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[geminiwritten]

you have no idea ; jack abbot

summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.

notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)

warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.

word count: 18889

Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.

Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.

He had never really had anything to be jealous of.

Until now.

Now there are far too many things.

Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.

Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.

Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.

Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.

So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.

“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”

Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.

“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.

Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.

“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.

Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”

Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”

Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”

“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.

It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.

Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”

Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.

God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.

More than that—he's an old man.

Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?

He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.

And it’s only been two weeks.

But the absolute worst part?

He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.

At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.

But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.

And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.

“What’re you doing here?”

Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.

“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.

Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”

Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”

Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”

“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”

Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”

They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.

“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”

Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”

“What about her?”

Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”

“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.

Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.

“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”

Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”

Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.

“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.

Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.

For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.

Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.

And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.

The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.

Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.

He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.

“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.

Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.

“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.

You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.

“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”

Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”

You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.

Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”

You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”

“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”

You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”

“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”

You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”

Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.

But it comes out anyway.

“…I cook.”

You blink.

“You cook?”

Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.

“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”

You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.

“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”

Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.

“Sorry again for the mess.”

Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.

-

“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.

You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.

“Yep.”

She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.

“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”

“I’m aware.”

“So, why is he here?”

You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”

She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”

You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”

“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.

“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”

“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.

“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”

She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”

You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”

“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”

Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”

She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.

She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re annoying.”

She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”

Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”

“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.

“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”

“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”

“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.

“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”

And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.

“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”

It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.

You are. You’re just... nervous.

Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.

Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.

God.

Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.

Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.

He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.

His damn jacket.

That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.

Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.

The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.

Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.

Now you just… think about him instead.

But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.

Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.

You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.

You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.

When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.

By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.

“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.

“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”

He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”

Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”

You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”

He nods.

You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.

“Do you need to…?”

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.

You frown. “Need to what?”

He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”

Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”

“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.

“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”

“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”

“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”

“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.

Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.

“Let’s just go.”

You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.

The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.

You wave him off each time.

“It’s fine, Whitaker.”

“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”

He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.

The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.

Jack Abbot. Of course.

You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.

The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.

When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.

But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.

He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.

Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.

And in the dream, you do.

You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.

He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.

Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.

His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.

Your back meets the edge of the counter.

And when his mouth brushes your neck—

You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.

“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.

So much for getting him out of your head.

For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.

At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.

The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.

You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.

“Get a fucking grip.”

Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.

Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.

Jack Abbot.

After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.

It doesn’t.

But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.

The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.

Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.

So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.

It really is for the best.

You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.

“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.

You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.

“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”

“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”

She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.

Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”

Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”

Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”

“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.

Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”

Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”

You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”

The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.

Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”

Santos grins. “A dress.”

Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”

“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”

“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”

She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.

“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.

You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.

“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”

“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.

Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”

You blink at her.

“To get you laid.”

Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.

“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”

You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.

“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”

Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.

“That’s my girl.”

You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.

And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.

With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.

“So?”

For a moment, no one says anything.

Whitaker’s mouth falls open.

Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”

Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.

“I knew it,” she says smugly.

Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”

Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”

You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.

“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”

“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”

She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.

“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”

“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.

Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”

After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.

You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.

The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.

You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.

Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?

“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.

You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.

“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”

She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.

“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”

Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”

Right. Fun.

That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.

Completely achievable.

Right?

“Fine.”

You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.

“See?” she says. “Much better.”

“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.

Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”

You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.

It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.

You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.

People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.

And—

Your brain stalls.

Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.

A familiar someone.

Dr. Ellis.

And the man—

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Your stomach plummets.

Jack fucking Abbot.

Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.

Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.

Because he looks—

He looks so good.

Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.

And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.

“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”

“Santos.”

She doesn’t stop.

“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.

She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”

“You knew.”

She stops, her hand hovering near the door.

Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”

“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”

“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”

She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”

You stare at her. “So you did know?”

“I knew it was his night off.”

“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”

“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”

“Half naked.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”

“I will actually die.”

“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”

She pulls the door open.

“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”

-

“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”

Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”

Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.

Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.

He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.

He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.

But he’s not.

He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.

For you.

He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.

It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.

Which is ridiculous. He knows it.

He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.

“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”

Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.

He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.

Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—

You.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Jack stops breathing.

His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.

It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.

But then—

That dress.

God.

That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.

It’s all too much.

He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.

He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.

And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.

He hates them all.

He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.

And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.

“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”

Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”

Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”

Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.

“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”

Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.

One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.

Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.

And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.

“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”

“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.

“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.

You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.

“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”

Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.

Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.

Because you’re listening.

And apparently… you think he’s funny.

“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”

The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.

“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”

Santos blinks.

“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”

The bartender barely glances at her.

Jack’s jaw tightens.

You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.

“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”

“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.

The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.

His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.

And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.

His hand clenches at his side.

Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.

“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”

“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”

Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”

Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.

“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”

The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.

“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”

He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.

You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”

Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.

She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.

Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”

Jack frowns. “What—”

But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.

Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.

It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.

But Jack doesn’t get that shot.

Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.

It’s just too inappropriate.

Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.

His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.

Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.

He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.

With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.

Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.

Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.

Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.

Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.

Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.

He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.

Not that he’s any better.

“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”

Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.

“Hm?”

“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”

Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”

Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.

Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”

“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”

“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”

Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.

Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”

Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.

“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”

Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.

He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.

This is ridiculous, and he knows it.

He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.

This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.

So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?

Why are you undoing him like this?

He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.

His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.

Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.

HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.

Jack tilts his head.

That’s not exactly... subtle.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it?

He doesn’t hesitate.

Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.

So what the hell is this?

This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.

Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.

He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.

“Jesus Christ.”

It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.

With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.

You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.

The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.

Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.

He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.

He looks at you. Just you.

“Hey.”

Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.

“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.

And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.

“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”

Jack ignores him.

“You alright?” he asks you.

You nod slowly. “I am now.”

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.

Jack goes still.

Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”

You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”

Jack likes being called your attending.

Trent frowns. “What?”

“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”

Trent just stares at you.

“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”

His resident.

“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”

Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”

“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.

“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”

“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”

“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.

He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.

“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”

Jack nods. “I noticed.”

He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.

And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.

Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.

But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.

Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.

Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.

He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.

But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.

He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.

Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.

Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”

You frown. “Um. Not really.”

“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.

You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.

Then you look back at Jack.

“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”

He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.

The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.

God. This has the be the finest form of torture.

Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.

And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.

-

The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.

You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.

So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.

The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.

Which, fine. Whatever.

But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.

And you’re getting a little annoyed.

“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”

You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.

The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.

The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.

If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.

At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.

You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?

This is the plan.

He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.

Then his attention shifts.

His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.

It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.

“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”

Then he’s gone.

You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—

Of course.

Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.

Not angry. Not exactly.

But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.

You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.

You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”

She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”

You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”

“Why not?”

You huff out a laugh, incredulous.

“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”

Santos’ mouth twitches.

“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”

Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.

“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”

You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”

“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”

It doesn’t land straight away.

You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—

And then it clicks.

Your stomach drops.

“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”

Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.

You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.

“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”

A game?

Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.

The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.

“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”

Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”

“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”

Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”

“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”

There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.

“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”

Santos nods. “Be my guest.”

You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.

“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”

McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.

“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”

Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”

“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”

Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.

“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”

Your pulse jumps.

McKay snorts.

Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”

Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”

Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”

Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.

Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.

“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”

Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.

“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”

“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”

Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.

You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.

“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”

The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.

Not surprised. Not amused.

Just… watching.

He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.

And something sharp twists in your chest.

“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.

Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.

“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”

McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.

Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.

And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.

Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.

And you—

You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.

Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.

And before you can talk yourself out of it—

“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.

Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.

“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”

For a second—nothing.

Then the table erupts.

“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”

Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”

“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.

Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”

Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.

Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.

And across from you—

Jack just goes still.

Completely still.

His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.

It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.

Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.

And so it goes on.

You know it does.

You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.

Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.

At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.

Another round starts. Then another.

Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.

Time stretches. Blurs.

Your drink empties, refills, empties again.

People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.

Then suddenly—

“You ready?”

You blink.

Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.

“Ready?” you echo.

She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”

Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.

“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.

“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”

You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.

“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.

Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”

Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”

“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.

Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”

Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”

“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.

He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.

“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.

Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.

“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”

“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.

Your stomach drops.

“I—I’m what?”

Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”

Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.

“See you tomorrow!”

There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.

For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.

Then—

“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.

You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.

The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.

Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.

Neither of you says anything.

It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.

Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.

You feel too sober. Too aware.

When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.

God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.

You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.

The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.

It’s his.

All of it.

The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.

The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.

You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.

The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.

You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.

Waiting.

For the engine to start. For the car to move.

But nothing happens.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.

And then—

“You can’t say shit like that around me.”

You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.

“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.

He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.

“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.

And you do.

You know exactly what he means.

But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.

The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.

You can still hear his voice.

You can’t say shit like that around me.

The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.

Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.

Because what does that even mean?

You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.

You look away again.

No. He didn’t mean it like that.

He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—

Except he didn’t say it like that.

Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.

The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.

The way he said it.

Around me.

Not here. Not in front of people.

Around me.

Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—

No.

No, that’s not—

You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.

You’re just reading into it. You have to be.

Because the alternative—

Your pulse jumps.

God. The alternative is too much to even consider.

But the thought lingers anyway.

It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—

The car stops—and you blink.

For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.

Then Jack clears his throat.

“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.

He nods once. “Anytime.”

You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.

You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.

God.

This is stupid.

This is reckless.

This is—

“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”

He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.

“You can’t be serious.”

Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.

What the hell were you thinking?

“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”

You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.

It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.

This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.

You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.

Then—

“Here.”

His voice is low. Close.

Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.

His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.

Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.

His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.

You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.

He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”

It’s quiet. Controlled.

Not a suggestion.

Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—

Then you turn and keep walking.

And he follows.

He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.

You push the door open and step inside.

The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—

And you’re daring him to jump.

“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.

He clears his throat. “Water, please.”

You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.

“So polite,” you murmur.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.

You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.

You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.

“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.

He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”

Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.

You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.

Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.

“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.

You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.

“Isn’t that something you should already know?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.

“You’re impossible. You know that?”

Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.

“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”

He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.

“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.

He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.

“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”

He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.

You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Could you help me out of my dress?”

The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.

Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.

He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.

Your stomach flips.

Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.

You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.

He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.

Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.

“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”

“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.

His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”

Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.

You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.

For a second, neither of you move.

And then his hand finds your neck—

Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.

He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.

His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.

You melt before you can stop yourself.

Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.

His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.

It doesn’t work.

Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.

He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.

You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.

Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.

And something in him gives.

You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.

Less restrained.

Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.

It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.

Your back meets the door with a soft thud.

He doesn’t stop.

If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.

His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.

And you can feel it—how close he is.

It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.

Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.

He doesn’t.

His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.

His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.

You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.

“Bedroom,” you murmur.

For a second, he just looks at you.

Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.

But he doesn’t find any.

He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.

It’s barely a walk.

More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.

The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.

Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.

Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.

Gone.

His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.

“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.

You don’t answer. You just step into him.

And it’s all the permission he needs.

His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.

Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.

His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.

His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.

Not hesitation. Control.

Or what little he has left of it.

“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.

You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.

“I’m not the one holding back.”

You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.

Like he’s learning you.

The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.

Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.

His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.

He lifts your hand above your head.

“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”

He shushes you.

“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”

And you believe him.

His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.

“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”

The words go straight through you.

You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.

Chasing him.

And he notices. Of course he does.

You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.

His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.

He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.

With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.

Soft. Unsteady. Needy.

And he loves it.

You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.

“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”

“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.

“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”

He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.

Then his hand shifts.

Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.

Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”

The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.

You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.

And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.

“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”

All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.

His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.

And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.

Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.

Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.

You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice rough, barely steady. “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.

“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”

He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.

“You sure?”

You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.

“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”

Something feral flickers across his face.

And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.

He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.

“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.

He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.

He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.

“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”

It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.

Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.

You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.

“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”

And then the fabric gives.

The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.

It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

But it is.

Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?

Fuck.

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.

For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.

“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”

“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”

A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.

“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”

He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.

“You ready, sweetheart?” he asks, voice low, rough, barely holding together.

The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.

“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.

For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—

And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.

Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.

But not now.

Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.

His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.

His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.

And then his hand moves between you.

You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.

“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”

Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.

It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.

Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.

You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.

The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.

You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.

It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.

But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.

Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.

-

For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.

If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.

With him.

And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.

“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”

“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”

Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.

Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.

“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”

Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.

So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.

Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.

What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—

“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”

Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.

The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.

“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.

Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”

Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.

You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.

“Miss me?”

Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.

“Thought you were sick.”

You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”

For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.

“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.

Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.

But it feels like everything.

And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.

© 2026 geminiwritten

[itsmeatballworld-library]

holy -- oh yess girly this was everything. thank you for this masterpiece

[targaryenvampireslayer]

𝐍𝐞𝐜𝐤𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞

𝐔𝐧-𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐨𝐭 𝐆𝐮𝐲!𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐟 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐓𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐉𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐉𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞! 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐈 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐚 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫… 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐞𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐨 >:) 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐠𝐮𝐧 𝐩𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐭, 𝐟𝐥𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐬, 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞!

𝐈𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩 𝐮𝐩 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡, 𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠 @suzs-fic-library

“You make it very hard to… think…”

Your voice came out breathier than you meant it to, the rush of desire that spiked through you was something that you hated in that moment, but it couldn't be denied or ignored. Or hidden, if the grin in the thief's voice was anything to go by,

“Oh yeah, am I makin’ you nervous, sweetheart?”

“Not at all. I get guns pointed at my head by masked criminals every day. You're not special,”

He laughs at your back, and the pressure of the gun is lessened slightly, making you breathe just a little easier. You can feel his warmth, cloying and insidiously inviting at your back as he moves closer,

“You're taking too long… makes me think you want this to last…”

“You want this to be over quickly then? I love when minute men are honest, I know where I stand now,” 

The thief's laugh is deeper, and you can't help but smile… and the safe finally opens, leaving you and the criminal staring into your bosses safe full of jewellery and wads of cash. The man stalks past you, and starts grabbing everything and thrusting it into a duffel bag,

“Sorry, sweetheart, I'm going to have to run out on you. I gotta tie you up first, but I promise I won't hurt you,”

Later, much later, you're home again. The police had taken your statement, your boss had quietly fired you for allowing the man with a gun to take his property and now your head was ringing with the shock that you hadn't allowed to take you out earlier.

And on your bed was a diamond necklace, a red rose, and a note;

This would look better on you than in a safe. And you would look beautiful wearing just this against my sheets. I'll see you soon, sweetheart.

𝐈 𝐝𝐞𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬… 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐈 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫?

[farfromstrange]

Daydreaming | Rafael Barba x F!Reader

Main Masterlist | Read Me On AO3!

Pairing: Rafael Barba x F!Reader

Summary: Sometimes, you can't help but objectify the ADA who has turned your head. Not when he looks that good. Lucky for you, he is just as obsessed with giving you what you want as he is with winning cases.

Warnings: Smut (18+), porn without plot, office sex, mentions of murder (that has nothing to do with the porn), established relationship, mentioned unprotected p in v, mentioned choking, body appreciation (is that a warning? i don't even know), mentions of blowjob, implied soft!dom!Rafael, oral f!receiving (that man eats pussy like it's his last meal don't argue), coming untouched, sexting, fluff

WC: 1.9k

A/N: Heh. Hi. I'm new here. Not to Tumblr (I’ve been a Daredevil Fic Writer for 3 years now), but to the SVU fandom. First time writing for Rafael, too. Bit scary, not gonna lie, but he came on screen, put a belt around his neck, and I fell in love. He's my new blorbo. I'd die for him. I'd kill for him. I do not want to talk about The Undiscovered Country. I just need to love this man, be loved by this man, and let this man do unspeakable things to me. With his slutty little outfits. Fuck him. Literally. This is inspired by that dress shirt suspenders sleeves rolled up situation he had going on that one episode in Season 18. I am not sorry. Don't have a tag list for him yet, but I'm working on something else right now (something a lot longer), so I might start one then. This was written in, like, 2 hours, but I hope you like it anyway!

The way he looked should have been illegal.

He stood behind his desk in that tight-fitting dress shirt you loved so much, with those brown suspenders holding his perfectly tailored trousers up by the hem while simultaneously keeping them hanging dangerously low on his hips, and his shirt sleeves rolled up far enough to reveal every last vein stretching from his forearms to the back of his wildly gesturing hands.

The streaks of grey in his dark hair glistened in the usually so unflattering ceiling light as it danced over every inch of his tan skin. You sat there and counted them one by one, wondering what he would look like in a few years when it would all go grey and maybe, just maybe, you could convince him to grow out his beard. It would be grey, too, you thought. It would be grey and it would be beautiful because either way, it would match his piercing green eyes.

It wasn’t fair how good he looked without even trying. And he wasn’t trying, by any means. He wasn’t trying to look good or sound like sex personified while talking about a gruesome murder you were still gathering evidence for, but he still managed to do so.

You shifted a little further back in your seat to ease the erratic pulse between your thighs—to no avail.

That nose… sometimes, you looked at him and all you could think was, I want to sit on his face. You knew how good it felt when it rubbed against your clit. When his tongue was so deep inside you that you were starting to fuse.

You would have spread your legs for him right there if he’d asked, if he’d commanded you. You would have let him dive in and eat you out. You would have done the same for him, too, gotten on your knees right there and then, putting his thick cock into your hot mouth and sucking him off until he was writhing beneath you. You would have let him grab your hair and push you up against the wall, the fireplace, or one of those huge windows that gave him a perfect view of the city, and the city a perfect view of you.

You would have let him fuck you from behind in front of all of New York City until his cum was seeping out of you. Hell, you would even have let him wrap those long, slender fingers around your throat while he was pounding into you over and over and—

“Are you even listening to me?”

You snapped out of it. “I’m sorry, what?”

The corners of his mouth twitched, and fuck him, he put his hands on his hips as if he knew exactly what you'd been daydreaming about.

“You okay?” he asked.

You bit your lip. Why did he have to be standing? This way, you had a perfect view of his waist, his perfect tummy, and God, his—

“Cariño?” he sounded a little more concerned now.

“I'm fine,” you choked out. “What were you saying?”

You needed a cold shower, or a gun to your head. You just had to drop off some files after your shift, knowing he would be busy for a little while longer. You wanted to see him, yes, but this was more professional than personal. Except that it was personal. It always was with him.

Fuck. Now you were wet and embarrassed.

“I was saying that I need more evidence,” he said. “I couldn't even convene a Grand Jury with what you have so far.”

“You always need more evidence,” you said.

“Because I want a guilty verdict, not to be humiliated by a public defender in open court.”

He was always so wound up. It was sexy but utterly exhausting, considering you were trying to do your job right.

“Well,” you rose to your feet, “once I've figured out how to make evidence magically appear out of thin air, I'll get back to you. But first, I'm gonna need some sleep.”

He said your name in that low tone of his that always made goosebumps travel like dominoes down your spine. You stopped.

“C'mere,” he said.

“Why?”

“Because I know you've been daydreaming about my head between your legs for the past ten minutes, and I'd like to spend the next ten giving you exactly what you want.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Rafael,” you gasped.

He smirked, reaching a hand out to you. “Come here,” he echoed, firmer this time.

He smelled like sandalwood and coffee. Like heaven and hell. Like home.

Rafael cupped your face. “Hi,” he whispered.

“Hi,” you whispered back.

Every time he looked at you, you found yourself drowning in his eyes. They were always so soft with you, so gentle and loving and full of a kind of passion—lust, even—you had never experienced before. You'd never been wanted like this before, and it was utterly terrifying yet so incredibly fulfilling at the same time.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You barely managed a nod.

He didn't waste another second, leaning in to brush his lips against yours. It was nothing more than that, just a brush, the softest of kisses. You tried chasing him for more, but he pulled away.

Rafael placed his thumb against your bottom lip. “Shh,” he cooed. “It's gonna be a while 'til I can get out of here, so…” He traced his other hand up your thigh and under the sundress you'd decided to change into.

“So?” you asked.

“Sit your ass on my desk and spread your legs for me.”

Fuck his silver tongue. Literally.

You complied almost instantly, and he was on you like a man possessed just as fast. His lips crashed into yours. His hand tangled in your hair and pulled, hard, so your head was angled back. Teeth scraped down your throat to your collarbone, then back up to your lips.

A moan slipped past yours into his mouth, and Rafael swallowed it like it was the best meal he'd ever had. He was getting hard in his slacks, but he didn't even let you think about touching him.

Oh, if there was one view you could never get sick of, it was the sight of Rafael Barba on his knees.

“Rafa,” you breathed.

You couldn't get more vulnerable if you tried.

He shushed you again. Spanish curses tumbled from his lips. You could have sworn you heard him pray to God at the mere sight of the wet patch on your panties, and when he glanced up at you, pure adoration was all there was.

“You're beautiful,” he branded those words into your skin with his breath.

His fingers dug into your thighs as he threw them over his broad shoulders, his lips drawing trails of fire up and down the inside of your thighs, though every time he got close enough to your throbbing cunt, he pulled away again. He covered every last inch of you in him. He consumed you, and then, only then, when you were quivering from the sheer force of his lips on your skin, did he push your underwear aside.

And he feasted.

You cried out so suddenly and so fucking loudly that he reached up and slapped his hand in front of your mouth. He loved it whenever you screamed his name, but he couldn't let Carmen walk in on you like this. He didn't want the entire DA's office to know that he was eating you out, that he got you like this, because you were his and no one else's to enjoy.

You grabbed his hair.

That godforsaken nose.

Yes.

Fuck.

You shifted your hips against the thrusts of his tongue, his nose bumping your clit just right, and you dug your teeth into his palm like a fucking animal.

Rafael groaned, but he didn't stop. He would never stop. Not when he could feel what this was doing to you. Not when you were thrown back on his desk in utter ecstasy with his head between your legs, your dress bunched around your waist, and your pussy dripping wet for him as you rode his face. It was as close to heaven as he would ever get.

The knot in your belly kept growing tighter and tighter and tighter; every nerve in your body was alight with the heat of a thousand fires, and it just kept burning and burning and burning and—

Your orgasm slammed into you so hard that your vision turned from black to white to black again, and you fell.

Rafael didn't stop until the aftershocks had subsided. Until you stopped shaking and twitching, and your fingers unclenched from the upper edge of his desk. Until you finally, finally, let go of his hair and he could breathe again. Not that he would have minded to die right there, with your cum in his mouth and that sweet, sweet whine of overstimulation in his ears. He would have been a happy man if your pussy had killed him, but he preferred the thought of being able to do this for many, many years to come.

Your clit was swollen, throbbing, pleased yet angry, but that didn't stop him from giving it one more gentle kiss.

“¿Bien?” he asked.

Your eyes fluttered open. “Uh-huh,” you breathed. “Fuck.”

Rafael gently lifted your legs off his shoulders and helped you sit up.

“You sure?” he asked again.

You nodded. He looked so good with your cum glistening on his lips. They were pink, swollen, and oh-so-kissable.

“Yeah,” you said. “I just think I died there for a second.”

He chuckled breathlessly. “The feeling's mutual.”

Your eyes trailed down.

Oh.

His dress pants were adorned with a dark patch of cum right where his hard cock had been when he started kneeling at the altar of your body.

“Did you just–” You stared at him.

“I've had a long day.”

“I didn't even touch you.”

“You don't have to touch me to make me come like a 15-year-old Catholic school boy, mi amor.” His voice was deliciously rough. “You drive me fucking crazy,” he said, followed by something so filthy that his Cuban ancestors would have turned in their graves.

You reached out to cup his face in your hands. He rose to his feet with you. One kiss landed on your forehead, one on your cheek, before he pressed his lips to yours. He tasted like you and him, and you instinctively pressed closer to him.

“You gonna come home with me?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Make love to me?”

Rafael downright whimpered. “I still have work to do,” he said. That look in your eyes, though…

Make love to me? It wasn't right to say no to that. It was illegal to say no to that, but he had to, and you knew he did.

You nodded, slowly, lowering your forehead against his.

He inhaled your scent with another kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Wait up for me and I'll make it up to you later, okay?”

A tired smile grew on your face. “Okay,” you said.

With a heavy heart, he watched as you pulled away from him. Your hands touched until you were too far away, then you dropped his and made your way out.

He missed you already, terribly.

“I love you, mi amor,” he called after you.

You poked your head around the corner, still smiling, and said, “I love you too.”

Though it wasn't even five minutes after the door had fallen shut that his phone vibrated with a text from you.

Thanks for the orgasm, counselor.

Another ping.

Can't wait to feel you inside me x

Needless to say, he finished four hours' worth of paperwork in two.

Here could be a tag list. Someday.

[theewokingdead]

Home - Benny Miller x Reader

Pairing: Benny Miller x Reader POV: 1st (Reader) Word Count: 5.3k Rating: Mature Summary: Benny comes home from Colombia broken. She comes back anyway. Content: Post-Colombia, Guilt, Past Breakup, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Breakdown, Sad Benny, Whump, Character Death Mentioned, Language A/N: I blame @musings-of-a-rose for this entire emotional spiral. One Mitch Keller scene in Tulsa King (Garrett Hedlund strikes again!) and suddenly I’m putting Benny through hell. Again. I swear I love him. I promise. The comfort? It’s totally worth the pain. @musings-of-a-rose also helped with the intro❤️❤️

Masterlist

A soft but determined knock echoes through my apartment, sharp enough to cut through the quiet. I glance at the clock on the stove and frown. No one comes by this late. Not without warning. Not without reason.

Something uneasy stirs low in my gut.

I move toward the door cautiously, feet barely making a sound against the floor. When I peer through the peephole, confusion slams into me so fast it steals the air right out of me.

A mess of dark curls shoved under a Standard Heating Oil hat. Shoulders hunched. Posture tense.

For a moment, my brain can’t make the pieces fit: the hat, the hour, the expression.

Why is Frankie here?

Why now?

And why does he look like he’s about to deliver news no one wants to hear?

A cold spike of fear threads through my ribs. My fingers tremble as I undo the deadbolt.

Something’s wrong.

Something’s very wrong.

I pull the door open fast, bracing myself. Frankie’s eyes meet mine, and the sadness sitting heavy in them freezes the blood in my veins.

“Is he alive?” I ask immediately. The words scrape out of me like broken glass. I don’t care how it sounds. I need the answer.

Frankie nods once, small, weighted, deliberate. “For now.”

Everything inside me collapses in one harsh, shaking exhale. He’s alive. For half a heartbeat, relief floods me so strongly my knees nearly give. But it fades just as quickly, swallowed by the dread in Frankie’s expression.

He looks like he hasn’t slept. Like he’s carried this moment around for hours, for days, afraid of what it might do.

“We know you two…ended things,” he says quietly. “But shit went sideways in Colombia. Bad. And now he won’t talk to us. Any of us. Not me, not Santi, not even Will. We’re worried. Really fucking worried.”

His voice is low and steady, but I hear the fear threaded through it.

A cold heaviness drops into my stomach. Benny shutting me out after I walked away? That I understand. I earned that. But shutting out Will? His brother? The person he always listens to, even when he’s half-conscious and bleeding? And Tom…

If Benny won’t listen to Tom, their anchor, their calm in every storm, then something inside him isn’t just cracked. It’s broken.

But Frankie didn’t mention him.

“What about Tom?” I ask, my voice barely holding.

Frankie’s jaw tightens. He looks away for a moment, like he needs to steady himself before he answers. “Tom is dead.”

The world tilts.

It’s a subtle, horrible shift, like the floor drops out from under me just enough to make my stomach lurch. My mind claws at the words but they won’t land, won’t settle, won’t make sense. My ears ring. My mouth goes dry. Everything narrows to a dull roar in my ears

Frankie’s voice cuts through the fog. “And Ben blames himself.”

That hits harder than the first blow.

I swallow, thick and painful, as the words settle like cold stones in my chest. Everything in me moves before my thoughts catch up. I turn back into my apartment, grabbing my keys and phone with shaking hands. I shut the door behind me with a firm click, locking the fear inside me…or maybe locking myself out of it.

“Take me to him,” I say, no hesitation, no room for debate.

Frankie simply nods.

-

The drive is quiet. Suffocatingly quiet.

Streetlights wash the truck’s interior in long gold streaks, the shadows shifting across Frankie’s face like the night can’t decide what to do with him. He doesn’t try to fill the silence. Maybe he can feel me replaying everything in my head.

The fight.

The things I said.

The things he didn’t.

The way his face shuttered when I delivered the final blow,

“You can’t keep running off every time Pope calls.”

“He needs me. They need me.”

“What about me, Benny? I need you.”

His jaw had clenched. His eyes filled with hurt, startled, already drifting somewhere far away. Because he knew what I was really asking him to do, to pick between me and the only people he’d ever trusted with his life.

And then I made it clear.

“If you go to Colombia, we’re done.”

The memory slices through me, sharper now, stripped of anger and left only with regret. I see his face again, the shock, the fear, something like betrayal. But the worst part wasn’t the look. It was the silence.

He didn’t argue.

He didn’t fight for us.

He just let me walk away.

I told myself that meant he was done. Now I can’t shake the thought that he’d already stopped believing in himself long before he stopped believing in us.

Frankie turns onto Benny’s street, the familiar buildings rising like ghosts in the dark.

My chest aches. I grip my phone so tightly my fingers hurt, breathing shallow, the memory of the fight still looping in my head. The versions where I said something different. Softer. Kinder. The versions where he asked me to stay. The versions where we didn’t break up. The versions where he stayed.

But none of those versions are real.

Tom is dead. Benny is alone. And I’m still someone who can’t stop caring about him.

Frankie pulls up to the curb and kills the engine. The street is dim, washed in the yellow glow of an old streetlamp. Benny’s building looks the same as always, but tonight it feels… heavier. Like the whole place is holding its breath.

“He’s inside,” Frankie says quietly.

I nod, throat tight. “Thanks.”

Frankie tightens his grip on the wheel, knuckles whitening. “Don’t give up on him. Not tonight.”

I meet his eyes. “Don’t worry. I’m not leaving him alone in this. I’m here. Go home to your girls, okay? I’ll take it from here.”

He nods, and for the first time since showing up at my door, something like relief softens his shoulders.

I pull in as much steadiness as I can manage, then step out of the truck. The air bites at my skin, but it helps. It’s cold, grounding.

Frankie waits until I’m inside the building before pulling away. The stairwell smells the same, like old paint, dust, someone’s lingering cooking. Each step feels like walking backward through time. Down the hall I know by heart. Past the doorframes I leaned against while he kissed me. Past the spot I stood when everything fell apart.

My heartbeat is so loud I’m sure it echoes in the hallway.

I stop in front of his door. The last time I stood here, I was leaving. This time, I’m praying he’ll let me in.

My knuckles hover, trembling. Then, I knock.

Inside, there’s the scrape of something knocking over, then a tired, irritated grunt. “Christ, Frank, I said I’m fine. Stop-”

The door swings open, and Benny…

God.

The sight of him hits me so hard the hallway tilts for a second beneath my feet. He looks nothing like the loud, bright, reckless man I had seen just a month ago.

Benny stands in the doorway like a man worn down to the frame. His hair is longer than I’ve ever seen it, unwashed waves falling into his face. His cheeks are hollowed, shadowed with exhaustion and numerous days of stubble. He’s not dirty, exactly, just…undone. The kind of look someone gets when showering feels pointless, when sleep keeps slipping through their fingers.

He’s wearing an old shirt that I know too well. But it looks different on him now. It’s looser, like he’s lost weight, or something heavier is dragging his shoulders down. I look at the strong lines of his arms. Arms that used to hold me, steady me, pull me close on nights when the world felt too sharp. For a heartbeat, all I can think about is how badly I want him to wrap them around me now, how much I want to tell him everything’s going to be okay, even if neither of us fully believes it.

But it’s his eyes that stop me cold. No spark. No wild glint. No softness. Just something bleak and raw, a man running on adrenaline and shame instead of sleep.

It’s clear the moment Benny realizes it’s me. He goes so still it’s like his whole system shorts out. His hand stays braced against the doorframe, his whole chest locked tight, like he forgot how to inhale. His gaze skims my face, fast and frantic, then lands again like maybe he doesn’t trust his own eyes.

For a moment, he actually sways, knees loosening like he’s been hit by something he didn’t see coming. When he speaks, his voice cracks down the middle.

“What’re you doing here?” he asks, voice rough and low.

I open my mouth, but nothing feels right. Nothing feels big enough to match the hurricane inside him. Inside me. Finally, I settle on the smallest truth I can manage.

“I heard…” I murmur, searching his face. Then I force a small, brittle smile. “Well, word is you got a little banged up.”

He lets out the faintest snort. It’s not quite a laugh, but it’s the first spark of something human I’ve heard from him.

“Little banged up,” he echoes. “Did Frankie tell you that?”

 “Maybe.” I shrug lightly. “Maybe I also heard you’ve been a little…difficult.”

He lifts an eyebrow. “Difficult?”

“You know…,” I say, tilting my head, keeping the tone gentle. “Snapping at people, refusing help, pretending you’re fine when you’re absolutely not.”

He huffs, brushing a piece of hair from his face. “That’s not being difficult. That’s just being me.”

I let my eyes drift over him, bruised, dirty, exhausted, and keep the tone soft. “Well, you’ve looked worse after fight nights.”

That gets a real reaction. His mouth twitches, a ghost of a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Yeah?” he murmurs. “You always said I was at my prettiest when I was bleeding.”

“I never said that,” I protest softly. “I said you clean up just fine.”                       

For the briefest moment, the corners of his eyes crinkle, like the memory of who he used to be is tugging at him from somewhere far away. It’s small, fragile, gone almost as soon as it appears, but it’s real.

“Same thing,” he teases.

The words hang for a breath before the flicker in him goes out entirely. The air thickens. The space between us goes taut, stretched with everything waiting to snap loose.

My smile slips away, replaced by a tremor I can’t swallow down. “You know…,” I say quietly. “I’m not here just to make sure you can still pass for handsome, Benny.”

He flinches. It’s small but enough. His gaze shifts, guilt flashing through it, like he’s bracing himself for a blow he thinks he deserves.

“Frankie told me,” I continue. “About Colombia. About Tom. And I…” I swallow, voice softening. “I needed to see you.”

“You needed to see me,” Benny echoes. He gives a broken, humorless scoff, his eyes darting away like he can’t stand to look at me. “Funny. Last thing you said was that you didn’t want to see me again.”

He moves slightly, shifting his hand on the door. The angle changes, just enough that I feel the threat of distance, the threat of him closing himself off, shutting the door, shutting me out. The movement is small, but it guts me.

“Benny,” I say quickly. “Don’t. Don’t shut me out. Not tonight. Not after everything.”

Something flickers in his expression. Pain. Fear. Maybe both. But he doesn’t move.

I force the words out before panic eats them. “I know I hurt you. I know what I said before. But I’m here now. I’m trying.” My voice crumbles. “Just…don’t close the door on me. Please.” The last word comes out smaller than I intended, fragile and shaking.

That word hits him. His whole body shivers with it. His jaw tightens, eyes squeezing shut for a beat like he’s absorbing the impact of my voice, like it shakes something loose in him.

Then, finally, slowly, his grip loosens. He steps back, the door opening wider, not quite forgiveness, but unmistakably letting me in.

His apartment is dim, curtains half-drawn. The small lamp in the kitchen casts a low amber glow over a space that used to feel lived in, but now it just feels tired. Dishes in the sink. Beer bottles on the coffee table. A duffel bag slumped open near the door like he came home but never really arrived.

It smells faintly of sweat and antiseptic. Of sleepless nights.

Benny walks to the couch and sinks down, collapsing more than sitting. His hands hang between his knees, knuckles pale from how tightly he’s gripping nothing. His hair falls into his eyes, hiding his expression, but he doesn’t bother pushing it away. He looks like he’s trying to fold himself into something smaller, something that takes up less space in the world.

The air between us feels sharp, like a wire pulled too tight.

I stand there for a moment, unsure if sitting next to him is help or intrusion. Eventually, I lower myself onto the cushion, close but not touching. That foot of space between us feels like a canyon. It’s nothing. It’s everything. My whole body aches to reach out, to smooth the hair out of his eyes, to make sure he’s really breathing, he’s really here. But I don’t. Not yet.

I fidget with my hands in my lap to keep from touching him. He doesn’t look at me, but I can feel him noticing every shift I make, every inhale. His shoulders tense when I sit, then tighten again when I don’t reach for him. I can practically hear the thoughts circling in his head, the self-loathing, guilt, fear, all of it buzzing just below the surface like something about to split him open.

The silence stretches, thick and complicated. Heavy enough to buckle the floorboards.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I finally ask.

Benny lets out a small, humorless huff. “Talk about what?” His voice is hoarse, strained. “The part where I screwed everything up with you?” His fingers flex. “Or the part where I got one of my best friends killed?”

The bluntness knocks the wind from me.

“Benny…” I start, but he cuts me off with a bitter shake of his head.

“No,” he says. “Don’t try to make it sound better than it is.” His laugh is sharp, humorless, like he’s choking on it. “You don’t know what I did. What I didn’t do. You weren’t there.”

He leans forward more, elbows digging into his thighs. His hands won’t stay still, clenching, unclenching, like he’s trying to hold onto something that keeps slipping through his grasp. He’s unraveling right in front of me. It’s slow, painful, like watching a building crumble brick by brick.

“You weren’t there,” he repeats, quieter this time.

I shift slightly, instinctively, and even that tiny movement makes his spine stiffen. He’s bracing again, waiting for touch, fearing it, maybe needing it.

“You realize this is nothing new, right?” he asks, breath trembling on the exhale. “Messing things up? Making the wrong call? Hurting people because I thought I knew better?”

He finally glances at me, just a flicker, a fraction of a second. It’s enough to see the exhaustion etched deep into him, the guilt, the grief. Then his gaze darts away again, like looking at me too long might expose something he’s not ready to face.

“This is who I am,” he whispers. “You should know that better than anyone.”

His hands open, palms up, evidence of everything he hates in himself.

“I ruin things,” he says. “I ruin people.”

The words land like a confession he’s been carrying too long.

“You left because you were tired of watching me walk into disaster after disaster. And I get it. I do. I know I follow people into fires. I drag myself into shit I shouldn’t. And you were right to leave me. You were right to give up on me. I wasn’t listening. I never listen. Not when it matters.”

My heart twists painfully.

He drags in a shaky breath that rattles through him. “When you said ‘don’t go,’ I told myself you didn’t understand. When Tom said no fires, I thought he was being an asshole.” His voice breaks. “I thought everyone else was wrong. I thought I knew better. Like always.”

His hands scrub over his face, rough and frantic, but it doesn’t stop the shaking.

“I lit it,” he whispers. “The fire. Will said the smoke gave us away, and he’s right. My stupid little fire led the men who killed Tom right to us.”

He stares down at his hands like they’re covered in blood only he can see.

“Every time I make a choice, it’s the wrong damn one.” His breath shudders. “I wasn’t trying to be good. I was just being me. And being me got Tom killed. Being me hurt you.”

Benny’s voice cracks on those last words like it guts him just to admit it. Tears spill helplessly down his cheeks. He doesn’t wipe them. Doesn’t hide. Doesn’t even flinch. He’s shaking. Not dramatically, no heaving sobs, no loud cries, but with a small, constant tremor, like whatever’s holding him together is coming apart thread by thread.

He breaks right there on the couch, right in front of me. And it’s devastating.

Something inside me snaps. I can’t just sit here and watch him drown in it

“Benny,” I whisper, my voice soft. “You don’t hurt anyone. Not on purpose.”

He swallows hard, like the words land somewhere painful instead of comforting.

“I saw it,” he murmurs. “That look on your face that night.”

Slowly, hesitantly, he lifts his gaze to mine.

“Not angry,” he says. “Not disappointed. Just…hurt. Because of me. Because of the shit I said. The shit I didn’t say. Because I didn’t fight for you. I didn’t fight for us.”

He shakes his head, jaw clenched tight, tears tracking slow and helpless down his cheeks. “You were crying and I just stood there. I didn’t reach for you. Didn’t stop you. Didn’t say a goddamn thing. I just watched you walk out the door while knowing I caused it.”

A sound leaves him, something strangled, something he tries to swallow but can’t. He rubs his hands over his face again, harder this time, like he’s trying to erase himself. “I broke something in you. And I swear to God, that’s the one thing I kept seeing when I closed my eyes. Not the people I killed. Not the chaos. Not the mission.”

His voice drops to a raw whisper that scrapes down my spine.

“It was you,” he says. “You standing in the doorway with tears on your cheeks. Tears I put there.”

I don’t realize I’ve covered my mouth with my hand until I feel the heat of my own breath against my fingers.

He looks wrecked, stripped down to raw nerves and bones.

When he speaks next, his voice is so small it undoes me.

“In those first days out there…,” he starts, then breaks off, swallowing hard. “All I kept thinking was that I had to make it home to you.”

Every part of me goes still, like someone just yanked a cord tight inside my chest.

“That I couldn’t die before I told you how sorry I was. Before I tried to fix what I broke in you.”

His voice shakes so violently he has to pause to breathe.

“But then Tom…Tom didn’t get to come home.” His jaw trembles. “And suddenly all I could think was maybe you were right to walk away. Because if I could do that to him…if I could get someone like him killed…” His voice breaks. “Then what the hell was I capable of doing to you?”

The words hit me square in the chest, sharp and breath-stealing. Tears gather instantly, blurring him at the edges as the truth of his pain sinks in.

“I can live with fucking up my own life,” Benny whispers. “I’m used to that. But hurting you more? Destroying you because of who I am?” His voice breaks completely. “I don’t think I could survive that.”

He finally looks at me. Really looks. Eyes red-rimmed, wet, swollen, trembling with so much fear and love and devastation that I swear it’s a miracle he’s still breathing.

It completely, utterly undoes me.

“Benny…,” I breathe, sliding closer, closing half the canyon between us. My knee brushes his. “You being you can’t destroy me.”

He flinches, like the words bounce right off the armor his guilt has welded around him. So I firm my voice, refusing to let him slip away into the shame he thinks he deserves.

“You don’t get to decide you’re bad for me, Benny. You don’t ruin me. You never did.” I hold his gaze. “You don’t ruin anything. Tom’s death wasn’t your fault. And it doesn’t mean you’re dangerous or broken or destined to hurt everyone who loves you.”

His breath falters, but I press on, reaching for the things he can’t see in himself.

“You love with your whole damn heart,” I say. “You fall hard. You fight hard. You try even harder. You care so deeply it overwhelms you sometimes.”

I swallow past the knot in my throat.

“And hearing you say you were out there thinking about me, trying to get home to fix things… God.”

My voice cracks, the weight of it hitting all over again. I take a shaky breath, grounding myself.

“That’s not someone who destroys people,” I whisper. “That’s someone who cares so much it terrifies him.”

For several seconds, Benny just stares at the floor, chest rising and falling in these jagged, trembling breaths. Then he nods his head, slow and tentative, like he’s afraid the whole moment might shatter if he moves too fast.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, voice barely there. He lifts his eyes, and the fear in them nearly takes my breath away.  “I am terrified.”

His fingers flex uselessly against his knees. “Terrified of hurting you,” he admits, voice shaking. “Terrified of waking up one day and realizing I messed things up so bad there’s no coming back from it. Terrified that one wrong move, one mistake, and I lose you all over again.”

His eyes meet mine, and the honesty there is so raw, so unguarded, it curls something tight and painful in my chest.

“I know what I’m capable of,” he continues. “I know the damage I can do. And the thought of doing any of that to you?” His voice breaks completely. “I don’t think I’d survive it.”

He lowers his gaze again, shoulders collapsing inward like he’s bracing for the moment I agree with him.

I reach out before I can stop myself. My hand lands gently on his forearm. Warm. Solid. Familiar. He looks down at where I’m touching him like he doesn’t understand it, like he thinks he’s hallucinating the comfort I’m offering.

“You think I walked away because you’re bad for me?” I shake my head, tears slipping free. “Benny, I love everything about you.”

His breath catches.

“I love that you’re the first one to run toward people who need help,” I continue. “I love that your instinct is always to protect, to fix, to carry weight no one else can. I love your loyalty. I love your heart.”

My throat tightens.

“But I was scared too,” I admit, voice trembling. “Scared of losing you. Scared of what that trip would do to you. You’ve thrown yourself into a hundred fires before, but something about Colombia felt different. Big. Wrong.”

I place a hand gently over my own chest, trying to steady the shake in my voice.

“And I thought…if I stepped back, if I let you go, it might soften the blow if you never came home.”

His whole body goes still.

“I wasn’t running from you,” I whisper. “I was running from the possibility of losing you forever. From the fear that one day helping everyone else would finally cost you your life.”

My lungs seize around a tremble I can’t hold back. “But instead, I spent every one of these weeks wondering if you were alive. Every day. Every hour. I couldn’t stop thinking about you. About what might have happened. About how I left things between us.”

He looks at me, something wounded and hopeful clashing in his eyes.

“And then Frankie showed up,” I continue, voice quivering, “and for a moment, I thought I’d lost you for real. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Gone. And it…” My voice cracks. “It scared me more than anything.”

A tear slips down my cheek. I swipe it away, but it does nothing to steady me.

“I didn’t leave because I don’t love who you are,” I whisper. “I left because loving you scares the hell out of me.”

Air catches in his throat, sharp and uneven. He looks terrified. He looks hopeful. He looks like he doesn’t know which one he’s allowed to be.

The air between us feels fragile, like one wrong breath could splinter everything we’ve managed to piece together in the last few minutes. Benny’s eyes are glassy, wide, caught between disbelief and something like terror. His hands tremble where they hang loosely between his knees. He looks young. Not in age, but in the kind of fear he’s carrying. The kind that strips a man bare.

Finally, he whispers, “I just…I don’t know how to come back from this. From any of it. I don’t know how to be someone you’re safe with. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t,” I say, barely more than a breath.

He shakes his head, tiny and helpless. “You can’t promise that.”

“I can promise I’m not afraid of you,” I whisper back.

That hits him harder than anything I’ve said.

His lips part like he wants to speak but he can’t get the air behind the words. His chest rises sharply, like the truth has lodged under his ribs and won’t let him breathe normally.

I move closer, slowly, giving him every chance to shift away. He doesn’t.

I lift a hand and rest it against his cheek. His breath stutters. He leans into the touch before he even realizes he’s doing it, eyes closing like he’s been starved for something warm, something gentle.

“Look at me,” I say softly.

He does. And when his eyes meet mine, everything inside him breaks wide open.

“I love you,” I whisper.

A sound escapes him, soft, strangled, torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know whether he’s allowed to touch me.

Then they move.

Slow, hesitant, almost trembling as they reach for me.

His fingers curl into the back of my shirt, just barely at first, like he’s testing the reality of me. And then all at once, the restraint shatters. He pulls me into him. Not roughly. Not desperately. Just…wholly. Completely. Like he’s trying to gather every piece of me into his chest so he can finally breathe again.

His forehead drops to my shoulder, his breath warm and uneven against my neck. His arms wrap around my waist, gripping me like I’m the only solid thing he’s had in weeks.

And then he breaks.

Not with a wail. Not with a collapse. But with a quiet, muffled sob sunk into the hollow of my throat. The kind a man makes when he’s held everything inside for too long and finally lets the dam split.

I slide my arms around him instantly, pulling him tight, my fingers threading gently into the hair at the back of his neck. He melts into the touch, shoulders shaking as the tears he’s been choking back for days, for weeks, finally spill over.

“I love you too,” he gets out, the words crushed and cracked and truer than anything I’ve ever heard from him.

I close my eyes, pressing a trembling kiss to the side of his head. My own tears fall into his hair before I can stop them. He clings harder. His hands fist in my shirt. His breath hitches. His body folds into mine like he’s been walking through the world without gravity and he’s just now coming home to it.

“You’re here,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “You’re actually here…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur.

He nods into my shoulder, though I’m not sure he believes it. His tears soak through my shirt. His breath is shaky, but he doesn’t pull back. He can’t. I can feel it in the way he holds me, like letting go would mean falling apart all over again. So I hold him. For as long as he needs. For as long as it takes for his breathing to even out, for his shoulders to loosen, for the tension to bleed out of his body in trembling waves.

When he finally pulls back, it’s only by inches. His hands stay on me, one at my waist, one cupping the back of my arm, like he’s afraid I might disappear if he isn’t touching me. His eyes are swollen, lashes damp, nose pink from crying. But he looks more alive than he did when he opened the door.

“Thank you,” he murmurs. It sounds like an apology and a prayer all at once. “For coming. For not giving up on me. For everything.”

I brush a thumb along his cheekbone, wiping a stray tear.

“You’re not alone, Benny,” I whisper. “Not anymore. Not ever.”

Relief edges into his features, tentative at first. Hope follows, softer, like he’s afraid to let it settle

He leans forward until his forehead rests against mine, closing his eyes. The air between us warms with each unsteady exhale.

“I’m so damn tired,” he whispers, voice breaking. “So tired of trying to hold everything together.”

“You don’t have to hold everything together,” I whisper back. “Not tonight.”

He nods, a small, fragile movement.

Then, with a breath that shivers through him, he whispers, “Stay.”

And I do. Without hesitation. Without fear. Without doubt.

I curl into him, into his warmth, into the space where his heart beats painfully, beautifully loud against my chest.

For the first time since everything fell apart, longer than either of us wants to admit, Benny Miller lets himself be held. His arms come around me tighter, one hand fisting gently in the back of my shirt like he’s anchoring himself, like he needs the reassurance that I’m real, that I’m here, that I’m not leaving. His breathing steadies, warm and fragile and human.

I sink with him into the couch cushions, into the quiet, into the safety he’s forgotten he’s allowed to have. My fingers trace his skin in slow, steady strokes, soothing the tremor that still lingers in him.

His heartbeat finally evens out, matching mine.

And in that still, tender moment, his chest warm beneath my cheek, his heartbeat steadying under my ear, his arms wrapped around me as if he’s relearning how to hold on, something shifts. Something soft and certain and shared. Because he isn’t the only one finding his way back tonight. He’s not alone anymore. Neither am I.

Whatever comes next, whatever healing looks like, whatever tomorrow brings, we face it together. Not him trying to survive alone. Not me watching from a distance. But us.

Two people choosing each other, choosing this, choosing home.

[youvebeenlivingfictional]

Working Backward Masterlist

Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavitch x Reader

Notes: Not beta-read, cause when is it ever. Future chapters will have explicit content.

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only

Warnings: Fake dating; implied age gap; miscommunication

Summary: You had toyed with the idea of texting Emma to explain that you and Robby weren’t a thing, that you just worked together, just happened to be attending the same wedding in a cruel twist of fate. Then you’d thought it through, realized that those messages would be screenshot, sent across family group chat upon family group chat. You just couldn’t risk it. 

So now, you have to find Emma, pray that Robby and whoever he brought with him haven’t arrived at the reception yet, and won’t make this situation even more difficult than it’s already going to be. 

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

Part Six

Part Seven

This is an ongoing series!

[anundyingfidelity]

HUSH — Ed Warren

Summary: The feeling is forbidden, but Ed doesn’t care about it.

Pairing: Ed Warren x fem reader.

Word count: 1.3k.

Warnings: mentions of cheating and guilt, unprotected everything (pls don’t do this in real life), slut shaming, facial, dirty talk and dirty all, dark!Ed because I want him to corrupt me.

GEN MASTERLIST!

Note: another dilf i found that might help me to go through this hell called life (and writers block), patrick wilson i love you i'm sorry i didn’t give you the attention you deserved when i was 15.

The clinking of his belt can be heard through the kitchen. Your hands hold on tightly on the countertop, the surface cold against your breasts.

You bite your bottom lip to suppress a moan. His cock buried deep inside you with every buck of his hips. His big hands on your sides have a tight grip so he can maneuver you as he wants.

He has control of what you do, every single time. And you think - no, you know - this is wrong but oh, god, he feels so good.

Lorraine is out with Judy, and each time Ed knows they're out, he wastes no time on getting his hands on you. On fucking you so damn hard until he claims your body in full. Sometimes he's quick, sometimes he's not. It doesn’t matter if he cums. Ed is just chasing his pleasure, just using you. But do you really think so?

Today his wife left for a short walk in a nearby park with the little daughter, whom you took care of about a year ago. The Warrens had let you in their lives, finding you worthy of taking care of their house and the little girl, and you did enjoy their trust and company, but soon things became different.

The teasing, the snarky comments, the smirks and the longing gazes… They had to be addressed somehow, someday. But you didn’t expect it to go on like this.

A soft gasp leaves your lips, feeling his dick hitting a particular spot inside you. Ed groans, his left hand grabbing tightly your hip to push against him when your cunt throbs around his cock so deliciously he would just cum right there.

You can still feel the metal of the wedding band around his finger as he fucks you senseless. He never takes it off. Only shoves your dress and panties aside, unbuckles his pants and looks up for the nearest surface to have his way with you. And you let him do so. This time though, he took some minutes to play with your tits, licking and nipping the soft flesh, marking your breasts with his teeth and tongue like a starving man.

His left hand moves to your pussy and he softly rubs your clit with his fingers. You shiver at the cold of his ring against your most sensitive places, and you moan.

“I'm gonna cum,” you whisper, and he increases the rhythm of his thrusts, his hips snapping against the flesh of your ass. His chest touches your back, pressing you further into the surface, groaning against your ear before a light chuckle escapes his mouth.

“You cum pretty quickly,” he mocks as you clench again around his cock. Ed knows you are taking everything to hold your orgasm and he loves it. “But you cum when I say so, right?”

You moan again, louder this time once he gives a particular hard buck of his hips. Ed slides his cock out of you when there is no answer coming from your lips. And you are a whimpering mess, pressing your legs together, aching for some friction of his fingers ghosting on your cunt. But he remains still.

“Right?” he asks in your ear again. You are at the verge of crying, of begging to let you cum, and you take so long to react that he lifts his hand from your cunt and grabs your neck. There is no pressure but a firm warning of what he can do. “Right, my little slut?”

You nod desperately, and barely mumble. “Yes, sir.”

Your pussy is throbbing and your legs are starting to tremble already. You need him inside you. Your whole body aches for him and is so disgusting he has shaped you into this, but once he is pushing inside you again you forget. All you can feel is his palm resting on your throat, his cock splitting you up, his broad chest against your back… Everything is heaven. He is heaven, as much as you know this is not right, you can’t deny yourself such pleasure.

The way he had broken you and put you back again in one is just angelic. And you feel yourself at the brink of bliss again.

“Fuck, you feel so warm around me,” he moans. “So wet, so perfect…”

“Please, Ed,” you beg pathetically, almost sobbing. “Please let me cum.”

He smiles to himself. Bastard enjoys having you like this. “Cum now, doll.”

And you do as he tells, with his cock pistoning in and out, his fingers back on your clit as you clench all around him and coat his length with your juices. A stream of cries and moans fills the kitchen and Ed has to motion you to keep it low, his thrusts slowing down, but his cock remains hard.

“Shh,” he says, bringing his wet fingers to your mouth.

There is no need for a word, you suck on them tasting yourself, cleaning his digits soaked on your arousal. The metalic taste of his wedding band reminds you of what this really is. But he doesn’t care, so why would you? He made you addicted, and you don’t plan on walking away. Not when he takes such good care of you.

“Good girl,” he praises when you're done cleaning his fingers off. “Now come here, darling.”

He manhandles you so easily, lifting your upper body off the countertop and turning you around until your flushed, sweaty face meets him. He forces you on your knees, still weak from your own orgasm, and you remember he hasn't cum yet. But he is eager to. Your lips part and the tip of his dick lies heavy on your tongue as he jerks himself off, his other hand gripping the back of your head to keep you in place.

You watch attentively through your lashes as he releases his white, hot seed on your tongue and paints your face with it. Ed moans, so dark and sweet at the same time. You close your eyes, feeling some of his cum on your cheeks. His lustful gaze locks on yours for as long as he can, until he is done.

Ed observes you, down on your knees, panting for breath, your dress disheveled… Such a work of art you are, and he confirms that every time he coats you like this. He collects his cum from your face with two of his fingers and forces them down your mouth until you lick them clean. You moan softly once you are done and he admires you for a second, caressing your cheek with the palm of his hand.

It's so intimate and soft the way he touches your cheek, helping you on your feet and trying to fix your clothes as much as he can, not before squeezing your sensitive breasts again.

“You're such a perfect little plaything,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours, and you melt right away.

How can this man act like what you're doing is nothing? Why can’t you push him away and stop this? You try to find an answer but you get lost in his eyes and how they look at you. You know there is only lust in them, but you love it. The sound of the car parking outside the house alerts you and Ed fixes himself, pants and belt in its place again. Then, the main door opens. Lorraine's voice along with Judy's laugh illuminates the place as they go upstairs, the noise disappearing when they reach the bedrooms.

You look up and catch Ed's eyes, still on you.

“Does she know?” you ask.

“On our own accord,” is all he says. That doesn’t tell you anything. You want to push further. Maybe it is their agreement. Maybe you shouldn’t mess with their rules.

But this is wrong, you repeat yourself. He won’t stop and neither will you. And you know you’re just as guilty as him.

[scarletmika]

Unequivocally : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Witch!Reader

Summary: The Fantastic Four thought they were done dealing with cosmic threats after the defeat of Galactus. That is, until you crash-landed in Gramercy Park. Except, you aren't a threat, and Johnny Storm might be head over heels in love with a woman who couldn't care less for his flirting...again.

Warnings: little steamy but nothing major, making out, so much god damn fluff, some angst, some adult themes mentioned, strangers to friends to lovers, Johnny is a massive flirt, star-crossed lovers, slow burn, bittersweet ending but there will be a sequel, SPOILERS! for The Fantastic Four: First Steps, MCU spoilers, female reader but no characteristics described, reader kind of has PTSD, maybe some incorrect stuff regarding the 60s and how it worked but it's a fantasy world, VERY lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 24,720 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

READ PART 2: Irrevocably : ̗̀➛ Johnny Storm x Reader

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

 “He’s late,”

Johnny Storm was barely paying attention to the conversation happening around the dining room table of the Baxter Building. Instead, he dug his hand even further into the Lucky Charms box, popping another handful of the cereal into his mouth.

Sue shot him a look across the table, half of the bits of cereal falling from the side of his mouth to the table. His only response was an incredulous look her way, which was met with an affectionate eye roll from his sister.

“He probably just got caught up with something,” Sue tried to calm Ben’s nerves, bouncing little Franklin in her arms as he babbled out nonsense of some kind. That was enough to bring a smile to Sue’s face, her lips pressing a kiss to the side of his little head. “You know how Reed is.”

“Ben’s got a point, though,” Johnny chimed in, as the giant rock hand of his friend swiped his cereal box from his hands. With a defeated sigh, he decided he wasn’t going to start a fight over it, turning his gaze back to his sister and nephew. “Last time he was late for Sunday dinner it’s because you were pregnant and he was having an existential crisis. As much as I enjoyed that crisis, I think we’ve dealt with enough in the last few months.”

He wasn’t wrong, and he knew it. They all knew it. A year later and the aftermath of Galactus and Shalla-Bal still hung in the air. The implications of intelligent, threatening life out there in the universe casting a shadow over every news broadcast across the globe.

“That’s exactly my point,” Ben high fived Johnny from across the table, turning his gaze to Sue as well. “If he’s this caught up with something to miss family dinner, that means he found something.”

“And we all know when your husband finds something, that spells trouble for the rest of us,” Johnny lit his hand on fire for added effect, lips pursed as he waved the burning flames around gently in the air. “For example…cosmic radiation.”

It was clear that Sue wanted to argue with the pair, but Johnny knew there was no arguing with them. Their point was made, and that smirk on his face creeped in as Sue sighed, rising to her feet with Franklin situated on her hip.

“Alright, fine. Let’s go see what he’s up to,”

The chorus of cheers shared between Ben and Johnny from behind was surely making Sue roll her eyes once again. Any moments that Johnny was given to bother his brother in law in the lab was a win in his book.

Following his sister into the elevator, Johnny snapped his fingers in Ben’s direction as they descended toward the lab floor.

“10 bucks says it’s another alien woman,”

Ben’s groan sounded through the elevator, bouncing off the walls. Short laughter from Sue mixed in with it, even as she shook her head in response.

“Johnny, just because the first one dumped you, doesn’t mean you can go chasing after any alien woman in existence,”

“She never dumped me, for your information. She heroically sacrificed herself to save me because of her deep, profound love for me,” the shove Ben gave Johnny’s shoulder pushed him into the wall of the elevator. All he could do was shoot the rock man a glare, following his family out of the elevator and onto the lab floor, but not before pretending to grab at little Franklin’s nose to make the baby laugh. “Plus, I think it’s about time little Franklin got an auntie. A cool one.”

None of them were prepared for the mess of a lab they were stepping into.

Papers scattered the entire floor, from the workstation to the chalkboards. Those chalkboards had a thousand equations scattered across them: some scribbled out, others circled over a hundred times. Poor Herbie was frantically moving throughout the room, trying and failing to pick up every piece of paper that he could and bring some form of organization to the room.

“Uh, Suze,” it was Ben’s voice that cut in first, the trio stood just outside the elevator doors in mild shock at the state of the lab that was usually pristine. “I think your husband may have finally lost it.”

“That or he bought some drugs and tried them for the first time,” Johnny tacked on in a mumble that still got him an unimpressed look from his sister.

Johnny wasn’t wrong, though, and neither was Ben. Reed Richards looked like a certified mess.

He stood at the far end of the lab, moving between workstations at the deep blue tables lining the area in a half circle. He typed viciously, new data points mapped upon the screens adorning the walls. The middle screen, the largest, held a map to the entirety of New York City, markings appearing every so often in certain sections of the city before disappearing.

Even as the group approached, Reed never moved from his place, still typing away as he mumbled to himself.

“Reed,” Sue spoke up, just as her husband stalked across the floor once more.

The freshly written upon papers in his hands fell to the ground the second he laid eyes on them. Hair slightly disheveled, tie almost entirely undone, Reed Richards looked as if he had been rocked by a hurricane.

“Something is coming,”

Those were all the words he had to say. Johnny felt as if the air had been knocked from his lungs, as if all the oxygen in the room had been sucked straight out. He heard the sharp intake of breath from his sister first, before Ben stepped forward.

“Reed, what are you talking about?”

Ben quickly had multiple papers shoved into his hands as Reed gestured to the large screen showing the map of New York. One of the workstations beeped as the scientist quickly logged whatever data his system had just mapped out, another blip appearing on the screen that Reed pointed to desperately.

“For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been tracking these energy signatures,” the map zoomed in on a focused location of the city. “They’re appearing at strange intervals. They started just a minute or two apart, but have grown to be just seconds apart now. All contained in an area between 24th and 17th street, in conjunction with Park Ave and 3rd Ave.”

“Gramercy Park?” Johnny chimed in, crossing his arms over his chest. He cocked his head slightly, looking at the map and the park that lay directly between the streets his brother-in-law had just named off. Honestly, he was still trying to understand what it was he was looking at, or just understand Reed’s mental state as a whole. “Maybe your baby proofing didn’t work and the Wizard is just out of prison.”

“That was my first thought as well, but the energy signatures proved me incorrect,” Johnny only rolled his eyes, running a hand down his face at Reed’s inability to take a joke. “These energy signatures are different, even more so than those of the Herald. It’s a culmination of dimensional energy–energy that’s being pulled from the fabric of the universe itself–it matches with energies given off by planets, or even stars themselves. But there’s another component to it, something so inherently not scientifically explainable that I can’t understand.”

Johnny shared a look with his sister and Ben, and even a look with confused little Franklin, before Sue chimed in.

“Okay, so there’s some weird space energy in the area-”

“Energy that has organic life woven into it,” Reed emphasized for those standing in front of him. He crossed the room back to his desk, pulling up a clear imaging of the energy itself from a nearby street camera that happened to catch the pulse. It was like a burst of blue strands, interwoven, pulsing and dousing the surrounding area in color, before it blinked away. “This energy beats, like a heartbeat. It moves organically, as if being pushed and pulled by someone. Compare these scans with a simple energy scan of any one of us, anyone in New York for that matter, and the fundamentals match perfectly. This isn’t some cosmic energy seeping into our earth for a moment, there’s something attached to it, something causing it. It’s forewarning something–someone.”

The lab grew quiet, the weight of Reed’s words hung in the air. For Johnny, they hung a little harder.

The last time something–someone–showed up on this Earth, he’d almost lost his family, lost his nephew. He had lost his sister, even for just a brief moment, but that was enough. Enough to never want to be put through this again. Johnny’s jaw clenched at the memory, his gaze flickering back to the screens.

“Why’s the park empty?” he questioned, gesturing to the live feed of the park from security cameras placed around light poles. “It’s not even 8 at night.”

“Suspicious activity in the area over the last week. I spoke to the mayor and had a curfew put in place out of an abundance of caution,” Sue chimed in.

“Okay, so another space alien is coming,” Ben clapped his hands together, the sound echoing as it drew everyone’s attention to him. “We threw the devourer of worlds through a portal to deep space…let’s just do that again.”

“This isn’t Galactus,” Reed muttered, voice just loud enough to be heard by everyone in the room as he turned back to the screens before him. “This is something else.”

Before anyone else could speak again, another pulsation of blue energy directly in the center of the park this time. Bigger than the others, strands of energy moving and beating in the air. Growing brighter, bathing the park in light.

The power of the building flickered for half a second before the live feed into the park cut off suddenly. Reed tapped incessantly, trying to bring it back, but it was no use.

“Reed…what is that?”

On the main screen, right in the center of the park on the New York City map, was one single blip of energy. Unlike the other blips, this one didn’t leave. It held steady.

“Johnny-” his name had barely left Reed’s mouth before Johnny was at the windows of the lab, swinging them open before streaking through the air in a blaze of red and orange.

No one was threatening his family again.

Gramercy Park wasn’t far away from the Baxter Building, especially not for a man who could light himself on fire and streak through the air at speeds humans couldn’t comprehend.

The park and every surrounding street was quiet the second his feet touched down on the pavement, flames dissipating from his body with a single thought.

The trees rustled above him in the night time breeze, stray leaves breaking off of the branches and falling to the ground. In the distance Johnny could faintly hear the usual sound of New York traffic, the muffled sound of sirens streets and streets away.

Straight ahead of him, down the path, laid the circle of greenery and flowers planted around the statue that sat in the middle of the park.

When he approached the center of the park apprehensively, flaming fist at his side ready to attack, the last thing he expected to see was you.

Pacing back and forth until the point he was sure you’d burn lines into the ground under your feet, you were glancing up at the sky over and over, muttering something to yourself. He cocked his head as he creeped closer, taking in the clothes that adorned your body: a pain of jeans adorned with so many tears and holes he couldn’t comprehend why you were still wearing them, and a tight fitting shirt that plunged way too far down your sternum to be considered decent to wear…anywhere. He wasn’t sure he’d even seen a woman wearing a shirt quite that revealing before.

His foot hit a single branch littering the pavement, ten feet from you now, before you froze and spun on your heels to face him. Johnny was pretty sure every bit of oxygen in the air was ripped away the second his eyes locked with yours.

Well, fuck, you are the prettiest fucking woman I’ve ever laid my eyes on.

It was the only thought capable of filtering through Johnny’s head. Reed must have gotten something wrong in his data, been tracking something that didn’t really exist, because there was no way that you were the blip that had appeared on the map. You were just another New Yorker–a drop dead gorgeous one, at that–who was out past the mandatory curfew…even if the clothing you bore threw him for a loop.

You didn’t look scared of him, his hand still burning with flames at his side. He could see the way your eyes drifted to the fire, head almost tilting in curiosity, before you glanced back at his face. Your hands were held out at your sides, fingers flexing as if you were prepared to defend yourself if the need arose. 

Johnny wasn’t going to hurt you. You were a civilian, one who should be in her home during this curfew. Just another normal civilian that he would definitely be coming back to this area for the following day so he could figure out where you worked, or which cafe you visited most often so he could orchestrate a way to run into you again-

His watch beeped, that familiar alert sound. Johnny’s eyes tore themselves away from you for just a second to glance down: an energy reading, matching the same one from Reed’s lab, pointed directly at you.

Way to go, Johnny. Get the hots for yet another alien woman that’s probably here to destroy your world and kill your family. Nice job. Way to go. Ben totally isn’t going to make fun of you for this.

“I’m not usually one for telling strong, pretty women what to do,” Johnny quipped, flames igniting on his other hands, both now burning bright at his sides. “But you’re out after curfew.”

“Curfew?” you had practically barked out a laugh, and fuck Johnny hated the fact that even your voice was pretty. Even as it was dripping in disbelief. “Yeah, right. I haven’t seen a single curfew ever go into effect in this city through the multiple alien incursions it’s seen.”

Johnny cocked his head immediately: multiple alien incursions? Given that Shalla-Bal was the only alien he’d watched descend into Times Square, he was utterly confused.

“Makes sense–given that you’re another one of those alien incursions–that you don’t know about the curfew,” flames burning just a tad bit brighter, crawling up his forearms, Johnny raised his hands in your direction as he took a cautious step forward. “I’d prefer not to hurt you, doll, so why don’t we do this peacefully and you just come with me?”

It happened in the blink of an eye. Johnny’s eyes never left you as your head tilted just slightly, a flash of blue crossing your eyes as your fingers twitched at your sides, before suddenly his arms were enveloped.

Like a casing of blue tinted energy, pulsing around his hands and up his forearms, the flames that ignited Johnny’s skin were extinguished in moments. Blue eyes shooting wide open, he shook his hands frantically. Willing himself in his head, telling his flames to ignite, but they wouldn’t. Every wave of his arms did nothing, the blue energy unmoving and shifting with him.

“No use trying, pretty boy. There’s not a single ounce of oxygen in the air around your arms right now, so I suggest you keep the flames at bay because I’d prefer not to do that to your entire body,” you shot back at him. With a single wave of your hand, the casing of energy dropped from around his arms. Johnny let the fires reignite for just a moment, confirming that he could indeed use his power again, before his wide eyes shot back to you.

“...I’m going to be so honest, I can’t tell if I’m terrified or completely turned on right now,”

“I’m, also, not an alien. I grew up upstate. And, why does Gramercy Park look so…weird?” Johnny’s comment was ignored, even though it was a valid question that he was trying to work out in his head. He instead watched you spin around on your heels, pointing around the park and up toward the surrounding buildings. “I know I haven’t left the Sanctum in a few days, but I feel like I would’ve heard construction. That building was never white, that one–wait, how did they build an above ground subway system? That wasn’t there three days ago when I got in, and I know for a fact the city doesn’t have the budget for this.”

In all of his life, Johnny Storm had never been more confused. He’d sat through countless lectures from Reed about matters of organic chemistry that he didn’t understand in the slightest, or cooking lessons from Ben that ended in him shoving his hand deep into a box of cereal, and this was more confusing then all of those combined.

Your clothing, something just about the way you talked and looked, whatever the hell this blue energy was it looked like you were controlling–and what the hell was a Sanctum?

“Back up…the Sanctum?” Johnny chose to start there as you turned back to him. He chose to keep his flames at bay, having a gut feeling that if you really did want to cut off the oxygen around him you could, and he wasn’t in the mood to deal with that. “Isn’t that, like, some type of Church thing? Are you from some weird alien cult?”

“I literally just told you I wasn’t an alien. The Sanctum Sanctorum, over on Bleeker street? You know…Wong, Stephen Strange, the Masters of the Mystic Arts?” you must have seen the confusion on his face grow, because Johnny could see the moment your back seemed to straighten. “Wait, you have no clue who they are? Actually–beyond that–you have powers. How do I not know who you are?”

“Great question, sweetheart. The Fantastic Four kind of just saved the world a year ago, so I’m about as lost as you are,”

Johnny wanted to be apprehensive, wanted not to trust a word you were saying. He wanted to be cautious, to put his walls up, because the last time someone had come down into his world like this, he’d almost lost everything.

But you weren’t Shalla-Bal. You weren’t standing on a silver surfboard, speaking with confidence and heralding the end of the world.

No, when Johnny looked at you now, he saw pieces of himself. Of little him, hugging Sue, losing their mother forever. Of the version of him that came back to Earth over four years ago forever changed: confused and scared. The version of him that locked himself away in Building Q, charring the sheets and everything around him as he cried, trying to understand what was happening.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” Johnny cut in, that usual charm infiltrating his words. You were still the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, and he was curious, more curious then he was the moment a woman coated in silver appeared in the air. You had his full attention, even if he was still trying to figure out who the hell you were, but he hoped showing off his charm would ease the tensions a bit. “You’re a very pretty woman…and I might be turned on right now, the jury is definitely still out on that one. Took my breath away when I first saw you, and you could literally do that if you wanted to. That’s hot.”

He watched as you huffed out the semblance of a laugh, still teetering back and forth on if he was a danger to you. Given the fact that you had demonstrated your ability to cut off his oxygen…he was hoping you wouldn’t see him as a threat anymore.

“Ah, a charmer, aren’t you? Knew someone like that, been awhile since I’ve seen someone so brazenly flirt with a woman,”

“Oh darling, that’s my whole brand,”

You hummed across from him, but he caught your body language. Slightly more at ease, not as rigid anymore.

“The Fantastic Four?” your eyebrow shot up, eyes still wide with confusion, but slightly less apprehensive than before, as you brought the conversation back to that name he’d dropped. “Bit of a pretentious name to give yourselves.”

“That was all the fans,” Johnny shot back with a hint of a grin. A ghost of a smile seemed to find your mouth as well, and Johnny mentally cheered to himself that it seemed he was able to convince you he wasn’t a threat to your life.

“Fair enough. The Avengers was chosen for us…I feel like I would’ve heard about another new superhero team being formed in our absence, though,”

Johnny’s confusion was back again as he mulled over your words.

“Avengers? What are they, some superpowered band?”

It was your turn to mull over his words.

“You…you don’t know who the Avengers are?”

There was a whirl through the air as Johnny watched you glance behind him. He turned too, eyes landing on the familiar blue of the Fantasti-Car landing behind him on the pavement, Sue, Reed and Ben stepping out just moments later, practically running down the pavement toward him.

“Johnny-!”

“No, no, wait!” he called out frantically, glancing back at you again. Your hands were rigid at your sides again, fingers flexing, eyes narrowed in a terrified glare in their direction. He glanced back at his family, holding out a hand for them to stop just behind him. “She’s not a threat, I swear!”

Ben’s thunderous steps came to a halt, his head thrown back to the sky as he let out the loudest sigh in the world. “Johnny, seriously, you can’t keep falling for every alien woman you meet-”

Johnny didn’t let him finish, spinning back around to face you. His eyes pleaded with you, hoping you would see his hesitance to hurt you, feet shuffling forward a few steps. You took one back for each step he made forward, that same blue energy dancing around your hands once again.

“I really don’t want to hurt you,” you spoke, voice steady and loud enough to carry through the air. Your eyes glanced past Johnny, to his family. “Any of you. It’s not who I am, that’s not what I do. But if I have to, I will.”

“We won’t,” Johnny promised, taking a glance back at his family. Ben seemed unsure, Reed apprehensive, but Sue watched him. Curious, unsure of what he might do next. He glanced back at you. “I won’t. We’re just as confused as you are right now.”

You laughed. “I really doubt that.”

Reed brought a device out from his pocket, that same alert that came from Johnny’s watch ringing through the air as he pointed it in your direction.

“It’s coming from her,” Reed announced. Johnny tried desperately not to roll his eyes and make a comment of ‘obviously’ toward his brother-in-law. “These readings are coming from her. I was right: she’s controlling this dimensional energy, bending it to her will.”

Johnny hung his head with a sigh, still mulling over making a comment as he turned his gaze back to you. It was apologetic, accented with an eyeroll, one that brought a hint of a smirk back to your face. It worked, though, as you dropped your hands, body relaxing once more as Johnny confirmed for you once again that they didn’t want to hurt you.

With a single flick of your wrist, the device in Reed’s hands was enveloped in that same energy, wrapping around it and carrying it over to your hands before their very eyes. Johnny froze, along with the three directly behind him, as they watched it happen.

“Not energy–well, not technically–it’s magic,” you explained, never taking your eyes off the device in your hands as you fiddled with the controls. “This thing is…so strange. It looks like such a primitive piece of tech but functions so modernly. Did you get this from Stark Industries? Is this some old prototype of Tony’s that Pepper sold you?”

“I designed it,” Reed answered after a moment. You hummed, flicking your hand again as the device made its way through the air and back to Reed’s hands. “Stark Industries, are they a foreign company? Do you work for them?”

Johnny watched that confusion bubble up in your features again, tinged with nerves now. He caught it, the way your leg began to shake as the pacing you’d been doing when he first showed  up resumed once again. All he could do was watch.

“T-This doesn’t make any sense. I’ve never heard of you guys, everything about New York looks different, you don’t know the Avengers, hell you don’t even know who Tony is!” you laughed, incredulously this time, as your eyes locked with Johnny’s again. “This has to be a joke, right? A-Are one of you Wong in disguise, trying to teach me a lesson for opening a book to perform a spell that I wasn’t supposed to touch-”

You stopped in the middle of your sentence.

Johnny took another step forward the second you cut your own words off with a gasp. Hand flying up to cover your mouth, your wide eyes never left him as he took a cautious step forward.

“We just want to help you. What are you talking about? Help us understand,”

“The Book of Vishanti,” you said it as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, like the four standing in front of you were supposed to understand it. “Wong thought I was ready for powerful light magic, h-he invited me so that he could show it to me, so that I could learn from it. I should’ve listened to him, I shouldn’t have snuck down there-”

Sue stepped up to Johnny’s side. He watched his sister, the easy look on her face, the understanding in her eyes, as she spoke softly to you.

“What happened before you showed up in this park?”

“I touched the book without him, I thought I could teach myself things without him,” you spoke quickly, shaking your head frantically. “I could barely read the spell and yet I performed it anyway. Either I fucked it up, or I did it right and I didn’t know what I was doing because…this isn’t my earth. It can’t be, not with all the differences.”

Reed and Ben joined either side of Johnny and Sue now, all four of them staring down at you in front of them as you came to a realization of what had truly happened.

Through it all, Johnny just couldn’t take his eyes off of you. Curiosity pulled at him, more than it ever had before.

“What are you saying?” Reed chimed in.

“I’m saying this isn’t my universe…I think I accidentally traveled the multiverse, and I have no idea how to get back,”

❤︎

Performing a spell from the Book of Vishanti that you couldn’t yet read was, in hindsight, probably the worst idea that you had ever had in your entire young adult life.

When the Sorcerer Supreme believes that you’re ready to handle a book such as that, lined with the most powerful magic and spells and knowledge of light magic that have ever existed…it’s not hard to get an ego about it and jump the gun. You could already hear the berating you’d get from Wong, the things that Steve would’ve said to you if he was still around, the things that Sam most definitely would say to you when you got back to Washington.

If you ever got home, that is.

It was a thought you tried not to dwell on. Every night, as you closed your eyes, you saw them. The ones still here, the ones taken from you even as you fought with every ounce of you to save them all. The final look in your best friend’s eyes before she destroyed the version of herself that she had become, destroying what felt like a piece of you in the process. All so you could wind up in a world without any of them, a universe so far away from your own, nursing what felt like a shattered heart as you tried to find a way home.

You cried enough every time your head hit the pillow of the bed that wasn’t yours, you wouldn’t let the tears find you during the day too.

To their credit, the Fantastic Four were the most welcoming and kind group of people you’d ever met. If a strange woman basically crash landed in your universe, claiming to be a witch, you too would probably have hesitated. But here you were, a week later, having taken up the space on the unused guest floor of the Baxter Building at the insistence of Susan Storm. Trapped in a universe so similar to your own, but so different.

You weren’t alive in the 60s of your Earth, but now you got the chance to experience it firsthand…with a twist. It was strange how retro and yet futuristic this Earth was. The technology was advanced, sometimes more advanced than anything you had seen in your own universe, and that was all thanks to Dr. Reed Richards. You had thought that Bruce Banner and his 7 PhDs was the smartest person you would ever meet, but Reed and his 18 Doctorate degrees blew him out of the water by miles. But beyond the advanced technology of the world, everything else was still so primitive.

The clothing was different, more modest and brightly colored than anything you were used to seeing before. The hairstyles were different, sometimes shorter, almost always poofier than they were in the 2020s. They talked differently, the music was different, everything felt so familiar and yet so wrong at the same time.

This little team, this family you had stumbled upon, had been nothing but helpful, even if they were still wrapping their minds around the idea of the multiverse. The protectors of their Earth, the only superheroes this universe had compared to the plethora yours seemed to have, but some of the most down to earth people you had ever met. Reed Richards was abrasive sometimes, but curious, asking a thousand questions when you would venture out of the guest floor about your magic and the scientific properties surrounding it and its composition. Ben Grimm was kind, giving you space, but always dropping off something to eat on the guest floor for you every day. Sue Storm was kind and bright, strolling in with confidence and her son, Franklin, perched on her hip, filling your closet with an array of clothing to wear so that you would be comfortable.

Johnny Storm followed you like a puppy dog, hanging off every word you spoke and popping up in every corner of the building you found yourself in, much like he was now.

“Find anything in there?”

You rolled your eyes, tossing the book borrowed from the city library onto the coffee table of the guest floor living room. It landed with a thud on the multiple other books that Sue had picked up for you before you glanced over your shoulder, seeing Johnny stalking toward the couch you were sitting upon from the elevator.

“Just more confirmation that witches don’t seem to exist in your universe, except in the fairy tales," you shot back with a sigh. Your gaze turned to the floor to ceiling windows adorning the wall before you, giving you a glimpse of the New York skyline as night crept in on it, the sun dipping below the horizon line in the distance. “Which leaves me with exactly what I started with: nothing.”

Johnny hummed, hands grasping the back of the couch from beside you as he too glanced out over the skyline. The record player in the corner played some Elvis tune, something to fill the silence.

“Can’t you just, like, do the spell again to get home?”

“If I knew what spell I did, probably,” came your answer as you glanced over to him, finding his blue eyes already watching you. “No clue what spell I did, so without that I have no means of traversing the multiverse.”

Your gaze watched him as he left the couch, stalking across the room toward the record player. Another eye roll left you as he plucked the Elvis record off the turntable in seconds, muttering something about how that record ‘wasn’t good enough,’ before combing the collection beside it for another one.

This wasn’t the first time he’d done this over the course of the week. It felt like Johnny Storm practically lived on this guest floor with you: he’d brought his dinner down every night to eat with you, lounged around the living room while you searched through book after book, and had gone through every bit of clothing his sister had procured for you and made comments about which ones he thought you’d look best in (spoiler alert: it was every single item).

You didn’t entirely mind. His presence felt like a soothing balm over the pain that still sat within you, his ability to joke and make anyone around him smile, able to slap a bandaid over what felt like a gunshot.

“What’s music like in the 2020s?” he called out from across the room, settling on a Bob Dylan record instead that he dropped the needle down onto. “Does everyone have giant record collections now, ones that would rival my own?”

“Music is…much different than what you’re used to now,” was the response you settled on, chuckling slightly as you tried to imagine the man across the room listening to the likes of Eminem or even Taylor Swift. Taking a sip of your drink settled on the table in front of you, you dug your now dead cell phone out of your pocket, waving it around. “We listen off our phones, can connect headphones to them wirelessly. Vinyl collections are usually just collections now, not typically used to play music.”

Your cell phone was plucked straight out of your hands by Johnny himself, who had crossed the room with impressive speed. With a chuckle, you shook your head at his antics, leaning your head against your hand as you watched him inspect the dead device.

“I should tell Reed to invent this thing. Have to use that big brain for something useful,”

“And somewhere in Chicago, I can hear Martin Cooper crying that his invention is about to be stolen,”

Johnny tossed your phone back onto the cushion next to you without another thought, plopping down right next to it. Head thrown back against the back of the couch, he turned to look at you again with a giddy grin.

“Ignore the little talking box device for now, can you show me more of your magic?”

That was the question Johnny had asked at least three times a day in the week you had been on his earth. It was cute, the way his eyes would light up with excitement like a little kid every single time you showed him something new. That sparkle in them, the grin that lit up his face every single time, as he’d beg you to show him again.

You tried not to focus too much on how cute it actually was.

“What haven’t I shown you at this point?” you laughed, smile bright, though you already knew the answer. There was a neverending stream of things you could show him.

“There has to be something,” he sat up a little straighter, leaning even more into your personal space now. “Come on, I have a witch sitting in front of me. I thought those only existed in movies and books. You can’t blame a guy for being interested, baby.”

Ignoring that pet name that so easily fell from Johnny’s lips, you took a quick glance around the room. Acting as the centerpiece of the table sat a fresh bouquet of wildflowers, curated by Sue herself and brought up as a gift. Leaning forward, you plucked a single daisy from the bunch, leaning back and holding it in the space between you and Johnny.

Your eyes never stopped watching him as that familiar swirl of blue magic seeped from you, enveloping the delicate flower. The thin, white petals merged together into five beautiful petals, the white coloring fading into an enchanting ombre of orange and pink. Then, as fast as it started, your magic dissipated and the blue hue that lit up Johnny’s face disappeared.

He took the new flower from you with the brightest of grins, a sight that stirred something deep within your chest you were keen to ignore. He took a single sniff, eyes glancing back to you as his smile slipped into a charming little smirk.

“What did that poor daisy ever do to you?”

“It wasn’t a Plumeria,” you shot back with a slight laugh, plucking the flower from his hand and slipping it back into the vase. “They’re my favorite flower.”

“Noted,” he casually stretched his arm over the back of the couch, resting it over the portion directly behind your head, as that charming smirk grew even more. “Want them incorporated into the wedding decor, or should I pin one to my suit jacket so you can see it while we stand together at the altar?”

With a bright laugh, your hand met his face, pushing him back slightly as you rose from the couch, sauntering over into the kitchen with your empty glass. You could feel his eyes on you with every step.

“I have to hand it to you, Johnny, your flirting this past week has definitely gotten more brazen with each passing hour. Be careful, you might fall in love,”

“Too late, that happened when you first turned around,” shooting a glance back at him on the couch, he dramatically flopped backward on the cushions, pretending an arrow had just struck him in the chest. It was impossible not to shake your head and laugh at the sight. “I took one look at you and thought…wow, that’s the prettiest woman I’ve ever seen.”

You hummed in response, pouring yourself another glass.

“Does your charm and your flattery typically get you places with the ladies?”

“Depends, is it working right now?”

Ben had warned you about Johnny’s charming personality and what would surely be incessant attempts at flirting, but you hadn’t thought the man would be as persistent as he had been this past week.

You’d taken to keeping a running list in your head of some of your favorite lines of Johnny’s that he’d thrown your way.

Are love spells a thing? You could put one on me and I wouldn’t even notice: I’m already too far gone for you, baby.

Do you think you fell into our universe because you and I were made to find each other?

Before you head back to your universe eventually, we should send you back with the last name Storm. I think it fits you nicely.

Each one had made you laugh, and you begrudgingly had to admit that most of them were quite cute. It helped that Johnny Storm was as charming as they came.

From the moment you had laid eyes on him in that park that night you’d known it. This man was a heartbreaker, a face that girls across the world surely had hanging on their bedroom walls and were fawning over. Magazines called him a playboy, his personal fan club, The Flaming Hearts, swooned at his feet over how he was the ideal man women should strive for. You saw why they fawned: Johnny was attractive, anyone with eyes could see it. Perfectly swept to the side blonde hair, blue eyes that felt deeper than the ocean, and the charm and wit to have you laughing into the night.

He could flirt all he wanted, but it was going to take more than a flirty comment and a pretty smile to make you feel a thing. Johnny Storm wasn’t the first charming man you’d ever encountered, and he surely wouldn’t be the last.

“Sorry, pretty boy,” you shook your head, finishing off your glass that you’d just poured before dumping it into the sink for later. “Takes a little more than superficial flattery to butter me up.”

“I’m pretty sure you just called me pretty, that has to count for something,”

“It doesn’t,” you shot back, leaning against the island counter as you looked across the room toward him. Johnny was rolling off the couch in the most unelegant way, hopping back up to his feet to lean against the other side of the counter from you, shooting you a wink.

“You know what they say–denial is the first step to falling in love,”

“Acceptance. The quote ends in acceptance,” you barked out another laugh, shaking your head as the man as you stood up straighter. “Now, what did you actually come up here for, or was it just to bother me?”

Johnny clapped, eyes going wide as he seemed to remember exactly why he’d come upstairs in the first place.

“Right! It’s Sunday, family dinner night. You’re invited, and I was volun-told to come and get you,”

“Of course, because I’m sure you really protested being given that job,”

As charming as ever, he shot you another wink as he banged his hands on the table.

“You already know me so well, darling,”

“Are the pet names necessary?”

“Why, are they making you swoon?” yet another wink was shot at you.

“Johnny, I’m sure your charm works on just about every other woman in this universe. You want me to swoon? It’s going to take a lot more than that,” you pointed toward the shirt on his body, the bright blue logo over his chest shining in the light. “Plus, wearing your own team merch all the time? How superficial of you.”

He feigned hurt over your comment, looking down at the logo himself.

“I’m just representing the team. Plus, it’s comfortable, like our suits are too,” Johnny instantly snapped his fingers, eyes wide again as he giddily smiled toward you across the counter. “Your suit! You’ve never shown me your superhero suit! Come on, I’m dying with anticipation here, baby.”

Even as you rolled your eyes, you indulged his request. With a single flick of your wrist, your clothing shimmered in blue tendrils of magics, transforming it into the suit you knew like it was a second skin. Reinforced black and blue fabric that trailed high up your neck and down to your wrists, down your waist and finally tucked into the black boots that sat directly below your knees. That shimmering silver “A” still sat on your belt, something you were never able to part with.

Johnny let out a low whistle, teeth biting into his bottom lip as his eyes scanned you up and down over and over again.

“Hot damn…remember that comment I made about being turned on? Yeah, yeah this is doing it for me,”

With yet another eye roll, something you were learning you did quite frequently around him, you waved off the magic and dissipated the suit once again. The look you shot at him was anything but impressed, even if you were trying to hold back laughter.

“Why are you like this?”

Before some other flirty comment could fall from his lips, the elevator dinged across the room, its large doors sliding open. Neither of you were expecting it to be little Franklin Richards stumbling out on his tiny, wobbly legs.

Tufts of blonde hair on his head, blue eyes wide as could be, a happy little smile overtook his face as he spotted the two of you in the kitchen. His little hands clapped together, incoherent but otherwise happy babbles falling from his lips.

“Frankie! What has your mom told you about playing with the elevator, little guy?”

Johnny was across the room in seconds, sweeping Franklin into his arm with a single swipe. The laughter of little Franklin echoed through the room as Johnny dipped him, practically holding the little guy upside down, before spinning him upright. The little boy wearing a matching grin to his uncle, the man he could practically be a twin of, continued to laugh as Johnny pulled his shirt up, blowing a raspberry directly into his stomach and muttering something about how ‘magic babies never listen to their mothers.’

The skip your heart did at the sight was enough to have the beginnings of a flush crawling up your skin. Maybe his charm didn’t work on you, not his flirty jokes, but this? Seeing the side of Johnny Storm that the media didn’t see, the part that wasn’t the persona he played up for the world, was enough to bring a soft smile to your face and to fully understand why people across the world fell for him so easily.

Willing the blush to go away, desperate to hide the evidence that you did, in fact, find this man cute, you stalked across the room until you came to stand beside the man and his laughing nephew. They both turned to look at you, looking like twins with their bright smiles and blue eyes. Another round of giggles fell from Franklin as you swiped your finger over the edge of his nose slightly, pushing past them both toward the waiting elevator.

“Well, come on then. Guess I shouldn’t be late for my first family dinner with the Fantastic Four,”

In all honesty, you needed Johnny to put Franklin down. He looked too adorable, making faces at the little boy as he pressed the button for the main living area on the elevator. Franklin just continued to clap, babbling nonsense.

“You’re good with him,” you cut through the silence after a moment, smile still soft as you watched the two of them beside you in the confined space.

Johnny glanced up, an air of sheepishness finding him as he laughed lightly, looking back at Franklin. The little boy was watching you once again.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? Always loved kids,”

Bringing your hand up between the two of you, with a single thought you let a little ball of blue magic appear along your fingertips. Franklin’s eyes widened, following the movement of the little ball of magic as you rolled it around your fingertips, dancing it around his head and back to your hand.

Your eyes flickered to Johnny after a moment. His head rested against the wall of the elevator still slowly moving its way down. His smile was soft, softer than you’d seen it look at you before this week, his eyes holding a gentle pensiveness as they watched you.

“What?” you questioned lightly. He shrugged, adjusting Franklin on his hip.

“Nothing. You’re just good with him, too,”

“Well, he’s not the first baby in my life,” you answered, the edges of your smile dropping just a fraction as you thought about her. The little girl that was only, what, 6 years old now? Brown hair and eyes just like her father’s, the wit and sass to match it. Universes away from you, a little piece of someone you used to hold so dear that you may never see again.

“Whoever you’re thinking about,” Johnny was more observant than you gave him credit for, picking up immediately on the thoughts that seemed to plague your mind, even if he didn’t know the full extent of them. His fingers lightly grazed your cheek, an action that you so wished didn’t feel so nice. Comforting, warm with the heat that burned within him, brushing a strand piece of hair back behind your ear, tucking it there. You met his gaze, burning with a quiet determination. “You’ll see them again. We’ll get you home.”

Ignoring the slight flutter behind your ribcage, you raised an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, you’re suddenly content with letting me go? I remember Ben telling me yesterday that you were planning to keep me trapped here forever,”

His laughter echoed into the living room as the doors to the elevator pushed open, allowing the three of you to step out into the room fully. Ben was hard at work in the kitchen, calling out things to their little helper robot, Herbie, who zoomed around the kitchen at his command. Reed’s arm stretched out across the room, setting the table without ever leaving the kitchen, his other arm wrapped around his wife as Sue laughed at something he said.

“Oh I’ll help get you home, but there are conditions to your departure,” Johnny shot back, walking alongside you toward the dining room. “The one non-negotiable is that you have to leave unequivocally in love with me-”

“Whoa, that’s a big word for you, Johnny-”

“You also have to leave admitting that I’m the most charming man that you’ve ever met-” he cut back in, cutting you off after you had cut him off.

“I mean, you’re definitely on your way to joining the ranks of Tony, Quill, and Joaquin-”

“You also have to leave with the last name Storm,” Johnny spun, back facing the kitchen, as he shot you a wink. “We can negotiate that one. I don’t want to rush our wedding, but I’d prefer you go back home with it. A little something to remember me by.”

Sue Storm was quick to slap Johnny on the shoulder as he dipped into the kitchen, practically tossing the laughing baby into his sister’s arms, before ducking around her to dip his hand into the pot of sauce that Ben was working to season. His rocky hand whacked Johnny on the shoulder, who pretended to crumble to the ground in pain as Ben cried out “you haven’t even washed your hands!”. Reed’s arm stretched across the room, coming between the two and pushing his brother-in-law to the other side of the kitchen without a word, trying to maintain a semblance of peace.

Sue sighed, pressing a kiss to her son’s head, before she turned to you: still standing still, frozen in place by the dining room table, watching the events before you unfold with a smile you couldn’t hide if you tried.

“Welcome to family dinners,” she told you with a laugh, Ben once again yelling at Johnny in the background as he dipped his hand into a cereal box. “Before you ask: yes, it is always this chaotic.”

The chaos was nice, it almost felt like home. A home you hadn’t known for years now. Watching them, you could almost picture them all, the family you used to have: a flash of Natasha’s red hair in your head, the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony’s quips that Sam always met back just as quick, Wanda muttering to you about how you worked with idiots.

Johnny’s eyes met yours again, a soft smile and a playful wink sent your way before he ducked out of the way of Ben’s arm again, and that was somehow enough to soothe that ache in your heart for just one night

❤︎

“I know people usually look exhausted after leaving Reed’s lab…but you were down there for two hours. I’m surprised you’re alive,”

Stalking across the room into the kitchen of the Baxter Building, you faked a laugh in Ben’s direction, dipping into the fridge for a bottle of water to nurse the headache you could feel approaching. The man let out a laugh at your actions, shaking off his oversized trench coat and tossing it over toward the dining room as he placed the multiple paper bags in his hands down on the counter.

“I am, too,” you shot back at him, hopping up onto the island counter beside him to sit. Ben just laughed at your antics, rifling through the bags on the counter from the market down the street. “He asked for more blood tests, so I consented even though I told him he’s not going to find any answers to why I have magic in my blood.”

“And did he?”

“NO!”

Ben’s laugh thundered through the room as he put some of the groceries away in the cupboards. Returning to the island counter, he dipped into a smaller, white paper bag, producing a small sleeve of paper holding a warm cookie within. The headache you felt coming on almost completely dissipated the second the sweet smell filled the air.

“Good thing I grabbed some of these, then. Eat, before you pass out from blood loss,” you didn’t argue, taking the gooey chocolate chip cookie from him with a smile and sinking your teeth in. “It’s from Maisie’s. Figured it was about time I showed you the best cookies in town, not sure how I held off for two months.”

Two months. It was a time period you tried not to dwell on. If you thought too long about how long you’d been stuck in another universe with no way back home, you were sure you’d start spiraling more than you did every night that your head hit the pillow of the guest floor. The guest floor that was slowly just becoming your floor.

If you thought about it too long, you’d remember how you were starting to forget the sound of Sam’s laugh. How this was the longest you’d gone without visiting Pepper, how Morgan was probably asking where you were. You hadn’t put flowers at Nat’s grave in so long, you could only hope her sister had gone and changed the flowers.

“Well, it’s quite good,” with a slight shake of your head, you sent Ben a strained grin, enjoying the taste of the cookie. It wasn’t a lie, it was quite possibly the best cookie you’d ever had. 

Ben hummed, holding your gaze for a moment, before he smiled. It was soft, but you could see it woven in: the pity.

“Thinking about home?”

You swallowed, both the bite of the cookie you’d taken and the lump that formed in your throat.

“Yeah…always am. I hate how good you are at reading me, by the way,” Ben chuckled at your comment, returning to putting the rest of the groceries away in their designated spots. “Reed offered to invent multidimensional travel again today.”

“Did you say yes?”

“No, I turned him down like I do every time,” Ben returned as you shook your head with a wry laugh. “It sucks because I know he could do it, he’d have me home within a week. But multiverse traversal spells exist, they have for a very long time, which means they obviously don’t blow a hole in the space-time continuum. I don’t need Reed to accidentally blow a hole in the entire multiverse just to get me home.”

Ben hummed. Placing one hand on the counter, his other rocky hand laid across both of your legs, delivering the slightest of squeezes in comfort that he was able to. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and practically melted under the kindness and comfort in them.

“You’re going to go home, I promise you that. You’re homesick: it’s where you belong, it’s full of the people you love, and we’ll get you back there. But think of it like this: you’re in a different universe, how many people get to experience that? Take it in, enjoy it, learn from it, eat all the Maisie’s cookies this world has to offer. The people you love will still be waiting for you back home, no matter how long it takes to get there,”

He moved away, his hand sliding back down to his side and he returned to the groceries. But his words stuck with you, hung in the air, settled deep within you.

The quiet hung there in the room for a moment as you just watched him, placing cereal box after cereal box on a shelf near the fridge. He met your gaze again when he turned around, rocky brow raising in question as you let a sigh slip past your smiling lips.

“You remind me a lot of Steve,” Ben waited, letting you collect your thoughts, never pushing. “He always knew what to say, especially to me. That’s how it feels talking to you a lot, like I’m talking to him again. I…I miss being able to talk to him.”

“Well, you can talk to me anytime,” he motioned his hand toward the cupboards of the island counter blocked by your legs. Sliding off the countertop, you stepped to the side as he bent down to put another bag away. “Who do the others remind you of?”

You mulled the question over in your head, grabbing a bag from the counter and helping Ben place the rest of the groceries away across the kitchen.

“I think Reed has to be Bruce, simply because they’re both too smart of their own good. Sue reminds me a lot of Natasha, with the way she takes care of everyone. Nat was quiet about it, but she was always picking up after the boys. Johnny…unfortunately reminds me of Tony. He’s got his same sass, wit, charm and flirtatious nature,”

Ben waved his hand in the air, a grimace on his face.

“Please, no, I don’t want to think about there being another Johnny out there in the multiverse,” you laughed, catching the bottle he threw in your direction to slot into the fridge. “Speaking of matchstick, where’s he at? He’s usually attached to your hip, what with his whole plan of whatever he calls it-”

“Ah, you mean Johnny Storm’s Complete Guide to the 60s?”

It was the dumbest name in the world, but given that Johnny had named it, you weren’t surprised. He’d taken it upon himself to give you a complete guide to what the 60s were like, with the added footnote that the weirdly futuristic 60s they lived in was bound to be different than the 60s of your own universe. Johnny had claimed you were too ‘cooped up’ on your floor of the building, and it was time you got out and ‘lived a little’ since you were here.

Johnny’s guide to the 60s began with bowling. He’d been so excited, sliding into those custom shoes for the alleyways, that you didn’t have the heart to tell him until you were beating him by 70 points in the 8th frame that bowling was very much the same game in the 2020s.

“No, that’s unfair!” Johnny had called out, mouth dropped open as he pointed an accusatory finger in your direction. The manual scoresheet in his hand was all but crumpled at this point. “You didn’t tell me bowling was still a thing!”

“To be fair, Johnny, you didn’t ask,” was the only response you could manage through your laughter, grabbing your ball once more and aligning yourself with the lane in front of you. “Bowling is very much still around, and very much the same game. I guess you just aren’t as good at it as you think you are.”

You weren’t laughing long, a spark of heat igniting along the back of your hand just as you let go of your ball. Your hand jerked immediately at the feeling, sending your ball rolling straight into the gutter. Mouth dropped open, it was your turn to point an accusatory finger in Johnny’s direction.

“Hey!”

“Leveling the playing field here, baby,” he teased, skirting by you as his fingers bumped your chin slightly, before he grabbed his own ball as his body was racked with laughter. “Now, let me show you how good I really am at this game.”

Johnny’s own laughter was short-lived. His ball made it halfway down the lane before coming to a sudden stop along the slick surface, surrounded by a hum of blue magic that flicked it off into the gutter. His betrayed face turned to face you, met with your smirk and hand held out toward the ball. You only batted your eyelashes at him.

“Hey, if you’re going to level the playing field with powers, then I am too. It’s only fair,”

“Oh, I’m going to show you fair-”

The laughter that poured out of you mixed with a shriek the second Johnny practically tackled you, throwing your body over his shoulder like it was nothing and parading you down the alley, highfiving little kids along the way as you could do nothing but laugh, smile never slipping for a second.

Go-Karting, on the other hand, was definitely a little different in the 60s. The karts themselves were much different, a lot less structurally sound at times and incapable of doing the speeds that you knew Johnny really had wanted to drive them at. He had claimed to win the race fair and square, even as you pointed out that he’d gone as far as to melt one of your tires right before you crossed the finish line.

Record stores, golfing, roller-skating, you named it and Johnny dragged you off to do it. He filled every moment with vibrant stories: the record store was one that Sue liked to take him to when they were growing up, golf was something he fell in love with after coming back from space with powers, and how roller skating was something he swore he’d never do, but the smile on your face the entire time had been well worth it.

The diner had been your favorite. Griddles & Waffles, nestled deep in the heart of Queens. A 24/7 joint that sold breakfast and breakfast only, a beloved place by locals. Johnny had been awake into the early hours of the morning that night, the only one still up, diving into a box of cereal buried in the kitchen when you screamed. The next thing you knew, he was practically diving out of the elevator onto your floor as you shakily grabbed a glass of water in the kitchen, eyes wide and panicked as he informed you that he could hear you scream floors away. One look at the state you were in and he was shoving you into the hoodie he was wearing and shoving you out of the building and into his car.

“You took me to a place with waffles in the name, and you ordered pancakes?”

Johnny’s eyebrow shot up, half of the stack of pancakes in front of him practically shoved into his mouth as he pointed the fork in his hand in your direction.

“Don’t you ever diss these pancakes, you hear me? Best flat pieces of dough in the entire state of New York,”

You couldn’t help but laugh lightly under your breath as he barely got his words out through the food in his mouth. Taking another bite of your own waffle, it was easy to get lost in the decor of the diner. Bright colors, shiny metal gleaming under the lights, it looked exactly like the recreations that existed in your own universe. The simple thought of home brought your frown back in seconds, and Johnny was instantly snapping his fingers.

“No, there’s no frowning in Griddles & Waffles, you hear me?” you rolled your eyes, but that simple thought weighed heavy on you, lips still pulled into a frown. Johnny made some motion toward the waitress before he leaned into the table toward you, drawing your gaze to him and his waiting, patient, gentle eyes. “Honey, I’m surprised that scream didn’t wake anyone else up. What’s wrong?”

“It was nothing. Just a nightmare…a memory of a day I don’t like thinking about,” you tried to deflect, shoving your fork around your plate, scraping it against the ceramic. Johnny’s hand caught yours, his eyes still soft and gentle, as he gave your hand a gentle squeeze until you relented. “It’s…I don’t like talking about it. I don’t get nightmares about it often anymore, but when I do, it feels like I’m there again: in that forest full of nothing but blood and dust.”

The blonde hummed, fingers gently rubbing small circles into your knuckles. His skin was warm, unusually warm from the heat that coursed through him, the feel of it on your skin bringing a sense of comfort. Then, he took his hand away, holding both his hands out like he was presenting something, that dazzling smirk of his lighting up his face.

“Have no fear, because Griddles & Waffles has the perfect cure for sadness!”

The waitress came back, sliding a single tall glass onto the table between the two of you with two straws tossed down onto the tabletop. You glanced at it: one large, over the top, classic chocolate milkshake with a large cherry resting right on top. You looked back up at him, your eyebrow raised this time.

“A milkshake? At two in the morning?”

“Have some faith in me, baby,” Johnny teased, slipping the two straws into the shake with ease. He took the cherry between his fingers, easily biting off the majority of the fruit as he twirled the stem between his teeth. Your eyes flicked down for just a second, to the stem between his lips and the hint of red juice that covered them, before your skin flushed and your eyes were back on his. “This is about to be the best milkshake you’ve ever had, and it’s going to cure every bit of sadness in your body.”

Johnny was known for exaggerating, but you indulged him anyway. With a short eyeroll you leaned in, taking a single sip from the straw pointed in your direction. Johnny waited, his smile wide and bright as his fingers tapped against the table, the sound echoing through the mostly empty diner in the middle of the night.

“...alright, it’s pretty damn good,”

His cheer echoed through the diner, the waitress shooting him an unimpressed look as his hands banged down on the table. Another round of laughter slipped past your lips as you shook your head at his antics.

“See? You have to trust me more often,” Johnny teased, leaning in to take a sip of the shake from his own straw. “These milkshakes are the cure to sadness.”

You didn’t have the guts in that moment to tell him the shake didn’t cure anything. No, you felt lighter simply from that boyish grin and the laughter that fell from Johnny Storm’s lips, something you weren’t keen to admit quite yet.

“Talking about me, baby? I leave you alone in the lab for a few hours and you miss me that much?”

As if hearing his name from floors away, Johnny Storm himself came strutting straight into the kitchen, charm rolling off him with every step he took. That smile of his was as bright as ever, eyes wide and full of mirth.

He practically skipped up to your side, tossing the box of food in your hand somewhere onto the counter. Cradling your hand in his, he brought it to his lips without another thought, pressing a featherlight kiss to your knuckles. His gaze never wavered from you the entire time.

With a roll of your eyes, though paired with a smile full of affection, you shoved him off, placing the box of food he’d just tossed away into its rightful place as you shot him a look over your shoulder.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Johnny. Contrary to what you think, you are not the only thing I’m thinking about,”

“You see, but that implies that I am one of the things you’re thinking about,” his response came easily as he made his way over to Ben, stealing one of Maisie’s cookies from the bag before he could be stopped. Ben only let out a sigh that could probably be heard from the other side of the city. “Nevermind that, though, I came here on a mission. The sun is setting and we’ve got a 40 minute drive, so get upstairs and attempt to look even cuter than you already do, if that’s possible.”

Exchanging a quick look with Ben as Johnny walked backwards out of the kitchen and back into the living room, you both looked back at the blonde moments later.

“Get ready for what?” you questioned. “To go where?”

“Long Island, sweetheart. Your guide to the 60s continues tonight,” he paused at the stairway, one hand on the railing and the other pointing across the room toward you. “Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes, got it?”

You considered arguing, but the truth was, you didn’t want to. Every one of these excursions with Johnny so far had been fun, had been enough to fill that little hole in your chest for a fleeting moment, and right now you wanted that more than anything.

“Alright, ten minutes,”

He clapped, beginning to move up the stairs as he practically shouted across the room.

“Good girl. It’s a date-”

“It is not a date-” your words fell on deaf ears as he went sprinting up the stairs, yelling out a distant “It very much is a date!” from the next floor. It was impossible to ignore the heat spreading in your cheeks at his words, though.

The silence of the room only hung there for a minute before Ben’s laughter filled it, echoing off the walls. Shutting your eyes for a moment, you let out a deep breath, trying to understand the enigma that was Johnny Storm sometimes, before patting Ben on the shoulder as you moved toward the elevator.

“Well, wish me luck on whatever this next excursion is. Hopefully it doesn’t involve him almost whacking me in the head with a golf club again,”

“You’ll be just fine,” Ben called out from the kitchen, speaking through his laughter. You could clearly hear the underlying teasing tone to his words. “Have fun on your date-”

“Benjamin, don’t start with me!”

It might not have been a date, but that didn’t mean you weren’t going to try. There really was no reason to, though: Johnny had seen you at your worst over the last two months. Always arriving on your floor sometimes at the crack of dawn with an idea for the day, startling you before you even had a chance to wipe away the mess of tears streaking across your cheeks from yet another nightmare you’d just awoken from.

It wasn’t a date. Just because you chose the cutest pair of pants and a sweater that the closet full of 60s style clothes offered didn’t mean anything. Not a damn thing.

You hated to admit how good Johnny looked in just a simple grey sweater and some slacks. Strutting toward you through the lobby of the Baxter Building, employees already sent home for the day and leaving the lobby bathed in silence, he let out a short whistle as he came to a stop in front of you.

“You say it’s not a date, but you sure do look nice,”

“That’s because your sister filled my closet with all nice clothing,” you shot back.

Johnny hummed, eyes still scanning you up and down. Eyes finding yours again, he held out his arm to you, just as he typically did on these little excursions.

“Come on,”

Hand resting in the crook of his elbow, the cool night air sank deep into your bones as you stepped outside. Johnny’s hand was quick to find the handle to the passenger side door of his custom blue Corvette, swinging it open and taking your hand in his to help you into the leather seat, just as he always did. 

The leather made a noise as you shifted, buckling yourself into place as Johnny cooly slid into the driver’s seat. One hand rested on the wheel, the other drumming along the knob of the gearshift as his foot hit the gas, sending you speeding out of the drive of the Baxter Building and onto the roads of New York.

“What’s today’s adventure?” you asked after a few moments of silence. Johnny’s grin simply brightened, his glance finding you beside him for a second before his fingers turned the knobs of the radio on, filling the call with music as he continued to cruise down the streets he knew like the back of his hand.

“That’s a surprise, sweetheart. Just enjoy the drive,”

It was easy to enjoy it. The same city you’d grown up in, yet so different at the same time. Every building looked new, the atmosphere felt lighter than New York had for you in years, everything about the city you knew so well felt different. The lights, the skyline, everything still felt like home as you crossed the East River, flying through the streets of Brooklyn and eventually Queens.

The heaviness eventually found you, though, just like it had every day for the last two months. As city lights shone off the windows of the Corvette, bathing you in its light, your mind still wandered back to memories. The first time Tony had driven you upstate to the new compound in the passenger seat of the god awful orange Audi. The quietness that came with the blip, the way the entire city fell still. The sweeter moments, like dragging your best friend from the compound late one night and sneaking into the city, sitting along the Brooklyn Bridge to admire the lights.

“Hey,” those memories came to a halt, Johnny’s hand brushing across your knee, settling there with a gentle squeeze. “You’re thinking hard over there.”

You hummed, head still resting on your hand as your elbow sat against the window of the car door. You let your eyes settle on his hand, just watching the way his thumb drew circles into the side of your knee.

“Reminiscing on my New York, that’s all,”

“Ah, getting homesick,” the sight of Johnny nodding was just barely visible out of the side of your eyes, His hand slid from you, joining his other hand on the wheel. “You’ll go home, back to your futuristic universe eventually, I know it. Then you can forget all about us in this little universe.”

The radio was blaring a Frank Sinatra song, something much too slow for the night time around you. The song crackled through the speakers as you glanced over, observing the side of Johnny’s face. For a man that hid behind such an extravagant persona for the media and the fans, you could see right through it. That hint of sadness in his own features, woven into the creases of his eyes and the lines around his lips, at the thought of you leaving.

I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard.

“I think you’re underestimating how much I will miss you guys when I go home,” you told him simply, the music playing lightly through the speakers. It really was that simple, it was the truth. “I’ll miss you guys a lot. I’ll miss you.”

Johnny’s hand seemed to tighten along the steering wheel for just a second, so quick you almost missed it. Those blue eyes glanced over at you, catching your gaze. His features were riddled with something you couldn’t understand, but could see how gentle it was, until his charming smile was back, wiping away any trace of the strange emotion you had seen.

“Careful there, little witch. It’s starting to sound like you’re falling unequivocally in love with me-”

His laughter filled the car, overtaking the sound from the radio as your hand reached out and shoved his shoulder, your own laughter mixing in with his own.

“You’re fucking impossible, Johnny Storm,”

Of everywhere that you could’ve thought Johnny would be dragging you to, a drive-in theater was the last place you would’ve imagined. 

The entire stretch of lawn buried deep within the heart of Long Island was packed with cars of all different kinds, vintage ones you had never seen in person. There was a group of teenagers crowded around one of the cars, hugging their friends and talking animatedly between each other. Some couples walked through the lines of vehicles, giggling together under their breath as they carried their food from the little stand off to the side.

Johnny pulled the car to a stop in one of the last remaining spots, side windows immediately rolling down to allow the sound from the mounted speakers to infiltrate the car. Night had set in, an announcement projected onto the large screen that the movie would begin soon, as you turned to find Johnny already watching you with a wide grin.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve been to drive-in theaters too?”

“They’re still a thing, but I’ve never been,” was the response you gave, a small laugh falling from your lips as he excitedly punched the air. “I have always wanted to go to one, though”

“Then your wish, princess,” in his usual dramatic fashion, Johnny stole your hand in his. With a kiss placed to your knuckles, he was already halfway out of the car before you could truly process the moment. “Is my command. Be right back with the snacks.”

You watched him the entire time he was gone. From the moment he slipped out of the car to ordering something from the snack stand, you watched. Even as the young girl working behind the counter seemed to fangirl at the sight of the Human Torch in front of her.

His charm was stupid most of the time. Little one liners, flirtatious jokes, touches that were all but friendly in nature. You didn’t care for a single one of those moments. It had been awhile, but you’d seen Tony use the same tricks. In the briefest of time you had known Peter Quill even he had tried it. Those moments meant nothing to you, but these did.

Bringing you breakfast in the morning just so you didn’t have to be alone. Dragging you around the city to participate in a thousand activities on the off chance that you hadn’t done them before, once again so that you wouldn’t feel alone and left with your thoughts. Hearing a single scream from you, seeing a single tear, and dragging you through New York in the middle of the night just to see you smile again. Those moments worked on you–meant something to you–more than you wanted them to.

The moment he was swarmed by a bunch of little kids trying to leave the snack stand didn’t help the turmoil you felt inside either. Johnny didn’t complain, not once, simply balanced the food in one arm so he could lean down and high five one of the girls, ruffling the hair of another little boy standing right next to her. He smiled wide, you could see the shake of his chest as he threw his head back in laughter, igniting his hand quickly as the kids all clapped and gasped in awe at the sight of their own personal superhero. There was a news reporter nearby, calling out for a photo that Johnny happily posed for with the kids, leaving them with one last story that had them all looking up at him in awe and adoration.

You hated the stutter that occurred in your heart. You weren’t dumb–you knew what it meant. Johnny Storm was charming, handsome, a literal superhero that had captured the hearts of the entire world. He, also, was the most down to earth man you had ever met sometimes, more observant than you gave him credit for, and too sweet for his own good.

If you thought hard enough, you could almost hear Wong’s voice in your head, scolding you for slowly falling for a man from an entirely different universe. The definition of a man you could never have, never meant to be yours.

“Got swarmed by some little kids, had to make sure I showed off the flames,” Johnny’s voice broke through your thoughts as he slid back into the car, passing a bag of popcorn over the console and into your hands. Just as he did, the large screen in the lot changed, the beginnings of the movie beginning to play as some of those teenagers from earlier began to clap and holler. “Just in time.”

Shaking those thoughts from your head, trying to will them away, you brought your gaze back to the screen. The opening shots of the credits, directors names and actors names plastered across the screen as it dove into the first scene without hesitation, situated on some mountain with hoards of people who were dressed for an even more vastly different time period than now.

“Spartacus?” a questioning glance was thrown Johnny’s way from you as you took a quick bite of your popcorn. “An action/adventure movie was your choice for a drive-in movie date?”

“Hey, you’re the one who said this wasn’t a date,” Johnny retorted, meeting your glance as he took in another handful of popcorn himself with a cheeky grin. “Besides, I didn’t peg you to be a romance movie kind of girl.”

“On some occasions I can be,” you gave back with a shrug. “A good action movie is definitely more my speed, though, so good choice.”

“What can I say, I know you,”

He did. He really did.

It was barely an hour into this three hour movie when your mind finally began to drift off again. Legs curled up on the seat under you, your own popcorn bag finished off and discarded at your feet as you reached over to steal from Johnny’s own bag, you found your thoughts leaving the movie once more. But instead of thinking about home, about the people you lost or the ones waiting for you to come back, you found them on Johnny once again.

Watching the side of his face quietly, you couldn’t help but smile as you watched him mouth some of the words to the movie under his breath, almost mimicking the accents of the actors themselves. It was enough to elicit a small giggle from your lips, bringing his gaze from the movie over to you instead.

“Are you quoting this movie word for word?”

“Hey, don’t knock it. I happen to really like this movie,” your giggles persisted, even as Johnny reached into his bag and tossed a handful of popcorn in your direction. “You should see Ben watching Breakfast at Tiffany’s, he could probably act that entire movie out for you. Don’t tell him I told you that.”

“You’re both such dorks,”

“Come on, don’t you have a movie you can quote?”

You hummed, letting the question sit with you for a moment, memories rushing back over you.

“Not a movie, but a show. Full House,” Johnny’s gaze never left you, the movie long abandoned in his eyes for a moment. An idea sprang to mind, your head tilting ever so slightly as you shot him a grin. “Want to see it?”

Excitement crawled into Johnny’s eyes immediately, his head nodding as he sat up straighter in the driver’s side seat.

You took a deep breath. Holding up your hand to the door beside you, that familiar blue magic seeped from your fingertips as that same color glowed in the irises of your eyes, crawling along the interior of the car until it reached the windshield. Your eyes were watching Johnny once again, the absolute wonder in his eyes as his windshield shimmered in blue, before the screen through the windshield changed before your very eyes: gone were Kirk Douglas and Laurence Olivier, replaced instead by John Stamos and Bob Saget in that iconic kitchen of their San Francisco home.

With another flick of your hand, the speaker at your car switched, playing the sound of the show you were now broadcasting instead of the movie.

“Don’t worry, no one else can see or hear this. Just us,”

Johnny was barely paying attention to what you said, too busy dipping his head in and out of the window in shock and awe, the screen beyond the windshield still playing Spartacus while within the confines of the car your tv show was playing.

“You…I don’t know how you do it, but you somehow get hotter every time you use your magic,”

Laughing, you reached into his popcorn bag and threw an unpopped kernel at the side of his head. Resting back into your seat, arms wound around your knees, you found yourself lost in the scene before you on the screen.

“This was one of Wanda’s favorite shows,” after a minute of silence, engrossed in the scene, you told him. You could feel Johnny’s eyes watching you instead of the show. “She always liked older shows, like Bewitched or I Love Lucy. We used to watch this one all the time in the compound, whenever Steve didn’t have us training constantly.”

Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, just watched you.

“She was your best friend, wasn’t she? I don’t think you’ve ever said her name,”

“That’s because it’s hard to talk about her,” finding his gaze again, the gentle comfort shining in his gaze washed over you, as if draping you in a blanket. Swallowing the lump in your throat that always formed when you thought too hard about her, you offered him the smallest smile you could muster. “Just a few weeks before I wound up in your universe, I lost her. She lost herself to dark magic, let it consume her, so like the brave woman she was, she chose to protect the world from herself.”

Your words hung in the air, neither of you speaking for a moment. The scene from the show continued to play out before you swiped your hand through the air, dissipating the magic and letting the picture and sound of the movie return to the screen and the little speaker. It hurt too much to relive those moments.

“Hey, do you think by showing me a show that hasn’t come out yet in my universe, this will mess up, like, space and time? Like, what if I go pitch this show to Hollywood real quick and get it made a whole decade before it’s supposed to get made?”

The car got quiet, the only sound being the audio from the movie still playing through the speakers. Raising an eyebrow, entire face contorted in confusion, soft  laughter sputtered out of your lips at the simple comment.

“I…what? Johnny that…” his smile grew, as did your laughter as you struggled to get your words out. “Johnny, that doesn’t make any sense?”

“I’m aware,” his hand reached out, thumb and index finger pinching your chin between the soft pads of his fingers. Your breath caught, laughter dying down as you just stared at him, as he drew small circles into your skin, heat blooming under his touch. “You were getting sad. I just don’t like seeing you sad.”

Johnny’s words were so sincere. Not a hint of his usual charm, not a single signature Storm smirk in sight, just genuine affection. Genuine care for you, for your thoughts, for the way your memories made you feel.

The idea of never going home again hurt, but the idea of leaving the Fantastic Four? Of never seeing Johnny Storm again? That was starting to hurt even more.

Even as his blue Corvette was parked in front of the Baxter Building again late that night, headlights flickering off and plunging the car into darkness except for the street lights around the building, your eyes kept flickering back to him.

Driving through Queens, you no longer thought back on the memories of walking through the city one night with Steve when you were younger. Now, you thought about the diner, about the smile on Johnny’s face as he watched you try that milkshake in the dead of night. As you crossed over the bridge into the city, you didn’t think of the nights you and Wanda would sit on the edge and watch the city lights, you instead watched the way the lights danced over Johnny’s skin through the glass.

The elevator of the Baxter Building popped open on the floor of the main living room. The building was quiet, just a lamp in the corner by the staircase to the bedrooms lit up, everyone else fast asleep.

Johnny stepped out of the elevator, pausing just barely still in the doorway. One arm leaning on doors, keeping them open, you both just stood still and watched one another for a moment.

“For a not date, this very much felt like a date,” you threw at him after a moment. Those blue eyes of his lit up, smile lines etching themselves into his skin as his little grin grew immediately.

“Oh sweetheart, this definitely wasn’t a date. Our first date would be a lot different, trust me,”

You hummed, taking a step forward in the elevator, eyes never leaving his. There was barely space left between the two of you now. Johnny's sharp intake of breath was evident, the smile on your lips growing as you ignored every little voice in your head telling you this was a terrible idea.

“What would our first date be like?”

Surprise crawled into his expression. Eyes wide and bright, the smile on his face warped into something you couldn’t quite place. The hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks crawled forward, gingerly placing itself against your waist. Not pulling you closer, just lying there: steady, grounding, present. You didn’t push him away.

“The Regent,” he spoke softly but certainly, eyes never straying from yours. “Exclusive little dance hall just a few blocks away. Live band every night. You’d look just as beautiful as you always do, and I’d get to spend the entire night spinning you around in circles. Making you smile, watching you laugh, holding you close. That would be our first date.”

You hummed, stepping just a hair closer to him. His fingers flexed along your waist, squeezing ever so slightly, as one of your hands came to rest on his chest, looking up at him through your lashes.

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,”

“Every night since the moment I realized you weren’t a threat that was coming to destroy my entire world…again,”

“I don’t know,” you teased, hand curling into the fabric of his shirt. “According to Sue, you’re kind of into that thing. I could always coat myself in some shiny silver paint if that does it for you.”

He huffed out a puff of air in laughter, tugging you in until you were pressed to his chest in the doorway of the elevator.

“No, you just have to be you. The pretty little witch that could cut off my oxygen supply with a flick of her wrist is all I need. All I want,”

Your eyes trailed down, along the bridge of his nose, until they settled on the pink of his lips. As you spoke, you never looked away from them.

“When would this date be?”

“Tomorrow night, 8 on the dot,”

“That’s so soon, eager?”

“Extremely, I’ve only been thinking about this for two months,”

Your laughter was soft as your eyes finally trailed back to his, only to find them settled on your lips in turn.

“It’s a date, then,”

His blue eyes found yours, shining with an affection that made your knees week. The hand gripping your waist trailed up, fingers dancing along every curve of your body, until it curled around your cheek to cup it within his hand. The heat of his skin bloomed through yours, sending a single shiver down your spine.

“You know,” his voice was low, eyes blown slightly wider than they had been before, as his eyes quickly darted back down to your lips for a moment. “This would be the moment during the date where I’d probably try and kiss you.”

Even with the flutter of butterflies through your chest, head feeling lighter than it ever had before, your lips curled into a wide grin. Eyes glowing blue for just a moment, a small burst of magic left the hand resting on his chest, pushing him backward and out of the elevator doors.

Johnny’s wide eyes watched you as he caught himself, steadying himself on the ground as he stared at you with a dumbfounded smile. You only returned the look, pressing the button for the guest floor without ever breaking eye contact.

“Guess you’ll have to try your luck tomorrow night,”

Even with the amount of bravado laced into your words as the elevator doors swung shut, cutting you off from Johnny’s captivating gaze, nothing could quell the swell of emotion building behind your chest at the simple thought of the blonde man who’d managed to capture your heart without even really trying.

❤︎

“I’m still trying to wrap my head around the fact that you want to go on a date with matchstick. I mean, he’s my buddy, he's a great kid, but come on. There’s no one waiting for you back in your universe?”

Ben’s comment earned him another affectionate eyeroll from you, along with a deadpan look shot across the kitchen island counter.

He was deep into making a fresh batch of cookies that he had been given the recipe for, the little old woman he’d met claiming they could match the quality of Maisie’s cookies. Reed was skeptical of the recipe, trying to offer advice from further down the counter, but Ben waved him off every single time.

Little Franklin was sitting in his highchair at the counter between you and Sue, babbling incoherently as he played with the little pieces of cereal laid on the counter in front of him. You were simply flicking the little pieces around with little tendrils of blue magic, Sue laughing every single time Franklin tried to catch a piece and you yanked it away.

“No, Ben, there’s no one waiting for me back home,” was the answer you gave the man, never looking up once as you continued to toy with the food on the counter. “Being a superhero for most of your life kind of makes dating an impossible situation.”

“I, for one, fully support this,” Sue chimed in, rising from her chair to refill Franklin’s bottle on the counter. She passed behind you, reaching out to help smooth down the white long sleeve blouse along your shoulders, forcing you to adjust it along your waist where it was tucked into the navy blue slacks she had helped you pick out earlier on. “This is the first time I’ve seen Johnny so head over heels for a woman in a way that might just stick. He worships the ground that you walk on, I love to see it.”

“It helps that you could kill him if you really wanted to,” Ben threw in for good measure, ducking the slap that Sue tried to land on his shoulder. “Sometimes I think it’s a secret kink of his-”

“Okay, I don’t want to hear about what kinks my little brother may or may not have,”

You laughed at the antics you had grown so used to from the group in front of you. Franklin got upset with the constant moving of his little cereal bits, grabbing a handful and tossing them toward you. Wide eyed at his antics, you grabbed onto his tiny hand, blowing a raspberry into the palm of his hand as his shrieks and giggles sounded throughout the room.

“Reed, I’m surprised you don’t have any comments to add in,” you threw in the super genius’ direction. “Nothing about how we’re from two different universes, or how this could blow up the entire multiverse?”

“I’ve been taking notes regarding it, actually,” Ben’s groan sounded through the room the second Reed said it, pulling a notebook out of his back pocket and flipping it open. “Your genetic makeup, based on previous tests, seemed to align with ours, but that doesn’t mean that fundamentally there isn’t something woven into your DNA that doesn’t match with ours. There’s also the idea that, given you’re from two different universes, you were never supposed to meet, so if you managed to fall in love there could be an unforeseen breakdown of the fabric of the-”

Sue’s hand immediately clamped over her husband’s mouth, giving him an unimpressed look, as she shot you the brightest smile she could manage. She slid the now refilled cup for Franklin across the counter to you as you caught it, laughing under your breath at the entire situation as you handed it over to the little boy beside you who made grabby hands in its direction.

“What Reed means to say is that you’re good for him, and honestly, we haven’t seen you as happy as you’ve been the last few weeks since you started spending more time with him. Since you got here he hasn’t done a single PR nightmare worthy thing. I think Lynne might want to get you the keys to the city for it,”

“What are we getting my girl keys to the city for?”

Maybe his charm never worked on you, his endless flirtatious moves and jokes. But in this moment, as he descended the stairs into the living room and your heart stuttered over several beats, you finally understood the hoards of women across the universe that had Johnny Storm plastered across their walls and their hearts.

The navy blue button up he adorned clung to him, almost slightly too tight on him as the fabric pulled in the creases under his arms and by his waist. It was tucked into a pair of white chino pants, accented with navy blue dress shoes. His smile was bright, cheeky as it always was, his hands clasped together behind his back as he made his way across the living room.

Taking a semi-shaky stand on the strappy heels that Sue had helped you into before, you met him halfway across the room, a hush having fallen over the kitchen as you felt their eyes watching every movement both of you made.

Johnny’s eyes trailed up and down your body the second you came to a stop in front of him, taking in the navy blue of your pants and the white of your blouse, before he cheekily shot you a wink.

“Twinning on the first date? What’s the slang they use in your time for that? Couple goals, wasn't it?”

“Couple?” your eyebrow shot up. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Storm. You have to earn that.”

“Oh, I’ll earn it,” his hands finally unclasped from behind his back, thrusting out toward you. “For you, gorgeous.”

A beautiful bouquet of flowers: Plumeria flowers. Glittering in an ombre of pinks and oranges, taking you back to one of those first nights on that couch just a few floors away. 

You took the bouquet in your hands, eyes never leaving Johnny’s as you inhaled the sweet scent that wafted from the petals. The adoration that shone in his blue eyes sent your heart into another flutter.

“My favorite,” you responded.

“What, did you think I’d forget?”

“Kind of,”

“Give me a little more credit, darling,” he lifted one of your hands from the bouquet, cradling it in his as he left a kiss along your knuckles. “When it comes to you, I don’t think I could forget even if I tried.”

“Can you two leave for your date and go flirt elsewhere? My god, this is painful to watch,”

Sue laughed at Ben’s comment, and you joined in. Johnny shot the man a look, flipping him the bird that you were sure was being shot right back at him from behind your back.

Sue saddled up to your side seconds later, plucking the bouquet from your hands with a soft smile.

“I’ll put these in water for you and leave them upstairs,” she shot her eyes to Johnny, narrowing them. “Treat her well or I will cover for her when she drags your lifeless body back later tonight.”

Too busy laughing, you never even noticed Johnny’s eye roll toward his sister. The only thing you could comprehend as he pulled you into the awaiting elevator was the feeling of his fingers slipping into the empty spaces between yours, intertwining your hand with his.

It felt right. Too right for two people who should have never met one another.

The Regent was situated just a few blocks away from the Baxter Building, the perfect distance to walk straight there. You weren’t complaining, not with the way Johnny gripped your hand like he was afraid you’d pull it away, every so often tugging it gently so that your body fell into his,  arm brushing against his arm.

“We fought with Moleman–well, I guess he prefers to be called Harvey–right here,” he pointed out just a few blocks from the Baxter Building, gesturing toward the blocked off area right beside a small park. There were fences up around what looked like a giant hole in the ground with just the very top of a building sticking out of it, signs indicating ‘keep out’ to everyone that walked past. “He runs Subterranea, the whole civilization under New York.”

“There’s an entire city under this city?” you questioned, looking up at him in alarm.

“Oh yeah, you guys don’t have that?” he quirked an eyebrow toward you as you shook your head in response. “He stole the entire Pan Am building, sinking it down into the ground before we could stop him. Been years and they’re still working on what to do with it.”

You took a single glance around: 45th Street and Park Avenue. The familiar intersection made you smile, one that Johnny seemed to understand all too well. Taking a quick glance around to  ensure that there weren’t too many people watching, you slipped your hand from Johnny’s in order to tilt his head to look at where the building used to stand. With a single wave of your fingertips toward his temples, blue seeping into his eyes, you could see the moment they widened at the sight you were projecting to him.

“In my world, this was the site of the Avengers tower,” you could see the glamour you were showing him, but you knew it like the back of your hand. The tower that hung high above the skyline of the city, the shining ‘A’ that matched the one hanging from the belt of your suit. “It was Stark Tower, until Tony decided to fashion it into a base of operations for the team after the battle of New York.”

The vision faded, the traces of your magic leaving Johnny’s eyes, as they turned back to look at you. His hand found yours again without hesitation, fingers tangling with yours again as if it was the most natural thing in the world for him.

“How do you possibly get cooler and more interesting with every passing thing you tell me and show me? It’s not fair,”

Johnny filled every second of the walk with story after story. A diner on the corner that he’d rescued a little girl from during another fight in the city, and the way she’d hid behind her father shyly the second he’d dropped her back down on the ground. Another diner just a block away that he’d dragged Reed to after he’d locked himself in his lab for upwards of 48 hours, not having eaten a single thing to the point where Sue was concerned he’d just pass out on the floor in front of his chalkboard. The bakery that sat underneath a row of apartments that Johnny was convinced had the best pie in the world, but Ben still argued there wasn’t a single bakery in the world that could compare to Maisie’s over on Yancy Street.

Before you knew it, you were standing before The Regent. Elegant, sign shimmering and lighting up the darkened sidewalk before it. One single man stood at the door, surveying the area. With one look to Johnny, he nodded his head toward the door to grant him access.

Stepping into that room felt like entering an entirely new world. Light wooden floors that matched the light wood of the walls, which were decorated themselves with photographs upon photographs of couples and celebrities dancing and performing on the stage. The stage itself was beautiful, shining bright at the end of the room as the lights illuminated the band that was currently engrossed in some Elvis song that you couldn’t quite put your finger on. The walls were all draped with velvety red curtains from the ceiling to the floor, accenting the dimly lit room, dance floor, stage and bar in color. Couples, friends, groups all mingled about, dining at the tables elevated at the back of the room, mingling along the walls, and dancing together in front of the stage.

“Of everything you’ve dragged me to these last few months,” you spoke up, voice rising to be heard over the music as the band switched songs, playing a cover of River Deep - Mountain High now. “This is the most 60s feeling thing yet.”

“And that, sweetheart, is why I saved it for a proper date,” Johnny appeared in front of you, your hand still clasped in his, as he tugged you forward. “Come on!”

Your laughter rang through the room as Johnny pulled you into the throws of people, finding an open spot among the crowd on the floor.

He spun you, that smile never dropping from his lips as you twirled in circles. Each twirl left you dizzy as the song played on in the background, the groups of people around you clapping along to the beat from the band. It was inevitable that you’d eventually stumble in the heels you weren’t accustomed to. Johnny’s arm was there, like you somehow knew it would be, curling around your waist. He dipped you, cheekily pretending as if it was all meant to happen, before spinning you back up onto your heels and pulling you into his chest.

“Come on, I can’t have you tripping and falling for me just yet,” he teased, hands holding yours as he spun you out once again just to pull you right back in.

“You try dancing in heels!” you shot back at him, earning a bright laugh from the man still dancing you around in circles. “We never danced like this at Tony’s parties.”

“I thought you said he threw a lot of those,”

“Yeah, but they were more stand around, drink, and talk parties than dancing,” you took a single glance around the room, at every woman being danced around by their friends and their partners. Swishing skirts, some almost touching the floor, loosely hanging from their bodies. “Not that the dresses I was forced to wear would've allowed for dancing. Too tight fitting–the one had a slit almost the entire way up my thigh.”

Johnny’s hand tugged you in at that moment, your chest flush against his. His lips skimmed over the edge of your ear, voice husky as he whispered into it just loudly enough for you to hear.

“I need you to not give me a mental image of your 21st century clothing while we’re in public, honey,”

A laugh bubbled from your throat as you pulled back to see him fully. The ways his eyes had darkened just slightly, the blue of his eyes almost completely overtaken, had your stomach doing a flip. But it wasn’t enough to stop the slightly sadistic smile that overtook your lips.

“Why? It’s so much fun, seeing you all worked up,” you let your fingers touch his jaw gently, nails dragging down the expanse of his neck and to the small bit of skin just barely visible along his collarbone, before you pushed away from him. “Come on, let’s get drinks!”

You could just barely hear his groan of “You’re going to be the death of me,” behind you as he followed you diligently through the crowd, his hand finding the small of your back within seconds so that you were never quite far from him.

Seated on one of the barstools, sipping gingerly at the drink Johnny had procured for you, it was impossible not to watch Johnny. 

The way he animatedly retold a story about how they’d been invited to a fundraiser years ago in a dance hall, how he’d talked Ben into getting up onto the stage to dance. The way he so enthusiastically greeted those around the bar that did recognize him, as they slid in little comments about if you were the “mystery woman” that the papers had begun to pick up on over the last two months. He deflected them with ease, remembering many of those that said hello to him, asking such personal things about their families, their jobs, as if they were his best friends.

Your laughter spilled into your drink as the band played their own version of The Twist, and Johnny chose to demonstrate his moves directly in front of you. He smiled wide, eyes never leaving you, as he mouthed the words in your direction, following along with the dance every other person in the club was doing along with him.

“Johnny Storm: a superhero, an avid golfer, a lover of space, and now we can add dancer to that extensive list,” you teased, taking the final sip of your drink before leaving the empty glass on the counter behind you. “Do you frequent these dance halls a lot?”

“When I was a teenager I found my way here pretty often,” he answered easily as the song came to an end, the room cheering out and erupting in applause for the band. With one arm, he leaned against the counter beside you, looking up at you. “I wouldn't call myself a dancer, though. Just had enough practice to be semi-decent.”

“Practice, huh?” you questioned, just as the band started back up again. “How many girls have you taken dancing before?”

The band kicked back up, their next song already ready to go. You recognized it immediately: that same Frank Sinatra song that had played in the car through Long Island barely 24 hours prior. Johnny only smiled softly, standing out in front of you with his hand outstretched toward you.

“None. Promised myself that only one woman would ever have the pleasure of seeing me dance. Now, will you do me the honor?”

It wasn’t a line, not one of his usually charming, flirtatious lines. Not the way in which he said it: so genuinely, so vulnerably. You slipped your hand into his without a second thought.

Johnny guided you back out onto the dance floor, finding another open space among the couples around with ease. His arm slid around your waist, resting there as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You didn’t want to dwell on the fact that it really did feel so right, in a way you had never felt before.

His hand pressed firmly into your lower back, holding your body close to his. You could feel that unnatural heat that radiated off of his skin through the layers of clothing that adorned your body. One of your arms found its place around his shoulder, hand curled around the back of his neck and tangling just slightly with the hairs that laid there. Your other hand was clasped in his, taking in every bit of warmth that seeped from his palm into yours.

I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast. I fall in love too terribly hard for love to ever last.

“Can I ask you something?” you asked him quietly, nose just barely brushing along the edge of his jawline as you danced together, swayed back and forth across the floor with him.

“Anything,”

“You didn’t have to trust me that day in the park. You could’ve assumed I was a threat, taken me out. Instead, you took me in,” you closed your eyes, leaning in just slightly as your nose brushed over his jawline once again. “Then, you took it upon yourself to make me feel comfortable, to not let me feel alone in a universe that isn’t mine…why?”

“I mean, from the moment I saw you I thought you were pretty, but it was because I felt like I was looking at me,” Johnny’s answer was simple. No charm, no jokes, just the truth. “I saw myself for a moment, the me I was when we came home from space with powers. Confused, angry, terrified of what I had become. I didn’t know what to do. You looked so lost, so alone, and you continued to look that way every day. I didn’t…I didn’t want you to feel alone. I didn’t want you to feel like I did when I came home that day, when I felt like I had to lock myself away. It didn’t help that…I kind of fell for you along the way.”

Any hesitation in your heart, any thought in your brain still telling you that this was a terrible idea, that it could never work, melted away in that single second.

My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.

“Can I ask you something?” he tacked on as your brain and heart still searched for a way to respond to him. All you could give him was a nod, one he could feel from where your skin touched his. “I’ve been flirting with you every day since we met. What made you finally say yes to a date?”

“Because I wasn’t saying yes to Jonathan Storm, the Human Torch, one of the four protectors of this Earth,” you told him simply, leaning back just slightly so that you could catch his gaze as you spoke, bodies still swaying back and forth to the swell of the violin. “I was saying yes to Johnny. The flame boy who decided to trust me. The guy that does the dumbest shit just to make his nephew laugh. The only one who’s made the pain of what I’ve lost lessen these last few months. I didn’t fall for all the bravado, or the charming lines, I just fell for him.”

Your confession was laid bare, as was his. He didn’t say a single word. Johnny simply smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to the crown of your head, before letting his eyes close and his forehead rest against yours. You followed suit, mirroring him, simply existing in the space within his arms.

My heart should be well schooled ‘cause I've been fooled in the past. And still I fall in love too easily, I fall in love too fast.

What felt like hours later, while also feeling like no time had passed at all, you found your hand clasped in Johnny’s once more. Roaming the streets of New York in the cool air of the night, a giddiness present in each of you that could only be compared to the feeling of pure childlike wonder and joy.

All you could think about was how right it felt, being with him. Having his hand in yours. Being in his arms. Universes separated you, but in this moment, you felt as if you had never belonged somewhere more than you did right now.

“Okay, okay,” Johnny forced out through his laughter, leaning into you as you turned another street corner, trying to find the next question to ask in the long line of questions you had been throwing back and forth. “Favorite fight that you had with the Avengers?”

“Oh god, I don’t know if I can answer that,” you responded easily with a laugh, shaking your head at the thought. “None of them were really fun, they all kind of left immense damage in their wake. One ended with me locked in a high security prison in the middle of the ocean for a short period of time, so, I guess that was fun.”

“That…that sounds like the opposite of fun,”

“Oh, it was. It sucked immensely,” he shoved his shoulder into yours for the comment. “Okay, my turn. Favorite memory with Reed?”

“When he asked me permission to marry Sue. I thought he was going to piss himself, I’ve never seen the man look so nervous,” Johnny laughed, tugging on your hand to bring you in closer to his side again. “Okay, how about your favorite thing you can do with your magic?”

Now that was a show instead of a tell question. Dropping his hand, you slid into the space in front of Johnny on the side walk, shuffling backwards against the pavement. He cocked an eyebrow as you shot him a tiny grin, before your hands at your sides began to glow in that familiar blue as your body lifted off of the grow by just a few feet, uncaring for anyone that could possibly see you in the area.

Johnny stopped in his tracks, dumbfounded as his wide eyes looked up at you. He sputtered for a moment, trying to find his words.

“Wait–you could fly this entire time, and you didn’t tell me?”

“You never asked!”

Johnny’s body ignited in flames, a sight you’d sparingly seen over your time in their world. From the chest down, every bit of him burned in those bright orange and red licks of fire as he, too, flew above the ground before you, back to being level with you once more.

“We could’ve been flying everywhere instead of driving!”

“Well, let’s just have some fun with it now,” you shot back with a wink, before propelling yourself upward. “Keep up, flame boy!”

The chill in the New York breeze was a familiar feeling, beating against your face as you propelled yourself up into the air, flying along the edge of the buildings. Johnny followed along right beside you, the heat of his flames fanning out over you and cancelling out the chill that night air brought with it.

His eyes never left yours as you spun around a corner of the building, propelling yourself further up into the air. You looked down, watching him with a smile as you hung there high above the buildings and the city of New York. Johnny joined you in seconds, hovering just in front of you. The clouds practically kissed your body, the city so far down below you both, leaving you alone together among the clouds.

You could see it, the glint in his eyes, the way they flickered down to your lips for just a second before glancing back up, pretending as if they’d never strayed away. He leaned in, and you let him for just a moment, before letting your body fall backward and freefall through the air back toward the city.

His laughter echoed through the sky as he flew down after you, following the sound of your own laughter. He saddled up to your side, flying down alongside you once again before you took a sudden turn, propelling yourself toward the rooftop of a building just barely in the distance.

Your feet touched down on the private rooftop moments later, magic dissipating from your fingertips as you landed, taking in a deep breath as the rush of flying left your body in one fell swoop. The rooftop garden you’d landed in was clearly one for a private residence, somewhere you probably shouldn’t have been, but you didn’t care. Not with the smell of the flowers invading your senses, the glint of the dim fairy lights strung around the roof bathing you in their light, and the view of the Baxter Building dead ahead.

Johnny’s feet touched the ground just moments after you, the sound of his shoes hitting the flooring alerting you. Spinning, he was standing just a few feet away, watching you with a little smile as he shook his head with laughter.

“You might be insane,”

“Sorry,” your giggles fell into the mix with his own laughter. “It’s been a minute since I’ve flown. I’ve missed it.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever flown with someone on a first date,” Johnny countered, taking just a few steps forward toward you. “Unless you count Shalla-Bal throwing me off her surfboard in space, but that wasn’t really a date.”

“Guess this was a first for both of us, then,”

You matched his steps, barely a few feet between the two of you now. Johnny didn’t make another step forward, though, didn’t close the space separating you. 

His Adam’s apple bobbed, his foot tapped against the ground, and his hands clearly didn’t know what to do with themselves.

“What’s wrong?” you asked gently, even though you could practically see the nerves rolling off of him. He laughed, shaking his head as he glanced to the ground for just a moment, before back to you.

“I…I’m kind of nervous, if you can believe it,”

You hummed, taking the initiative to step up into his space, barely a few inches separating the two of you now. Your eyes never left him.

“Why? I thought the charming Johnny Storm had been on a bunch of first dates?” you teased.

He laughed breathily, eyes darting to your lips for just a second.

“Not ones that mattered…not like you do,”

You barely let him finish his sentence before you curled your hands around the back of his neck, tugging him down to you and slotting your lips against his.

It was short, but poured every bit of passion into it that swarmed through your heart and your head. Your lips moved against his just slightly, still testing the waters as the heat that coursed through his skin and into yours felt as if it was sinking straight down into your bones. Johnny’s lips were soft, supple, a shaky breath leaving his lips and fanning out over yours the second that they touched for the first time. Something in your head clicked at the feeling, something that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, making you light-headed as your fingers just barely curled into the hair kissing the nape of his neck.

It was you that pulled away first. Barely a few inches away, the heat of his body still filling the air between you. His blue eyes bore down into your, wide and full of awe, lips slightly parted. A smile stretched across his face first, a matching once crawling across your own as you let your hands fully dive into his hair.

Johnny moved first, hands enveloping your waist and tugging you until your body was almost one with his, his mouth devouring yours in a kiss that had your knees almost crumbling to the ground.

Those heated hands swarmed your body desperate to touch every single expanse of you that they could in the way you were sure he’d thought about, in the way you never wanted to admit you sometimes dreamed about. Goosebumps crawled across your skin with every move of his hands, with every flex of his fingers and they pressed into you. His lips moved against yours like a starved man, slick with spit as your mouth opened to him, letting him invade every bit of you that you could, his tongue slipping just barely in and grazing over your bottom lip. A moan fell–from you or Johnny, neither of you knew–but the sound only spurred you both on.

His hands tightened their grip around your waist, holding him to you like a possession, one he couldn’t bear to lose. Claiming you. Your hand wound into his hair, tugging to elicit a groan from him, as you let your other trail down to rest over the patch of skin just barely visible under the single unbuttoned part of his shirt.

When your lips finally broke, soft pants filling the air between you, neither of you dared to look away. You couldn’t. It was like being in a trance, being pulled to the man in front of you almost magnetically. He leaned in, pressing a series of soft pecks against your lips, hands still flexing across your hips with each little peck that sent the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy.

“This is crazy, right?” he muttered out between kisses. You hummed in response, matching each kiss of his with your own through your grin, hands still carding through his hair.

“What, falling for each other when we come from completely different universes?”

“Exactly that,” he responded, pressing a kiss to the tip of your nose, before his forehead rested against yours. Those blue eyes bore down into yours, a soft smile over taking his kiss bitten lips again. “I don’t care much, though. Not when it just…feels so right.”

Your smile matched his in seconds as you leaned forward, stealing yet another kiss that flooded your body with warmth.

“Me too,”

Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t so crazy: falling for someone universes away from you. Even universes away, maybe Johnny Storm was always meant to be yours, always meant to be the missing piece to your incomplete puzzle.

❤︎

Johnny Storm had been called many things over the years by the media. A playboy, a womanizer, noncommittal. They were all wrong.

He preferred the term hopeless romantic, especially when it came to you.

Especially in this exact moment, leaning against the doorway of his bedroom in the early hours of the afternoon to see you sprawled out, tangled in the covers that were halfway off his bed. You looked as if you belonged there, and in Johnny’s eyes, you did. There was nowhere else that you belonged than right by his side.

Crossing the room quietly, trying not to disturb you, he gently placed the glass of water he’d ventured into the kitchen for down on the bedside table. He got distracted, as he typically did, at the sight of the polaroids splayed out across the wooden table. Taking them gingerly in his hands, terrified to ruin them, the smile that crossed his face couldn’t be wiped away.

You wrapped in his arms along the Coney Island beach in the early hours of the morning. One of just you, sprawled out in his bed in nothing but one of his button downs that fell down to your thighs. You on the couch, Franklin curled into your lap as you read him a book. His favorite one, sneakily taken by Sue late one night, wrapped in his arms on the balcony of the Baxter Building, lips pressed together through smiles.

He loved you. Johnny loved you more than he ever believed he could love someone in life. Multiverse be damned, you were it for him. You were meant to be his and his alone, and he was hell bent on loving you to the fullest extent every single day that he could, knowing someone could come along and rip you away at any moment.

But the universe had given him a year. An entire year to love you in every way that he could, to prove to you that you were it for him. He thanked whatever being out there in the multiverse he needed to every single day for the time he’d been given with you.

Johnny crawled onto the bed, tugging the comforter down from around your shoulders so he could fully see you. His pillow was clutched between your arms, the space in which he usually occupied. His white t-shirt, bearing the 4 logo that you’d made fun of him for months ago, covered your body, falling to the middle of your bare thighs.

He leaned in with a smile, pressing kiss after kiss to the bare skin of your arms he could see, trailing down to leave heat filled kisses to the bare skin of your thighs. He’d barely left three there before he could hear your giggle, body flipping over onto your back so that you could look down on him with a raised eyebrow and a grin.

“You left me,” you teased with a fake little pout. “I had nothing to hold but a pillow.”

“I’m so sorry, princess,” Johnny mumbled through his smirk, pressing yet another kiss into your thighs. His hands traveled up the sides of your legs, pushing his t-shirt with them as his kisses trailed further up the expanse of your skin. “How could I ever make it up to you?”

“I-I don’t know…round three doesn’t sound that bad,”

Johnny hummed through his laughter, mumbling a quiet “I love you” into your skin. He knew you could hear it, though, he knew that you knew it.

He reveled in every little noise that left your lips, every puff of air that was on the cusp of being a moan as he lavished every inch of your skin in a kiss.

“Look, you’re both adults so I try not to tell you what to do, but it’s the middle of the afternoon and–JESUS CHRIST, JOHNNY!”

He’d never sprang away so fast, throwing himself so hard to the side of the bed that he fell straight off of it to the floor with a thud. Your laughter filled the room as he crawled back up the side of the bed, your hand covering your mouth to conceal your laughter and the comforter pulled back up your legs.

Johnny immediately shot a glare at his sister, standing in the doorway of his room with her eyes covered by her hand.

“Sue, you have no one to blame but yourself for this–”

“You could have closed the door! I don’t need to see you doing all of that, my god,” Sue shook her head, peaking between her fingers to finally see that there was nothing happening, before dropping her hand. “Reed wants you in the lab for a few more tests, okay, he promised those would be the last ones this week. Just…look decent and meet us down there, okay?”

She grumbled the entire way out of the room, muttering comments about scarring her for life.

Johnny only rolled his eyes, throwing himself back onto the bed to hover above you. Nothing could ruin his mood, not when you looked up at him like that, smile bright and eyes full of adoration.

“That’s the third time this month she’s done that,” you managed to speak through giggles, slapping him lightly on the shoulder. “She’s going to kill us one of these days.”

Johnny only hummed, ignoring the comment. Instead, his fingers trailed down your neck, grasping the chain of the necklace that rested against your chest, a little charm of a Plumeria dangling off the end. His Christmas gift to you, one of the many you received as you were showered in them by his entire family. He pressed a kiss to the flower, looking up to you, only to see that same soft look in your eyes.

“I love you,” he whispered out, leaning in to capture your lips in his before you could speak back. He could feel you sigh into the feeling, your fingers dancing over his cheek lightly as you kissed him back just as softly.

“I love you, too,” you whispered back against his lips, before your hand rested on his chest with a little push. “But we’re going to go down to that lab because if we stay here another second, Sue is going to be walking in on a sight that she really doesn’t want to see.”

Johnny groaned, but relented. Falling back to his knees, his hands wound under the covers to your hips, pulling you up to your knees quickly on the bed. His mouth found yours in an instant, cementing another kiss there just for good measure.

“Round three after, right?”

It was your magic this time that pushed him, sending him tumbling back off the bed as your laughter rang out through the room.

“If you can behave, then maybe,”

Still clad in his t-shirt, having thrown on the old pair of ripped jeans you’d arrived in this universe in over a year ago, Johnny tucked you under his arm the second you stepped out of his bedroom, unable to go a second without touching you in any way shape or form. You never complained, even leaned into him as he pressed a kiss to your hairline.

“Lynne was able to get us reservations at that one restaurant you’ve been wanting to try for tonight, by the way,” he told you as you stepped into the elevator, hitting the button for Reed’s lab instantly. He grinned at the way your smile brightened, eyes turning to look up at him.

“Oh my god, that new one in Times Square?”

“That’s the one,” Johnny shot back. He let his arm fall from your shoulders, letting it wrap around your waist. His hand found the edge of his shirt, dipping beneath it so that his hand could press against the skin of your bare back. “Thinking maybe afterward we could go for a little fly around the city, sit down on the Brooklyn Bridge for a little while.”

Your hands cupped his cheeks almost instantly after he spoke, pulling him into a kiss. A feeling Johnny was sure he would never grow tired of, never get enough of.

“It’s a date,”

Stepping out into Reed’s lab, the entire team was gathered around. Reed was fussing over a machine, just as he normally was, with Sue trying desperately to calm him down. Ben was entertaining Franklin over on the couch, reading to him one of his favorite books.

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Reed called out, ignoring the doting of Johnny’s sister as he waved you over frantically. “I just want to run a few more tests for this week. I changed some of the parameters, I just want to make sure that we have all of our bases covered.”

You gave Johnny’s hand a quick squeeze before crossing the room, sliding into the same chair you always sat in for Reed’s tests, presenting your arm for the usual blood draw. Reed was convinced that it was necessary to test your blood, to do weekly scans of your body, to ensure that there were no lasting effects on your from staying in the wrong universe for an extended period of time like you had.

Johnny joined Ben and Franklin over on the couch, leaning down to leave a little kiss on his little nephew’s forehead, one that left the boy smiling and giggling.

“Johnny,” Franklin was barely able to say his name, stumbling over most of the letters, but he heard him loud and clear. He ruffled the boy's hair with a laugh, kneeling down in front of the couch.

“Hey buddy,” Johnny glanced over at Ben, at the smirk on the man’s rocky mouth, and raised an eyebrow in question. “What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Love just looks good on you, kid,” Ben teased.

Johnny shot a look over his shoulder, straight toward you. Smiling in that chair, laughing at something Sue said, as Reed drew the blood from your arm with a practiced ease for his various tests.

“Nah, it’s just loving her,” Johnny glanced back at Ben, a hint of a sheepish grin on his lips as he shrugged. “I don’t know how to describe it, man. She’s just…I think she’s just it.”

Ben smiled, that knowing one that he always had, as his rocky hand came down to pat Johnny’s back.

“I think so too. You deserve this, matchstick. You were practically made for each other,”

Johnny agreed. He was trying to decide mentally if one year was too soon to officially make your last name Storm like he had promised months ago.

The quiet, the lightheartedness that filled the lab, couldn’t stay forever. Not when the alarms across the room began to blare.

Every head shot up at once, turning to look down the length of the lab to the computers where the alarm was blaring. Reed shot to his feet, taking a step in front of Sue as you ripped the needle from your arm in seconds to join them.

“Johnny-”

“On it!”

He’d practically sprinted halfway down the lab at that point, pulling up the alarm system at the designated workstation. That same map that had foreshadowed your arrival blinked on the screen, the same blip that showed your arrival in Gramercy Park blinking on the screen–right on the Baxter Building.

“It’s the same readings as when she got here,” Johnny called out down the lab, eyes frantically darting back and forth between you and Reed. “The blip, though, it’s right here on the building-”

There was sound from right beside him, startling him. Johnny whipped around, little sparks of yellow and gold flashing in the air beside him.

He instantly took steps back, shuffling backward and away from the growing sparks until his legs hit the back of the couch. Ben stood somewhere behind him, holding Franklin protectively in his arms. Reed held onto Sue across the room from where Johnny stood, keeping her at his side, as you stepped up in front of them: eyes glowing, magic dancing at your finger tips.

Until those sparks of energy grew, larger and larger, until they formed the makings of a small circle. Johnny could hear the second your breath caught, that glow in your eyes fading and the magic at your fingertips vanishing in seconds as you took another step forward.

“O-Oh my god…”

The sparking circle grew, almost the size of an entire person, before it stabilized, and out of what Johnny could only assume was a portal stepped a man. Older, tired, short hair and the remnants of cuts along his face. Body draped in elegant robes of purple and yellow he’d never seen before. His eyes darted around the room, before they landed on you, and he let out the loudest sigh Johnny had ever heard.

“Oh, thank god-”

“WONG!”

You’d practically flown across the room and into the man’s arms. Wong hadn’t wasted a second, hugging you back just as tightly as you cried, holding onto the man for dear life.

Johnny froze: Wong. He’d heard that name before. You talked about him all the time. The Sorcerer Supreme, the man you were supposed to wait for before you performed the spell that had landed you here in the first place. Johnny felt his heart break at the realization. He could feel the eyes of his sister on him from across the room.

His time had finally run out. Home had finally come to take you back from him.

“When I tell you that you aren’t to touch the Book of Vishanti without me, it is not a suggestion,” Wong scolded, hands clasping your shoulders as you violently wiped your tears across the room. “I already had to deal with Stephen breaking into the restricted section years ago, I do not want a repeat of that again. Do you know how difficult it is to find your energy signature through the vast multiverse?”

“I know, I know,” you nodded your head, before shaking it back and forth. “No performing any spells from an ancient book without your supervision. I got it.”

Wong nodded once, before his eyes finally glanced over the rest of the room. They settled on Reed and Sue, Ben and Franklin, and finally on Johnny.

“Do I need to worry about-”

“No, no, they’re friends. They’re practically family,” you assured the man, turning and gesturing out to the room. “This is the Fantastic Four. They’re essentially the Avengers of their universe…”

Your words trailed off as you finally met Johnny’s eyes again. He could see it, the moment that the realization seemed to settle in over you like it already had for him, and he thought his heart was going to break all over again.

From the corner of his eyes, he could see the glance that Wong sent between both you and him. A knowing one, one that spoke volumes without having to speak at all. He sighed, the sound ringing through the otherwise quiet lab, as he squeezed your shoulder.

“Five minutes,” Wong told you gently, his gaze drifting back to Johnny for just a minute. “There’s no telling if your time here has done any damage to the time streams. We need to get you home…I can give you five minutes.”

You only nodded, tearing your eyes away from Johnny. There was no arguing.

He knew this day would come, even if selfishly he wished it never would.

His eyes never left you as you crossed the room, practically flying into Sue’s arms. Johnny felt as if his head was under water. He could see your lips moved, Sue’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear a word either of you said. 

In his head, Johnny could guess what you were saying. A thank you for taking you in, for taking care of you, for all the times Sue had helped you dress for a date or taken you out into the city with her. He was sure Sue was thanking you for simply loving her little brother.

Reed pulled you into a tentative hug, short but still sweet. You didn’t exchange many words, but he could make out a “thank you” on his brother-in-law's lips.A thank you that simply encompassed everything, everything that he was sure Reed struggled to say.

Johnny saw your tears again when you stepped into Ben’s arms finally. A conversation that he was sure detailed the many early morning trips you’d made to Maisie’s together, or the late night talks that happened on the couch over drinks as some movie played on TV.

Franklin’s cries pierced the air, his hands making grabby motions toward you as he cried. You placed a single kiss to his head, walking away before you broke down.

Finally, you stood before him. Mascara running just slightly, tear stains littering your cheeks and down to your chin. You mustered the smallest of smiles that you could for him, albeit watery. Johnny tried to do the same, feeling the lump in his throat beginning to form.

“I thought I had three rules for you before you went home,” he managed to say, trying to swallow back the burning need to cry. You laughed, though the sound almost sounded like a sob, as you nodded your head.

“I’m leaving having accomplished two of those things. I guess that counts as a win,”

Johnny nodded, the beginnings of a sob almost bubbling out of his throat. Like two magnets pulled together, you fell into his arms. Head buried into his neck, Johnny’s one hand curled into your hair, tears slipping down his cheeks and soaking into the skin of the side of your head as your own tears soaked into his neck, your cries muffled by his skin.

“I love you,” he muttered into the side of your head, pressing kiss after kiss to your skin. “I don’t care. I love you. I love you more than anything.”

You pulled away, those red rimmed and watery eyes finding him, as you cupped his cheeks in your shaking hands.

“I love you too,” you whispered, stealing a kiss from his lips that took every bit of breath out of him. Your next words were whispered against his mouth. “This isn’t goodbye. I promise.”

Johnny managed a laugh, stealing another kiss as he gripped you as tightly as possible, hoping if he held on tight enough you wouldn’t slip away.

“What, you’re going to find a way to defy the multiverse to see me again? Abandon your home?”

“For you? Yeah,” you answer was short, meaningful, determined, definitive. Johnny believed every word. “I’ll see you again. And next time, I won’t have to leave. Because you’re my home, too.”

Johnny managed a smile, hoping it was as comforting as he wanted it to be, as he stole one last kiss. Not a goodbye, he wasn’t sure he could handle a goodbye. He wasn’t sure he could handle the idea of never seeing you again. This kiss was a promise. To what? He wasn’t sure. Maybe just a simple promise that he was yours.

“I’ll be counting the days,”

He couldn’t bear to look down at you again, afraid if he kissed you again he’d shove Wong back through that portal and find a way to hold you here forever. Johnny settled for a single kiss to your forehead, accented with the tears that were still running silently down his cheeks, before he let you go.

You slotted yourself back to Wong’s side, wiping at the tears that stained your cheeks. He placed a hand on your shoulder, and even Johnny could see how much it pained him to do this to you. He caught the slight flick of your hand, though, the slight burst of your magic, so small he wasn’t sure at first if he’d seen it correctly.

The room was silent as you and Wong stepped back through the glittering gold portal and onto the floor of the other side. Your eyes met his one last time, a watery smile crossing your lips, before it closed.

And in the blink of an eye, you were gone. Gone as if you’d never been there in the first place.

Franklin’s cries were still the only thing he could hear in the room, No one dared to speak, dared to break through the air, as Johnny’s eyes stayed locked on the last spot you had stood in.

“Johnny…”

He turned, tear filled eyes meeting with his family. The heartbroken look on Ben’s face, the conflicted look on Reed’s, and the absolute pity that shone through on Sue’s. She took a single step forward, but Johnny waved her off immediately, shaking his head as he wiped at his tears, forcing a smile.

“I-I’m fine. I just…I just need a minute,”

No one rushed after him, and he was thankful for it.

The entire elevator ride back up to his room was done in a daze, in a haze of emotions. His vision was blurry the entire time, but no more tears fell. He wasn’t sure he had more to cry.

Stepping into his room again, he felt like he could muster a few more tears. The bed was still unmade. The scent of your perfume, one you’d picked a few months ago with Sue, lingered in the air. Your clothes from the night before were strewn over a chair by his record player.

It was the only sign that you had, in fact, existed here in his universe. You weren’t a figment of his imagination.

Approaching his bed, wanting to bury himself in the lingering scent of you, his breath caught.

Lying there, on the unmade sheets, was a single flower. A single little Plumeria, remnants of blue magic dancing over and around its petals. Right below it? That same Polaroid Johnny loved so dearly.

He clutched it in his hands, willing himself to be back in the moment: holding you on the balcony that night, kissing you, telling you he loved you. As he did, your magic seeped across the bottom white edge of the photo, scrawling your handwriting across the bottom.

Unequivocally yours.

That, alone, was enough to bring a smile back to his lips.

Multiverse be damned: you were his. There was no one in this life or the next that Johnny Storm was convinced he could love more, just as there was no one that could love you the way he could.

In that moment, he knew for a fact he’d see you again. And next time, he was never letting you go.

[moonlight-prose]

I am staring at the wall thinking about sub!clark bc why didn't my brain think of that until now?? And him loosing control of everything so the bed breaks and the power goes out? I'm just gonna go lay down 🧍🏻‍♀️

a/n: you're feeding into my obsession and it is so dangerous right now. because i could be so unhinged about this man and well i guess now is the time. this is truly just me losing my shit over how much i need him to break the bed with me in it and under him. bye i am going to go tie myself to a tree.

warnings: explicit so minors dni 18+ only!!, sub!clark, kinda dom!reader, rough sex, p in v sex, breaking furniture, good boy/ma'am usage, it's nasty tbh.

The first snap of the headboard should have been indication enough that Clark had fucking lost it. Submerged into a depth of need you'd never seen before—his eyes rolling back every few minutes and neck strained with sounds you felt burn into the back of your mind.

Night came with him kissing you against the bathroom counter. His hands spread wide along your hips as you pulled him close enough to feel the muscles bunch in his back. Thus was your routine. Goodnight whispers traded as he brushed his teeth and you washed your face. Kisses pressed onto bare shoulders and bent necks.

Until you had the gall to utter two words. A fucking tease of how easy he gave in to your wants and needs, fulfilling them at the drop of a hat.

Good boy.

You pressed it against the skin of his throat, feeling him swallow thick around words that died long before you could continue your tease. It should have surprised you how hard he got. Leaking into his sweats at the sound of your voice curling soft around two little words. Even as heat rocked up his spine, turning his mind fuzzy with the thought of something more.

It should have left you melting into his touch, aching at the thought of him inside you. Instead you said it again.

You breathed it over and over as the both of you stumbled to the bed. Clothes in disarray, your hand gripped tight into his curls and his mouth sucking at your chest with whimpered moans. A flood of sounds you never knew could be trapped in the body of someone so large.

"W-What do you want?" he begged, grinding into you with a stuttered shift of his hips. "Need you to tell me w-what to do honey."

Your chest seized, walls clamping down hard enough to rip free a sob out of his chest. "Ruin me." You got out between a sharp cry, chest burning without air.

"So tight," he whined, face buried into your chest and tongue dripping spit on your tight nipples. "'M gonna come soon."

"No." He stilled, spine going taut and cock twitching hard enough to tap the back of your cervix. Your mind went white, eyes rolling back painfully. "I tell you when to come baby. Okay?"

Nodding as if nothing else could exist in his world besides you—besides this—he felt his head spin with need. "Y-Yes ma'am."

It tore at your insides, his compliance. His eagerness to make you happy even as he struggled to keep the searing burn of his release at bay. Clark clasped your hand in his, pushing it down into the mattress, your legs locking tightly over his back when he sped up. Pounding down into you until tears pricked your eyes. A strangled cry bounced off the walls, but that only spurred him on.

He was lost to it. Yours to mold, yours to do with however you wanted.

Yours. Yours. Yours.

The fucking sound of it left you breathless. He angled his hips, a strong hand pressing your hips up, and a grin flashed across his dazed face at your scream. A tear from your chest the moment he struck against your walls. Hitting it repeatedly with every wet thrust and slap of skin against skin.

"So good," you cried, head digging back into the pillow. "Fuck! Just like that baby. I'm gonna—oh fuck—I'm gonna come."

"Yes. Gosh yes."

A hand slammed into the headboard above you, his hips grinding against your puffy clit, and the thundering rush in your ears deafened the crack above you. Loud and nearly sending wood right through drywall.

Your nails raked down his chest, mouth set in a permanent scream as you came loud enough to bounce off the walls. Your body going rigid and thigh trembling hard enough to send an ache to your hips. Clark cried out as if you'd burned him with it. His cock pushing in and out of your mess until a creamy puddle dripped down to the sheets.

"Please. I-I need. Oh golly-"

Digging a hand into his hair, you dragged his face down your level—eyes latching onto the blown out pupils swallowing the blue whole. "Cum. Now. I want it leaking out baby."

He collapsed. He pressed his head against yours and came with a choked sob—his fingers ripping into the sheets by your head. Cock twitching hard inside your walls as he spurted into you. He shoved himself forward, sinking do deep you felt him at the base of your lungs, and filled you until it began to drip down his balls. Coating a sticky mess along his thighs.

"Oh-" he whimpered, curling his arms around your back tight enough to shove what little air you had left out of your lungs.

"You're so pretty when you cum Clark."

You didn't need to see his face to know it was flushed a deep red. "Thank you for letting me," he mumbled. "We need a new headboard."

A laugh startled out of your chest. "We'll find one."

"And some new sheets."

"You keep destroying our bed baby," you mused, enjoying the peek of red on his ears.

"Feels good," he remarked. "Can't help it."

"Yeah?" He nodded as your nose pressed into his curls as you whispered the words he felt shoot down his spine. "Good boy."

[geminiwritten]

déjà vu (two) ; scott

summary: it’s been this way since college—you drink, get drunk, you fight, and then you fuck. and now you’re chasing storms in rival crews, slipping in and out of motel rooms between tornado sirens, swearing every morning after that this time was the last time. but denial gets heavier, tyler gets suspicious, and jealousy hits harder than any storm. and suddenly you’re realising… maybe it was never just sex. (based on this song)

notes: this took so long and it turned into a character study, but oh my goodness, i love it so much. i honestly love this man, this character, with all my heart and writing this was so much fun. you have no idea! i'm sorry it's so long but please give it a chance, it's probably my favourite thing i've written??? and as always, please let me know what you think! (i also made a whole playlist)

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, italics, mentions of drunk sex, lots of tension and banter, lots of denial, jealousy, a little angst, some likely incorrect storm science (and a lot of lines stolen directly from both twister movies), lots of arguing, it gets a lil dramatic (but in a good way), and SMUT (making out, dirty-ish talk, unprotected p in v, and kind of rough? also don't come for me if some parts get repetitive, smut is hard) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 11384 (28029)

‧₊˚✧ PART ONE ‧₊˚✧

“Boone!” you shout, slamming the motel room door shut. “If you ever leave your nasty wet socks in my bag again, I will injure you so badly you’ll never be able to even think about having kids.” 

You stomp halfway across the parking lot to where Tyler and Boone are standing beside the truck, inspecting the damage from a rogue tree branch during yesterday’s chase. You stop a few feet from them, ball the wet socks in your hand, and hurl them as hard as you can at a very startled-looking Boone. Your aim isn’t great, though—and they hit the front of the truck with a splat. 

“Morning, sunshine,” Tyler says sarcastically. 

You fold your arms and scowl. “Don’t be a dick.” 

He huffs a short laugh. “Good to know yesterday’s mood hasn’t changed.” 

“What do you mean yesterday?” Boone asks as he peels his socks off the hood. “She’s been like this for weeks.” 

“Been like what?” you snap, turning your glare on him. 

He gives a small shrug, edging closer to Tyler as if that’ll protect him. “Angry.” 

Your frown deepens. “I haven’t been angry.” 

Tyler scoffs. “Yeah? Then why’d you call me a moron yesterday for misreading a hook echo.” 

You roll your eyes. “Because this is your job, Tyler—you should know how to do it. And you should definitely know the difference between a hook and ground clutter. So maybe next time, try looking at the velocity scan before you start declaring touchdowns.” 

“Ouch,” Boone mutters, turning away to hide his laughter. 

But Tyler doesn’t react. He just looks at you—eyes narrowed, jaw set, shoulders tight. He doesn’t look upset or angry, just... irritated. Tired. Like he’s hanging on to the last thread of his patience, and you’re walking it like a circus performer on a tightrope. 

“Look,” he finally says, voice dangerously calm, “I get it. Something happened, you don’t want to talk about it—that’s fine. But stop taking it out on us. Stop taking it out on the people who care about you. If you want to be angry, be angry. But maybe try being angry at the person who hurt you—not your friends.” 

Your heart thuds faster, harder, almost painful against your ribs. 

You swallow hard. “I don’t—I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Boone turns back around slowly, brows drawn—like he’s only just realising there might be something deeper behind the way you’ve been acting lately. 

“You don’t?” Tyler asks, brows raised. “You sure?” 

“Yes,” you mutter through your teeth, before turning sharply on your heel. 

You march back toward your room, ignoring the looks from Dani and Dexter standing nearby. You slam the door the second you step inside and fall back against it, your head hitting the wood with a dull thud that echoes in the quiet room. You squeeze your eyes shut, willing the stinging behind them to stop. You’re not going to cry—that would be stupid. There’s nothing to cry about. 

You’re not upset. You’re not taking anything out on anyone. Because that would mean there’s something to take out—something you’re avoiding, pushing down, pretending isn’t there. Which isn’t true. Obviously. 

You’re fine. Just... tired. Exhausted from all the travelling, all the chasing. From not sleeping well on the crappy motel mattresses. 

And the dreams. 

God, the dreams. 

The ones that pull you under the second you close your eyes. That have you tossing and turning, sweating through the sheets, waking up tangled and breathless, panting his name like you’re afraid you’ll forget it. 

It’s been two weeks and four days since you last saw him—not that you’re counting. Not that it matters. 

It was the same day you left his motel room that morning that Tyler told everyone to be packed and ready to hit the road by afternoon. He wanted to reach Amarillo by nightfall and beat any other chasers headed that way to the decent motels. 

You didn’t argue. You just did what you were told. You packed, checked out, climbed into the truck, and didn't look back. 

You've seen plenty of other chasers around Amarillo in the past two weeks—locals, freelancers, YouTube fans that have no idea what they’re doing—but you haven’t seen any StormPAR trucks. Not that you’ve been looking. You haven’t. You’ve just... noticed. You’re observant, that’s all. 

And anyway, space is good. A little distance is a good thing. You and Scott can't get along at the best of times, and you know that seeing his face right now would turn your bad mood into something catastrophic. 

Because yeah, you’ve been a little moody lately—but it has nothing to do with anything except late nights, too much driving, and unpredictable motel shower water pressure. You’re just tired. Burnt out. Everyone gets like this at some point during storm season. Everyone gets a little moody. 

Right? 

“Wind’s shifting!” Tyler’s shout cuts through your thoughts, sharp and sudden. 

You blink, disoriented—the motel walls replaced by Tyler’s truck cab and screaming wind. The sky above is bruised grey and heavy in every direction. 

The truck lurches over a dirt shoulder, tires skimming the gravel as Tyler yells something about the gust front. Wind slams against the cab, rattling everything in its path, and your hands grip the edge of the dashboard tighter than you thought possible. 

“Tyler!” Kate shouts from the back, voice tight. “The gust front—it’s moving too fast!” 

“It’s fine!” he yells back, eyes fixed out the windshield, knuckles white on the wheel. “We need to intercept this cell before it passes! Stay with me!” 

Your stomach twists as you glance back at Boone and Kate, biting down the words you want to throw at Tyler. Boone is wide-eyed and grinning, one hand on his camera while the other fumbles with his harness. Kate’s brows are drawn tight as she stares out the window, clearly assessing the conditions with those magical meteorology powers of hers. 

You look back at Tyler, biting your tongue so hard you can taste copper. You’re already wound tight, but his typical recklessness is making you more nervous than usual today. 

“Tyler, slow down!” you snap, leaning forward. “We’re not driving into this blind! You can’t just—” 

“We’re not blind!” he cuts you off, teeth gritted. “We have a window, and if we miss it, it’s gone!” 

“A window?!” you bark. “You’re trying to barrel us into a storm unprepared—I’d rather miss it then get caught in something bigger than we can handle!” 

He slams a hand against the wheel. “This is our job, remember? Storms are unpredictable—that's the deal. If you want out, then get out, because I’m not babysitting!” 

“Babysitting?!” you echo, incredulous. “I don’t need babysitting! I’m just trying to make sure we get out of this alive.” 

The truck skids over a loose patch of gravel and Boone yelps from the back—not in panic, but excitement. 

You freeze, heart hammering, adrenaline slicing through you as you remember the last time you saw Scott on a chase. When you shouted at him that you didn’t need a babysitter. The roar of the wind, the grind of the tires, the way your lungs can’t seem to draw a full breath—it’s all too much. 

Tyler’s eyes flick to yours, sharp and determined. “Focus,” he says. “Just do your job and focus.” 

You exhale hard, chest tight, hands still trembling. “Focus,” you mutter, shaking your head as you twist in your seat to face the back. “Kate, pass me the laptop.” 

She quickly passes it forward before gripping the handle above her door again. You balance it on your knees and open it, doing your best to stay steady while the truck hurtles across the field toward the darkest, angriest part of the sky—where the clouds are almost black and a funnel hangs halfway to the ground. 

“Hook echo’s tightening,” you say, voice barely carrying over the howl of wind. “Right there, see? And that inflow notch is expanding. Gust front’s hitting thirty-five knots on the south edge. If it shifts right, we’re looking at touchdown in less than a minute.” 

Tyler glances at you. “Velocity scan?” 

“Winds maxing at sixty-two, convergence increasing on the northeast flank. If we keep parallel, we can stay in the safe intercept zone. But—” you pause, throat tight, “the debris ball signature’s spiking. That’s a heavy one. Might drop faster than radar’s showing.” 

“Base inflow’s about to jump west,” Kate says, leaning over your shoulder. “Watch your right flank, Tyler.” 

The cab rattles. Tyler’s grip on the wheel tightens, and you hold your breath. The funnel writhes as it inches toward the ground, doubling in width as the clouds above churn and growl. Panic knots low in your gut. You know this is your job. You know Tyler knows what he’s doing. But you’ve seen conditions like this spawn storms that level entire towns. 

“Tyler,” you say, eyes fixed on the laptop screen. “I’m really sure about this one.” 

“Boone!” he shouts, ignoring you. “Got the camera ready?” 

“Hell yeah!” Boone calls from the back. 

You scramble to get your harness over your shoulders and clipped in, eyes darting between the radar and the windshield. The patterns on the screen shift and swirl in real time, data blurring into chaos. You can barely look outside without nausea crawling up the back of your throat—it’s too dark, too violent. Hail slams against the windshield in sheets, debris whipping through the air, and just up ahead—way closer than you realised—the funnel is about to touch down. 

Then—everything starts to blur. 

Not the usual blur of adrenaline that comes with the chase. This is sharper. Heavier. Panic. Fear. Realisation. 

Realisation that this is dangerous. That anything could happen. That if the storm doubles in size, if it shifts just a few degrees, you could be gone in seconds—and then you’d never see him again. Never tell him what you should’ve said that morning. Never admit the thing you’ve been trying so hard not to name. 

Your breath catches, sharp and shaky, as a new kind of panic floods your chest. You snap the laptop shut, drop it into the footwell, and press yourself into your seat, gripping the harness straps so tight your knuckles ache. 

There’s wind and rain and shouting. Boone’s cheering, Kate’s yelling something about wind speed, and Tyler’s got that wild grin plastered across his face as the tornado twists closer. 

The truck jerks to a halt and Tyler hits the red button in the centre console. The augers deploy, burying into the ground, and the whole cab rattles with the force of the wind. You squeeze your eyes shut—for the first time since you started chasing, you really shut them, like maybe if you don’t look, it won’t hit. 

The world becomes nothing but sound. The storm swallows everything—the roar of the wind, the drum of debris, the metallic groan of the truck. For a moment, it feels like you’re weightless, like the earth’s been ripped out from under you. 

Somewhere through the noise, you hear Boone cheering. Tyler too. The faint whistle and pop of fireworks. 

And then—just like that—it’s gone. The funnel thins, curls upward, and disappears into the clouds. The wind dies. The truck steadies. And the sky opens back up like it was never angry at all. 

The silence that follows is deafening. 

Your ears ring, your hands shake, your whole body is locked tight. 

Then Boone’s laughter cuts through the quiet, loud and breathless. “Holy shit—did you see that?!” He slaps the back of Tyler’s seat. “That thing dropped! Full condensation, full rotation—that was insane!” 

Tyler exhales hard through a grin, hands still locked on the wheel. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a chase. That’s how it’s done.” 

“Beautiful,” Kate murmurs, eyes still fixed on the sky through the windshield. “She was beautiful. Clean funnel, perfect structure—God, I hope the drone caught it.” 

You don’t say anything. You just sit there, chest still tight, the adrenaline draining slow and heavy from your veins. The world outside looks muted—flat light, torn-up grass, a half-collapsed fence line. The air smells like rain and ozone. 

Boone’s still talking while Tyler nods along, grinning and laughing under his breath. Kate’s already got her phone out, no doubt trying to contact the others and compare data. 

You sink lower in your seat, fingers slack against the harness buckle. The trembling in your hands hasn’t stopped yet, but no one seems to notice. Every laugh from the others feels too loud, too bright, and the jolt of the truck as Tyler starts the engine again makes your stomach lurch. 

You stare out the window as he drives back across the field, the storm fading behind you, dissolving into the flat line of the horizon. 

By the time you pull back into the motel lot, the light’s gone gold and the air smells like wet dirt. Tyler parks crooked, Boone’s still half-yelling about camera footage and fireworks, and you can’t unbuckle your belt fast enough. 

You can breathe now—and move. And all the panic from before has turned into something sharper. Angrier. Something that’s getting worse the longer you have to listen to Tyler talk about how fantastic that chase was. 

You slip quickly out of the truck, ignoring Kate when she calls your name, and start marching across the lot toward your room. 

“Hey!” Tyler calls out behind you, voice raised over Boone’s laughter. “You not gonna help us unload?” 

You don’t stop. The gravel crunches under your boots as you reach the door, keys clutched in your hand so tight the edges bite into your skin. 

“Come on,” he says. “You're not still mad about the babysitting thing, are you?” 

“Mad?” you snap, spinning on your heel. “I’m not mad, Tyler, I’m furious. You could’ve killed us back there!” 

His expression shifts, confusion flickering across his face. “Killed—what are you talking about? We were fine.” 

“Fine?” you laugh, sharp and breathless. “You were flooring it toward a funnel with zero visibility, no clear outflow boundary, and you call that fine?” 

“It was fine,” he snaps back now, matching your volume. “You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” 

“I think you get off on being reckless!” 

He steps forward, incredulous. “Reckless? You were sitting next to me watching the same data! You didn’t say a damn thing until we were halfway in!” 

“Because I thought you’d notice the damn rotation shifting!” 

“Well, excuse me for focusing on not flipping the truck!” 

Boone’s laughter fades somewhere in the background. Kate’s gone still, halfway out of the cab, eyes bouncing between the two of you. The others are somewhere off by the RV, just out of eyeshot but definitely still watching this mess unfold. 

You shake your head, words tripping over each other. “You just—you don’t think, Tyler! You don’t think about what happens if you’re wrong! You just—you chase, you just go, like nothing could ever touch you, like—” 

“Like what?” 

“Like you’re invincible!” 

He stares at you for a beat, then laughs—short, disbelieving. “You’re really losing it, you know that? Why are you taking this so personally?” 

“I’m not—” 

“Yes, you are!” he shouts over you now. “You’ve been on edge for weeks! Snapping at everyone, biting my head off every time I breathe—” 

“Because you act like you know everything!” 

“No—because you’re pissed at him!” 

The words hit so loud and sudden the silence after feels like vacuum. 

You blink. “What?” 

Tyler’s chest rises hard as he steps forward, lowering his voice. “Scott. You’re pissed at Scott. Don’t act like this is about me.” 

Your pulse hammers in your throat. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. 

“Yeah,” he says, quieter now. “That’s what I thought.” 

You stand there, frozen, pulse pounding in your ears. You want to say something—anything. You want to tell him he’s wrong, you want to defend yourself, but you can’t. All you can do is feel your throat tighten and your eyes start to burn, and before you can start crying in front of your entire crew—you turn away. 

You hurry back to your motel room, fumbling with the key before shoving the door open and slamming it behind you. The small window beside it rattles with the force. 

Then you sink onto the edge of the bed, dragging in deep, uneven breaths. You’re not going to cry. You’re not. Not over a stupid argument, not because of what Tyler said, and definitely not because of him. 

- 

The next day, to your immense relief, no one’s acting out of the ordinary. 

You spent the rest of yesterday holed up in your motel room, telling yourself not to cry and trying to catch up on some much-needed sleep. Then this morning, you woke up, showered, and went to the dining hall for breakfast like you normally would. 

Boone greeted you with a grin, Lily sat beside you and started showing you drone footage from yesterday, and Kate asked for your take on today’s readings. 

The only person who didn’t talk to you—didn't even look at you—was Tyler. 

Not until now. 

You’re sitting in the small courtyard at the side of the motel, laptop balanced on your knees, trying to focus on analysing storm patterns from past seasons to predict the next best city to move on to when— 

“Hey.” 

You glance up. “Hi.” 

“Gonna yell at me again?” 

You roll your eyes. “No.” 

He grins. “Good.” 

You look back down at your laptop, shifting a little on the uncomfortable wooden bench. Tyler drops down beside you, knees spread, arms draped over the back of the chair. 

There’s a beat of quiet. Just the distant rumble of traffic and the wind moving through the trees. 

Then— 

“So... you’re in love with him?” 

You choke—on absolutely nothing. Your laptop slips off your lap, and Tyler just barely catches it before it hits the ground. 

“Whoa, careful.” 

You cough for a moment, trying to get air back into your lungs. 

Then you shoot him a look. “Why the fuck would you say that?” 

He shrugs. “Because it’s obvious.” 

Your pulse quickens. “How—how is it obvious?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” He tips his head back, squinting up at the sky. “Maybe because you start tripping over your words every time someone mentions him. Or maybe it’s the way you two fight like its foreplay.” He tilts his head toward you now. “Or maybe it’s the fact that we haven’t seen him in weeks, and you’ve been acting like someone ripped out half your wiring.” 

He pauses, waiting for you to say something—but you can’t. Your throat’s too tight. 

“Or maybe,” he goes on, voice lower now, “it’s the way you look at him. Like he hung the moon, the stars, the goddamn sun. Like he’s the only thing you care about, and everyone else might as well not exist.” 

Your breath catches. “Oh.” 

He looks at you—for almost a full minute—just looks at you. You want to say something. You want to deny it, tell him he’s wrong. But you can’t. 

Because he’s not. 

“I don’t care, you know?” he says finally. “I mean, the guy’s a dick, but—you’ve known him longer than you’ve known me. And he knows you better than I do.” He snorts. “Actually, he knows you way better than I do.” 

You swat his arm. “Hey!” 

He laughs a little harder. “I’m just saying. Whatever the hell you two have been doing started way before I even met you, so you don’t have to hide it. If Scott’s what you want, then—” 

“He’s not,” you say quickly—even though you know it’s a lie. “I mean, we had a thing, yeah, but it’s done. He’s not interested in anything more than sex.” 

Tyler gags dramatically. “Sorry, sorry. I just—wasn’t prepared for you to actually say it.” 

You roll your eyes, even though your lips twitch. “You’re a dick.” 

“I know.” He moves his arm from the back of the chair to your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “I’m sorry.” 

You tilt your head to look up at him. “For what?” 

“Making you feel like you had to keep it a secret. And for exposing you in front of everyone yesterday.” 

You let your head rest against his shoulder. “It’s fine. I’m sure most of them had it figured out anyway.” 

He chuckles. “Yeah, except Boone.” 

You laugh softly, letting your eyelids slip shut. You can feel his shoulders rise with a deep breath, then fall slowly, and for a second, you almost feel like you might—finally—let yourself cry. 

“Come out tonight?” 

Your eyes snap open. “What?” 

“I was thinking of hitting the road tomorrow,” he says, “so the others wanted to check out that little dive around the corner for our last night in town.” 

“Oh.” You sit up straight. “I don’t really feel—” 

“Come on,” he sighs. “StormPAR aren’t even in town, he’s not going to be there. Just come out, don’t be grumpy, and have a good time with your crew.” 

You’ve never been good at saying no to Tyler—so you nod, even though the last thing you want to do is go anywhere tonight. “Okay, fine. But I’m not staying late.” 

He grins. “Didn’t say you had to.” 

Then he puts your laptop back in your lap, stretches both arms out wide, and stands. 

You tip your head to look up at him. “Childress or Lubbock?” 

“Childress,” he says. “We’ll stay in Texas another couple weeks, then head back up north.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

He nods too. You both smile—and then he’s gone. 

But you can’t focus on the data anymore. Your eyes linger on the laptop, but the numbers and patterns blur. All you can think about is what you almost said—what came so close to the surface you could almost taste it. The words you didn’t speak. The truth you sidestepped so you wouldn’t have to admit how you really feel about Scott. 

The next few hours pass in a blur of overthinking and denial. The usual. 

You tell yourself that whatever you almost admitted to Tyler was just exhaustion and too much emotion talking. Then, while you’re in the shower, you remind yourself why anything you thought you might feel for Scott is a bad idea. You run through every argument, every sharp word, every frustration—and very carefully avoid the heated moments that make your chest ache. 

You don’t miss him. You don’t. You miss the idea of him—the idea of intimacy. It’s not him. You’re just… lonely. 

Yeah. That’s it. You’re lonely. 

And then, as you step out of your motel room, ready to head to the bar, it hits you—how pathetic it is to prefer calling it loneliness over what it really is. To twist it into something small and safe instead of naming the thing that’s been sitting heavy in your chest for weeks now. Because admitting that it’s Scott… that it’s him… feels a little too much like falling.  

“Ready?” Tyler asks. 

You hesitate for a second, still half caught in your own head—then nod. Tyler slings an arm around your shoulders and steers you through the motel parking lot. He wasn’t lying when he said the bar was just around the corner—you can see the neon sign glowing as soon as you step out onto the street. 

The others are already there when the two of you walk in, Tyler’s arm still draped over your shoulders. The place is packed for a Thursday, full of chasers and locals standing shoulder to shoulder. You have to admit he was right about wanting to beat the rush to Amarillo—the number of chasers in town has almost tripled since you first arrived. 

You join your crew at a table beside the bar, taking the seat next to Kate while Tyler stays standing.  

“Anyone need a drink?” he calls over the music and chatter. 

Boone, Dexter, and Javi all order beers. Kate asks for a vodka soda, Lily for a cider. Then Tyler looks at you, brows raised. 

“Just water,” you mutter. 

“Water?” he echoes, sceptical. 

You nod. “I don’t feel like drinking.” 

Dani leans across the table, pressing the back of her hand to your forehead. “You feeling okay?” 

You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth twitching. “I’m fine. Just not in the mood.” 

Tyler catches your eye, smirking like an idiot—and you know exactly what he’s biting back. Some stupid joke about knowing exactly what would put you in the mood. But he knows better. He knows it’s too soon to joke about it. 

So instead, he just nods and turns away, weaving between tables toward the bar at the back of the room. 

It doesn’t take long for the conversation to move on—to the next week of chasing, of course. Boone doesn’t think Childress will have much to offer and says you should all just head back up to Kansas where the real action is. But Dexter disagrees—recent studies have shown Tornado Alley shifting lower. Then Kate pipes up with something a little too technical, making Boone sigh and start looking around for Tyler. 

By the time he returns with a tray full of drinks, the table’s already deep in an argument about whether it’s even worth staying in Texas this late in the season. 

You don’t pay much attention, though. You spend most of the next hour tracing condensation on your glass and trying not to think—at all—only tuning in when someone says your name. Then, when you finally look up, the sky outside the window has deepened into swirls of orange and blue. 

“I think I’m going to head back,” you say, pushing your glass into the middle of the table. 

Tyler’s head snaps toward you. “What? No! It’s not even late.” 

You push your chair back. “And I said I wasn’t going to stay late.” 

There’s a chorus of protests as you push to stand, shaking your head and avoiding everyone’s eyes. You already let Tyler coerce you into being here—you’re not about to let Boone’s puppy-dog eyes guilt you into staying. 

Then—all at once—the table goes quiet. 

“Shit,” Tyler mutters. 

You look at him, frowning. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he says—too fast. 

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing—and he gives you a tight, unconvincing smile. You look around at the rest of the group, all of them suddenly finding something else to look at—their drinks, their hands, each other. Everyone except Boone, who's craning his neck to see past you toward the front door. 

Your brows draw tighter as you glance over your shoulder—and your heart stops. 

Your lungs seize. Your head spins. Your pulse thrums so loud in your ears you can’t hear anything else. 

God. It’s pathetic. 

You shouldn’t feel like this—it’s barely been three weeks. 

But holy shit, you almost forgot how irritatingly gorgeous he is. 

Your heart beats hard in your throat as you watch him step through the doorway, scanning the room. Not smiling. Not even close. Then his eyes catch yours—and he stops. Freezes mid-step. The man behind him frowns, muttering something as he steps aside. And then— 

A woman. 

She stops next to him, her hand sliding around his bicep as she looks up at him. Her lips move, but you can’t make out what she’s saying. Scott blinks—once, twice—then looks at her. His expression softens, and— 

You’re going to be sick. 

“I gotta—I—” 

You can’t even finish the sentence before you’re moving. Not toward door like you’d originally planned—you can’t. He’s there. With her. 

Instead, you weave through the tables toward the other side of the bar, slipping as fast as you can down the short corridor to the bathrooms. The second you make it into a cubicle, you fall back against the door and breathe. Just breathe. You’re not going to throw up. That would be stupid. Dramatic. 

You’re not going to throw up. Not over Scott. Not just because he’s moved on. There was nothing even going on between you. Nothing serious. It’s not like you ever went out together, it’s not like he ever took you on a date. Not like this. Not like with her. 

You let out a groan, dragging your hands over your face before pushing off the door. This is ridiculous. You need to pull yourself together. 

With a deep breath, you turn and unlock the cubicle. You step up to the basin, wash your hands for a little longer than necessary, then stare at your reflection. Your cheeks are flushed, eyes a little red, your lips cracked and wind-burnt—but that’s what happens when you spend your days chasing storms. 

That girl—the one he’s with—she’s gorgeous. She doesn’t look flushed or tired or like she’s spent the last month racing through torrential wind and rain just to get close to a tornado. She looks like she’s got it all together. Everything figured out. She probably knows the exact shade of foundation to match her skin, and exactly how to braid her hair for perfect heatless curls. 

“Fuck,” you sigh, shaking your head as you turn away from the mirror. 

You don’t need to think about it. You don’t need to waste brain space on this. He’s moved on—and so have you. You’ve both moved on. It’s fine. It’s a good thing. 

With another sigh that rattles your chest, you head out of the bathroom. You keep your eyes down as you turn down the short hallway, back toward the noise—music, chatter, clinking glasses. But you only make it a few steps before— 

“Oh! Sorry, hon! Didn’t see you there.” 

Your stomach drops. Of course it’s her. 

You force a tight smile. “That’s okay, my fault.” 

She waves a hand. “Don’t be silly, darlin’.” 

She doesn’t even know. She doesn’t know who you are. She doesn’t know that you’re in love with her new boyfriend. 

Your heart lurches into your throat. Fuck. Did you just name it? 

“I—I’m just gonna—” 

You don’t finish before stepping around her, blinking hard to keep from crying. You’re not going to cry. Not here. You push back through the crowd, weaving between people until you’re standing in front of your friends again. 

“I’m heading out,” you say, keeping your voice even. 

Tyler looks up at you, green eyes wide. “Are you okay? Do you want me to—” 

“I’m fine. Just tired. You stay.” 

You glance around the table, plastering on the most convincing smile you can manage. Then you nod, turn on your heel, and head straight for the door. 

The second you step out of the bar, you drag in a deep breath. It takes a moment for you to remember which way the motel is—to remember how to think straight. Your hands are shaking, your heart’s beating too fast—but you’ve escaped. You’re out. And tomorrow, you’ll tell Tyler that wherever StormPAR are, you can’t be. Just for this season. Just until you’ve had enough time to get over whatever the hell this is. Or was. 

You only just make it to the front gate of the motel when a low voice makes you flinch. 

“Wait.” 

You stop. Your stomach twists as you turn slowly to face him. 

And it’s ridiculous—really—how you suddenly feel like you can breathe for the first time in three weeks. Just because he’s standing here. Just because he’s almost close enough to touch. 

“What do you want?” you ask, your voice steady—guarded. 

His brows pull together. “You disappeared.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“For three weeks,” he says. “You just left that morning and disappeared.” 

You stare at him. “So?” 

“So?” he echoes, incredulous. “So it felt kind of personal.” 

You roll your eyes. “Trust me, Scott. Nothing between you and me was ever personal.” 

He scoffs. “Yeah. I’m starting to get that.” 

Your jaw tightens, teeth clenching. You want to bite back—to yell, or tell him to go back to the overly friendly bottle-blonde waiting for him in the bar—who, by the way, isn’t even his type. But you don’t. You can’t. Because if you open those floodgates, you’re not sure you’d ever be able to close them. 

So instead, you turn away, eyes fixed on your motel room door across the lot. 

“Why do you always walk away when it gets too real?” he calls after you. 

And that does it. 

You spin back around. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

He takes two steps toward you, closing the distance again. “You know exactly what it means.” 

“No, Scott, I don’t,” you snap. “Because I’m not walking away from something real, I’m walking away from something dangerous. So why don’t you just turn around and go back to your little girlfriend, since you clearly had such a hard time moving on.” 

He frowns. “My what?” 

“You heard me,” you mutter, turning back toward the motel. 

His footsteps follow. “Yeah, I heard you, but I’m having a hard time—” 

“She’s not even your type.” 

“My type?” 

You press your lips together, ignoring him as you march faster across the lot. 

“What’s my type, then?” he presses, easily keeping pace. 

“I don’t know, Scott, but I know it’s not a bubbly blonde buckle bunny from the south.” 

He laughs—dry, humourless. “Well, maybe I should try something different. Because my type hasn’t really been working out for me lately.” 

You stop walking and spin around. “Good!” you shout, glaring up at him. “Try something different. Go fuck half of Texas for all I care.” 

His brows shoot up, realisation flickering behind his eyes. “Oh my God, you’re—” 

“Don’t say it,” you warn. 

But he does anyway. “You’re jealous.” 

Your eyes narrow, voice dropping low. “Why would I be jealous?” 

He shrugs. “You tell me.” 

You huff out a breath, shaking your head. “God, you’re unbelievable.” 

“And you’re overreacting.” 

“I’m not—” You stop yourself, dragging in a deep breath. “You know what? This is ridiculous.” 

Then you turn back around and keep walking, barely ten feet from your motel room door now. 

“Come on,” he sighs. “Why can’t we just talk?” 

“I don’t want to talk.” 

“Clearly.” 

“So why are you still following me?” 

“Because I want the truth.” 

Your stomach flips. “What truth?” 

“About us!” he bursts out. “About this. About why you hate me so much. I just want—” 

You stop so fast he nearly runs into you. “Why do you even care?” 

He stares at you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Both of you are breathing hard, chests rising and falling in sync. And for a second, you almost think he’s going to kiss you—but he doesn’t. He just takes a small step back. 

“How do you think I feel seeing you with Owens all the time?” 

You blink. “What?” 

“How do you think it feels watching you two together? You’re always so close, he’s always touching you, and you only started hiding us when you started chasing with him. How do you think that’s supposed to make me feel?” 

You frown. “But it’s just—it's Tyler. There’s never been anything going on between us, we’re just—” 

“That doesn’t mean I’m not jealous,” Scott says, voice so low and rough that for a second, you’re almost sure you imagined it. 

Your breath catches. 

“But it—” The words stick in your throat. “It was just… just sex.” 

He steps forward. “Just sex, huh?” 

“Yes,” you bite out. “That’s all it ever was. Déjà vu. We drink, get drunk, we fight and—and then we fuck.” 

He steps closer again. “That’s what you think this is? You really think I needed to get drunk to—” He stops himself, jaw tight. “I wasn’t drunk, okay? I never was.” 

You stumble back until you hit the door. “What?” 

“You think—” he leans in, voice low but steady, “—I would want to risk forgetting a single second with you?” 

You suck in a sharp breath—a gasp almost, but it sticks. “Scott, I—” 

You’re not even sure what you want to say—or if you could say anything right now that would make any sense. Because he’s so close. He’s staring at you with those eyes that make your knees weak. And he’s admitting things. Things you’ve been too scared to admit. Things you’ve shoved so far down you hoped they’d suffocate. Things you’re still not sure you could ever say out loud. 

“You weren’t drunk,” you whisper—more to yourself than him. 

“Only once,” he admits. “The first time. In college.” 

Your eyes widen, your voice unsteady. “Then why—” 

“Because every time I’m around you,” he says, his voice rough now, “I forget how to think straight. And being drunk felt easier to blame than…” He trails off, but he doesn’t have to finish—you can feel the rest of it hanging in the space between you, charged and waiting to ignite. 

“Than what?” you ask, even though you already know. 

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up again. “Than wanting you like this.” 

You don’t realise you’ve stopped breathing until he’s right there—so close that if either of you so much as exhaled, you’d touch. 

“And I’m sorry,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I know it was supposed to be just sex, but… I’m in love with you.” He drags in a shaky breath. “And you can’t stand it, because you know you love me too.” 

Your head spins. You can’t breathe, can’t think, so you just—move. A blur of heat and breath and too much wanting. Your fingers find his shirt, fisting in the fabric as you drag him down to you, and the second his mouth hits yours it’s chaos. Not soft, not careful—just collision. 

He groans against your lips, one hand braced on the door beside your head, the other gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loosens his hold. You pull him closer anyway, catching his bottom lip between your teeth, and that’s all it takes. The sound he makes vibrates through you—low, desperate—and then he’s kissing you back like he’s been starving for you. 

The door rattles behind you when he presses you harder against it, his hand sliding up the back of your neck to angle your mouth under his. You clutch at him, fingers digging into his hair, and it feels like finally—finally—you’ve stopped fighting gravity. 

It’s not hazy this time. Not blurred or half-remembered. Every breath, every scrape of teeth, every pulse of heat between you hits clean and sharp, like waking up. 

Your lips part just long enough for him to murmur against your mouth, voice low and ragged. “Unlock it.” 

You fumble blindly for the doorknob, lips still brushing his. “You’re bossy,” you mutter between kisses. 

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest. “You like it when I’m bossy.” 

Then his mouth drags along your jaw, hot and deliberate, leaving open-mouthed kisses across your skin and down your neck. A helpless sigh slips out of you as your head tips back, hitting the door with a soft thud. 

You’re still fumbling with the key, using every ounce of self-control you have to focus on it. And by some miracle—with one hand still clutching him like you’ll float away if you let go—the key slides into the lock. You turn it impatiently, knees weakening every time his lips brush a new spot on your neck, and shove the door open. 

You would have stumbled if it weren’t for Scott—his hands tight at your waist, steadying you, pulling you into him. Your arms loop around his neck, holding on as he guides you backward into the room. His mouth finds yours again, hotter this time, hungrier, stealing whatever focus you had left until you hear the door click shut behind him. 

Then you push him back against it—hard—hips colliding, chest to chest, his hands gliding up your ribs to pull you impossibly closer. 

“You know,” you whisper, sliding your fingers into his hair and knocking his StormPAR cap to the floor, “you really shouldn’t be so cocky.” 

You press him harder into the door, mouths still colliding, breath mixing and breaking between kisses. His hands slip beneath your shirt, fingers spreading over your waist like he’s relearning you by touch. 

“I’m not cocky,” he says, smirking against your mouth as his palms drag higher. “I’m right.” 

You scoff, even though your breath stutters. “About what? About me being—” The word catches, sticking in your throat. “In lo—” You choke on it and shake your head. “Just don’t—don’t assume things.” 

He pulls back just enough to see you, his smile turning slow, wicked—confident in a way that lights every nerve in your body like a struck match. “Assume?” he echoes, voice rough. “I don’t need to assume.” 

You open your mouth to bite back, but he beats you to it, leaning in until his lips graze your cheek. 

“You want to know how I know?” he murmurs. 

Before you can answer, his hands slide over your ribs—fingers slipping just beneath your bra, right over the spot where your breath always shortens, where your pulse always jumps. 

And just like he knew it would, your breath shatters. 

“That,” he whispers, voice a low, satisfied rasp. “You make that sound every time I touch you here.” 

You glare at him, but your voice comes out breathless, shaky. “That—that doesn’t mean anything.” 

He hums, unconvinced. “No? Then what about when I kiss you—” 

He tilts your chin up with two fingers and presses his lips to the edge of your jaw, barely there, soft and deliberate. 

“—like this?” he finishes against your skin. 

Your whole body arches into him, your grip tightening at the back of his neck as a helpless gasp leaves your lips despite every intention you had of staying composed. “Scott—” 

His voice drops, warm and smug right against your ear. “You always melt when I do that. Even when you pretend you don’t.” 

You try to step back, but he follows, crowding you gently, refusing to lose the inch of space he’s reclaimed. 

“And then there’s this,” he continues, lifting his head until his eyes meet yours. 

His thumb drags along your cheekbone—slow, confident, intimate in a way that makes your knees tremble. 

“The way you look at me,” he murmurs. “All fiery… pretending it’s hate.” 

Your chest tightens, painfully. 

“It’s not hate.” 

You inhale sharply, but the denial—whatever defence you meant to give—dies on your tongue. 

“Go on,” he whispers, leaning in until your foreheads nearly touch, breath mingling with yours. “Tell me I’m wrong.” 

He waits—steady, unrushed—his expression soft but unmovable, like he already knows you won’t. 

You can’t. 

Instead you grab a fistful of his shirt and pull him into you—hard. 

The kiss lands with no hesitation, no doubt, no restraint. It’s heat and teeth and breath, the kind of kiss that feels like finally exhaling after weeks of holding it in. He groans into your mouth, the sound low and relieved, and the next thing you know his hands are on your hips, hauling you closer like he’s done pretending he has self-control. 

You chase his mouth, impatient and shaking. Your fingers claw into his shoulders, urging, demanding, pressing your body against his, and that’s all it takes for something in him to snap. 

He lifts you. 

It’s effortless, like he’s done it a thousand times, like he never stopped remembering the exact way your body fits against his. Your legs wrap around him before you even think about it, and he doesn’t stop kissing you as he crosses the room—stumbling once when you tug his hair, laughing breathlessly against your mouth—but never breaking contact. 

When his knees hit the mattress edge, he lowers you onto the bed—slow enough not to drop you, but quick enough that the frame gives a soft, startled creak beneath you. You sink into it, pulling him down with you, but he braces one hand beside your head, holding himself just above you—chest heaving, breath brushing your lips. 

He looks half-wrecked already. Flushed, pupils blown, hair a mess from your hands. 

And he’s smiling—just a little—like you’ve undone him in exactly the way he always wanted. 

His other hand skims up your ribs, slow and sure, and your whole body arches toward him before you can think better of it. He notices—of course he notices—his gaze dropping to where you’re already reaching for him, hungry, impatient. 

“Slow down,” he murmurs, even though his voice betrays him—rough, shaking, like he’s fighting the same losing battle you are. 

You fist your hands in his shirt and drag him closer anyway, mouths brushing, breaths tangling, barely an inch of space left between you except for the one he’s holding onto like a prayer. 

“Not a chance,” you whisper. 

And he breaks—completely. 

His lips find yours again and his hands are suddenly everywhere—your waist, your ribs, your hips—touching you like he’s trying to relearn every inch of you at once. But you don’t have the patience for him to take his time. You hook your fingers into the hem of his shirt and yank—once, hard—breaking the kiss long enough for him to inhale sharply. 

“Off,” you whisper, breathless and demanding. 

He huffs out something between a laugh and a groan, sitting back on his knees just enough to pull the fabric over his head. The second it’s gone you’re reaching for him again, palms sliding over warm skin, tracing the shape of him like you can’t decide where to touch first. 

“Impatient,” he murmurs, eyes dark as they sweep over your face. 

You grab him by the waistband of his jeans and haul him down to you again. “You have no idea.” 

His mouth crashes onto yours, all heat and teeth, swallowing the noise you make when his hand slips beneath your shirt and skims up your stomach. He pauses there, fingers flexing like he’s checking if you’re really letting him touch you sober. 

You lift your hips in answer—and that’s all he needs. 

He drags your shirt up, slow for a single second—like he wants to see you, memorise you—and then impatience wins. It ends up somewhere on the floor, forgotten, and he’s kissing down your throat, across your collarbone, soaking in every sound you can’t hold back. 

Your hands slide into his hair, tugging just enough to pull a quiet, broken groan from him. His breath stutters against your skin. 

“Do you have any idea,” he murmurs against the hollow of your throat, “how much I think about you? How much I need you?” 

You tighten your grip in his hair, dragging his face back up to yours. “Scott,” you warn—because if he keeps talking like that, you’re going to lose what little composure you have left. 

He smirks, breath warm against your skin. “Yeah?” 

“Shut up and kiss me.” 

So he does—messy, hungry—his hands sliding down your sides, gripping your waist, pulling you flush against him as his hips roll down into yours. The heat between you sparks sharp and dangerous, the kind of pull that makes thinking impossible. 

“Tell me to slow down,” he says, voice low and strained, “and I will.” 

“Don’t,” you mutter, fingers already fumbling with his belt. 

And he must feel how desperate you are because he lets out a low, wrecked sound and yanks your hands away—only to finish the job himself, fast, metal clinking, leather sliding loose. 

You reach for him again, dragging him back down into another kiss—hot, breathless, all teeth and need. His hands are everywhere at once—your ribs, your waist, the dip of your hips—touching you like he can’t decide where to start because he wants all of you at once. 

He groans when your hands slide down his stomach and tug at his jeans, and then he’s moving—shoving them down over his hips, kicking them off without breaking the kiss. The mattress dips under the frantic movement, the two of you practically mauling each other in your rush. 

His hands find your waistband next, hooking into the fabric and dragging it down your thighs with a desperate sort of impatience, like he’s seconds away from completely losing his mind. You gasp when his fingers brush your skin—breath catching, back arching off the mattress without a single thought behind it except him. Just him. 

Your clothes end up wherever his shirt did—floor, chair, anywhere—because he’s already coming back over you, warm skin sliding against yours as his mouth finds the line of your throat again. You breathe out a shaky, helpless sound that makes his grip on your hips tighten, like he’s barely holding himself together. 

Your hands skim down his back, nails grazing just enough to make his breath stutter. He kisses you harder at that—like you’ve lit a fuse under him, like he can’t get close enough fast enough. 

But then—he pulls back. 

Just enough to look at you—really look at you—his chest rising hard and unsteady. 

“Come here,” he breathes, voice gone low and rough, like he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he wants you. 

You reach for him instantly, pulling him back down to you.  

“Fuck,” he whispers into your skin, somewhere between your jaw and your neck. “You feel—” His breath shudders. “I missed you.” 

Your hands roam blindly over his shoulders, his back, the lines of him you’ve traced a hundred times but somehow forgot how badly you needed. His skin is hot under your palms, every muscle taut, trembling like he’s holding himself back by a thread. 

“Scott,” you breathe, and the way his name leaves your mouth—shaking, wanting—completely undoes him. 

He drags his mouth over yours—rough, urgent, hungry—kissing you like he’s been waiting weeks for this moment and can’t bear to waste another second. His weight shifts, settling between your thighs, and you feel the exact moment he loses the last of his composure. 

“Tell me if you want me to stop.” 

Your eyes roll back—whether it’s from the ridiculous line or the way you can feel his length pressed firmly against your core, you don’t know. All you do know is that if he doesn’t hurry up and fuck you, you might actually lose your mind. 

“If you stop, I’ll kill you,” you breathe, head tipping back as his lips drag down your neck. 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating against your skin and making your breath stutter. You’ve had enough teasing for one night. 

You shove at his shoulders—not hard, just enough to make him pull back with a confused frown. Then you arch your back, reach for your bra strap, unclip it, and toss it aside. His eyes go dark as they sweep over your bare skin—but you still don’t reach for him. 

Instead, you hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties and push them down, shimmying out of them until they hit the floor with the rest of your clothes. Then you meet Scott’s eyes, the corner of your mouth lifting in a slow, deliberate challenge. 

“Your turn.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He pushes up onto his knees and shoves his boxers down, the hard length of him springing free—and your thighs clench before you can stop them. He notices immediately, that cocky smirk tugging at his mouth in a way you’ve always hated loving. 

His boxers hit the floor, and he leans back over you, mouth closing around your nipple without warning. You gasp, arching into him, fingers tangling in his hair. He nips gently, then soothes the spot with his tongue, making heat pool low in your belly. 

One of his hands grips your hip, pinning you to the bed as he drags his mouth across your chest to your other nipple. He sucks it between his lips, and the noise that rips out of you is downright obscene—enough to make his mouth curl into a smile against your skin. 

“Scott,” you plead, nails dragging down his back. “Please.” 

“Please what, baby?” he murmurs against your skin. 

You whine—actually whine. “Please fuck me.” 

He lets out a laugh that breaks into a groan as you lift your hips into his. His cock is impossibly hard between you, hot and heavy, and you angle your hips until he slides against you—just enough to make him tremble, his arms almost giving out as his breath stutters against your lips. 

“So impatient,” he whispers. 

His mouth finds yours again, messy and desperate, and you groan into him, your hands roaming up and down his back, clinging, pulling him closer as your hips move—frantic for any friction at all. 

“You gotta be still, sweetheart,” he says, one hand locking around your hip. 

He holds you down against the mattress, putting almost all his weight there as his other hand dips between your bodies. Your eyes drop, watching the way his hand wraps around himself—thick, aching, already slick at the tip. Your body clenches helplessly in response. 

His eyes flick up, catching yours. “Ready?” 

You lift your legs and wrap them around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him in. His breath stutters as he presses forward, the swollen tip sliding against your slick heat. 

“Fuck,” he gasps, his forehead falling gently against yours. 

He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the closeness—the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, fear and urgency tangling in a dizzy rush until all you can think is him—here, now, inside. 

It’s familiar… but it isn’t. Everything is clear this time. Sharp. You feel every inch of him—his skin, his breath, the deliberate glide of his body against yours, like you were made to fit exactly like this. 

For a moment, you just breathe. Eyes shut tight. Hands locked around his shoulders. Your body clenches around him like it’s trying to keep him there, keep him close, keep him forever. He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in, breath warm against your skin. 

Then he shifts—hips pulling back—his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach tighten and sparks race up your spine. You suck in a sharp, shaking breath— 

And then he snaps forward, thrusting deep. 

“Fuck—” you cry out. “Scott.” 

He rolls back with a slow, controlled drag, lifting his head to look at you—and the moment your eyes meet, something in your chest stutters. Your breath catches. Your eyes sting. His lips are swollen, his cheeks flushed, his pupils so blown there’s barely any blue left in his eyes. 

He looks wrecked. Beautiful. Yours. 

And it hits you—clean and brutal—right in the centre of your chest. 

“I’m in love with you,” you blurt. 

He freezes—every muscle going taut, eyes wide, breath caught somewhere between his lungs and your skin. 

For a second, cold panic cuts through the heat. Maybe you fucked up. Maybe he didn’t mean it earlier. Maybe saying it now—while he’s literally inside you—is insane. Maybe you’ve ruined it— 

But then he smiles. 

Not a smirk. Not a tease. A real smile—bright, disarming—and then it tilts into something smug, something so painfully Scott it makes your heart drop to your stomach. 

“I know,” he says, breathless, like staying still right now is physically hurting him. “You’re pretty much obsessed with me.” 

Your eyes go wide, indignation tripping up your breath, your mouth opening—ready to tear him apart— 

But you don’t get the chance. 

His hips slam forward, knocking the air right out of you. And again—harder. His mouth crashes onto yours, messy and consuming, swallowing whatever insult you were about to fling at him. 

The room fills with sound—skin meeting skin, breathless gasps, the deep, wrecked noises he rips from your throat with every thrust. He fucks you like the confession snapped whatever restraint he had left, like the only thing he knows how to do now is take you apart. 

The friction is perfect—sharp, blinding—heat curling tight and fast in your belly. Every drive of his hips hits that spot inside you, precise and relentless, like he’s been mapping your body in his head for years. His hands roam everywhere—your ribs, your hips, your thighs—desperate, greedy, like he’s memorising you all over again. 

“Scott—” you gasp, your voice breaking as your body jolts with a thrust that hits so deep your vision sparks white. 

He lifts his head, sweat beading at his hairline, chest heaving. 

“I want—” Your hands slide up his back, fingers threading into his damp curls. “I want you to come inside me.” 

His breath catches. His rhythm falters. For a second he almost stops—hips slowing, like he’s not sure he heard you right. 

Then a rough, disbelieving laugh slips out of him, low and wrecked against your throat. “You can’t say shit like that to me.” 

You frown, breath ragged. “But I mean it.” 

He groans—full-body, helpless—dropping his head into the crook of your neck. “You’re gonna be the death of me.” 

“Yeah,” you breathe, giggling through the desperation, “that’s the plan.” 

Before you’ve even braced for it—before he’s even lifted his head—his hips snap into you again. You cry out, nails dragging down his back. His mouth stays at your neck, hot and wet, every kiss sending heat rolling down your spine as he thrusts into you with a clarity and force you’ve never felt before. 

Then he pulls back just long enough to kiss you—a messy, open-mouthed drag of lips and tongue—and sits up, still buried inside you. His next thrust hits a new angle that knocks your breath out of your lungs. 

He grabs your thigh, lifts it over his shoulder, opening you wide without hesitation. And the shift drives his cock even deeper, dragging against every sensitive place inside you, your whole body writhing helplessly. 

“Scott—oh my God—” 

He thrusts harder now—rough, fast, relentless—finding spots you didn’t even know existed, each stroke tight and perfect and devastating. Your body clenches around him, your lungs burn, your pulse roars in your throat. You lock eyes with him—his gaze blown wide, hungry, desperate—and it hits you just how close you are. 

You feel like you’re going to pass out. Or explode. Or both. 

“You like that?” he pants, eyes still locked on yours. “Tell me how good it feels.” 

You moan something garbled, something that barely qualifies as a word, your hands flying into your hair as your back lifts clean off the mattress. His name spills from your lips in broken syllables, again and again, like prayer. 

And it only spurs him on. 

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—some ruined, hungry thing—and your hand drifts to your chest, fingers tugging lightly at one nipple. 

His rhythm falters. He groans—loud and helpless—the sight of you unravelling him completely. 

“Fuck—look at you,” he gasps. “You gonna come, baby?” 

He adjusts his grip and thrusts deeper, harder, one hand locked on your hip, the other pressing your leg back even farther as he drives into you like he can’t get close enough. Every thrust is devastating—deep, punishing, perfect. The wet slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, nearly drowned out by the broken, desperate sounds spilling from both of you. 

“‘M gonna—” you whimper. “Scott, I—” 

“I know,” he pants, voice fraying at the edges. “Let me feel you. Let me have it.” 

Then his fingers find your clit—and your vision goes white. Your hips snap up to meet his, chasing every ounce of friction he gives you. His touch doesn’t waver—circling, pressing, grinding with almost cruel precision, each movement sending lightning through your spine. The knot in your belly pulls tight, unbearably tight, heat pooling between you, slick and desperate and right there. 

“Come on, baby,” he rasps. “Let go. I’ve got you.” 

So you do.  

It hits you like a tidal wave—sharp, blinding, stealing the air from your lungs. Your cry breaks out of you, raw and helpless, your whole body trembling as your thigh slips from his shoulder. Your fingers clamp around his arms, digging in, while your cunt clenches around him in hard, rhythmic pulses that drag a wrecked sound straight out of his chest. 

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, still moving inside you—slower now, deeper, like he’s trying to feel every last flutter of your orgasm milking him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.” 

You barely have time to breathe before he’s falling apart too. 

His thrusts stutter, his body tightening above you, and then he lets out a choked, desperate noise—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—as his hips snap forward one last time. He spills deep inside you with a broken, breathless, “Fuck—” his voice cracking against your skin. 

And for a long moment, neither of you move. 

Your breaths collide in the hot space between your mouths—rough, uneven, like you both forgot how to inhale. 

Then Scott finally collapses—half onto you, half beside you—bracing a shaky arm near your head so he doesn’t crush you, forehead pressed against your cheek. He’s still inside you, still catching his breath, hovering like if he shifts even an inch, you’ll both fall apart again. 

You stare up at the ceiling, chest heaving, trying to get your lungs to cooperate. “Is it—” Your voice cracks, raw from every sound he just dragged out of you. “Fuck—is it always that good?” 

He lets out a stunned little laugh, breath warm against your shoulder. “I mean, yeah, it’s always good—really good.” 

He lifts his head just enough for you to see him—flushed, sweaty, hair wrecked, pupils blown, still looking like he hasn’t fully returned to his body. 

“But that?” He huffs out another disbelieving breath. “That was really, really good.” 

You arch a brow, lips twitching. “You saying that ‘cause you’re in love with me now?” 

He scoffs—immediate, defensive, painfully obvious. “No. I’m saying that because I’m pretty sure half the motel heard you screaming my name.” 

You roll your eyes. “Like we haven’t had noise complaints before.” 

He laughs again, softer this time, lips brushing your shoulder in a lazy kiss as he shifts—just enough to slip out of you with a quiet groan. Then he rolls onto his back beside you, his arm pressed against yours, neither of you even pretending to move away. 

“I’m gonna be honest,” he says, still staring at the ceiling. “I didn’t think anything could top it before, but sober sex? My new favourite.” 

You snort, turning your head to look at him. “Yeah? Not feeling nostalgic for cheap tequila?” 

He smirks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Not even a little. Sober you is way stronger. I’m gonna have scratches on my back for a week.” 

You roll onto your side, propping your chin on your arm. “You complaining?” 

He glances over, eyes dragging down your face, slow and unmistakably fond in a way that makes your stomach flip. “Not a chance.” 

Silence settles between you. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… warm. Familiar. You’ve done this before—breathless, tangled, limp-limbed on some shitty mattress—but now there’s something else beneath it. Something steadier. Something that makes you want to climb on top of him and let him hold you until the sun comes up. 

Then Scott exhales, breaking the silence as he sits up in one lazy motion. He pushes off the mattress, completely unbothered by the fact that he’s stark naked—skin flushed, muscles spent, hair doing something that shouldn’t be legal. And God, all you want to do is drag him back down and ride him until you forget your own name. 

“By the way,” he says, glancing at you over his shoulder as he stretches, “that girl at the bar? The blonde? She’s my cousin.” 

You blink—hard. “Your… what?” 

“My cousin,” he repeats, clearly amused. “She drives in from Austin whenever I’m nearby.” 

“Oh my—” Your eyes go wide. “Scott, I insulted her. I full-on called her a buckle bunny. And now she’s just alone in the bar?!” 

He chuckles softly. “Relax. She knows my team pretty well.” He pauses, brows furrowing just a little. “And she’ll probably go home with Mateo now that I’m not there.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut with a groan. “Fantastic. Great. Just add that to the list of things I’ve ruined this week.” 

He laughs again, low and far too pleased with himself. “It’s really fine.” 

You crack one eye open. “You sure?” 

“Oh yeah.” A smug grin curls at the corner of his mouth. “You were just jealous.” 

Both eyes snap open. “I was not jealous.” 

He hums, unconvinced. “Sure you weren’t.” 

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it square at his head—but he catches it. One-handed. Still wearing that infuriating smirk. 

“So,” he says casually, “since you’re in love with me now... wanna shower together?” 

You groan again, covering your burning face with both hands. “I take it back. I regret everything. Put your clothes on and get out.” 

He laughs—a real one, low and warm—then leans over and grips your thighs, just above your knees. “Too late. You said it. Can’t unsay it.” 

“I’ll just kill you in your sleep,” you mumble into your palms. 

“Maybe,” he says, smug as ever. “But you’ll feel really bad about it.” 

You part your fingers and glare at him—but the smile tugging at your lips completely ruins the effect. And before you can decide whether to smack him or kiss him, his hands tighten on your thighs and he yanks you to the edge of the bed. 

You yelp, grabbing for the sheets, but he’s already pulling you forward—until you’re half-sitting, half-sprawled, legs hanging off the mattress. Then he leans in and kisses you. 

Hard. 

It’s the kind of kiss that knocks breath out of lungs. That you feel in your stomach, your spine, your toes. His hand slides up your thigh, the other cupping your jaw as he devours you—slow for half a second, then hungry, then desperate, like he can’t believe he gets to kiss you like this. 

Your fingers fist in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans into your mouth—low, wrecked, like the sound is torn straight from his chest. 

When he finally breaks away, you’re breathless and a little dizzy. 

“Shower,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours. “Before I forget how to walk.” 

You huff a laugh—barely—because your pulse is still trying to decide whether to slow down or explode. 

“Think you’ll make it there?” you tease, voice shaky. 

He grins—wide, wicked—and hooks his arms under your thighs. 

“Oh, I’m making it,” he says, lifting you off the bed like you weigh nothing at all. “Question is… are you gonna survive round two?” 

You wrap your arms around his shoulders as he carries you toward the bathroom, your laugh breaking into a breathless exhale when his mouth finds yours again. 

“Try me,” you whisper against his lips. 

And he does. 

Again and again. 

All night, all weekend. 

And long after storm season’s over. 

Until neither of you can pretend it was ever just sex. 

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[geminiwritten]

déjà vu (one) ; scott

summary: it’s been this way since college—you drink, get drunk, you fight, and then you fuck. and now you’re chasing storms in rival crews, slipping in and out of motel rooms between tornado sirens, swearing every morning after that this time was the last time. but denial gets heavier, tyler gets suspicious, and jealousy hits harder than any storm. and suddenly you’re realising… maybe it was never just sex. (based on this song)

notes: this took so long and it turned into a character study, but oh my goodness, i love it so much. i honestly love this man, this character, with all my heart and writing this was so much fun. you have no idea! i'm sorry it's so long but please give it a chance, it's probably my favourite thing i've written??? and as always, please let me know what you think! (i also made a whole playlist)

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, italics, mentions of drunk sex, lots of tension and banter, lots of denial, jealousy, a little angst, some likely incorrect storm science (and a lot of lines stolen directly from both twister movies), lots of arguing, it gets a lil dramatic (but in a good way), and SMUT (making out, dirty-ish talk, unprotected p in v, and kind of rough? also don't come for me if some parts get repetitive, smut is hard) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 16644 (28029)

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

You’ve seen this before. 

Your black dress lying on the floor. A few feet away, a white shirt. Pants. Boxers. Definitely not yours. 

Your lashes flutter, eyes slowly adjusting to the stream of sunlight spilling through the crack in the curtains, painting the room in warm golden hues of morning— 

Shit. 

You roll over—and of course, he’s there. Arm slung across your waist, legs tangled with yours, his body taking up more of the bed than you’d normally ever allow a sleeping partner to occupy. His lashes rest dark against his cheeks, a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose, full lips parted just slightly as he breathes steady and slow. He’s so pretty—almost unfairly so—but that doesn’t make you want to kick him out any less. 

“Scott,” you hiss, tapping his cheek. “Wake the fuck up and get the fuck out.” 

He stirs, brow furrowing as he mumbles something low and incoherent. 

“Scott, I am so serious right now, it’s like—” You reach for your phone on the nightstand, tapping the screen to light it up. The time flashes back at you, and your stomach drops. You bolt upright. “It’s seven o’clock! You need to get the fuck out of here before my crew start waking up.” 

He groans and rolls onto his back, lashes fluttering as his eyes blink against the morning light. “Yeah, ‘m awake.” 

The gravel in his voice first thing in the morning always makes your heart stutter. It's ridiculous—really—that a man so irritating, so endlessly infuriating, can be this sexy without even trying. Which is exactly why you don’t blame yourself for giving in. To him. His stupidly sharp wit. His stupid blue eyes. That stupidly talented tongue that never fails to— 

“Thinking about round two?” he asks, lips curved into a sleepy smirk. 

You roll your eyes and turn away, planting your feet firmly on the grey motel carpet. “Pretty sure we’re well past round two after last night—but for the record? No. I’m actually thinking about the exact opposite.” 

The mattress dips as he sits up. “Yeah? And what’s the exact opposite of another round of back-breaking sex?” 

“The fact that it’s never going to happen again,” you say, standing and turning to face him. “Ever.” 

His brows lift, lips still curled into that smirk. “Ever?” 

Your eyes narrow. “Never.” 

“Heard that before,” he chuckles, swinging his legs off the bed and stretching his arms out wide. 

“Yeah, well—” you pick up his shirt and toss it at him, “—this time I mean it.” 

“Said you meant it last time too.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes sparkling—and God, you can’t decide if you want to punch him or kiss him. 

“Just get dressed and get out,” you mutter, bending down to scoop up his boxers. 

It isn’t long before he’s fully dressed, StormPAR printed across the left side of his chest and a smudge of your mascara staining the collar. He slips his shoes on—doesn’t bother lacing them—sets his cap on his head, and heads for the door, where you’re waiting with your arms crossed. 

“Tomorrow night, then?” he asks, hand on the doorknob, lips twitching. 

You give him a flat look. “Funny.” 

“Oh, I’m not being funny.” 

Before you can fire back, he steps in close, fingers catching on the hem of your shirt. He tugs—just enough to pull you off balance—and then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. The kind of kiss that makes your knees threaten to buckle. The kind of kiss that says he knows exactly what he’s doing. 

When he finally pulls back, he chuckles—soft and low and infuriating. Then he’s gone, leaving you alone in the old motel room that smells like sex and mothballs, pulse racing, glaring at the door like it’s the problem. 

But it’s not. And neither are you. It’s him—always him. Every time. He’s impossible. Insufferable. With that flat scowl that seems permanently carved into his face, those ridiculously broad shoulders that never seem to relax, and the way his eyes can pin you across any bar, any tavern, any crowded room like you’re the only thing worth looking at. 

It’s like déjà vu. 

The same damn pattern on repeat. 

You drink, you get drunk, you fight—and then you fuck. 

Every. Single. Time. 

It started back in college. You first spotted him across the lecture hall—head and shoulders above the rest, dark hair catching the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows, blue eyes sharp as they scanned the room. He looked like he was on his way to audition for Superman, not sit through a lecture about the physics of oceanic and atmospheric circulation. There was something about him, something impossible to ignore—something that made your pulse skip and your stomach flip. 

Needless to say, you thought he was gorgeous. You fell for it. Obviously. Who wouldn’t? 

But that was before he opened his mouth. 

He kept to himself mostly, always quiet and serious, never wasting words unless the professor called on him. But with you? It was different. From the moment you first spoke, he was on the attack—nitpicking your storm-tracking analysis, insisting your projections were sloppy. And when you snapped back, he gave you this smirk—small, sharp, knowing. Like he knew exactly how to get under your skin. And maybe he did. Because Scott wasn’t like that with anyone else. To the rest of the world, he was just grumpy, closed-off Scott. With you, though, he was cocky, quick, infuriatingly sure of himself. Like he saw something in you that no one else did, and enjoyed poking at it just to watch you light up.  

Maybe that’s why you fell into the rhythm so easily. It had nothing to do with you, not really—it was him, always him, pushing, prodding, picking fights just so he could be the one to watch you burn. That’s why every party turned into another argument, another kiss, another night. Why every time a drop of liquor touched your tongue, you ended up flat on your back with Scott on top of you. Because he always managed to draw that side of you out—the one that wanted to prove him wrong, even when it meant proving him right in all the worst ways. 

After college, you thought you’d broken the curse—that you’d finally escaped whatever time loop kept you falling into bed with him. But then StormPAR showed up one tornado season, and just like that, you were right back where you started. Under him. On top of him. In the shower, on the couch, the kitchen counter, sometimes even in the bar bathroom. All his fault. Obviously. But now you have to be careful, discreet, because the last thing you need is your team finding out that you’re sleeping with the enemy. 

Not that it’s happening again. Ever. Last night was the last time—you're sure of that. You mean it this time. You have to. You’re not going to let him get to you ever again. You can’t. 

“Don’t you look chipper this morning,” Tyler says, grinning like hangovers are a myth he’s never believed in. 

You shoot him a look. “How are you not hungover?” 

He shrugs. “Years of practice. Healthy liver. Oh—and I wasn’t the one chasing tequila with… more tequila.” 

You roll your eyes, even though it makes your skull throb, and turn toward the self-serve coffee machine. The rest of the group are crowded around a table in the middle of the dining hall—all except Boone, who is busy loading his plate with everything the continental breakfast has to offer. He always gets excited when you stay at a motel with complimentary breakfast. 

“I’m surprised you were up so early,” Tyler says, leaning a hip against the counter. 

You frown. “Early? It’s almost ten.” 

He shakes his head. “No—earlier. I heard you moving around at, like, seven.” 

Your stomach drops, but you keep your eyes fixed on the coffee machine. Usually you’re more careful than that—if your motel room is too close to someone else’s, you’ll go back to wherever Scott is staying. Or find somewhere in between. But you’d completely forgotten Tyler’s room was directly below yours—which means he probably heard a whole lot more than just footsteps at seven o’clock this morning. 

“Oh, yeah,” you mutter. “I—uh, I ran out of toilet paper and had to go down to the front desk.” 

He nods, slow and sceptical. “Right. Toilet paper.” 

You bounce your heel impatiently while you wait for the coffee to fill your mug. Tyler doesn’t say anything else. He just stands there, waiting, sipping his own coffee like he’s got nothing better to do than silently interrogate you. 

When your mug finally fills, you scoop it up and turn toward the table where the others are—desperate for a conversation that doesn’t make you want to throw up... more than you already do. 

“Hey.” You drop into the empty seat between Lily and Javi. “How are you guys this morning?” 

Kate, Dani, and Dexter are already deep in conversation about today’s chase, but it’s still way too early for you to start thinking about wind shear and hodographs. 

“I’m great,” Lily says, smiling. “How are you?” 

You exhale slowly and lean back in your chair. “I’ve been better.” 

Javi chuckles. “Not gonna lie, I’m impressed you’re even out of bed.” 

“Me too,” you mutter into your mug, sipping carefully so you don’t upset your stomach. 

There’s a pause—a brief lull where Kate’s voice suddenly carries louder than it should, chatting excitedly about a monster cell forming over the plains. 

Then Javi turns to you, amusement still bright on his face. “You and Scott were really going at it last night, huh?” 

You choke. On nothing. Not coffee or spit or air. You just choke—breath catching, chest seizing, throat tight. 

“Woah.” Lily lays a hand on your shoulder. “Are you okay?” 

You cough into your hand, haphazardly setting your mug on the table as you try to breathe. “‘m good,” you manage, waving a hand dismissively. “I—I’m okay. Just—wrong pipe.” 

You swallow hard and clear your throat—even though there’s nothing to clear—before turning to Javi, brows drawn tight. “Uh, what do you mean, Scott and—and me?” 

He tilts his head. “Last night, at the bar. I mean, I’ve seen you two fight before, but that was—wow.” 

You exhale softly, shoulders sagging as relief washes over you. “Right. At the bar. Yeah, it was... intense.” 

He’s not wrong. Last night’s argument was pretty bad—but last night’s sex? That was something else entirely. You wouldn’t be surprised if the whole motel had heard you come that third time. 

“Why are Scott and his crew even back this season?” Kate pipes up from across the table. “I thought they’d be hiding with their tails between their legs after what happened last year.” 

“They're not working with Riggs anymore,” you say, picking up your mug and taking a short sip. “They've got new investors, new funding streams. They're refocusing their whole mission—like, actually doing legit work now. Scott’s got them running tighter sorties, logging wind shear and convective parameters with insane precision. Most of them are still MIT-level assholes, yeah. But they’ve got the equipment, the drones, the timing… they’re terrifyingly efficient. And somehow Scott’s still running interference like it’s a game.” 

Silence. The whole team exchanges curious glances. 

Javi leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “And exactly how do you know all that?” 

You hesitate, holding your mug to your lips for a beat too long before swallowing slow. “I—uh, I spoke to one of them the other night. Don’t remember his name, but he was telling me... stuff.” 

Kate frowns. “Stuff?” 

Dani leans in. “You had a conversation with someone from StormPAR without yelling, shouting, or throwing drinks?” 

You roll your eyes. “Come on, I’m not that bad.” 

She winces. “You kind of are, though.” 

Your eyes widen. “Well, I’m not violent, at least.” 

Javi chuckles. “Pretty sure I heard you tell Scott he wouldn’t be able to walk straight once you were done with him.” 

Heat floods your cheeks, and you have to hide behind a generous sip of coffee. 

“Not violent, my ass,” Boone says, grinning over his three full plates of food. “I bet you’d throw hands with that StormPAR poser if he wasn’t two feet taller than the average person.” 

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just laugh—short, clipped, awkward—and keep your mug at your chin. 

Thankfully, the conversation moves on quickly. Kate starts wondering aloud whether StormPAR will be after the same cell as your team today, and soon everyone is talking about the weekend chase. It’s supposed to be a strong couple of days, which is good. You could use the distraction—and so could Tyler. Because right now he’s looking at you across the table with narrowed eyes and a small frown that makes you think he knows more than you’d like him to. 

After breakfast, everyone gathers their things and piles into the two vehicles. Dani, Dexter, Lily, and Javi take the RV—Lily and Javi settling in the back with their laptops to monitor live data. Which means you’re in Tyler's truck with Kate and Boone in the back. You don’t always ride up front, but today, Tyler insisted. 

It isn’t long before rain starts hitting the windscreen in rolling sheets. The whistle of the wind grows louder outside, and you can see Tyler’s knuckles turning white on the steering wheel. This is when the adrenaline starts to kick in—when the clouds drop low and the sky turns a bruise-dark shade of purple and grey. 

Kate snatches up the radio, holding it to her chin. “Talk to me, Javi. Where are we headed?” 

The radio crackles before Javi’s voice cuts in. “East-northeast. Storm’s picking up rotation—you’ve got maybe ten minutes before it tightens. Stay on thirty-six, then cut north at the county road.” 

“Copy that,” Kate says. 

“Hold on,” Tyler barks suddenly. 

The truck jolts through a flooded dip in the road, and you quickly brace yourself against the dash. 

“Shit.” You squint through the rain-streaked glass. “Is that StormPAR?” 

Tyler leans forward, eyes narrowed. “Looks like it. How the hell did they get ahead of us?” 

“No idea.” 

In the back seat, Boone whoops at a streak of lightning splitting the horizon, while Kate’s got her nose buried in the laptop balanced on her knees. “Shear’s climbing. We’re threading a needle here,” she warns, eyes flicking between graphs and radar. 

Tyler grins, wide and wild. “Hell of a morning commute.” 

Another burst of static crackles through the radio, voices bleeding over one another as the RV crew calls updates and warnings. When you finally hit the country road, Tyler yanks the truck northward, cutting through a field of tall grass toward the building storm. 

You glance over your shoulder at Kate. “How big is it supposed to get?” 

“Initially I had it pegged at an EF-1,” she says. “But the velocity’s climbing—it could be an EF-2 if we’re lucky.” 

You turn back to face the front, hand flying up to grip the ‘oh shit’ handle above the door. “Looks like an EF-2 to me. Let’s get in there before StormPAR.” 

“Atta girl!” Tyler exclaims, slamming his foot down on the gas. 

The truck lurches, Boone cheers, and Kate grumbles something about how Tyler better not kill you all before you even make it to the tornado. You glance in the side-view mirror and spot the white StormPAR truck just a few yards behind now, their LEDs flaring so bright they nearly blind you in the reflection. 

“Wait,” Kate says, eyes wide as she snatches up the radio again. “Javi, are you seeing this?” 

“Yeah,” he comes back quickly. “It’s shifting direction—but I can’t pin the path yet.” 

“Stop the truck,” Kate orders. “We need to wait and see where it’s headed.” 

Tyler nods once. “Copy. Stopping now.” 

He slams on the brake, and the truck shudders to a violent halt. Everyone lurches forward—Boone gasps, Kate yelps, and you throw your hands against the dash to stop the seatbelt from strangling you. 

“Jesus Christ, Tyler,” you mutter. “She didn’t mean stop right—” 

“What the hell do they want?” he cuts in, scowling past you out the window. 

You whip around to see the StormPAR truck pulled up right beside yours—barely two feet of space between your door and their driver’s side. The tinted window rolls down slowly, and your heart stutters. Traitor. 

Scott gestures for you to lower your window, and you roll your eyes before cranking it down. 

“What?” you shout over the roar of wind and rain. 

The corner of his mouth lifts, just a little. “You better turn back—this one’s out of your league.” 

You frown, shifting in your seat to lean out the window. “Yeah? I didn’t realise you were moonlighting as a weatherman and my babysitter!” you exclaim, your voice pitching up on the last word, jagged with frustration. 

His mouth curves higher—a little closer to that smirk you know too well—and his eyes gleam even under the bleak grey sky. “Somebody’s gotta keep you alive,” he calls back. 

And then he's gone. 

You barely even have time to blink before the StormPAR truck is disappearing into the distance ahead. You drop back into your seat, wind the window up as fast as you can, then let your—now wet—head fall back against the headrest and let out a long, strained groan. 

“That seemed kind of... loaded,” Tyler says, brows drawn. 

You roll your eyes. “It wasn’t loaded—he’s just a prick. Now let’s fucking go before we miss this thing!” 

Luckily for you, Tyler doesn’t have time to argue—because you’re right. If you don’t keep moving, you’re going to miss the storm. He hits the gas and you’re all pressed back in your seats as the truck starts cutting through the field again. Javi radios in with new instructions, and Tyler follows. Kate leans forward with her laptop, flashing you the screen and asking for your opinion on the rotational velocity she’s reading. 

It’s like clockwork—everyone falling into their roles, the chase running through you like instinct. But today it doesn’t matter how well you all work together. It doesn’t matter how sharp Javi’s calls are, how fast Tyler drives, how excited Boone is—it's all useless. 

By the time you hit the spot the radar promised, you see it—a thin funnel dangling from the clouds, twisting like it can't quite make up its mind. For one sharp second, your pulse spikes. But then the clouds pull back, and the funnel collapses in on itself, gone before you can even blink. Too high, too short, too weak to count. 

Boone groans. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

Kate snaps her laptop shut with a sigh. “All that for a glorified dust devil.” 

Tyler thumps the steering wheel once, muttering under his breath, and you sink back against your seat, jaw tight. Across the field, just over the crest of the hill, you catch sight of the StormPAR truck, barely visible through the thinning weather. You tell yourself it’s just coincidence that your eyes find it so quickly—but deep down, you know better. It’s like you’ve got a sixth sense for Scott, like your body knows when he’s near even if you wish it didn’t. 

The drive back to the motel is quiet, heavy with the disappointment of unpredictable weather—because no matter how much you think you know from hook echoes and velocity scans, the storm always has the final say. It’s that mysterious moment before the funnel drops that one no one can forecast except Mother Nature herself. 

Once Tyler parks the truck, you all climb out. Kate’s already talking about tomorrow’s predictions when the others meet you in the parking lot, all grumbling about today’s lack of success—until Javi points out the CAPE numbers spiking and dewpoints climbing into the upper sixties. Then the mood shifts, just a little, because tomorrow could be the real thing. 

The rest of the afternoon is filled with talk of tomorrow’s potential and an early dinner at the diner around the corner, then you all head back to the motel. Javi and Lily start tinkering with their latest drone modifications while Tyler, Dani, Dexter, and Boone all settle into their lawn chairs with a beer—but you and Kate both decide to call it a night. 

You take a long shower, letting the water run over you until your skin turns red—but it still doesn’t wash him away. The image of him, the memories of last night. They loop endlessly in your head. Even when you try to watch a movie on the tiny TV in the corner of the room, you end up staring through it more than you actually watch. 

Eventually, you flick off the lights, sink into bed, and try to sleep. Try. But it doesn’t come easy. You toss and turn, restless, your mind circling back again and again no matter how hard you try to shove it away. Every time you shut your eyes, last night flickers behind your eyelids—the heat of it, the sharp edges, the way he looked at you. And worse? The smell of him is still here, stubbornly clinging to your sheets like he’s burned into the fabric, into you. You hate it. You hate that it makes your chest tight, that it makes you want more instead of less. 

And when you finally do fall asleep, your dreams betray you. Because he’s there—always there. His mouth at your throat, breath hot against your skin, his hands holding you in place like he can’t stand the thought of letting you go. The way he touches you—confident, hungry, reverent—burns into you, every brush of his skin making your breath stutter. He groans when you arch against him, a sound that drags heat straight to your core, and it’s unfair, so unfair—how good it feels to have him pressed against you, filling you, claiming you like you belong to him. 

You wake in a sweat at three a.m., pulse racing, skin still buzzing. And you’re furious. Furious that he’s invaded your head, your subconscious, the one place he has no right to be. Furious that your body is betraying you, aching for him even now, when you swore last night was the last time. Because you don’t want him. You can’t want him. And that is exactly why it has to stop—why you can’t keep letting him crawl under your skin, into your bed, into your goddamn dreams. 

Sleep mostly evades you after that. You drift in and out, caught between restless half-dreams and the stubborn ache of wakefulness, until finally—eventually—you manage to fall under again. But then your phone’s alarm starts blaring and your eyes snap open after what feels like only twenty minutes of actual sleep. 

You let out a sigh, rub your eyes, and throw the covers back, dragging yourself into the shower. After a quick rinse and brushing your teeth, you pull on a pair of shorts and an oversized MIT shirt, then head out the door. The moment you step outside, the air hits you—thick and heavy, humidity clinging to your skin—and a spark of excitement flickers in your chest. Because warm, moist air means one thing: today, you're going to chase a real storm. 

“Are you feelin’ this?” Boone calls from below, standing beside Tyler and the truck. 

You grin. “Oh, yeah, baby! It’s tornado weather.” 

You hurry along the balcony and down the stairs, skipping the last few steps with a jump. Tyler is already packing gear into the truck, and Boone is beaming as he slides new rockets into the chutes at the rear of the cab. Javi, Lily, and Kate are crowded around a laptop, murmuring excitedly and pointing at something on the screen, while Dexter quietly finishes his cup of coffee, eyes fixed on the sky. 

“We’re gonna get a good one today, I can feel it,” Tyler says as you approach, tightening a bolt on the truck’s cage. “Then I thought we’d head down to Texas tomorrow. Amarillo’s looking promising for the next week.” 

You nod slowly, watching the wrench instead of his face. “Sounds good. Is that where everyone else is headed?” 

His hand stills, head tilting, brow furrowing. “Since when are you worried about where other chasers are going?” 

You shrug, ignoring the heat in your cheeks. “Just asking.” 

His eyes narrow and he straightens slowly, mouth opening to press further—but before he can, Boone pops up, saving you from the interrogation. 

“So,” he says, eyes bright as they bounce between you and Tyler, “who’s riding in the truck today?” 

“Me, obviously,” you reply quickly, eager to change the subject. “And I call shotgun.” 

Boone frowns. “But you had shotgun yesterday.” 

You lift a shoulder. “Yesterday was a bust. I’m owed a decent storm.” 

He turns to Tyler with a pout. “T, tell her she’s being unfair.” 

Tyler chuckles. “She called shotgun, Boone. Not much I can do about that.” 

Boone huffs but doesn’t argue—he just turns away, sulking as he walks over to the others. 

“We should get going,” Tyler says, dropping the wrench back into his poor excuse for a toolbox. “I need to get gas before we head out, and I know Boone’s hungry.” 

“There’s a little diner-slash-truck stop about five minutes up the road,” you offer. “Pretty sure I saw a sign that said they serve breakfast burritos.” 

Tyler slides his aviators up his nose and grins. “Breakfast burritos it is. Let’s wrangle the wranglers.” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile as you turn away from him. You can’t give him the satisfaction of laughing at something so dumb—Tyler Owens’ ego is already big enough. 

It isn’t long before everyone’s piling out of the vehicles at the diner. Boone and Dani head straight for the door, arguing about hot sauce on breakfast burritos, while Kate and Lily trail just a few steps behind. Tyler parks his truck at one of the gas pumps, and Dexter helps Javi manoeuvre the RV beside another. 

“Hey, Ty,” you say as you slip out of the passenger’s side. “Have you seen my sunglasses?” 

He shrugs, eyes fixed on the pump. “They’re not in the centre console?” 

“No,” you sigh. “I’ve looked all through the truck.” 

“Didn’t Lily borrow them the other day?” 

“Oh.” You turn toward the RV. “Yeah, she did. Thanks.” 

He mumbles something you don’t quite catch as you start toward the RV. Dexter is standing near the rear of the vehicle, holding the pump while Javi rambles about lifted index and dewpoints. You flash them both a quick smile before yanking the door open and climbing up the few steps into the RV that looks more like a meteorologist’s lab than a home on wheels. 

It takes all of ten seconds to spot your sunglasses sitting on the dash. You grab them and push them on top of your head, checking your reflection quickly in the rear-view mirror before turning back toward the door. 

But then you hear Javi’s voice—and freeze. 

“Hey, man, how are you?” he says, too brightly for it to be directed at one of your crew. 

“I’m good, how are you?” 

You know that voice—almost too well—and you’re not in the mood to get caught in a conversation with the person it belongs to. 

“Yeah, I’m good,” Javi replies. “Did you catch that bust yesterday?” 

You creep toward the door—ignoring the mix of dread and nausea curling in your gut—and lean closer, peering through a tear in the faded curtain covering the little window. 

“Yeah, we caught that,” Scott says. “Watched it collapse.” 

Javi sighs. “Yeah, total letdown. But hey—looks like redemption weather today.” 

Scott chuckles—softly, but you can still hear it. Hell, you can practically see it. You know exactly what he looks like when he does that little half laugh—the way his mouth quirks, the way his eyes drop like he’s trying not to let it show, but the small shake in his shoulders always gives him away. You’ve seen it too many times, memorised it without meaning to. 

“How is it, anyway?” he asks. “Chasing with Owens.” 

You lean a little closer to the door. 

“Honestly?” Javi says. “It’s great. They’re a great crew. Everyone’s sharp, they’ve got their own things, and we all work so well together. I mean, even the tech—it’s dated, sure, but it works. It’s like a well-oiled machine, man. You should see these guys out on the field.” 

Through the tear in the curtain, you can just make out the movement of Javi’s hand clapping Dexter’s shoulder. 

“Wow,” Scott says. “Sounds great.” 

To anyone else, his tone might sound sarcastic—but you know better. You know what Scott sounds like when he’s really being derisive, and so does Javi—he worked with him long enough—but this isn’t that. Scott’s genuinely happy for his former business partner. 

“But what about you, man?” Javi says, voice bright. “I’ve been hearing all kinds of things about StormPAR. You dropped Riggs, right? And now you’re running interference like it’s a damn sport? Sounds like you’ve got that place dialled in.” 

Your eyes go wide and your pulse spikes, panic rushing through your veins. 

“I—uh, yeah,” Scott says, and you can almost see the confused frown on his face. “We dropped Riggs. Thought we should try doing things the right way. But—um... who—who told you all that?” 

Your stomach drops when you hear Javi say your name—and before you can stop yourself, you shove the door open and stumble out of the RV. You almost lose your footing on the last step, but manage to catch yourself on the door handle. 

“Speak of the devil,” Dexter chuckles, hooking the pump back into place on the side of the bowser. 

You straighten, looking anywhere but at Scott as you slowly shut the RV door. 

“There’s my girl,” Javi grins. “I was just telling Scott about what you were saying at breakfast yesterday. How impressed you are with—” 

“I never said I was impressed,” you cut in, stepping toward them both. 

Javi chuckles, slinging an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side—and you can almost swear you catch the flicker of something sharp in Scott’s eyes. But he masks it quickly, hiding it behind that infuriatingly familiar smirk. 

“So,” he says, folding his arms, “how d’you know so much about StormPAR?” 

You narrow your eyes. “I had a brief conversation with one of your teammates the other night.” 

His brows lift. “Yeah? Who was it?” 

“Didn’t catch his name.” 

“Describe him,” he presses. “I’m sure I’ll know who you’re talking about.” 

Frustration coils hot in your chest, lighting your skin on fire from the inside out. 

You fold your arms to match him. “He was tall and obnoxious and completely full of himself.” 

He smirks, voice dropping low. “Pretty sure you were full of him too.” 

Your pulse jumps, heat flooding your cheeks as your eyes dart to Javi, who—thank God—is too distracted by an alert on his phone to catch what Scott said. When you look back, Scott’s head is bowed, his shoulders shaking just slightly as he tries to hide his amusement behind the brim of his stupid StormPAR hat. 

“You’re impossible,” you hiss. 

He glances up, blue eyes shining, and opens his mouth to retort—but Javi cuts in. 

“Damn, have you seen this?” he says, holding up his phone. “CAPE numbers are climbing fast. Looks like we’re getting a storm earlier than we thought.” 

You drag your eyes away from Scott to survey Javi’s phone screen—and he’s right. CAPE values are rising, and the radar’s showing stronger rotation. With conditions like this, you’ll see a cell before midday. 

“Should we tell the others to hurry up?” 

Javi shrugs. “Wouldn’t hurt to hit the road sooner.” 

You nod. “I’ll go round them up.” 

You shoot Scott a scathing look before marching right past him toward the diner. You’re so frustrated—and, okay, a little flustered—that you don’t even notice you’re being followed until a hand beats yours to the door handle. 

Scott pulls the door open before you can protest, gesturing with his other hand for you to go first. You know it’d be stupid to refuse, especially with how many chasers are milling about—people you know—so you settle for another scowl as you step inside the diner. 

It isn’t big or fancy, but it’s clean—and it smells like coffee and maple syrup. There are only four booths in the dining space and a few stools at the counter, which has left most of the clientele on their feet. But your crew, of course, managed to secure one of the booths in the far corner. 

“Nice shirt, by the way,” Scott says, voice low but still loud enough to cut through the chatter. 

You glance over your shoulder. “Thanks. Are you so self-involved that you forgot I went to MIT too?” 

He hums, almost a laugh. “No, I remember.” His eyes flick down, then back up—steady, deliberate. “I remember very clearly.” 

You turn to face him, folding your arms as your pulse picks up. “Don’t look at me like that.” 

“Like what?” 

“You know what.” 

He tilts his head, feigning innocence. “I’m not looking at you like anything. Just noticed that shirt looks a little big.” 

You glance down—and your stomach drops. It’s his. 

You school your expression quickly. “Yeah? Well... I bought it oversized.” 

“Mm.” His mouth curves. “Sure you did.” 

You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to fire back—but he beats you to it. 

“It’s just that—” he steps closer, voice dropping lower “—I had a shirt just like that, but it went missing a couple weeks ago.” 

Your pulse spikes. A couple of weeks ago, in Dodge City, you’d been stuck in a motel room right next to Tyler’s—so you’d gone to Scott’s instead. The next morning, you hadn’t felt like putting your own clothes back on, so you’d left wearing a pair of his boxers and... an old MIT shirt. 

“Look,” you mutter, lifting a hand to press to his chest before quickly remembering where you are and letting it fall. “It’s my shirt now. Because that—” your eyes search his, and you hate the way your heart thuds harder, “—is never happening again. Ever.” 

His mouth twitches like he’s about to say something clever, but then his eyes flick over your shoulder—and the playfulness fades. His expression shutters back into that blank, guarded calm he always hides behind. 

“What’s never happening again?” Tyler asks, startling you. 

You whip around, face burning. “Nothing—I mean, well—yeah, nothing. Because it’s never happening again.” You turn back to Scott, eyes wide. “Right?” 

His brow creases just slightly. “Right,” he mutters. “I’ll never ask you for a wind reading ever again.” 

You stare at him for a beat, eyes wide, lips parted like you’re about to say something—but all that comes out is a quiet scoff as you shake your head. 

“Wind reading?” Tyler echoes. 

“Yep!” you reply, too fast and too bright. “Never giving StormPAR any of our data ever again. Now let’s get the others—Javi said conditions are picking up and we don’t want to miss it.” 

Tyler frowns. “But—” 

“No buts,” you cut in quickly. “Come on, let’s wrangle the wranglers!” 

He doesn’t have time to protest again before you grab his arm and steer him through the diner toward the rest of the crew. You quickly fill them in on the changing weather conditions, and you don’t even need to ask before everyone’s scrambling to leave. 

You keep your eyes fixed on the clip in the back of Kate’s hair as you make your way out, determined not to look back. You don’t need to know if he’s watching or following. You don’t even care if he is. Because today isn’t about Scott—it’s about the supercell forming east over the plains. 

In fact, nothing is about Scott. Not today, not yesterday, and especially not you. 

You’re about storms, and chasing, and your crew—not drunk motel sex that you have to keep a secret. No matter how good it is. Because it’s just sex. Great sex, sure, but replaceable. You can find great sex somewhere else. You just need to stop falling for his stupid little traps—like that cocky smirk he saves just for you, or the spark in his eyes when he baits you and you rise to it every damn time. Or the way those same eyes darken when his mouth is on you, when he looks up through his lashes with that lazy sort of focus, his lips slick with— 

“Hello?” Tyler waves his hand in front of your face. “Are you even listening?” 

The truck jolts and you quickly grab the door to steady yourself. “Yeah,” you lie. “I’m just—just trying to watch for wind direction... and stuff.” 

Tyler shakes his head, eyes fixed on the rain-splattered windscreen. “That was a bad lie and you know it. What’s with you today?” 

“Nothing,” you mutter. “I’m fine.” 

He shoots you a sidelong look. “You’ve been weird since yesterday.” 

“No I haven’t,” you lie—again—keeping your gaze focused on the dark grey sky ahead. 

“Yes, you have,” he starts, “you’ve been—” 

“Speaking of yesterday,” Boone cuts in, leaning forward over the centre console, “I forgot to mention it because I was so bummed about the storm, but I went into the front office when we got back and the receptionist said we had a noise complaint.” 

Your pulse stutters. 

Tyler tilts his head to look at Boone in the rear-view mirror. “Noise complaint?” 

“Yeah,” Boone says. “From room 2C.” 

Tyler glances at you. “You’re in 2B, aren’t you?” 

Your cheeks flush, your mouth opens—but nothing comes out. Shit. 

“Did they say what kind of noise?” Tyler asks. 

“Banging, moaning, groaning,” Boone says, brow furrowing. “Apparently they thought the place was haunted until the noises stopped in the early morning.” 

“That’s so weird,” you say, a little too fast. “I didn’t hear anything.” 

Tyler’s brows lift, his eyes still on the road. “So, it wasn’t you?” 

You scoff, but it’s so forced you might as well be holding up a flashing neon sign that says guilty. “No, it wasn’t me. Why—why would it be me? How would I even make all those noises?” 

Boone snorts. “Unless you were watching p—” 

The truck hits a ditch in the dirt road, and all of you lurch forward. 

“Shit,” Tyler hisses, gripping the steering wheel tight with both hands. 

The rain outside is brutal now, rolling in sheets against the windscreen and making it almost impossible to see more than a few feet ahead. 

“We’ve got hail,” Javi’s voice crackles through the radio, bright with excitement. “Make the next left and hit the gas—the cap’s about to break!” 

Tyler presses his foot down, urging the truck faster and squeezing the wheel until his knuckles turn white. Adrenaline and relief flood through you, a thin sweat breaking over the back of your neck. You know you’re not out of the woods yet—Tyler won't let this go that easily—but at least you’ve bought yourself some time to come up with a defence. 

By the time the storm breaks, it’s everything the radar promised—a clean cap, perfect rotation, a funnel that almost kisses the ground before pulling back into the clouds. Tyler’s whooping, Boone’s halfway out the window trying to film it, everyone’s cheering over the radio, and for a while, it’s easy to forget everything else. For a while it’s just you, your crew, the chase, and that rush in your veins that feels like purpose. 

Hours blur into one another—dark clouds chasing light, wind roaring so loud it drowns out thought. By the time you roll back into the motel parking lot, you’re soaked through and buzzing, boots squelching with every step. The sky’s gone that bruised purple-grey, lightning still flickering at the edges, and the air hums with the heavy, metallic scent of rain and dust. It’s been a good day—a great one, even. Almost enough to make you forget about the twisted feeling in your gut you still don’t have a name for. 

“Hey,” Kate calls, jogging across the parking lot to catch you. “You coming out tonight?” 

You turn to face her, brows drawing tight. “What’s tonight?” 

“A bunch of chasers are going to one of the bars in town,” she says, “to celebrate today’s storm.” 

Your pulse quickens. “Oh—uh, yeah, sure.” 

She beams. “Great.” 

You give her a tight smile and turn back the way you were going, hoping she doesn’t notice the colour rising in your cheeks. “Just let me shower and I’ll meet you back down here at—” 

“Six,” she calls after you. “Everyone will be ready at six.” 

You glance over your shoulder. “Right. Six.” 

The grin on her face is a little too wide to be casual, and there’s a spark in her eyes that makes you think she’s up to something more than just wrangling the team for a night out. Kate doesn’t usually come out when you all go drinking—she’s a special occasions kind of girl—which, you suppose, is something you could label tonight as. It is technically a celebration. 

But there’s something more. Something else hiding behind her smile. Something you’ll worry about after you get out of these wet clothes and soggy boots. 

You take an extra-long, extra-hot shower, letting the water soak your skin until it’s pink and pruned. Then you step out, dry off, get dressed, and decide to take a little longer than usual getting ready. You do your hair, fix your clothes in the mirror, and carefully apply a red lipstick that matches your top. 

You don’t usually put much effort into drinks with the crew—but tonight’s effort has nothing to do with your crew and everything to do with which other crews might be at the bar. Even though you know you’re not going home with anyone other than your friends. Especially not anyone from StormPAR. 

“No Scott,” you tell your reflection sternly. “Not too many drinks, no absinthe, and no sex.” You pause, staring yourself down like that’s somehow going to give drunk you some self-control. “No Scott. Got it?” 

You nod once, firm, then turn around, grab your purse, and head out the door. Everyone else is already waiting in the parking lot, gathered and chatting excitedly beside Tyler’s truck, the energy still buzzing from the day’s successful chase. 

“Finally!” Boone calls. “I’m dying of thirst out here.” 

You roll your eyes as you start down the stairs, listening to the rest of them argue about who’s going in which vehicle. When you reach the truck, Kate ushers you into the front seat before she climbs into the back between Lily and Boone—and while you know there’s some ulterior motive, you’re not about to argue. 

“So,” Tyler says, turning the ignition, “where’s this bar, Kate?” 

“East side of town, just past the strip malls,” she says. “You can’t miss it—it’s got the most insane amount of fairy lights all over the front terrace.” 

Tyler snorts. “Sounds classy.” 

“Oh, it is.” Kate leans forward over the centre console. “It’s technically a cantina.” 

“A cantina in the middle of Norman, Oklahoma?” Boone pipes up. 

You glance at Kate. “Is it offensive?” 

She tilts her head. “If you’re asking whether they wear sombreros and fake moustaches? No. It’s mostly just Mexican cuisine and some inspired decor. The original owners actually were Hispanic, but they sold it and retired.” 

“And how do you know so much about this place?” Tyler asks. 

Kate shrugs. “I went a few times with my friends, years ago. Jeb loved it—he said we had to go back any time we were chasing near Norman.” 

You don’t often hear about Kate’s late friends—especially not Jeb—but lately, she’s been better. She’s been opening up more, telling stories, less afraid of her past. It’s partly thanks to Javi, because being close again means they’ve been able to work through some shared trauma, but you also know Tyler has a little something to do with it. You’re not exactly sure what’s going on between them, but you know it’s definitely something. 

“Anyway,” Kate says, shaking her head quickly before turning to you. “I want to talk to you about something.” 

Oh, God. 

You lift your brows. “Here?” 

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, here. It’s not a secret, it’s just...” She trails off, pursing her lips as she tries to think of a way to lessen the blow of whatever she’s about to say. “Okay, don’t be mad.” 

You frown. “Why would I be mad?” 

“Well, you know how we’re all on YouTube?” 

Your frown deepens. “Yeah. I’m pretty familiar with Boone’s camera in my face.” 

Boone chuckles to himself. 

“Okay, so,” Kate goes on, “I have this old friend from Muskogee State. We occasionally chat about weather stuff—exchange articles, send storm photos, nothing crazy—but when I told him we were in Norman, he asked to catch up.” 

You lift a hand to interrupt. “Uh, I’m failing to see how this has anything to do with me?” 

She leans further forward. “I’m getting there, okay?” 

“Okay,” you mutter, dropping your hand. “Go on.” 

She nods. “Right, so—he’s actually a chaser too, kind of—and he watches Tyler’s channel, so I asked him to come to the bar tonight. I thought it’d be cool for him to meet everyone, but—” She hesitates, taking a deep breath. “Then he told me he’s got this, like, massive crush on you—from seeing you in Tyler’s videos—and he asked if I’d set you guys up on a... date.” 

Heat floods your chest, panic prickling beneath your skin as your heart starts beating too fast and too hard. 

“You set me up on a surprise blind date?” 

“Technically,” she says, “it’s not a surprise because I’m telling you right now.” 

Your eyes widen. “We’re on our way to the fucking bar, Kate.” 

She winces. “I know, I know! I’m sorry, I just—he’s such a nice guy, and I knew if I asked you, you’d say no, but I honestly think you might really like him.” 

“You knew I'd say no, so you tricked me?” 

“Tricked is a little dramatic,” she mutters. 

You drop your head back against the headrest. “I’m allowed to be dramatic when I’m being forced into a date I didn’t agree to.” 

She sighs. “It’s not really a date. I just agreed to introduce you, and—” She hesitates. “Well, I might’ve said you were excited to meet him.” 

Your head snaps toward her. “Excited? Seriously? The only thing I’m excited about is a shot of tequila and some fucking tacos.” 

Tyler chuckles. “This is going even worse than I thought it would.” 

You lean past Kate to look at him, brow furrowed. “You knew about this?” 

“Of course.” He lifts a shoulder. “I also knew you’d hate it—because you’re clearly hung up on someone else.” 

Your stomach drops, breath catching in your throat—and for a second, your lungs forget how to work. Tyler glances at you, his lips twitching, and Kate tilts her head, brows knitting. 

You clear your throat. “What—what do you mean?” 

“You know what I mean,” Tyler says, his tone almost too casual. “I don’t know who, but I know—” 

“We’re here!” Kate cuts in, pointing out the windscreen. 

Just like she’d described, the bar’s front terrace is draped with strings and strings of fairy lights—bright enough to light up half the street. Tyler turns the truck into the gravel driveway, tyres crunching as he rolls into the last free parking spot in the lot. 

“Damn, it’s busy,” Boone says as he pushes open his door. 

You all climb out and start walking around to the front of the bar. You’re careful not to walk too close to Tyler—or even look at him—in case he decides to start interrogating you about whoever it is he thinks you’re hung up on. 

Which you’re not. 

You’re not hung up on anyone. Tyler’s just misinformed, or overly suspicious. He’s convinced himself of something completely ridiculous just so he has some kind of explanation for your weird behaviour. But he’s wrong. Very wrong. You’re not hung up on anyone. Especially not Scott. 

“Ready?” Kate asks, bumping her shoulder against yours. 

You narrow your eyes at her. “Ready for the date I didn’t agree to?” 

“Come on,” she sighs. “It’s not a date, it’s an introduction. And he’s great, I think you’re going to love him.” 

You roll your eyes as she links her arm through yours, guiding you toward the bar’s front door behind the rest of the crew. You have no idea where Dexter, Dani, and Javi came from—or where they parked the RV—but they’re all chatting excitedly as they cross the brightly lit terrace. 

Inside is almost jarringly dim, lit only by the warm glow of multicoloured lights casting soft patterns across the terracotta walls. There are dark wooden tables and chairs scattered between small booths, potted plants clustered in corners, and brightly coloured prints that make the whole place feel alive. Behind the bar, bottles of tequila and mezcal catch the light, stacked haphazardly on tiered shelving beside other bottles of liquor you don’t recognise. The air smells faintly of lime, grilled peppers, fried corn chips—and sweat, because the place is absolutely packed with storm chasers. 

“Holy shit,” you mutter, leaning into Kate. “How are we even supposed to—” 

“Guys!” Lily calls over the music and chatter. “This way—Tyler's got a booth!” 

You and Kate exchange a dubious look—brows drawn, eyes narrowed—but then she sighs and starts tugging you toward where Lily had gestured. “That damn Tyler Owens effect.” 

You both squeeze through the crowd until you spot your crew crowded around a corner booth, chatting with another chaser you don’t recognise—probably the person who gave up their table the second they saw Tyler Owens walk in. 

“I need a drink,” you mutter. 

“In a sec.” Kate pulls out her phone and squints at the screen. “Caleb texted saying he just parked.” 

You roll your eyes but keep your mouth shut—you’re not in the mood to keep arguing about this stupid surprise date. All you want is good food, a strong drink, and to stay as far away from Tyler as possible. You don’t need an inquisition into your dating life on top of a date you didn’t even ask for.  

“He’s here!” Kate announces, looping her arm through yours. “I told him we’d meet at the bar.” 

You let her drag you back through the crowd, trying—unsuccessfully—to keep your eyes down. To not search the room for someone familiar. Someone head and shoulders above the rest, probably standing at the edge of the crowd, blue eyes finding you too easily in the overpacked room. 

God. You hate that you want to see him here. You hate that right now, he’d be your escape from all this. And you hate more than anything that you’re disappointed when you don’t find him. 

“Caleb!” Kate exclaims, dropping your arm. 

She moves ahead of you to hug the man before stepping back with a wide grin. 

“Caleb, this is—” 

“I know,” he chuckles, offering his hand. “It’s so nice to meet you.” 

You force a smile, hoping it looks more genuine than it feels. “Hi. You too. Kate’s told me... so much.” 

He’s cute, sure. Tall—but not that tall. Nice smile—no dimples, though. Green eyes—you've always preferred blue. 

“Do you want a drink?” he asks. 

You nod. “Absolutely.” 

Kate steps up to the bar first, and you squeeze in beside her. You order a drink and a shot of tequila—for courage, of course, which Caleb laughs at awkwardly—then move aside to make space for someone else. Caleb finds a free tall table, and Kate mutters something about checking on Tyler before slipping away quickly, leaving you with the date you never asked for. 

“So,” he says, leaning in slightly, “how's the season been so far?” 

You shrug. “Pretty good. Yesterday was a bust, but today made up for it—” you gesture toward the crowd, “—hence the celebration. What about you? What are you doing in Norman?” 

He chuckles softly, gaze dropping to the table. “If you feel it, chase it, right?” 

You frown. “You’re with a crew?” 

“Oh. No, not like that.” He shakes his head. “No, I—um, I’m just trying to get out of my comfort zone, you know? Take chances I wouldn’t normally take. Live a little. Embrace the universe.” 

Your brows lift. “Oh?” 

Great. Kate’s set you up with a human TED Talk. 

“Yeah.” He smiles softly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sometimes I need a little push to do something that scares me.” 

You snort into your drink, almost spilling it. “Yeah, right. And that’s... me?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “Maybe. I’m not sure yet. You seem… complicated. Dangerous in a very specific way.” 

“Dangerous?” you echo, unable to stop the laugh that bubbles up. “Me?” 

“Maybe,” he says again, leaning back just slightly, “but I kind of like it.” 

You have to look away, drawing a deep breath to push down the laughter building in your chest—and then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him. Stepping through the doorway, scanning the room. Not smiling. Not even close. His eyes catch yours, just for a second, and then he looks away. His expression doesn’t change, he doesn't even blink—he just turns and starts cutting through the crowd. 

And you hate it. You hate that your heart starts racing, that heat floods your skin, that you want him to react. You hate that he has such an effect on you—and that you don’t seem to have any effect on him at all. 

Caleb nudges your arm. “Are you okay?” 

You whip back around, blinking fast. “Yeah—yep, sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew, but—” 

“Those StormPAR guys?” 

You tilt your head. “You know StormPAR?” 

He nods. “Of course. I actually tried to reach out to them last year for a research paper I was working on, but they’re not particularly friendly. Or at least, that Scott guy isn’t.” 

You snort into your drink. “Yeah, he’s a dick.” 

“You know him?” 

“Not really,” you reply—too fast. “I mean, I’ve met him, but I—um, I don't really know him, you know? Just heard things.” You tip your drink to your lips and drain the glass before smacking it on the table. “Anyway, let’s talk about you. What do you do for work?” 

It isn’t hard to keep Caleb talking. With the right questions, you barely have to do anything more than nod and hum every few minutes so he thinks you’re paying attention. But really, the only time you are paying attention is when he asks if you need another drink. That’s when you say yes, tell him you’ll go to the bar, and order a shot of tequila alongside your next drink. 

By your third—or sixth—drink, you’re feeling a little giddy, and that’s when you try to convince yourself you could go for Caleb. Even just for one night. He’s not unattractive—not that you’re that shallow—and there’s nothing overly off-putting about him, he’s just... nice. Boring. A little shorter than you’d like, with green eyes and no dimples. But you could get past that. He doesn’t have to be your exact type for you to sleep with him. You can always just close your eyes and picture what you want—that’s what you always used to do. 

Before Scott. 

But Caleb’s looks aren’t the problem. The problem is that even when you try to have fun—when you crack a joke or try to start a bit of banter—he doesn’t get it. He just stares at you, blankly, as if trying to decide whether you’re being mean or if your sense of humour is really that bad. 

You honestly have no idea why Kate thought you’d hit it off with this guy, but you definitely plan on asking her what the hell she was thinking the second you see her again. 

“Hey,” Caleb says suddenly, nudging your elbow. “Are you sure you don’t know that StormPAR guy?” 

You turn to follow his gaze across the bar—and the moment you see him, your breath catches. 

He’s standing by the far wall, half-lit by a string of multicoloured lights, blue eyes locked on you across the crowd. His face is unreadable, carved into something calm and careful, but then you see it—the tiny twitch in his jaw, the way his gaze narrows just slightly. 

The noise of the bar dulls, everything blurring around the edges until it’s just him. 

You know you’re drunk now—or at least halfway there—because now, you want him. And you’re not about to admit it out loud, but you are about to do something stupid just to get his attention. 

“Be right back,” you tell Caleb, already sliding your empty glass off the table. “I need another drink.” 

You don’t wait for a response—you just slip off your stool and start weaving quickly through the crowd, heart beating too hard behind your ribs. You don’t head for the nearest end of the bar like any normal person would—no, you keep going. Through the noise and across that imaginary line you know you shouldn’t cross. All the way to the far end of the bar. 

The end closest to him. 

You tell yourself it’s because it’s quieter over here. Less crowded. Easier to get a drink. 

It’s not because of Scott. Definitely not. Why would it be? 

You squeeze between two guys in denim jackets and plant your hands on the sticky bar top, exhaling hard. The bartender catches your eye, smiles, and lifts a finger—wait. 

That’s fine. You can wait. You’re calm. You’re composed. You’re totally not standing here hoping— 

A shift in the air beside you makes your skin prickle. 

You don’t even have to look. 

You just know. 

He doesn’t say anything as he steps up next to you—doesn’t even look at you at first—just rests his forearms on the bar and scans the liquor shelves like he didn’t just suck every molecule of oxygen out of your lungs with his presence alone. He’s close—close enough that his shoulder almost brushes yours. Close enough that you can feel the heat coming off his body. Close enough that every cell—every want, every need—in your body turns traitorous. 

You keep your eyes forward, and force a breath. You can do that—you can breathe. You've been doing it your whole life. In. Out. 

You don’t look at him. You refuse to. 

But you want to. 

God, you want to. 

You’re drunk and you want to. 

You want him. 

You want him with a hunger that feels stitched into your bones—messy, reckless, selfish—but you still force your expression blank, trying to cage whatever’s clawing inside your chest. You can’t want him. You’re not supposed to want him. Not anymore. Not ever. Because last time was the last time. 

Right? 

“You move on fast.” 

Your pulse jumps at his voice—low, even, almost bored, but edged with something sharp. Something that slides under your skin and makes your spine straighten.  

“Didn’t realise I needed your permission.” 

He huffs out a quiet breath. “Never said you did.” 

“No.” You keep your eyes fixed on a bottle of absinth across the bar. “But you felt the need to comment.” 

He still doesn’t look at you. “Just surprised, that’s all.” 

You finally glance at him—and instantly regret it. He’s relaxed. Casual. Like this is just another Saturday night and not another stupidly dangerous game you’re both playing. His expression gives you nothing. No irritation. No jealousy. No trace of the last time he had you pinned against his bedroom door breathing your name like a warning and a prayer. 

So maybe you imagined it. Maybe you’re just reading into things that aren’t there. 

“Why do you care?” you ask. 

“I don’t.” 

You scoff. “Sounds like you do.” 

He doesn’t bite. He doesn’t rise to it. He just shrugs, gaze still on the bar shelves as if he has never once in his life been affected by you. “You can do whatever—whoever—you want. Just didn’t think he was your type.” 

“Really?” You lean an elbow on the bar, heat flickering in your chest. “And what exactly do you think my type is?” 

That finally gets him to look at you. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s already decided he’s going to ruin you and is just taking his time. His eyes drop to your mouth—just for a heartbeat—but it’s enough to make heat curl low in your stomach. 

“You don’t want me to answer that,” he says. 

“Try me.” 

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His gaze drags over you—neck, mouth, eyes—before he leans in just enough for you to feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek. 

“That guy over there? He has no idea what to do with a woman like you,” he says, voice low enough that no one but you could possibly hear him. “I saw the way you looked at him. And I see the way you’re looking at me now.” 

Your pulse stutters. 

His mouth curves—not a smile. Something sharper. Something possessive. Something certain. 

“So no,” he murmurs. “I’m not jealous. Because we both know who you really want to go home with tonight.” 

Your skin feels too hot, too tight, like your pulse is lodged in your throat. You can barely breathe. Barely think. And you hate—more than anything—that he’s right. 

But he can’t know that. You can’t let him know that. 

“You’re out of your mind,” you say, forcing your eyes away from his to find the bartender. “I don’t—” Your voice catches. “I might not want him, but I don’t want you either.” 

His gaze flickers—sharp, assessing. He doesn’t believe you. He doesn’t even pretend to. 

“No?” he says casually, as if you’re discussing something as menial as the weather. 

You meet his gaze again, keeping your expression carefully blank. “No.” 

He hums, unconvinced. “Could’ve fooled me.” 

You grit your teeth. “Not everything revolves around you.” 

“Never said it did.” 

“Then drop it.” 

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t. His eyes stay on yours, steady and unblinking, like he’s the only person who’s ever truly seen you. 

“Just one question,” he murmurs. 

You hate that you answer. “What?” 

He tilts his head, voice softening—dangerously so—and lifts a hand, his knuckles skimming just beneath your jaw, light as breath. “Why is your pulse racing?” 

Your breath stutters. Heat floods your chest, crawling up your neck until you forget how to breathe entirely. He’s closer now—crowding you in a way that only makes your heart beat harder, faster. Every nerve ending is suddenly awake, aware of him, of the brush of his skin, of how impossible it is to pretend you don’t want this. Don’t want him. 

You almost forget where you are. You almost lean in. 

But then— 

“Sorry, folks. What can I get you?” 

You startle, turning toward the bartender too fast and stumbling back a step—right into the man standing on your other side. He grumbles something, clearly annoyed, but before you can mutter an apology, Scott’s hand closes around your elbow, pulling you back to him. Steadying you. Anchoring you. In more ways than you care to admit. 

“Two tequila shots,” he tells the bartender. “And two beers.” 

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even spare you a glance. He just keeps his hand on your arm, thumb brushing once—absent, thoughtless—while you stand there like an idiot, staring up at him. 

Close. Way too close. 

Close enough to see the tiny crease between his brows as he watches the beer pour. Close enough to see the faint scar along his cheek—old, healed over—from when he fell off his bike as a kid. He told you the story one night, somewhere between argument and orgasm. You’re close enough to count the darker flecks in his blue eyes, watch his lashes lower as he speaks, trace the shape of his mouth—God, that mouth. 

Your gaze drifts without permission—from the curve of his bottom lip to the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and down the line of his throat where it disappears beneath his shirt collar. You hate that your breath trips. You hate that your body betrays you. You hate that he’s not even looking at you—and somehow that makes it worse. 

“Thanks,” he says to the bartender, finally releasing your arm. 

And only then does he glance down at you—casual, unbothered—like he didn’t just reach into your chest and close a hand around your lungs. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, something that feels too close to a promise. 

He steps back, mouth curving into that almost-smirk. The one he wears when he can’t help himself. Subtle. Smug. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you and he’s enjoying every second of it.  

“Be good,” he murmurs, his arm grazing yours as he turns to leave. 

It shouldn’t sound like a warning—but it does. 

He doesn’t wait for a response. He doesn’t even look back. He just walks away, cutting through the crowd with ease, drink in hand—and you’re left with both tequila shots and an overflowing pint of beer. 

For a second you just stand there, staring at the empty spot where he’d been, trying to convince yourself you’re not actually affected. You drag a hand through your hair and pretend your pulse isn’t still racing, that your body isn’t still tuned to the space he occupied seconds ago. God. You hate this. You hate that one man—that man—can reduce you to static and adrenaline with nothing but a look and a stupid two-word warning. 

But you don’t want him. You don’t. Not really. You’re just drunk—and Scott is just being Scott. Cocky. Infuriating. Getting under your skin in the way only he knows how. 

You reach for the first tequila shot and knock it back, then the second before you can think too hard about it, heat burning down your throat. Then you grab the beer and square your shoulders, willing your heartbeat to slow as you turn to head back to the table. 

You make it about halfway before someone steps in front of you. Someone you’re really not in the mood to deal with right now. 

“What was that?” 

You look up at Tyler, your nose inches from his chest. “What was what?” 

“That.” He nods toward the bar. “Whatever the hell just happened between you and StormPAR.” 

Heat creeps up the back of your neck. “Nothing. He was just—you know how he is. Being a dick. Trying to annoy me.” 

“You didn’t look annoyed.” 

You tip your chin up. “That’s because I’m mature.” 

Tyler snorts—loudly. “Mature?” 

You narrow your eyes. “Yes. Mature.” 

“You and Boone giggle every time the temperature hits sixty-nine degrees.” He leans in, lowering his voice. “And I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you were just looking at StormPAR.” 

“His name is Scott,” you say before you can stop yourself. 

Tyler straightens, brows raised. “Now you’re defending him?” 

You roll your eyes, hoping the bar is too dim for Tyler to notice the colour in your cheeks. “I’m not defending him, I just—he has a name. You know his name.” 

“And I’d be willing to bet you know a whole lot more than just his name.” 

Your stomach drops. “I—what? What’re you—” 

“Hey,” Caleb interrupts, his hand landing on your shoulder. “I was looking for you. Thought you’d gotten lost.” 

You don’t even look at him. You keep your eyes locked on Tyler. His mouth is quirked into a small smirk—challenging, smug—and his stare is unwavering. He’s looking at you like he already knows, like he doesn’t need a confession to see right through your lies. 

“Oh, sorry,” Caleb says. “Am I interrupting—” 

“No,” you say quickly, whipping toward him. “Tyler was just offering to buy another round.” 

Caleb frowns. “Didn’t you just get one?” 

You shrug. “I’m not going to say no to a free drink.” 

Tyler gives you a look—one you don’t recognise, which is strange considering how long you’ve known him. But you don’t react. You don’t let him see that he might actually be onto something. You just reach out, grab his arm, and start dragging him toward the bar—assuming Caleb is somewhere in tow. 

- Scott - 

He’s not watching you. Not really. 

He’s just… aware of you. 

Aware of the scarlet lip stain on the rim of your beer glass. Aware of the warmth in your skin under the dim glow of the bar lights. Aware of the way the crimson fabric of your top shifts when you move. 

You’re still at the bar, with Tyler on your left and Caleb on your right—but Caleb might as well not exist. You’re half-turned toward Tyler, your hand on his arm and your head tipped back so you can meet his gaze. Too close. Too comfortable. You’ve got that same spark in your eyes you get when you’re trying too hard not to care. He knows what that looks like. He’s seen it before. 

He takes a slow sip of beer, eyes lingering just long enough to catch your reflection in the mirror behind the bar. You tilt your head, smiling at something Tyler says, clearly biting back a laugh as you lean in a little closer. It’s easy. Natural. A familiarity born of long days, longer nights, near-death experiences, and years of friendship. 

He tells himself it’s good. It’s normal. You should be smiling. Laughing. You should be able to talk, touch, lean in to whoever the hell you want. 

He doesn’t care. 

He really doesn’t. 

It’s just—he knows you better than most. He knows what that smile looks like when it’s real, and what it looks like when it’s armour. And the one you’re wearing now? It’s the latter. 

He glances away before he can read any more into it, fingers drumming once against his glass. 

He’s not waiting for you to come find him again. He just knows that you will. 

That you’ll trip back into him by the end of the night. 

You always do. 

“Who’s that?” 

Scott turns to the man standing beside him—Mateo, the newest member of StormPAR. 

“Who?” 

Mateo nods toward the bar. “The girl in red.” 

Scott’s gaze drifts slowly back to you. “She chases with Tyler Owens’ crew.” 

“Tyler Owens the YouTube guy?” Mateo asks. 

Scott nods. “Yep.” 

“I thought you hated him.” 

“I do,” Scott mutters, his eyes narrowing at Tyler’s hand resting on your lower back. 

“Then what about her?” Mateo presses. “You two seemed kind of... friendly.” 

Scott drags his eyes away from you, back to Mateo. “We went to college together. We’re friends.” 

Something in Mateo’s expression shifts—excitement, maybe. “Just friends?” 

Scott nods again, lifting his beer to his lips and hoping that’s the end of the conversation. 

A beat passes. Mateo shifts on his feet. And then— 

“So you won’t mind if I talk to her?” 

Scott’s jaw flexes. He takes another slow sip of beer, eyes flicking once—just once—back to where you’re standing. Then he looks at Mateo. 

“Sure,” he says, voice even. “Go ahead.” 

He pauses, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. 

“Try.” 

Then he tips his head back, drains the rest of his beer, and drops the empty glass on a nearby table. When he looks back at the bar, you’re gone—but it doesn’t take long for him to spot you weaving through the crowd toward the back hallway. 

And then—of course—Mateo moves. Undeterred. 

He stops you just before the hall, only a few feet from where Scott is standing. Scott doesn’t need to turn or edge closer—he just tilts his head slightly, listening in. He can hear enough over the hum of the bar—the clink of bottles, the muted bassline, the way Mateo’s voice pitches low and smooth. 

“Hey,” Mateo says. “You’re with Tyler Owens’ crew, right?” 

You glance up, caught off guard, your tone coming out sharper than you probably mean it to. “Yeah. Why?” 

“Just wanted to say hi,” Mateo replies, his grin audible. “Didn’t realise chasers could look like you.” 

You pause, staring at him for a moment, your expression flat. “Wow. Original.” 

Scott’s mouth twitches. 

Mateo chuckles awkwardly, trying again. “I thought maybe I could buy you a drink. Do you—” 

“No, thanks,” you cut in. “I’m good.” 

Then your gaze flicks over Mateo’s shoulder, meeting Scott’s. Your eyes widen, brows pulling tight, and Scott can’t help but smirk. He knows that look. You’re about five minutes from starting a fight that’ll end with his head between your legs. 

“See you around,” you say to Mateo, voice tight, as you step around him. 

You head straight down the hall toward the bathrooms, disappearing into the dark—and it takes a lot more self-control than usual for Scott not to follow. Not to take you right here in this bar, in the narrow bathroom stall, his hand over your mouth to muffle your moans. It’s not like the two of you haven’t done it before—just never with both your crews so close by. Never with Tyler’s eyes following you like you’re his. 

Scott’s never questioned your friendship with Tyler before. Not once. 

He knows the history—how you met in your last year of college, how you started chasing storms together, how you’ve been part of his crew ever since. He sees the way the two of you move around each other in the field—quick, in sync, like a rhythm you’ve practiced for years. He’s always chalked it up to familiarity. Trust built on adrenaline and close calls. 

But lately... it feels different. 

Everything feels different. 

It doesn’t bother him. Not really. Not the way Tyler leans in when he talks to you, or the way you look at him with that easy, practiced grin. The two of you have always been close. That’s all it is. 

But one question keeps looping back, uninvited. 

Has Tyler ever touched you like he has? 

Has he ever had you pinned beneath him, cheeks flushed, lips parted, panting his name? 

God. He hates this feeling—whatever it is. This green-eyed, gut-wrenching twist in his stomach that he refuses to name. 

He takes a slow breath, jaw tightening as he watches you reemerge from the hallway. You’ve still got that look on your face—head high, mouth set, eyes daring anyone to try again—he knows it better than most. He’s seen it a hundred times. Hell, he’s probably caused it more than anyone else. 

Something shifts in his chest as he watches you move through the crowd, and he hates that it feels almost like pride. Like he has any right to be proud of you. Like he has any right to think—even for a second—that you’re his. 

It doesn’t matter, though. None of it does. Not Tyler, not Mateo, not any of the other guys whose eyes you’ve caught tonight. You can do whatever you want. Be with whoever you want. 

It doesn’t matter. 

But... truth is, it’s getting harder to believe that. 

Harder to ignore the pull in his chest every time you’re near, the way his thoughts still circle back to you long after he’s told himself to let it go. 

It’s not just about sex anymore. He knows that. 

He’s not sure it’s ever been just about sex. 

But he’s not ready to admit that. Not yet. 

Especially not when you’re storming toward him—eyes blazing, shoulders tense, cheeks almost as red as your lips. You stop right in front of him, close enough that he can smell the tequila and salt on your breath. 

“What the fuck was that?” 

Scott blinks, slow and deliberate. “You’re going to have to be more specific.” 

Your brows draw tighter. “Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“That thing where you play dumb. You sent your little StormPAR rookie over to hit on me.” 

He keeps his voice even, almost bored. “I didn’t send him anywhere.” 

“Oh, please.” You laugh, sharp and humourless. “He walks up to me not ten minutes after you told me to ‘be good’? Come on. You wanted to see what I’d do.” 

Scott exhales through his nose, gaze flicking briefly toward the bar before finding yours again. “You handled it fine.” 

“That’s not the point.” 

“Then what is?” 

“The point is you don’t get to play games with me like that,” you snap. “You don’t get to—” 

“To what?” he cuts in, stepping forward. “To see how fast it takes you to lose your shit?” 

Your eyes narrow. “I’m not losing my shit.” 

“I don’t know,” he says, voice low. “Sure seems like you are.” 

You laugh, incredulous. “You’re unbelievable.” 

He smirks. “You keep saying that like it’s a bad thing.” 

“God, you’re such an ass.” 

“Yeah?” His eyes drop to your hands, balled into fists at your sides. “And you’re shaking. Why’s that?” 

Your jaw tightens. “Maybe because I’m trying not to punch you.” 

His gaze flicks back up, and he leans in—close enough to feel the warmth of your breath on his lips. “Yeah, that’s what you’re trying not to do.” 

For a second, neither of you speak. The air between you feels thick and electric, the noise of the bar fading until all Scott can hear is the rush of blood in his ears. You’re close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off your skin, can hear the faint hitch of your breath when he leans in just enough to test you. 

You don’t back down. Neither does he. Your gaze flicks between his mouth and his eyes, like you can’t decide what you want—and it’s driving him insane. 

He shouldn’t want you this much. Shouldn’t need it this badly. 

But he does. 

“Hey,” Javi says, appearing beside the two of you. “You two good?” 

Scott doesn’t look away—he just shifts slightly, easing back half a step and forcing a breath that feels a little too shaky. “Yeah,” he says, voice smooth. “Just catching up.” 

Your cheeks flush even deeper, and a small, smug smile tugs at his mouth before he can stop it. You glare at him, jaw tight, eyes sharp, like you’re daring him to say one more thing—and he almost does, just to see how far you’ll take it. 

But then you move. Just a small step forward, close enough that he feels it. Feels something. A faint brush against his hip, the slight tug of fabric. It’s subtle enough that Javi doesn’t notice, but Scott does. His brow furrows for barely a second before you’re already stepping back. 

“I’m tired,” you mutter, eyes still locked on his. “I’m heading out.” 

You don’t look at Javi. You don’t even wait for a response. You just turn and push through the crowd, disappearing into the noise and haze of the bar. Scott watches you go, something tight pulling in his chest, and it’s only when the room starts to blur around the edges that his hand brushes his pocket—and he realises what’s missing. 

Then he sees it. 

Your hand, slipping through the last gap in the crowd, his motel key glinting between your fingers. 

For a moment, everything else fades—the noise, the lights, the people pressing in on all sides. It’s just that image, sharp and bright in his mind. The curl of your fingers. The slow burn of anticipation settling low in his chest. 

Scott exhales, slow and steady. He shouldn’t still be smiling, but he is. 

“Damn,” Javi mutters beside him. “Kinda wish I knew what happened between you two.” 

Scott huffs out something close to a laugh, shaking his head. “Nothing happened.” 

Javi raises a brow. “Yeah, sure. And I’m dating a Victoria’s Secret supermodel.” 

Scott looks at him, forcing his mouth into a flat line. “Drop it, Javi.” 

“Alright, alright.” Javi lifts his hands in mock surrender, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Just saying, man—whatever that was, whatever it is you two are always arguing about? It’s not nothing.” 

Scott drops his gaze to the floor, unsure how to respond. What’s he supposed to say to that? You’re right, Javi, we’ve been sleeping together for years, and every time we’re within fifty feet of each other the sexual tension is suffocating. Oh, and I’m pretty sure there’s something else I can’t admit to myself, so I’m just gonna keep pretending I’m fine with this mess of a situation. 

Pfft. Yeah, right. 

He drags a hand along his jaw and glances back up, eyes flicking once more toward the crowd where you’d disappeared. “I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he says, keeping his voice even—casual. 

Javi lifts his chin, still grinning. “Go for it.” 

Scott meets his grin with a brief nod before turning away, slipping into the crowd before the conversation can go anywhere else. He keeps his pace easy, unhurried—like he’s actually heading for the bathroom, not the back door. The bass thuds through the floor beneath his boots, lights flashing over faces he doesn’t bother to look at. 

The noise dulls as he moves farther from the bar, replaced by the low hum of the overhead lights and the echo of footsteps on tile. He’s halfway down the hall when the men’s bathroom door swings open—and Tyler steps out. 

For a moment, they just look at each other. Tyler’s brow lifts, curious, maybe suspicious, but Scott doesn’t give him anything—just a single nod, the kind that ends a conversation before it starts—and keeps walking. 

He can feel Tyler’s gaze linger on his back as he reaches the end of the hall, but he doesn’t turn around. The exit door pushes open with a low creak, spilling the sounds of the bar out into the night. Cool air rushes in, brushing against his skin and chasing away the heat that’s been sitting under it since you left. 

He steps outside, the door closing behind him, and finally—finally—he feels like he can breathe. 

The walk to his truck is a blur of gravel crunching beneath his boots and breath fogging the air. His pulse thrums in his ears, alive in every inch of his skin. It’s not that cold. Not really. Scott’s just warm—too warm—and a little flustered. 

Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Or maybe it’s that thing he still refuses to admit. 

He shakes his head as he reaches the truck, yanking the door open and climbing inside. The cab still smells damp from today’s chase, a mix of rain, sweat, and asphalt clinging to the seats. He turns the key, clips his belt, and lets the engine idle for a few seconds before pulling out of the small parking lot. 

He doesn’t speed—he doesn’t need to. He just rolls down the road slowly, eyes scanning the sidewalk. 

It takes all of ten seconds for him to find you—and when he does, his stomach flips hard enough to make him feel a little sick. 

That’s new. 

He slows to a stop beside you, one hand loose on the wheel as the other hits the button for the window to roll down. “You planning to walk the whole way?” 

You look at him, eyes narrowed. “Maybe I am.” 

He smirks. “Suit yourself. It’s a long walk.” 

You roll your eyes, muttering something under your breath as you yank open the passenger door. Your scent hits him the second you climb in—tequila, night air, and that sweet vanilla bodywash that always makes his pulse skip. The cab suddenly feels smaller when you slam the door shut, and for a heartbeat, neither of you says a word. 

Then you move. 

You lean across the console, grab a fistful of his shirt, and your mouth finds his like you’ve been holding your breath for hours. The impact steals it from him completely. It’s fast, rough, desperate—the kind of kiss that leaves no space for thought. His hand slides up to your jaw, fingers tangling in your hair as you climb over the console, straddling him without breaking contact. 

It’s cramped, clumsy—but neither of you care. You taste like salt and adrenaline, every breath a ragged sound against his lips. His hands find your waist, dragging you closer, and you make a sound that goes straight through him. When you finally pull back—just far enough for air—your voice is wrecked and breathless. 

“Took you long enough.” 

Scott laughs low, voice hot against your lips. “Did it?” 

You don’t answer—you just kiss him again, harder this time, and he lets you take what you want, lets himself get lost in the heat and weight of it. The cab feels too small, the air too thick, the world narrowing to the press of your body and the slick slide of your mouth on his. 

You gasp against him when his fingers dig into your hips, a sound that makes his control slip another inch. You grind down, desperate, and his hands tighten instinctively, holding you there. Your hands move restlessly—gripping his shoulders, sliding up his neck, tangling in his hair until his StormPAR cap falls somewhere between the seats. 

It’s only when you roll your hips again, harder this time, that he pulls back—reluctantly—breathing hard against your lips. “Do you really want to do this here?” 

You tilt your head and start tracing kisses along his jaw, your voice muffled against his skin. “Probably not.” 

He chuckles, the sound vibrating between you as you lift your head and rest your forehead against his, both trying to catch your breath. The air between you hums—thick and unsteady—the second-hand taste of tequila still sharp on his tongue, the sound of your mingled breathing louder than the low idle of the engine. 

His hands linger at your waist, thumbs tracing slow, absent-minded circles against the warm stretch of skin just below that damn crimson top. He could sit here for hours, he thinks, just breathing you in. But reason creeps back in, hazy and reluctant. 

He clears his throat. “We should probably move this somewhere else before someone walks by.” 

You don’t move. If anything, your weight settles a little more fully against him, the ghost of a smile brushing his lips when you murmur, “You worried about getting caught?” 

He huffs, low and amused. “Not really.” His fingers tighten at your hips, keeping you there for one more beat before he exhales. “I’m lucky I made it out at all, actually. Your boyfriend almost stopped me.” 

That gets you to lift your head, eyes narrowing. “My what?” 

Scott shifts in his seat, trying to play it off like he hadn’t said it just to see how you’d react. “Tyler,” he says, keeping his tone carefully even. “He saw me leaving out the back. Looked like he was going to say something, but I didn’t stop.” 

You blink, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Tyler’s not my boyfriend.” 

“He acts like it,” Scott mutters, jaw tightening. 

You tilt your head, searching his face, that same small smile tugging at the corner of your mouth like you can see straight through him. “You jealous, Scott?” 

He rolls his eyes, fingers flexing at your waist. “No.” 

You hum softly, unconvinced, and finally start to shift off his lap. The movement is slow, deliberate—your hips dragging over his, the slide of denim against denim leaving heat in its wake. Scott’s fingers twitch like he wants to pull you back, but he doesn’t. He just watches you settle into the passenger seat, hair tousled, lips swollen, the faintest smirk playing on your mouth. 

The silence that follows feels different now. Not awkward—just taut, stretched thin over everything neither of you is saying. 

Scott clears his throat, shifting in his seat to discreetly adjust the tightness in his jeans before gripping the wheel. He shifts the truck into gear and glances at the mirrors—catching your reflection. Your head is tipped against the window, your expression a little dazed—thanks to the tequila, no doubt—but your smile is smug, like you know exactly what you’ve done to him. 

The drive to the motel is mostly silent, save for the low hum of the engine and the soft crackle of the radio. Scott’s pulse never really settles—because every time you move, every shift of your leg or tilt of your head, his eyes flick toward you and all the blood in his body rushes south again. 

You’re still leaning against the window, lashes low, your bottom lip caught between your teeth. And there isn’t anything he wouldn’t give to know what you’re thinking right now. To know if your pulse is still racing. To know if you’ve got your thighs pressed together for the same reason that his knuckles have gone white on the steering wheel. 

God. This is dangerous. 

Maybe you were right when you said it has to stop. Maybe you had a point. 

Maybe he should put a stop to this before something—or someone—breaks. 

But then your reflection tilts toward him again, lips still red and swollen from his kiss, and he knows he’s lying to himself. 

The rest of the drive blurs by in flashes of passing headlights and rough-edged silence. You don’t speak. Neither does he. The air feels thick enough to touch, charged with the ghost of every breath you shared in that front seat. When the motel sign finally glows into view—faded neon cutting through the dark—Scott’s grip tightens on the wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to sense. 

He pulls into the gravel lot and kills the engine, the sudden quiet ringing in his ears. You unbuckle fast, fingers fumbling with the seatbelt before you shove the door open. 

You’re out of the truck before he can reach for the handle. He climbs out a beat later, rounding the truck in a few long strides until he’s behind you. The space between you hums with static, and when you glance up at him—that’s all it takes. He leans down and catches your mouth in a quick, hungry kiss that’s more breath than contact, a promise of what’s coming. 

You pull back just enough to whisper, “Room number?” 

“Seven,” he says, voice low. 

You nod once, already turning away, the sway of your hips an invitation that makes it hard for him to remember how to walk straight. He follows close behind, eyes fixed on you, jaw tight. By the time you reach the door, you’ve already got the key in hand, fumbling it into the lock while his breath ghosts over the back of your neck. 

The second you both step inside, Scott kicks the door shut with a dull thud. The room smells faintly of dust and motel soap, the only light coming from the flickering lamp beside the bed. You barely make it two steps before his hand catches your wrist and pulls you back. 

Then his mouth is on yours again. 

It’s messy and hungry and too much all at once. You stumble until the backs of your knees hit the bed, his body pressing into yours as you fall back onto the mattress. His hands brace on either side of your head, and he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he stops. 

Because he is. He can admit it now. He’s afraid that if he stops playing the game, you’ll disappear. 

Your hands slide up his chest, over his shoulders, into his hair—dragging him out of his thoughts. He mutters something low against your lips, something that sounds like your name, then trails kisses over your cheek, along your jaw. His stubble scrapes against your throat as he drags his mouth lower, teeth grazing your pulse point. 

“Scott—” you whisper, but it comes out more like a sigh. 

He hums against your skin, the sound low, almost a growl. His hand drifts to your waist, thumb brushing bare skin, and he can feel your body tremble—feel how much you want this. And it’s intoxicating, knowing he’s the reason for the way you’re whimpering right now. 

Then, between one kiss and the next, his voice drops low. “Just so we’re clear…” His breath hitches, lips brushing your jaw. “You and Tyler never—” he swallows hard, “—you know?” 

You laugh, the sound breathless, your fingers curling in his shirt. “God, no.” It slips out fast, automatic, like the question doesn’t even register as serious. And then—still chasing his mouth, still drunk on tequila and him—you add without thinking, “I haven’t been with anyone since you.” 

Scott stills—completely. 

You don’t notice. You just find his mouth again, like nothing’s happened, while he’s frozen—heart pounding, brain short-circuiting—trying to decide if he really heard what he thinks he did. 

And by the time he can finally breathe again, you’ve already pulled him back under. 

- You - 

It’s déjà vu. 

The kind that settles heavy in your chest before you’ve even opened your eyes. The sheets are twisted around your legs, the air smells like stale sweat and tequila, and your mouth tastes like regret and toothpaste that isn't yours. 

You don’t have to look to know where you are. Or who’s beside you. 

It’s pathetic, really—how easy it is for you to fall back into him. How easy it is to tell yourself this is the last time while his arm is still heavy across your waist, his breath slow and even against the back of your neck. 

It’s not your fault. Not really. 

It’s his fault—and the tequila. Because if he’d just left you alone at the bar, you wouldn’t be here. If he’d just let you finish your bad date, you’d be waking up alone in your own motel room. 

Not beside him. 

Again. 

With a heavy sigh, you quietly untangle your legs and slip out from beneath Scott’s arm. He stirs, but doesn’t fully wake—just shifts a little further onto your side and buries his face in your pillow. 

For a moment, you just stare. You trace the angle of his jaw, the curve of his neck, the slope of his shoulders. Down the pale expanse of his back until his body disappears beneath the sheets. You don’t realise you’re holding your breath until your chest starts to ache—and only then do you turn away, shaking your head. 

This can’t happen again. Ever. 

It’s too dangerous. 

You find your clothes a few feet from the bed and reluctantly pull them back on. Then you duck into the bathroom, splash your face with water, and try to make your hair look less like you just had your brains fucked out. 

When you step back into the room, Scott’s awake. He’s sitting on the edge of the mattress, staring at his boxers—and it takes every ounce of your self-control to meet his eyes instead of letting your gaze drift lower. 

“Hey,” you mutter, dropping into the small lounge chair to put on your shoes. 

“Hey,” he mumbles, finally leaning forward to pick up his boxers. 

This morning feels strange. Different. Like something broke last night, and now whatever it is you two have been doing feels wrong—not just wrong because you’ve been sneaking around, but because something in it has shifted. 

You just don’t know what. 

“This can’t happen again,” you say, voice firm. “I’m serious this time.” 

He glances up at you, eyes wide, expression unreadable. You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him not acting like a smug prick the morning after. But today? He doesn’t look smug at all. There’s something else in his gaze you can’t quite name. Something sincere. Something real. Too real. 

You clear your throat. “It—it’s too dangerous. Tyler’s already onto us. It’s just not worth it.” 

His brows lift, just slightly. “Not worth it?” 

“You know what I mean,” you sigh. 

He braces his elbows on his knees. “Yeah,” he mutters. “You’re right.” 

You almost trip on your way to find your second shoe. “You’re... agreeing with me?” 

He shrugs, but something about it’s too tense to be casual. “It’s dangerous. We should stop.” 

Something twists deep in your chest—sharp, sudden, gone before you can name it. The back of your throat burns and thickens, as if you’re about to cry. But no—that would be ridiculous. You’re just hungover. Sleep-deprived. Probably hungry. 

You swallow hard. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.” 

He doesn’t answer—he just watches you, quiet and unmoving, his hands clasped between his knees, knuckles white. His jaw works once, like he’s biting back something he won’t let himself say—and for a heartbeat, you almost ask what it is. 

But the look in his eyes makes your chest feel too tight, so you move instead. 

You tear your gaze away, slip on your shoe, and start searching for your phone tangled somewhere in the sheets at the bottom of the bed. Once you find it, you straighten, adjust your shirt that doesn’t really need adjusting, and head toward the door. 

“I guess I’ll... see you?” 

He nods once. “See you around.” 

You hesitate, hand resting on the doorknob, your breath caught somewhere between your ribs. For a second, you think he’s going to say something—his head lifts, his brows draw tighter—but the silence stretches, heavy and unbroken. 

Why does it feel like this? 

Before you can give in to the stupid, aching urge to stay, you force yourself to open the door and step out. And it hurts. For some reason, it hurts. 

Your chest gets tighter the farther you walk from his motel room. Your head feels fuzzy, your hands won’t stop shaking, and there’s a voice buried deep in the back of your mind screaming at you to turn around. 

You’ve never felt like this before. Not with Scott. Not with anyone. And you have no idea why. 

All you do know is that this—whatever this was—really does feel like the end. 

Like that really was the last time. 

‧₊˚✧ PART TWO ‧₊˚✧

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[geminiwritten]

masterlist ₊˚.༄

sorted a-z by fandom & a-z by character

old writing

♡ smut

M A R V E L

bob reynolds

✫ soulmate (one shot) | 14k you're engaged to bucky when you find out that not only are fated mates real, but you have one... and it's not your fiancé (soulmate au).

joaquin torres

✫ safehouse (one shot) | 15k ♡ you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín. ✫ en español (one shot) | 19k ♡ after joaquín returns from a two-week-long mission things feel different, then he convinces you to go undercover with him where tensions rise—only for him to leaving you wanting more... until he stops by your office for a very intimate spanish lesson. ✫ happy birthday (one shot) | 12k ♡ joaquín forgets your birthday while he's away on a mission, so he flies home to beg for your forgiveness (friends to lovers).

S U P E R M A N 2 0 2 5

clark kent

✫ just one (one shot) | 21k ♡ you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie. ✫ complicated (one shot) | 28k ♡ you've been best friends with clark since high school, but moving to metropolis—and crashing at his apartment until you get a job and find your own place—is stirring up old feelings you thought you'd buried for good. so you accept the only job offer you've gotten... at luthorcorp, which somehow turns into a date with lex luthor, and you're left praying for someone super to swoop in and save you.

T O P G U N

bradley ‘rooster’ bradshaw

✫ could be me (one shot) | 10k you've been in love with rooster since you were a kid, but a few years ago your father threatened to ruin rooster's career if you didn't get over your stupid crush and find an honourable man - so you date assholes to protect rooster, but it's getting harder to stay away from the boy you're in love with. ✫ emergency contact (one shot) | 9k rooster exploits having you as his emergency contact to get you away from hangman. ✫ karaoke friday (one shot) | 11k you're a bartender at the hard deck with a huge crush on rooster, and rooster (very cheesily) uses karaoke friday to confess his own feelings to you. ✫ cold showers (one shot) | 9k you and rooster have been best friends since freshman year of college, and that's all... until you move in together and things get complicated. ✫ punishment (one shot) | 13k after performing an impressive but reckless stunt in front of an admiral, you're sent to be babysat by maverick under the cover of a 'tactical training specialist' which means no one can know just how legendary you are... but hangman isn't playing nice and rooster is too nice to ignore. ✫ playing games (one shot) | 17k you've been best friends with rooster for years and you're both obviously in love with each other, but he refuses to cross that line... until you accept some help from hangman and he takes the game just a little too far.

jake ‘hangman’ seresin

✫ baby sister (one shot) | 7k hangman has a serious crush on you, it might even be love, but it's a little complicated seeing as rooster is your older brother. ✫ cowboy (one shot) | 10k the squad are sick of you and hangman pining after each other, so they set you up with the cowboy hat rule - 'you wear the hat, you ride the cowboy'. ✫ at first sight (one shot) | 3k the squad challenge hangman to charm any girl in the bar, and phoenix chooses you, but you end up making more of an impression on him than he's is expecting. ✫ from friends to forever (one shot) | 9k you've been in love with hangman for as long as you can remember, but he's never looked at you that way, not until he meets a guy you're dating for the first time and everything you thought was unrequited becomes dangerously mutual. ✫ domestic fantasy (one shot) | 10k your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend. ✫ perfect storm (one shot) | 12k you and jake have a messy history and have been comfortably hating each other for the past few years, until all hell breaks loose when you're brought in as the newest member of maverick's special detachment (enemies to lovers). ✫ dirty laundry (one) | dirty laundry (two) | 22k ♡ after a couple months of living together, you're still completely oblivious to how you affect jake and he's starting to spiral because now he's... feeling things. ✫ ten years later | 18k ♡ you've known jake your whole life—and loved him just as long. but it's always been complicated. jake was pretty and popular. you weren't. he loved you in private but looked straight through you in public. then everything changed one night in college when you crossed that line... and the next morning, he broke your heart. now, ten years later, you've outgrown your awkwardness (yeah, you're hot), you're on north island, and you're reunited. emotions are high, trivia gets competitive, and jake gives you a reason to love his stupid old truck.

robert ‘bob’ floyd

✫ the plan (one shot) | 21k the squad are all pretty sure that bob has a thing for you, but you're not convinced, so you hatch a plan to tease him within an inch of his life until he snaps. ✫ short skirt weather (one shot) | 18k you and bob are obviously into each other, but he's hesitant to make a move claiming you're too young for him, until a whole lot of miscommunication—jealousy, tension, the works—and a training accident lands you in hospital. ✫ picture you (one shot) | 21k ♡ you met bob back at the academy and fell for him fast—but you never dared risk the friendship... now you're both stationed at north island and for once the timing might be right, until you overhear him say some things that cut deep and make you question everything you thought you knew. ✫ worst way (one shot) | 22k ♡ being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself. ✫ confessions (one shot) | 16k ♡ bob gets drunk and confesses some things that make your thoughts spiral—then after a night of bad dreams, you overreact to natasha and bob's jet malfunctioning during a hop, which results in some heated words and a very heated locker room confrontation.

T W I S T E R S

tyler owens

✫ photos (one shot) | 7k you’re in a perpetually bad mood because you're in love with tyler and he's clueless, but what happens when you 'accidentally' send him some scandalous photos? ✫ all yours (one shot) | 14k after being best friends and chasing storms with tyler for years, one night changes everything... now you're staring at a pregnancy test with two pink lines—and just as you're working up the nerve to tell him, tyler announces to the world that he never wants to settle down or have kids.

✧ updated seventh of october '25 ✧

© 2025 geminiwritten

[holocrone]

Marcus and Luca in THE BEAR 2.04 “Honeydew” | 4.08 “Green”

[thelovingend-deactivated2025073]

[science-hoes]

For @angelamariaxo, who reminded me that Robby is Old 💕

PTMC’s communications operate with Microsoft.

That means Michael Robinavitch is cursing at his phone twenty times a day when he has to open the Microsoft dual authenticator app to log into his work email, practically growling as he holds the device far enough away from his face that he can read the numbers.

That means Michael Robinavitch needs the help of the Sweet Medical Student on rotation with him when he has to change his password again because he got locked out of his dual authenticator app account again.

That means Sweet Medical Student has to suggest to him “maybe keep the password simple and only change the number when you have to make a new one?”

That means Michael Robinavitch is huffing and puffing about “what if someone figures it out? that doesn’t seem very secure. there’s patient info in my emails.”

That means Sweet Medical Student realizes she overestimated her attending’s common sense and technological abilities and reminds him to “just use a word that only you will remember.”

That means Michael Robinavitch grumbles under his breath while he updates his fuckass password again, this time changing it to Sweet Medical Student’s name, followed by the number 1. Now that, he can remember.

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Someone Borrowed, Someone Blue.

an engagement party, your childhood best friend, one too many glasses of champagne. what could go wrong?

pairing - childhood bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - smut. cursing. cheating. alcohol mention. so much angst… i’d apologise but i’m not sorry.

word count - 3.7k

author’s note - get it? like, something borrowed, something blue… because it’s a wedding… I was half asleep when that popped into my head and I thought it was perfect, personally. I don’t condone cheating irl, but also… it’s your life, do what you want ;)

as always, reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics!! so, if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging. thanks, angels <3

masterlist. inbox.

The moonlight shines down, glinting off the diamond ring settled on your left hand.

Everyone's dancing, singing, laughing, enjoying each other's company in a rare moment of complete happiness. People keep grabbing you, hugging you, reaching for you to offer their congratulations.

Isn't it just so wonderful? Two people completely in love. Ah, to be young again.

The fairy lights twinkle where they're hung across the garden, acres of grass just begging to be decorated. You'd initially protested this venue - a huge country house in the middle of nowhere, with countless rooms and a huge courtyard.

It's just our engagement party, not our wedding. We don't have to be so extravagant.

This isn't extravagant - not for my family, anyway. Just say yes. I'll plan the entire thing, you don't have to worry.

And so you did. Say yes. To his proposal, the venue, anything he suggests. You can't find it in you to say no, to argue, to fight for what you really want. It isn't worth it.

"There you are, my soon to be wife!"

You take a deep breath, pretending the sound of his voice doesn't make you feel sick.

"My soon to be husband."

He can't see the grimace on your face, even though it's there, loud and clear. He can't read you, has never been able to.

"A car has just pulled up. You expecting anyone else?"

You are, but you won't let yourself get your hopes up. So you lie.

"Don't think so."

"Okay, well... you'll save me a dance, won't you? My mom wants to take some pictures."

You nod reluctantly, patting his arm with as much affection as you can muster.

"I think your brother is calling you."

You direct his attention to where his frat boy siblings are, hollering and yelling for him to come over.

"My guys!"

He departs as quickly as he came, leaving a wave of too strong cologne in his wake.

You take a walk from the garden to the front of the house, curiosity peaked. You scan the parking lot, and your heart stops when you spot the car in the corner.

A burgundy 1983 BMW 733i.

He's here.

You spin on your heel, searching almost frantically, when you hear someone clear their throat. You turn around, and there he is.

Leaning against a pillar, stood in a dress shirt and tailored trousers, hair perfectly styled.

Steve Harrington.

You're half convinced you're dreaming. The world moves around you in a daze, crickets chirping and wind blowing gently. You lock eyes with him, and can't fight the grin that spreads across your face.

“Don’t fret, baby. The life of the party has arrived.”

You scoff but almost run towards him, tripping over in your heels. He meets you halfway, arms snaking around your waist to keep you steady as you wrap yourself around him.

He smells the same. Cologne, spearmint, a faint note of diesel from the car. He smells like home.

Past home, you remind yourself. Not anymore. You have a new home now, with a soon to be husband that doesn’t understand you and a soon to be family that is built on morally questionable money and fake niceties. Steve’s a person of your past, a distant memory, a fading dream.

Except he’s stood right in front of you.

He's staring at you with a look in his eyes you can’t quite place. You’ve never seen it before.

"I didn't think you'd come," you whisper, begging yourself to pull away from his embrace. He doesn't let you go far, keeping his arms around your back as if he's worried you'll bolt at any given moment.

"And miss my best friends engagement party? Never."

"Best friends. We're not five anymore, Steve."

You roll your eyes, punching his arm lightly.

"What, I can't call you my best friend anymore?"

He picks you up, spinning you across the gravel of the parking lot. You're dizzy with it, the world passing by you in streaks of shapes and colours.

"Steve!"

"What?" he laughs. "You don't like this, best friend? What's the problem, best friend? Are you dizzy, best friend?"

"Put me down!"

Steve throws you over his shoulder as you both spin, strong hands preventing you from falling.

"Put me down, Steve, please - okay, okay! You're my best friend! Call me best friend all you want, please!"

Steve's crying with laughter, out of breath and rosy cheeked. He places you back on the ground, smoothing your hair down with rough palms.

You inhale carefully, grabbing onto his biceps as an anchor as you gauge your bearings. You look up at him, and lose your breath all over again.

Chest heaving, tongue darting over his bottom lip, hair mussed but still perfectly styled. He looks a picture, an ancient painting, a statue carved from the finest marble.

"I never want you to stop calling me your best friend," you whisper, so quietly that the breeze takes it.

"Then I won't."

Your hand slips down Steve's arm and into his, fingers linking gently.

"I missed you."

"I missed you so much, Birdy. You have no idea."

The childhood nickname shoots a lightning bolt through your heart, shiver running up your back involuntarily.

The two of you would sit and watch cartoons for hours on the floor of Steve's living room, pressing your little heads together to see the TV better. He'd joke that you sounded like Tweety Bird, all sweet and lispy. The nickname was born that day, and stuck ever since.

"How was California?"

"So good. I'll tell you all about it later. How's your engagement party?"

"It's good."

You try to sound convincing but your voice cracks, giving you away instantly. Busted.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. There's a few people you know back there - from school, the neighbourhood, family. They'll all wanna see you."

"I'll socialise later. Wanna talk to you first."

The intensity in his voice makes you nervous. You realise you're still holding his hand, so you drop it, crossing your arms over your chest.

"You didn't RSVP."

"Didn't get your invite. Travelling."

"I called your mom. She said she'd tell you."

"She didn't."

"She told me she did."

The crickets continue to chirp, gentle breeze blowing your hair into your face. You look at Steve pointedly, unwilling to be the first to break.

"What are you doing here, Steve?"

"It's your engagement party."

"So you've said."

"I haven't seen you in months."

"I tried to call, but you stopped answering."

"Birdy-"

"I'm just saying, Steve. We haven't spoken in months, I feel like you've been point blank ignoring me, I've had to come to terms with the fact that you probably wouldn't be at this party or the wedding and then all of a sudden you just show up? Unannounced?"

"I know how this looks."

"Do you?"

You're not entirely sure where all of this anger has come from, but you can't seem to tamp it down. It's bubbling, simmering, threatening to spill over the surface dramatically any second.

"I wasn't sure I could do this. Any of it."

"Do what?"

"Stand by and watch you make a mistake."

You scoff, laughing at him in disbelief. He's never been one to sugarcoat things, and usually, it's one of your favourite things about him. But not today.

"Don't you fucking dare, Steve."

"Birdy, be real. The guy is a prick. And you want to marry him? You're a smart girl, the smartest person I know. You've got to see that none of this makes any sense."

"So you showed up here to yell at me? Criticise my life choices? Thanks, Steve. Thanks a million. Some best friend, huh?"

"I've done nothing but support you."

"You ran away! Across the country! How is that support?"

"Fine, maybe I can't support straight up stupidity!"

"Am I smart or am I stupid? Which one is it?"

Steve sighs, running his fingers through his hair as he watches you pace the gravel in front of him. You're vibrating with fury now. It's something he's seen before. Something he knows how to navigate better than anyone. He knows you. He knows you need an outlet here.

He also knows that you're never more hyperaware than when you're mad. So, he takes his opportunity.

"I came here to tell you not to marry him."

You stop dead in your tracks, shaking your head in denial.

"...Why, Steve? Why would you say that?"

"You know why."

"No."

You take a deep breath and will yourself not to cry. In the garden, you can hear people laughing, singing along to some 70s pop song you've never liked. You pray silently that no one comes looking for you.

You take a step closer to Steve, standing up straight.

"Say it."

He looks at you incredulously, shocked by your sudden defiance.

"Say it, Steve. If you came all this way to say it, then fucking say it."

Steve steps into you, closing down the space. You don't move, determined not to back down.

"You're going to hate me if I say it, Birdy."

"I don't give a fuck anymore. Say. It."

Steve runs his tongue over his bottom lip, never once breaking eye contact with you. The silence seems to stretch on infinitely, thick and blanketing like fresh snow falling.

"I'm in love with you."

You feel like you've been punched in the gut. You take a deep breath and try to stay on two feet, wobbling where you stand. Finally, you find your voice.

"Fuck you, Steve Harrington. Fuck. You."

He laughs, but there's no humour in it.

"Yeah."

"How dare you? How dare you come to my engagement party and start confessing your feelings? You could have told me anytime, but you chose today?"

He goes to interrupt but you hold a finger up, effectively shutting him up.

"How long, huh? How long have you been in love with me?"

Steve's trembling, chest stuttering with the force of his confession.

"For as long as I can remember."

You haven't looked away from him once. You're frozen in place, suspended in the moment.

"No you haven't."

"You're gonna tell me how I feel now, Birdy?"

"Yeah, Steve, I am. Because I don't believe you. You're King Steve, ladies man, notorious player. You were never seen with the same girl twice in high school. Don't you remember? Sneaking into my room at night, whispering under my blankets about your latest hookup, telling me all the dirty details?"

"I remember," he whispers, voice laced with something like sadness. "Of course I remember."

"You don't get to tell me this now. It's not fair, Steve."

"Why not, huh?"

"Because I've always been in love with you! Always."

Steve stumbles backwards, dizzy and disorientated.

"No you haven't."

"You're gonna tell me how I feel now?" you laugh in disbelief. "I've always been in love with you. Everyone knows it. My parents, your parents, all of our friends... I think the goddamn mailman knew, Steve!"

"I didn't."

"Blissful ignorance," you chuckle humourlessly.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because I knew it wouldn't change anything."

Steve's eyes go wide as he keels over, as if the wind has been knocked out of him.

"Wouldn't change anything? Birdy, it... I-I can assure you it... It would have changed everything."

You both look at each other, breathless and riddled with confusion. There's something flowing through your veins, something unintelligible, something unrecognisable.

"Why would you do this today?" you choke out, sobs threatening to break free. "Of all the days, Steve."

"Because I'm going insane!" he yells, voice raising. "I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't function knowing that you're going to marry a man you don't love. It's ruining my life, Birdy!"

"You don't think it's ruining mine? Huh?"

You take a breath, very aware that if you shout anymore, multiple people are going to come running from the garden.

"This is selfish, Steve. And you're not selfish."

He looks down at you, bottom lip wobbling.

"I am when it comes to you. Always have been."

"You're breaking my fucking heart, baby."

You choke out the words before bursting into tears, sobs wracking your frame. Steve grabs your hand and guides you to the stone steps, sitting you down next to him. Against better judgment, he slings an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close.

He smells so familiar, so comforting, that it only makes you cry harder. You bury your face in his chest, fingers tangled into his dress shirt, holding on for dear life.

"I'm sorry," he's mumbling. "I'm so fucking sorry. I had to. I really had to."

"I know," you're muttering back. "I know you did. I know."

You lift your head to look at him only to find he's crying too, years of emotion dripping down his face. You wipe his tears with your thumbs, your heart shattering at the sight in front of you.

Steve's only made you cry once before. In ninth grade, you'd stupidly assumed that the two of you would go to the prom together. Steve had made a joking comment about always being your date, and you hadn't questioned it. Then, one Friday night, he'd snuck into your room to tell you excitedly that he'd asked Lizzy Buchanan to the dance, and she'd said yes. You'd burst into tears immediately, much to your teenage embarrassment, willing yourself to play your cards closer to your chest. Steve had crumbled instantly, crying because you were.

That's how it's always been. He cries, you cry. You cry, he cries. He's just not usually the cause of the tears.

"I'm sorry, Birdy," he chokes. "This was the only way."

"I know," you soothe, rubbing circles into his wet cheeks with your fingers. "I know. You're not the villain here, Steve. You never were."

His eyes are trained to yours, silent communication passing back and forth. The two of you have always had the ability to practically read each other's minds.

You're not sure who moves first - perhaps it's the universe, pulling you together by the strings woven into your chests - but suddenly your lips are melded together, moving as if it's the easiest thing in the world. Steve's clinging to you as if you're his life source, a man in the desert without water.

You tangle your fingers into his hair to tug him impossibly closer, eyes fluttering when he groans, deep and visceral. He spreads his legs and pulls you between them, both of you slotting together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Your tears are dancing onto each other's cheeks, mixing like rain water and gasoline.

Suddenly, you yank yourself from his grip, standing up and smoothing down your silky dress. Steve prepares himself for the yelling, the screaming, a slap that he most definitely deserves.

Instead, he's met with you, chest heaving, skin warm, eyes heavy. You're looking at him expectantly.

"Come with me," you croak, voice hoarse and untrustworthy.

You grab his hand and slink through the front door, up the grand staircase and into a room with a heavy oak door. He follows you obediently, confused but completely trusting.

It's your hotel room. A marriage suite. A spacious, windowed room, with makeup scattered across the vanity and suitcases half unpacked on the floor. The bed is still made, which makes Steve breathe a sigh of relief. He hasn't had you here. The room isn't marred.

The minute you shut the door you're back on Steve, shoving him up against the hard wood. He grabs handfuls of your ass and spins you around, backing you into the cold surface behind you for stability. He lifts you easily, wrapping your legs around his waist as he kisses you again.

Steve trails his lips down your neck as you rock your hips, desperate to find some friction. You whine gently, fingers tugging at his hair a little rougher than intended to get your message across.

"What do you need, honey?" he murmurs, afraid to disrupt the atmosphere.

"You."

Steve throws his head back as he groans, exposing his throat to you. You waste no time in nipping up the expanse of it, sinking your teeth in with no regard for the consequences. You're too far gone now, not worried about looking back.

Walking backwards, Steve tosses you onto the bed, chuckling when you almost bounce off of it. He unbuttons and strips his shirt, pulling his belt from the loops as he goes. You can only lie there and watch, wondering when your best friend became less of a boy and more of a man. He's all corded muscle and tanned skin, freckled and perfect.

Steve crawls between your legs, kissing you tenderly.

"Wanna take my time with you," he murmurs between kisses. "Can't right now. Will, though. Promise."

You feel as if there's electricity crackling across your skin, pulsing and alive. It's never felt like this with anyone. It never will again.

"Promise?"

You can't help the slight insecurity that colours your voice, young and unsure.

"I promise, Birdy. Cross my heart."

He takes your hand in his and places it over his chest, as if to solidify his point.

You nod and kiss him again, desperate to have every inch of his skin on yours.

Steve shimmies your underwear down your legs, tossing them behind him somewhere. Shucking his trousers off, he pushes your dress up and around your waist, groaning when he gets a good look at you.

"Prettiest girl in the world. He doesn't deserve you. Never did."

"And you do?"

"I'll spend every day for the rest of time proving that I do."

With that he's pushing into you, sliding home with one smooth thrust. Both of you gasp, grabbing onto the other person to use them as an anchor.

"Please, Steve," you're whispering. "Give me everything. I want it all."

"You've got no idea how long I've been waiting for this."

"I do," you laugh, "I do. Because I've been waiting just as long."

Steve chuckles and leans down to kiss you, slipping his tongue into your mouth to memorise the way you taste. There's remnants of champagne on your lips, along with the minty lip gloss you've loved for as long as he can remember.

He wastes no time setting a steady rhythm, thrusts deep and measured. You rake your nails down his back, clawing at this skin, praying silently that you leave your mark. Little do you know, you staked your claim on him a long, long time ago.

"S'good, Stevie," you whine. "Fuck, so good."

"Does he make you come? Does he even try?"

You shake your head frantically, closing your eyes when Steve laughs dryly.

"Didn't think so. He can't make you feel the way I can, baby. He'll never be able to."

His words are only pushing you closer and closer to the edge, red hot heat building at the pit of your stomach. Steve places one hand at the base of your throat, the heavy weight of it causing your eyes to roll back.

Your sweat slicked skin is plastered to his, every inch of you pressed together. Steve leans down to rest his forehead against yours, panting into each other's mouths.

"I love you," he breathes, hips getting quicker. "I love you. Fuck, I love you."

"I love you," you sob, back arching as you find your release. Stars dance across your vision as you tighten around Steve, nails leaving crescent moons on the skin of his shoulders.

Steve's right there with you, back flexing and fingers leaving their prints on your hips as he groans. It's the prettiest sound you've ever heard. Your mind loops it for you, playing it on repeat as he collapses his weight on top of your body.

"I meant it," he mutters against your damp chest. "I do love you. Always have."

You kiss his forehead gently, smoothing the hair away from his face.

"I meant it too. I love you. You taught me what love was in the first place, Steve."

He leans up to press his lips to yours, tender and honey sweet.

You realise the gravity of the situation all of a sudden, your heart rate increasing in Steve's ear.

"Hey, hey. Birdy. Don't panic, okay? We'll figure this out."

You think for a moment, weighing up your options in your head. Unexpectedly, you're jumping out of bed, fixing your dress and slipping on your underwear and heels.

"What are you doing, babe?"

You adjust your hair and swipe your fingers under your eyes to salvage your makeup in the mirror, turning to face the man who's now dressing himself frantically.

"Have you had a drink tonight?"

"No, I drove here."

"Perfect."

You grab your purse and stand by the door, waiting for him to follow. When he looks at you in pure confusion, you chuckle.

"Let's run away."

"Birdy... what?"

"Steve. You heard me. Let's. Run. Away."

He scans your face for any sign of hesitation, but all he finds is love. Adoration. Assuredness. That's all the confirmation he needs.

He runs at you, picking you up and spinning you around. Grabbing his hand, the two of you sneak down the stairs, slipping out of the front door as quietly as possible.

You throw yourself into the front seat of his BMW, vibrating with adrenaline as Steve starts up the engine. It roars to life, and you're very aware that people are going to come looking for you.

But you don't care.

Steve links your fingers, resting your intertwined hands in his lap as he reverses. You go to look back towards the garden, but you stop yourself.

"Can't move forward if you're always looking back, right?"

Steve laughs, leaning over to kiss your warm cheek.

"Truer words have never been spoken, Birdy."

He brings the car to a stop before you begin down the winding driveway, looking at you carefully.

"You ready?"

You take a deep breath, grinning at him.

"I've been ready since we were five years old."

He smiles at you, bright and blinding, and there's no doubt in your mind that you've made the right choice.

Can't move forward if you keep looking back, after all.

@enigmaticloki @joekeerysslut @s-trawberryv-eins @wintressoldier36 @mangomastani

[moonlight-prose]

ask for joaquín ideas and you shall recieve ma'am 😌 SO HERE YOU GO giving torres nasty head under his desk as he he's working on a debrief with sam on the phone, that at one point his eyes roll back

fall apart

a/n: this put me in a chokehold so tight i am pretty sure it’s why i am having issues breathing. the way this man had me acting up at ALL TIMES. and well i had vodka in my veins when i started writing this and had absolutely no issues being horny on main. so enjoy what is probably an unedited mess. but i was thinking fast at the time and somehow managed to finish it.

summary: distractions were best kept under wraps. even as joaquin blindly allowed you to toy with him at the worst possible moment. OR giving joaquin nasty head during his phone call with sam.

word count: 1.1k+

pairing: joaquin torres x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI 18+ ONLY!!, oral (m receiving), honestly fully porn without plot anywhere to be found, giving messy head, cussing, spit, cumplay, cumeating, face fucking, choking, slight exhibitionism, fluff, they're nasty people.

He’s supposed to be glued to the screen in front of him, eyes peeled and bloodshot as he searched for what Sam requested. He’s got a job to do. One that called for acts of heroism and skills beyond what he was capable of at this very moment. A task that should have felt like a breeze. Quick, easy, over and done with before the phone beeped relentlessly. Sam’s name popping up on the flashing screen.

But his head remained stuck in the clouds, mind coated in that thick gray fog—tipped back into his chair as he grasped at the handles. He needed to answer the fucking phone. Pick it up, clear his throat. Sound put together and professional.

He could barely see straight, entirely sure that if he opened his eyelids entirely he’d go cross-eyed. The feel of your wet hot mouth pulled him into the snare of your web. Tantalizing and dark—thick with the enticing heat that curled along the base of his spine. Wrenching his stomach into a fluttering hold. Speeding the steady beat of his heart until he began to tremble, thighs shaking where they were placed on either side of your head.

“Nena-”

Another suck had his back arching up, hand scrambling to curl along the back of your neck. The phone buzzed again, sliding with force along a clean wooden desk. All it would take was one press of his finger and Sam’s voice would fill the room.

“He’s calling-”

Your hand curled tight around the base of his spit soaked cock, precum dribbling down the sides as you came up for air. “So answer.”

“I can’t fucking answer,” he balked.

“Why not?” Swollen lips twisted up into a smile—one he’d seen before. One he knew like the back of his hand. “I thought you were capable of anything,” you purred.

“But it’s…” It would be so easy. Such a quick task to get done. Tell him the information, debrief what he’s learned through hours of research. He curled a hand around your chin, thumb pulling at your slick bottom lip. And the words slipped out before they registered in his mind. “Do it quietly.”

You lit up at his demand, head ducking down to swallow him down with a moan—the head of his cock brushing the very back of your throat. The mistake had been made and with a choked grunt, he picked up the phone.

“Got anything?”

Joaquin swallowed thickly, palming your head as he pulled up what files were labeled the most important with a shaky hand. “Uh….yes.” You swallowed around his length, throat working tight, spit dripping onto your hand that still held him in place; his mind went white.

“Joaquin. You good?”

No. He wasn’t.

He was so far down your throat he could see the bulge, the sticky wet sounds of your tongue slipping beneath his pulsing vein had him jolting his hips with a pained groan. Concern etched into Sam’s voice with questions he couldn’t answer, words that held no meaning in the depths of a mind gone dumb. You choked on him, spluttering for air as a sheen of spit smeared along your chin and cheeks.

“S-Shit-”

“What happened?” Sam called into the speaker, a rustle of him turning the car echoing into the spacious office.

Joaquin shuddered, hand clambering to cup your throat and keep you at bay—the dark glimmer in your eyes nearly sent him over the edge. He coughed, situated himself in the chair with adrenaline thundering beneath his buzzing skin. Eventually you’d fight him on this. Pull his twitching cock back into your mouth with a greedy moan—desperate for his taste to slide down your throat. And he’d let you. Without question.

He was only a man in the end; wrapped tight around your finger that cleaned the mess along your cheek.

“Nothing,” he cleared his throat. “Got a cramp. I managed to decode what documents you managed to find at the scene. Shipment logs and whatnot.”

You huffed, thighs clenching at the sound of technical words rambled from a mouth you burned to kiss. “Baby-”

His hand clamped over your mouth, sealing your jaw shut with an audible click. “They’re meeting five minutes outside The Wharf. Looks like the trade is happenin’ over international waters.”

“They’re hoping not to get caught. Alright. Send me the time and exact location. And call whatever law enforcement is closest. They’ll want in on this too.”

“Already on it,” Joaquin rushed out, releasing what hold he had left as the line went dead. “Sorry nena-”

A loud sigh filled his ears beneath the thundering echo of his racing heart. Dreamlike in its breathy tones, as if you couldn’t wait to finally taste him again. The tang of it a delicacy on the back of your tongue. His groan was loud, emanating off each wall and window, when your mouth sucked him back in. Hand pumping fast with the slide of your spit.

“Fuck,” he gasped, eyes rolling back.

The sounds were obscene. A squelching echo of your tongue and mouth bobbing along his painfully hard cock. He could feel it rush along his spine, pulling tight enough to splinter with pain right down to his toes. Ruining him with ease seemed to come naturally—your body entirely in tune with his. You read him with ease as he trembled in the chair, blunt nails digging into the back of your neck as he fucked into your awaiting mouth.

“G-Gonna- Fucking I’m gonna cum.”

You hummed, swallowing around him once, twice, until your fingers curled around his pulsing balls and he was extinguished in the flames. He spurted down your throat with a raw shout, hips shoving up and into your face. Any other time he’d carefully keep his distance, make sure you could breathe properly.

But he could barely keep track of his own name. Let alone where he was.

A garbled string of words spilled past his lips when you slowly came up for air, tongue licking gently at what still dripped down across your knuckles. He wanted to kiss you. Taste himself from the heat of your mouth. He wanted to lick into your cunt with a veracity he’d never known before your name became his favorite prayer.

He just couldn’t fucking move.

“Again?” you breathed, climbing into his lap with a soft grin.

“Shit,” he rasped, thumb pushing the pearly drips of his cum along your tongue. “I think you killed me.”

Light fractured along the edge of your iris and Joaquin felt the word love burn itself into his ribs. “You can kill me later,” you breathed, looping your arms around his limp form.

“I like those odds.”

[itsmeatballworld-library]

OH. MY. GOD.

[moonlight-prose]

Saw that you reblogged these sentences and said you would take them for Joel and I just had to slide in here. Wanted to give you a few options of things I saw were interesting from both parts of the list. Hopefully one of the sentences inspires you and feel free to ignore if they don’t lol. Thank you for considering at all!

You deserve better than what you’ve got. - Or - You’re lucky you got away with a scratch.

How do you make the pain go away? - Or - Can you look at me, please?

alone and forsaken

a/n: forgive me for the late late late response to this old request. i kept it cause i knew the joel inspo would eventually hit me again one day and well the time has come. one episode into s2 and i'm already back in the pit for this man. i chose two out of the four you sent and i think it's become quite a beautiful angsty story. this is with a joel that takes place pre season one but not by much. i hope you enjoy darling!

summary: trapped in a house barely held together at the seams you and joel find yourselves thinking about the past, the future, and what led to this point in time.

word count: 1.3k+

pairing: joel miller x reader

warnings: not explicit, angst yet again because i can't be stopped, grief + ptsd, conversations about death, love confessions, philosophical talks about humanity, hope.

The world was silent.

Nature's song once existed in a bountiful harmony—filling the once warm spring air with echoes of a winter come and gone. You could remember the days where flowers bloomed without a care in the world and animals began to wander out of their safe environments. Deer were a common sighting in your hometown; more than humanity could possibly think up.

Now everything resembled a bleak afterthought. Barren of humans, empty of what once thrived in places as small as this.

You supposed it was only time that nature grew weary of the toxic tendencies of humanity. Where she offered life, they handed over decay. An endless cycle of take that wound up eating itself on the final page.

Humanity was the illness spread upon this earth. A threat to the existence of peace. Nature merely found a cure.

"This is all I could find," he mumbled, handing you an open can of cold beans.

You grimaced, but knew that finding anything better might leave the both of you searching for hours more. If that happened then starvation would be the only real winner in this all out war. And you weren't about to go down swinging against something that lethal. So you took the can with a tight lipped smile, shoveling a mouthful into you in the hopes it might turn into something tastier.

"How long until we're out of here," you muttered around the food.

Joel grinned—eyes dull and darkened by fatigue. "Day or two. Till the storm lets up some."

Rain pounded against the brittle roof of this old fucking house. You were almost certain it would give in eventually—collapse right over your bodies. Maybe it should have. Maybe you and Joel would be better off if the house were the one to decide your fates—nature of course playing her part.

At least that way you wouldn't have to worry about turning into one of them.

Even in the safety of this one story home you could hear the screech of something inhuman; the cure to nature's ailment named humanity. They were agitated by the storm. Angry they couldn't find people as easy as before, and they made themselves known.

You began to wonder if you would ever get used to their existence. That one day might pass where you finally came to a place of acceptance. Yet the thought alone was harder to swallow than the shitty food you currently fought to keep down.

More often than not you found yourself wondering if they felt pain the way you or Joel did—your mind playing tricks of guilt and empathy for creatures too far gone from the touch of humanity. Did they understand the concept of loneliness? Trapped within their own minds as the fungus wreaked havoc on their bodies. Or were they soulless? Lifeless.

There were days you pondered the same about yourself—too afraid to breach that locked door in your mind. The one that held whispers of darkness far greater than you could handle. Nightmares you did your best to put out, raging against a cracked and broken amount of hope.

"Do you ever think about what they feel?" The leak in the center of the house splattered muddy water along your hand. A cold chill traveled up nerves you believed were already shot years prior.

Joel's answer was unromantic—monotone. "They're dead."

"But are they really?"

He cleared his throat, setting the can down on the floor beside his gun. "If they aren't. They probably wish they were."

"To be locked in your own body and not have the ability to control it." Your teeth dug into your lip, biting down hard enough to split the skin. "I'd never wish that on anyone."

“I think we’re past wishin’ for things.”

He had a point. As much as you didn’t like what it meant, you understood the callous sentiment born from years of anger. This was the way of things now. A reality perfumed with the scent of rotting flesh and marred by vines of cordyceps that ravaged whatever breathed and spoke. Humanity was buried in a shallow grave. Cities leveled, homes left behind like old photographs someone might one day happen upon.

In the months of traveling with Joel you came to understand what exactly the world lost. You used to be a cynic, entirely submersed in the belief that humans were the first step in destruction—a generation that held nothing but contempt for all that came before. Until the world’s slate was wiped clean. And love, empathy, hope disappeared from the very map of a world you could no longer recognize.

“My friend used to host a barbecue every summer,” you said, watching the rain through the shattered window.

“That right?”

Nodding, you forced yourself to swallow another mouthful of beans. “They couldn’t cook for shit. Barely even liked their apartment being used for parties, but they were the only one that managed to get their own place.” You could practically smell the charred burgers, cold beers and haphazardly made margaritas melting in the east coast heat. “We were at the very last one of the year when the outbreak happened.”

Joel’s spine went rigid, silence swallowing even the pattering echo of rainfall. The chaos and horror isn’t what you remembered the most of that night. No, you pushed those memories down years ago—fearful that they might succeed in driving you mad. You recalled the laughter. The soft strum of a friend’s guitar and rasp of his voice as he sang beneath whatever stars you could catch glimpses of. You could picture their bodies lounging on chairs, lips twisted into smiles that burned you from the inside.

They were happy before it happened. Lost in the bliss of a found family.

“You deserve better than what you’ve got,” he muttered, discarding his can to the side.

His words jarred you, stomach twisting as he mourned your life despite never knowing your friends. But that was the thing about Joel Miller. He had a family too. He once had friends, a life he’d return to in an instant if given the chance. Neither of you would choose the other if you met any other way; too immersed in what you had to wonder what could have been.

But you wanted him in this life. You gave up surviving alone before he came into your life—intent on greeting death with open arms and hearing that laughter one final time.

“Joel.” Nudging him with your foot you finally caught a glimpse at those brown bloodshot eyes you’d grown to admire. They were glossed over with the exhaustion of going days without sleep, each of you fighting to find a space you could rest for some time. Yet their beauty never failed to leave you breathless. “You are exactly what I deserve in this life. You saved me.”

“You saved yourself darlin’.”

“No I didn’t.” He sighed, watching the rain splatter along mud coated wood floors. “I just got lucky at the right fuckin’ time.”

“Can you look at me, please?”

Reluctantly he found your gaze, fingers curled into a fist atop his thigh. “We don’t get much happiness in this world. Probably won’t ever get it again. But I’m happy I found you Joel. Out of all the ways life could have gone in this hell, finding you has been the best outcome.”

“We might not even make it to Boston,” he muttered despite the way his lips quirked. “What then?”

“Then I’d say it’s a pretty good way to go. Dying with someone I love.”

Disbelief colored his face, hand flat and loose against denim that had seen better days. “Yeah.” He exhaled long and slow—satisfaction spilling into the air. Neither of you wanted to be the first to say it, words meant for final moments and days where humanity lingered in the air, but you couldn’t take it back now. “A hell of a way to die.”

You smiled, settling against the wall. “A good way to die.”