to his best friend and watched the coordinated chaos of the trauma room.
âThe asshole who shot her is dead.â He said coldly. No emotion coloured his voice. He had no regrets. âI shot him.â
âGood.â Robby replied.
They sat next to each other, outside the trauma room theyâd ruled for the past twenty-odd years as the new attending they'd known for less than three months fought for your life, forced onto the sidelines because suddenly their love for you had become a liability.
âWhat are you doing here?â
âWorking.â Robby huffed without looking up from his tablet. There was a gaping, bleeding hole in his chest where his heart used to be - where you used to be.
âWeâve got it under control, Michael.â
He bristled at the sound of his given name off Danaâs lips.
âGo be with my daughter.â
âAnd how, pray tell, am I supposed to be with her when she is lying in a goddamn OR while Garcia is cutting into her, huh?! Because three fucking bullets-â Robby slammed his hands down on the counter and hung his head, desperately trying to force some air into his lungs.
He felt like you were already gone.
Like you had already died but the universe in its endless cruelty was just dragging this out. Perhaps it was punishment for everything Robby had ever done wrong in his life. For all his weaknesses and shortcomings.
Youâre just like your mother!
The words echoed through his head again and again and again. An endless loop of torment custom-tailored for him. His own personal hell.
Baran had to shock your heart twice. You were given twenty units of whole blood. Esme was still cleaning your trauma room. Robby couldnât bring himself to look at it.
He looked up at Dana, who wore her disapproving mom-face that always unnerved Robby.
âIâm about as useful as a limp dick up there, Dana.â He rasped, pleading silently with the charge nurse to not call Jack, who had left to debrief with his SWAT team who were still at the school. Another wave of patients had arrived while Robby paced the waiting room upstairs, being slowly driven crazy by his own spiralling thoughts and the feeling of your necklace in his hand.
The chaplain had tried to talk to him. Jefferson tried to talk to him. Dylan sat with him for a while, but Robby sent him away to help Kiara, who was still with the families of the students and staff in the cafeteria.
âThe last critical patient just went up.â Dana said after a moment of silent consideration. âWeâre still giving oxygen and fluid to some kids as we observe them, but no more GSWs.â
Robby nodded. His eyes were glassy, his gaze distant. Dana lowered her clipboard.
âWhy donât you sit with her friends?â
He shook his head. âAnd tell them what, Dana? I- I- There is nothing I can do. My daughter may be dying right now, and thereâs nothing I-â He buried his face against his arm, fighting to not let the sobs bubbling up in his throat fall from his lips.
âYou donât have to do anything right now, Robby.â Dana said firmly. âYour daughter is in critical condition. You arenât her doctor, and you donât have to be one right now. You can just be her dad.â
âI should have said it.â He croaked, his voice finally failing him.
âSaid what?â
Robby wiped his eyes roughly, berating himself in his head for ever letting them leave his eyes, and straightened up. âDoesnât matter. It doesnât fucking matter anymore.â
âSheâs not dead, Robby.â
He forced a bitter, tight-lipped smile and walked away without another word. What did Dana know?
Youâd been doomed the moment you had been born, and Robby held you in his arms for the first time.
Robby didnât get to keep the people he loved.
Garcia found him an hour later, doing CPR on a college student in the same trauma room youâd been coded in. The same trauma room where Baran broke your ribs trying to keep you alive. Where Langdon cut into you. Where Crus shoved a tube into your chest and your blood splattered onto the ground.
âShould you be working?â She asked with that derisive, sneering tone Robby couldnât stand when it was directed at him. He didnât stop giving compressions. Didnât talk.
He didnât want to look at Garcia.
If he didnât look at her, if he didnât slow down or stop, she couldnât drag him to the family room and tell him the news. And if she didnât tell him the news, then a part of him could continue to delude himself into thinking everything was fine.
You were just at home. You were doing your homework or cooking or lounging on the sofa with one of your projects you had rarely ever finished since you taught yourself how to crochet during Covid.
His grandmother would have loved to see you with her old crochet hooks⌠how dear they were to you, how dear all her handcraft tools wereâŚ
Robby had forgotten to add Jack into his consideration. With all the detached effectiveness of a soldier, Jack, who still wore his tactical clothes albeit without the body armour (clothes soaked in your blood. His babyâs blood. His little girlâs blood), he had Baran taking over and was steering Robby towards the family room.
He relented only because he knew Jack was not above throwing him over his shoulder.
The ER watched, as if Robby was a condemned man being led to the gallows.
âShe was too unstable to tolerate the anaesthesia for long.â Garcia began as soon as the door closed, sparing Robby the humiliation of asking him to sit - something they both knew he would not be doing. âWe managed to fix the biggest bleeders for now. Her intestine was nicked, but we got that taken care of and washed out her abdomen. We started her on a full course of antibiotics. Her right kidney took some more damage. We donât yet know if she will lose it, but we are carefully optimistic. The third bullet miraculously missed all major organs and blood vessels. We could remove all three. We didnât close her up at this time. We want to give her 24 to 48 hours to rest and hopefully stabilise further before we go back in for the beauty treatment. Sheâs in the surgical ICU now and as stable as we can hope for at this time.â
Some of the tension Garcia always held herself with eased. She didnât go soft, exactly - Robby doubted Garcia was even capable of that, but she softened ever so slightly around the edges.
âSheâs a real fighter, Robby. Iâve seen patients pull through worse. And sheâs young. Teens always bounce back quicker than adults.â
Jack asked a few follow-up questions, about the surgery and her care from here on out until the next surgery, all the questions Robby should ask but couldnât.
Not that he absorbed any of the information.
His torture would continue.Â
That was all he could take away from this.
The universe had decided he had not suffered enough. It would continue to dangle you in front of him like a carrot, waiting for the right moment, the moment he allowed himself to hope before tearing you away right when it would hurt most.
âWhere are you going?â Jack held Robby back when he tried to follow Garcia.
âI have patients.â
âYou donât.â Jack hissed. âYou have your daughter-â
âDonât make me.â Robby pleaded through a broken sob. He could not bring himself to look at Jack. He stared at the dried patch of blood on his pants and pretended it wasnât yours. âDonât make me sit there and watch her die.â He pressed his lips together to trap the next sob already crawling up his throat.
âShe isnât dying.â
A bitter laugh broke through Robbyâs defences.
âShe is not dying, Michael!â Jack placed his hand over the side of Robbyâs neck and forced him to look up. âSheâs not. You heard Garcia. Sheâs a fighter. And she needs her dad right now.â
âI canât.â
âBut you will.â Jack said firmly. âBecause she is your daughter and youâve always done what you could to be there for her. You never stopped when things got difficult. You wonât start now. I wonât let you.â
The walk towards the elevator felt like marching through hip-high molasses. The elevator was too tight, too quiet and yet far too loud. The hallway into the SICU, past the nursesâ station where pitying looks already waited for Robby, seemed endless. A nurse whose face he did not see through the fog clouding his brain brought him a chair so he could sit next to your bed.Â
You were drowning in tubes and IV lines.Â
His little girl.
He could barely stand to look at the tube coming from your mouth, knowing just how far that shit went down your throat to reach your lungs.
His sweet, innocent little baby.
Emergency medicine was brutal and barbaric, and he never, never thought heâd one day have to look at you and be punished with the knowledge of just how much trauma you were put through in the name of saving you.
And for what?
They would not save you, he knew, he felt it in his bones, so what was this all for? Why were they putting you through all this agony when he already knew it was all for nought?
Robby reached for your pale hand resting on top of the blanket and cradled it in his, careful, terrified of hurting you despite knowing exactly how he could touch and manipulate your body without causing harm. He ran his thumb over your knuckles, back and forth, eyes locked onto the sight of your small hand disappearing beneath his own.
Someone cleaned the blood off your skin.
You looked so delicate and small⌠so terribly fragile, and he didnât know how to handle any of it. Jack sat down next to him, seemingly fighting with the same wave of suffocating emotions. He put his hand on Robbyâs knee and gave it a little squeeze - maybe to ground Robby, maybe to ground himself. He couldnât tell.Â
Maybe Jack couldnât either.
The machines breathing for you whirred. Monitors beeped. Fluids ran through the IV lines and into your body.
Robby tried not to look at your abdomen, tried not to think about the gauze shoved into your body cavity and the medical-grade plastic wrap keeping your intestines from bulging from your body. His little girl, cut open like a pig about to be butchered and haphazardly wrapped in plastic wrap like you were some leftover deli sandwich while machines kept your body alive because you were not strong enough to do it yourself.
How long until he would have to pull the plug like he had to for Adamson?
How long would the universe torture him with this sight this time around?
âSheâs a fighter.â Jack whispered, voice raw and quiet, lacking all its usual strength and perhaps that terrified Robby most of all. âSheâll pull through.â He put his free arm around Robbyâs shoulder, who simply sagged into the warmth of the embrace, head tilting to the side and coming to rest on Jackâs shoulder. He brushed a fleeting kiss to Robbyâs temple.
âSheâll pull through.â
Robby wondered idly what the greater torture was, his hopelessness, or Jackâs hopeâŚ
Perhaps it was witnessing his hope knowing it was futile and wasted, because you were doomed to be loved by Robby and Robby never got to keep those he loved.Â
He wondered how long it would take the universe to take Jack from him as wellâŚ
Jack had fallen asleep. Running towards the sound of gunfire and death demanded its tribute after a while, even for one Jack Abbot, Robby supposed.
The SICU quieted down further with the setting sun.
Visitation hours had ended a long time ago, but not a single nurse had made any effort to send Robby or Jack home.
The dim light illuminating the nursesâ station fell through the glass separating your room from the hallway. The machines you were hooked up to beeped and whirred, a ceaseless ambient noise that made it impossible to ever forget just how close to death you were.
Robby tried not to look at your body. He tried not to think about how vulnerable and exposed you were under the blanket, your torso cut open and only held together with plastic wrap.
Your skin looked pallid, ghostly already despite the machines forcing your body to stay alive a little while longer, even through all the trauma it had to endure and would continue to be put through.
âI love you.â Robby whispered and carefully, terrified or hurting you, smoothed down the blanket over your chest. âI love you for everything you are. I love your mischief and the grey hairs youâve caused me, and I love your courage, your heart, and all your kindnessâŚâ
A nurse walked by your door. He didnât look into your room. Nobody could look at Robby. As if heâd become something terrible, something infectious. As if looking at him would make his misfortune spread to others.
He could not blame them.
âThank you for being- being all that you have been. For coming into my life when I needed you most. For being the only light at the end of the tunnel I could see most days. Thank you for existing and loving me despite everything.â
Robby hadnât been able to do this with Adamson. Between a lack of time and the atmosphere of the improvised Covid ward, he just didn't have the chance - though that was just an excuse.
He didnât have the strength to say goodbye to his mentor.
He was a coward.
But you deserved better.
âForgive me for not being a better father.â He lifted your hand off the bed and pressed his trembling lips to your cool knuckles. âI forgive you for leaving me.â
You were back on the operating table two days later. Two days of sitting in a corner of your room like a wraith, waiting. Robby felt as if someone had hollowed him out. He was an empty shell keeping vigil over the remains of his daughter.Â
A body he could barely recognise as yours at this point.
He managed to ask a nurse for a hairbrush late during his first night at your side. He carefully brushed the knots and tangles out of your hair and braided it loosely. ICU patients with longer hair often suffered from severe matting after a stay, and you liked your hair so much⌠you were seventeen, of course you did.
He would not claim it was an act of hope. He didnât have any, just fatherly affections that suddenly had no place to go anymore.
Like phantom pains leading to muscle spasms.
He couldnât control it, couldnât stop it, couldnât make his treacherous, failing body realise that this - this thing lying in the ICU bed - wasnât you.
Not anymore.
You were gone or about to be, but his muscles remembered caring for you, doting on you, and they refused to stop.
He adjusted your blankets and made sure your socks were neat, brushed the hair from your face. He ran his knuckle over your cheek in a feather-light touch while whispering soothing and encouraging words you probably couldnât hear anyway.
Social workers and chaplains kept pestering them, but Robby eventually learnt ignoring them led to such uncomfortable silence they usually left.
Kiara and Dylan were more persistent, but not by much.
Only Dana and Jack he couldnât drive away.
Robby sat in a corner of the surgical waiting room with a cup of shitty hospital coffee in his cold hands, his feet drawn up on the uncomfortable plastic chair in a way that made his lower back sting and stared blankly at the wall.
Your friends were here, waiting with him and yet giving him space.
Just two units trapped in the limbo that was hospital waiting rooms.
Robby remembered sitting in one of these sterile, cold, empty rooms when he was a kid, after his grandmother had a heart attack. The nurses were nice, bringing him snacks and drinks and just being there with him without making him perform his fear and grief for it to be taken seriously. His grandmother was fine, but the end result never quite made the hours in the waiting room hurt less.
Robby had lost bits and pieces of him along the way before.
The five-year-old boy who died on his first shift in New Orleans, so worried about getting in trouble until the second his little heart gave out, took a big chunk. You hadnât been born yet then - you hadnât even been a thought Robby played with in the dead of night without ever allowing himself to really want.
If you had already existed, Robby was sure that death would have broken him.
Every patient he lost since, every patient he couldnât help, every case of domestic abuse where the victim went home with their abuser despite everything he tried to get them help, every patient suffering from substance abuse disorder he couldnât get to go to rehab - he had worked at PTMC long enough now to see them all coming back, one by one, dropping like flies - took a piece of him with them.
His grandmother dying. Your mother leaving. Messing up with Janey.
Everything carved chunks out of him until Robby was a moth-eaten tapestry of misery he barely recognised when he looked in the mirror in the morning.
You were the best part of his life.
The only part that still made sense besides the medicine, and as he sat in the quiet, suffocating waiting room, Robby could not even make sense of that. It ran through his head endlessly, treatment courses and numbers and tracking the progression of the operation in his head, unable to stop his mind from picturing you laying on that table - alone, naked, vulnerable - and he couldnât stop picturing all the hands that would be inside you, the surgeon, fellows, residents, interns observing from the sideline while his whole life lay beneath their eyes, cracked open like a goddamn lobster.
He barely felt the tear rolling down his cheek and disappearing in his beard. He held onto the cup in his hands as if it were a lifeline and didnât look up when the waiting room slowly started to fill at shift change.
Jack and Dana sat down on either side of him. Perlah and Princess, Jesse, Donny, Ahmad.
All the people who watched you grow up between stretchers and toys built out of tongue suppressors and cotton balls - some of which had been keeping watch over central for almost a decade now.Â
They had all come to watch you die with him.
You had to learn to be independent far too quickly.Â
Another thing he owed you an apology for.
Robby tried his best, he knew he did, even if he doubted it was never enough, but when the Pitt was drowning, he couldnât just leave because he had a kid. You learnt to sleep on the couch in the breakroom or the on-call rooms even when the ER around you was drowning in noise. You helped Dana pass out sandwiches or juice to patients waiting for hours. You sat with lonely seniors and listened to their stories, or asked them to read your books with you. You played with the kids of patients. You sat on Doc Adamsonâs shoulders and bossed him around.
Monty loved you.
He loved you as if you were his granddaughter, and Robby would never forget how you sobbed when Robby had to tell you he died. He was staying away from you as much as he could at home, always wearing a mask in shared spaces and otherwise keeping to his bedroom and ensuite bathroom. He was terrified of seeing you end up in the Pitt, of you getting sick.
Robby had lost much of his faith over the years, but he hoped wherever the thing that made a human more than a meat sack filled with organs went after the body stopped working⌠he hoped Monty would look after you.
Not that youâd be alone for long.
When she dies, donât you dare talk me down from the edge, heâd told Jack two days ago, who merely looked at Robby with those sad puppy eyes Robby could never endure looking at long.
He knew Jack would have his ass on a 72-hour hold the second something happened to you.
Waiting had never felt so unbearable.
At first, Robby thought his mind was playing tricks on him. He could not even remember the last time he had a proper nightâs sleep, much less a nap not taken while sitting in the chair next to you with his back bent awkwardly and his head resting on the mattress next to your hand.
He could only stare, blinking as if to chase away the hallucination that attached itself to his retinas, but the more he came to himself, the more he realised he wasnât imagining things.
You were waking up.
You were waking up!
âShhâŚâ Robby was out of his chair, and by your side so quickly he knocked the piece of uncomfortable furniture over. âItâs okay, sheifale. Iâm here. You have a tube in your throat to help you breathe. I know it hurts, but just try to relax and not fight it.â He brushed the hair from your face, both of his hands framing your head, fingertips hovering just above your skin, barely touching you.
âI know, I knowâŚâ He whispered and wiped a tear from the corner of your eye with his thumb. âOh, my brave girl⌠itâs okay. Itâll be okay. Iâm here. Youâre okay. Donât speak- wait, let me get you a pen.â
He couldnât begin to imagine how terrifying it must be to wake up with a foreign object in your throat, to have a machine breathe for you even when you were conscious, not be able to speak or advocate for yourself.
âHere.â Robby carefully closed your fingers around a pen and held the little notepad for you. You struggled at first to find enough strength to drag the pen across the paper, but after a couple of attempts you managed to scrawl out a barely legible you stink.
âMayn gonif.â Robby chastised you affectionately, biting back his tears. He didnât want to fall apart in front of you, not when you were being so strong and brave. âSomeone had to go and get herself shot, excuse me if personal hygiene wasnât my priority.â
You scribbled again. Robby had to fish his glasses out of his pocket before the strain on his eyes left him with a headache he really didnât need right now.
Iâm sorry.
âYou have nothing to apologise for, princess.â
I love you.
Tears burnt in the back of Robbyâs throat.
âI love you too. I love you so much. So much, sheifale.â Robby swallowed a thick, pathetic sob and bent down to press a gentle kiss against your forehead. He wiped away more tears slipping from your eyes.
The pen scraped across the paper.
Scared.
âI know.â Robby whispered and smoothed down the blanket across your chest. âI know. Me too. Itâs okay. Youâre safe now. Itâll be okay now.â
Hurts.
He felt his heart shattering in his chest and had to close his eyes to fight off the wave of emotions crashing into you.
âIâll get a nurse. Weâll set you up with a morphine pump you can control yourself, yes? Is it okay if I leave for a second? Blink twice for yes.â
You blinked twice. Robby could tell you were already getting tired and struggled to make your muscles move.
âIâll be right back, princess.â
He rushed out of the room and towards the nursesâ station. He wanted to be back by your side before you fell asleep again. He loomed behind the nurses, technicians and doctors coming in to assess you with crossed arms, scrutinising every motion, every little way they touched you, ready to jump in should he feel like they were not careful enough with his little girl.
You were given a VidaTalk to communicate and a morphine pump, the remote placed directly in your hand. You pressed down on the button immediately, and he felt his heart break a little bit more. You were in pain. You were in pain, and he could do nothing to take it away.
âLooks like I finally found the topic for my college admissions essay.â The robotic voice of the VidaTalk announced into the whirring and beeping of all the monitors and machines surrounding you. Your eyes were tired, but Robby saw that mischievous sparkle in them that always lit up your eyes when you smiled.
âLetâs focus on you getting better first, sweetheart.â
âI thought you were going to write about your personal hero, Uncle Jack!â Jack appeared in the door, a crooked grin plastered across his lips. âLook at you⌠I donât think you need any of these doctors anymore, huh? Lookinâ strong.â
âLame.â
âIf you can give me cheek then youâre feeling better for sure.â
Your finger tapped rapidly against the touch screen. âI feel like a tank ran me over. Can this thing swear? Fuck.â
Your eyes sparkled.
âHow about we cut back on the swearing and get some rest?â Robby said softly.
"Party Pooper."
A low chuckle bubbled up in his throat despite himself. The sound felt foreign in his mouth. Heâd already surrendered to never feeling it again, and now here you were, looking at him, talking back even if you couldnât talk - things could still go wrong. One little complication could still tear you away from him, but how could he let himself think about your demise for a single second while you were messing around with your godfather, as if you hadnât been fighting for your life every day for two weeks?
âIâm tired.â
âThatâs normal.â Robby murmured and ran his knuckle over your cheek. âYour body is using all its energy for your recovery, there isnât much left over for insulting your old man with a tablet.â
âIâm sorry I was a bitch, Dad.â
âShh, donât say that. Itâs not true. It was just- it was just a silly fight. Letâs just leave that in the past, yes? How would you put it? It was never that deep?â
âEw.â
Robby scowled at you, but its effect was severely undermined by the pure, unadulterated joy crinkling the corners of his eyes.
âIâm the one who owes you an apology. It was awful of me to say that to you. Iâd like to say that I didnât mean to hurt you, but I honestly donât know. Iâve been pretty messed up.â
âI forgive you, Dad. I love you.â
âYou do remind me of your mom.â He whispered. Your brows dipped, forming an angry crease between them. Robby smoothed it down with his thumb immediately. âPeople arenât black and white, princess. What she did is unforgivable, and Iâll never stop wishing that she talked to me instead of just running away and putting you in such danger. But before that⌠unhappiness and despair that drove her to do something so horrible, she was also a woman who would have cackled at you putting violet syrup in my coffee as revenge. She would have adored your sense of humour and your courage and the strong, unapologetic young woman you are becoming. She is a part of you⌠all her good sides are in you, just as you have to live with all my bad sides.â
âYouâre not bad.â The monitorâs emotionlessness was only offset by the hurt in your eyes. âIâm proud to be your daughter.â
Robby swallowed down another rush of tears gathering on his waterline. âIâm proud to have you as my daughter, sweetheart.â
âWill you promise me to go home when Iâm asleep?â
âNah, Iâm staying right here.â
âPlease, Dad. You have to take care of yourself too, not just others.â
His shoulders dropped. âOkay. Okay, I promise.â He said because he could not bear to argue with you, not when he could see how much you struggled to just stay awake. He knew you wouldn't back down anyway.
âShower, sleeping in a real bed for at least eight hours and eating a proper meal, Dad.â
âWhen did you become the parent, huh?â
âWeâve always taken care of each other.â
The expression in your eyes made him falter.
âOkay okay. I promise. Whatever you say.â
âWill you stay until Iâm asleep?â
âYes.â Robby pressed a kiss to your forehead. âI love you, sheifale.â He kept stroking your hair, standing over you while your eyes started to slowly fall shut, not moving an inch until you were deep asleep.
Robby went home.Â
He didn't want to, but what was he going to do? Break his promise to his little girl?
He washed the hospital grime and fear-sweat off his body, drowning out the smell of antiseptic embedded deep into his skin by now in Old Spice and tried not to cry.
Crying in the shower. How pathetic would that be?
He did cry.Â
Dry, silent, heaving sobs that shook his whole body, a mixture of all that he didnât let himself feel while keeping vigil over you and stone-cold sober relief.
He checked his phone as soon as he was out of the shower. Jack sent him an update every ten minutes. A picture of you and your latest vitals. Jack understood Robby wouldnât have been able to leave without knowing someone was watching over you the same way he would have been watching over you.
He pulled one of the mini lasagnas you cooked in bulk and froze in aluminium dishes for easy dinners out of the freezer. While that was in the oven, he gathered some things from the apartment. The SICU had strict rules, and you wouldnât be allowed to have any plushies or blankets from home, not yet, but he could bring you some pictures, the charger for your phone, your spare earbuds since he had no idea where your main pair was now.Â
Entering your room and being greeted by your familiar scent drove new tears into his eyes. The body spray you used that morning still hung in the air, and the crop top you'd gotten into a fight over lay crumpled on the bed.
He picked it up gingerly, meaning to fold and tuck it away in your wardrobe, but he ended up sitting on the edge of your bed, clutching the piece of fabric to his chest as he cried.
The timer for the lasagna sounded through the empty apartment, and Robby almost didn't manage to get up.
He also packed your Nintendo Switch. You would be tired and barely able to stay awake for longer than a few minutes at a time in the coming days, but that would change, eventually.
He hoped it would.
He checked his phone again and ate in silence.
In silence and alone.
No phone being shoved in his face, far too close for his ageing eyes to make out anything more than blurry colours - because youâve waited all day to show you this video, Dad. Just for that one video to devolve into twenty, and Robby started worrying just how much time you spent on TikTok. No bordering-on-snide back and forth between you two that always ended with you doubling over in laughter. It was usually the first time after a shift that Robby felt like he was not drowning. Seeing you happy and bubbly, chewing his ear off with all that youâve waited all day to tell him⌠it was the only joy he had in life. The greatest joy he had.
You were the only reason he didnât go on that three-month-long motorcycle trip heâd been thinking about, the one where heâd just drive until his luck ran out, but how could Robby challenge his luck to run out when you were back in Pittsburgh, staying with Jack while you waited for him to come back?
Some days, Robby thought youâd probably be better off without him. Jack would take care of you, he knew that. You loved Jack. Jack had figured out a way that got him out of the darkness that had its claws embedded so deeply in Robby he sometimes wondered if heâd ever see light again - but then he came home and was greeted by you singing along to one of Robbyâs old mixtapes from college while making dinner in the kitchenâŚ
Robby was a selfish, greedy man.
Robby wanted to be a part of your life, of your joy and happiness, and he wanted to see your smile when you spotted him in the doorway every day, and he wanted the way you jumped into his arms despite the fact you were inching towards maturity and Robby towards the grave - at least that was what his aching bones and bad back were telling him.
He knew he would only drag you down. He knew he had nothing to offer you but sad smiles he no longer felt reverberating in his chest, and he knew didnât reach his eyes anymore.
But he was selfish.
So he stuck around and you⌠well, you had nowhere else to go, did you? Robbyâs mother had disappeared decades ago. His grandmother was dead. You had never met your maternal grandparents. Maybe once you went to college you would realise you had no reason to be around Robby anymore. That he was a mess. That you could do better.
Robby knew you deserved better.
He didnât think heâd be able to find any sleep, and he didnât in his own bed. He tossed and turned, his mind assaulting him with the memory of you coding, of your blood on the ER floor, of the sounds of your ribs breaking he didnât hear through the thick doors of the trauma room but still heard because heâd heard it a thousand times.
His desperation brought him back to your room. He knew he couldnât go back to the hospital yet. Heâd promised you heâd sleep. He curled up in your bed like the pathetic old man he was, clutching your pillow that smelled like your shampoo and that overnight keratin treatment you made him shell out far too much money for every time it ran out to his chest. He stared at the picture frame on your nightstand through teary eyes. It showed you huddled in a towel, your hair hidden beneath the towel, sitting on Robbyâs lap in the backyard of Jackâs old house, the one he sold when his wife died. You were holding a popsicle that was melting down your fingers and grinned at the camera in that endearing grimace-smiling all six-year-olds did when asked to smile for the camera.
You were so littleâŚ
Robby looked at the picture and every time he closed his eyes, he saw you in the SICU, tube down your throat, feeding tube in your nose, old blood stuck in your hair, so pale as if you were already deadâŚ
You recovered.
Within a day of you waking up, your medical team had you on your feet and walking. It was painful, it was exhausting and difficult, and Robby hated to see you struggle and the tears of humiliation clinging to your lashes as your team held your arms and encouraged you to move your feet.
It was brutal.
But, and the doctor part of his brain understood and supported this no matter how the side that was your father loathed the whole process, awake ICUs had shown significant increases in recovery rates and decreases in complications associated with the deep sedation most intubated patients were under in most of the country. There was no medical indication for you to be sedated, so you werenât. You were still on a ventilator for now, but you were awake and walking.
Early mobility kept postoperative complications down, reduced the risks of blood clots and preserved muscle function.
Robby kept telling himself all the advantages, repeating them like a mantra in his head while desperately trying not to think about how much the effort you were taking looked like pure torture from the outsideâŚ
Days passed. Timelines for common complications rolled by without touching you. Milestones were reached.
But you were always tired. You were in pain and uncomfortable, and the reality of all that had happened to you slowly started to sink in - Robby could tell by the haunted expression that had slipped into your eyes.
Physically you were improving, but mentally⌠Robby could tell you were struggling.
Your medical team concluded that your level of consciousness was enough for you to protect your airway, and your spontaneous breathing tests came back promising.
Robby was wholly unfamiliar with the role of the family member during an extubation, but he tried his best when your doctor prepped you for extubation.
âDad, you can sit right here and hold your daughterâs hand.â He said, addressing Robby as he would any other father of a patient. As Robby had done a million times, but today it felt wrong to hear the word Dad addressed to him in a voice that was not yours.
It had been so long since he heard your voiceâŚ
Heâd been listening to old voice messages you sent him when he missed your presence at home too much. He was so pathetic, but right now Robby didnât even care. He sat on the chair assigned to him and held your hand, smiling at you with as much silent encouragement as he could muster. You squeezed his hand when the tube was pulled from your throat. You coughed, and tears rolled down your cheeks. Robby held his breath, eyes flicking wildly back and forth between your face and your stats on the monitor. Your oxygen levels fell slightly while you coughed and tried not to choke on your secretions. A nurse was at your side right away to help by using the wall suction to get rid of most of it, giving you some time to adjust having the tube out before handling that yourself.
âYouâre doing great, sweetheart.â Robby murmured and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles.
âHi, dad.â You croaked, voice raw and quiet, and you winced as soon as you spoke.
âItâs okay, sheifale. Your throat will hurt for a bit while it and your voice box recover from the inflammation the intubation caused. Itâll go away in a few days.â
âThirsty.â You murmured. Robby noticed you were already struggling to keep your eyes open.
âYou are getting fluids through your IVs and the feeding tube.â Your doctor explained. âBut many patients report a feeling of intense thirst after extubation. You may sip some water, just tiny sips though.â
âIs that safe?â Robby asked.
âYes. Weâll have a Speech-Language Pathologist come by to assess her swallowing function so we can determine whether it is safe to remove the feeding tube and have her feed herself, but research has shown that sipping water works best to reduce the sensation of thirst after extubation with no ill effects to recovery. We prioritise patient comfort in these cases over the older doctrines of mandatory fasting periods after extubation.â
Robby nodded. He trusted your doctorâs judgement. Robby intubated and extubated plenty of patients, but he didnât usually get in contact with long-term ICU patients, nor was he well versed in the more recent research discoveries in the field.
Many liked to call emergency physicians butchers, but when literally fighting for lives, Robby gladly did everything he could - even if it wasnât pretty. Your medical team was focused on different concerns.
They left after a moment of monitoring your breathing and oxygen levels. Robby held the ugly hospital-issued off-pink plastic cup in his hand and brought the straw to your lips, watching you take a cautious sip.
âJust a small sip, baby.â
âI heard the doctor.â You huffed.
âI know.â Robby smoothed your hair down and shot you an apologetic smile. âYou know how I get. Let me fuss over you. It puts my mind at ease.â
You huffed again, but Robby saw the smile you tried to hide from him. It made his chest feel lighter to see it, to see your face without the tube and the tube holder obstructing it. Compared to that, the transnasal feeding tube almost didnât stand out.
âYou feeling okay?â
You nodded weakly.
âShall I read some more?â
âPlease.â
Robby picked up the book heâd been reading to you from time to time during your stay from the nightstand and searched for a bookmark. It was your favourite book from when you were a child. Robby doubted your choice had been a coincidence, despite the book never leaving your shelf in the years since. The last time these pages had been turned, Robby sat in bed with you, your little body curled up against him.
Heâd gladly do anything he could to bring you any comfort he could in these times.
You fell asleep before he could finish even a single chapter. He tucked the bookmark between those pages but kept reading anyway.
His eyes, though, never stayed off your stats for long.
Robby missed your transfer from the ICU to the regular ward.
Your medical team had been discussing it for a while. You were improving. You still had a long way ahead of you but⌠somewhere along the way Robby stopped thinking about your death.
He still sometimes woke up in the middle of the night, most of which he still spent in the hospital despite your attempts to make him go home, in a cold sweat, startling from a nightmare where things had taken a much worse turn.
You were talking to Caleb twice a week since youâd been extubated.Â
Things got dark. It was Jack who noticed that it had gotten too dark. That you crossed the line of grappling with what had happened to you into much more unsteady territory. Not that you could be blamed for it. What you had been through⌠no child should have to go through any of that.
Talking seemed to help you, but your smiles stayed a little too forced, your eyes a little too distant. That was when Caleb advised antidepressants. Robby closed off. He didnât want to hear any of it. You were fine. You were struggling, yes, but how could anyone blame you for that? Youâd been shot at school by a boy you were trying to help and spent hours running around the school, tearing yourself apart to help save as many people as you could. You starved off death with some gauze and stone-cold determination.
That was no reason to stuff you full of meds!
You were fine.
But you werenât.
You werenât, and, as Jack and Caleb pointed out, medication was just another support pillar they could offer to help you on your journey to come to terms with your new reality. It was no different than antibiotics, pain meds or physical therapy.
And just because a geriatric patient was still mobile did not mean Robby wouldnât also prescribe them blood thinners to further help prevent blood clotsâŚ
You had lost so much that day, much more than had become apparent right away. You didnât lose your kidney, but a not insignificant part of your innocence had been completely shattered. The whole magnitude of the trauma that day, almost dying, and the strenuous recovery process had handed you was only just beginning to crawl to the surface.
The massive scar stretching all the way from the top of your sternum down to your pubic bone and the three smaller, round scars where the bullets entered your body would be with you for the rest of your life. Youâd be reminded of what happened every time you took a shower, every time you wanted to wear a bikini, every time your shirts had a slightly lower necklineâŚ
Robby didnât want to, but he owed it to you to explore why he had that reaction to Calebâs suggestion. He was a doctor. He should not still be so affected by outdated prejudice regarding mental health, especially in this time they were living in, where the discourse about mental health was as alive as never before.
He agreed to give his consent should you want to take the meds.
The entire time youâve been in the hospital, Robby had been thinking how heâd do everything to help you and if the meds could help you deal with your dark thoughts, with the anxiety and sleep problems, the nightmares then⌠well, how could he justify denying you that?
Caleb reassured him theyâd reassess your need for them every six months. There was a good chance you wouldnât need them for the rest of your life. You didnât have chronic depression. Your whole world had been turned upside down, and you need⌠you just needed some help finding ways to cope with your new reality.
You spoke a lot with Jack. Robby tried not to be jealous. He had no reason to be. Jack was your godfather. Jack had been in a war zone. Jack lost his leg. Jack spent months in the hospital. Jack could relate to this new part of you that Robby didnât even know.
There was a new part of you, one that your father didnât knowâŚ
You were moved to the regular ward while Robby was at the mall, picking up a new book and a couple of video games youâd asked for. He was actually standing in a store looking at gaming laptops, considering getting you one of those since you wouldnât be able to play on your computer at home - heâd bring the thing into the hospital, but Gloria would never let that happen - and he knew there were some games you liked that you couldnât play on the Switch, when he got your text.
It was a selfie of you in your new room.
Freedom at last!, youâd captioned it, followed by a request for your favourite meal. The ICU had strict rules regarding everything family members brought in from the outside, one of which was no outside food. Youâd been stuck with unsalted hospital food after your feeding tube was removed, and youâd been begging to have it back in because the liquid diet was still better than the disgraceful meal plan from the hospital.
You can have whatever you want, he replied. Anything you want from home?
You sent a list - of course you did - that ended with donât touch my nightstand in all caps, and Robby debated whether he wanted to know what that was about.
He decided the content of a seventeen-year-old girlâs nightstand was between herself and the nightstand.
Robby finished his shopping and went home to gather some comfortable clothes for you, the quilt from his grandma you kept in your bed, a few of your most cherished plushies, some toiletries and a pair of slippers before picking up your requested meal and driving back to the hospital.
He found your room already occupied by your friends. They hadnât been allowed into the ICU due to visitor limitations. Dwayne was still on crutches, but Robby knew they had all gone back to school a week ago.
Garcia had hit the nail on the head - teens bounced back faster than adults. It truly was inspiring to see how much the four of you refused to let this tragedy destroy you. Between talking about the memorial service the school held for the officer, the teacher, and the two students who died, you were discussing your plans for college and the summer. Dwayne got cocky about how the captain of the cheerleading team agreed to go to prom with him and Mira and Oliver exchanged shy glances.
âI donât know about prom.â You huffed and tugged at the front of your button-down pyjama top. The dressing of your surgical scar peeked out at the top. âNot with this ugly thing.â
âScars are cool.â Dwayne mumbled around the entire pack of Skittles he dumped into his mouth.
Robby couldnât help the smile tugging on his lips.
âMr R!â Mira was the first to notice him.
âHello kids.â Robby deposited the bag he packed on the bed next to you and brushed a kiss to your forehead. âHello, sheifale.â
It made him very happy to know you had found the kind of friends who would drop everything at a momentâs notice to get to the hospital just because youâd finally be transferred to a ward where they could visit you.
Robby settled on the chair Dwayne vacated when your friends said their goodbye and cleared out of the room. He unpacked the food he brought and listened to you fill him in on all the latest gossip your friends had brought from school, the cute puppy video you saw online and the ward gossip you picked up on from the nurses.
Robby could not imagine a place where heâd rather be.
Robby found himself growing increasingly fed up with his own struggles. He was sick and tired of feeling like an empty shell. He was sick and tired of feeling like everything sucked all the time and would never get better.Â
He was sick of hating the day, every day, before it had even begun.
He watched you get better, despite having had to go back in for surgery once youâd stabilised to put permanent fixes in place where Garcia had only had time for quick patches.
He watched that haunted expression fade, a little more every day. He watched the antidepressants take effect and some of your old self returning to you. You tackled the full cafeteria during the lunch rush with your therapist, just sitting in the chaos and trying to endure it as your anxiety skyrocketed. When that went well, you moved on to the ER, then the waiting room, and from there you even managed to brave the park outside the hospital.
Robby was so endlessly proud of you, but at the same time a nasty, terrible part of him despised that you got better while he was still stuck, still trapped in his own bullshit as if it were tar slowly dragging him under.
And for the first time since Jack handed him the business card of his therapist a few days after PittFest, Robby picked up his phone.
Dana cackled.
Her laughter cut through the low buzz of ER madness and made Robby lift his head. His glasses sat low on his nose to prevent them from fogging up in the humid air being blasted through the department by the shitty air conditioning unit.
âWhatâs that about.â
âMy daughter just sent me a TikTok.â Dana turned around to hand him her phone. Robby needed a moment to make sense of the video playing on the screen. In bold, white lettering written across the screen it declared filming my dad every time he uses hand sanitizer. The video started playing, showing Robby coming out of different rooms of the ED or stepping up to one of the many counters, rubbing his hands together. You, in your endless boredom as you called it, had apparently spent an afternoon following Robby with a camera - and he hadnât even noticed. Every time he held his hand under a dispenser, you zoomed in on him.
âYou went viral.â
âThis?â Robby questioned with a raised brow. âThis thing went viral?â He looked at the number beneath the little heart in the corner. âJee-sus.â
Dana was still laughing.
âWhat the fuck even is this?â
âAh,â Jack grinned as he stepped up next to Robby, catching a glance at Danaâs phone. âYou found Robby jrâs project.â
âHer what?â
âGo on the profile, sheâs been making all sorts of videos. The hospital honestly should hire her as social media manager. The people love The Pitt.â Jack tapped on the profile. You really had called it The Pitt. Oh, Gloria would hate it.
On the profile were a series of silly videos like the hand sanitizer one, filming Jack doing tricks in a wheelchair, asking staff around the ER for their secret talents, a montage of Javadiâs best shocked expressions, Whitaker âlooking like a sad, wet puppyâ as youâd titled the video.
But it was more than that.
You did an interview with Dana, asking her how long sheâd been working at the Pitt, why she went into health care, why she stuck around despite all the challenges, what she loved about the job and one thing she wished the world knew about her profession. Youâd done the same interview with a couple of people - Jack among them - but also medics, Esme, Lupe, Antoine, and at least one of their techs. You gave Kiara and Dylan a chance to talk about the help available for people that most didnât know about.
You interviewed homeless people, asking them about their lives, showing that they were human, that most of them had lived a whole life before something terrible happened and made them fall through the cracks.
One video stuck out. In it, you talked about what the ER meant to you personally. You talked about all the days youâd spent here when you were little, how much Robby had sacrificed to raise you. You talked about Adamson and the time you lost your tooth because you and Jake were playing chase and you slipped, knocking your mouth against a counter. You showed off the tongue-suppressor toys you built as a little girl, and Robby still kept around, almost a decade later. You talked about how you were almost born right here in the ER, on the way to the elevators, because Robby, in his panic at your motherâs water breaking, couldnât find the car keys. How inspiring it had been to grow up around so many people who dedicated their lives to being there for people on the worst day of their lives, who shouldered the trauma and heartbreak of it all just so people wouldnât have to be alone in their hour of need.
âThis is where I almost died.â You said on the video as you walked into the trauma room. You flipped the camera around and smiled sadly. âNobody likes going to the hospital, and Iâm slowly losing my mind being stuck here too, I want to go home. I want none of this to have ever happened, but no matter what happened - this is home. My home away from home⌠and these people are my family. Iâve spent so many Thanksgivings and Hanukkahs and birthdays with them. I donât have solutions for all of the things that are going wrong in the healthcare system, but if youâre in Pittsburgh and something happens to you, and you end up at the Pitt, you can trust that my family is going to take care of your family.â
Robby found himself fighting back tears, just for the video to scroll away automatically and the next one starting. You were following Robby with your camera again, zoomed in on him while nature sounds played.
âHere we see-â You said in your best approximation of David Attenborough. â-a common exhausted, overworked, burnt-out health care worker in his natural habitat.âÂ
Robby burst out laughing. You panned your camera over to Jack, who was standing next to you. âThis is the existential crisis variant of the overworked, burnt-out healthcare worker.â
Jack made a peace sign with his fingers. âI got over the existential crisis.â
âDid you though?â
âRascal.â
Jack put his hand on Robbyâs shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. âSheâs doing good.â
âYeah.â Robby murmured, watching you chase after Jack in a wheelchair. You stood no chance of course. Jack had much more practice than you, but you were laughing, that shrieking high-pitched laugh that was so you and so real and for the first time since the shooting, Robby looked at you and saw the person you were before all of this shit.
But trauma was a conniving, resourceful bitch.
âAre you worried about her getting discharged today?â
Robby shook his head. âNot as much as Iâm worried about everything else. Sheâs been struggling with going outside. Her therapist took her to a store, and she started crying and almost had an anxiety attack.â
âWhich isnât surprising with what sheâs gone through, but sheâs not ready to give up on her life just because some asshole decided bringing a rifle to school was the solution for all his problems. She handled that shit, brother. Yeah, it didnât go how she hoped it would, but she used her skills, and she calmed down again and ended up buying a bunch of snacks to bring back to her room, and she'll be stronger for it. She did good. Healing isnât linear.â
That was the exact same thing Jackâs therapist told Robby during their last session together. A weekly occurrence at this point.
âI know.â
Jack kept staring at him.
Robby sighed. âShe wants to go back to school once sheâs cleared.â
âOkay.â
Robby glared at Jack. âOkay? Itâs not! Itâs far from okay, man!â
âShe doesnât want to let this set her back. She wants to graduate with her friends.â Jack shrugged. âSheâs starting with half days, right?â
âFor now.â
âI think itâs good. Donât get me wrong, I donât like thinking about her going back to school either, not after what happened, but she deserves to move on. She deserves closure. And she deserves to reclaim the school for herself. She doesnât want this tragedy and the trauma to win.â Jack slapped Robby on the shoulder and shot him a crooked grin. âGo on, finish up here and take our girl home. Iâm sure Robby jr is looking forward to finally sitting on the sofa and forcing you to watch one of her shows again.â
Robby chuckled. âProbably.â
He too was looking forward to it, and to many, many more evenings like that to comeâŚ
