How would (one of) Shawn’s characters feel when her bush is gone or very trimmed because they’re going to the beach? <3333
omg i love this bc why the fuck would they all be pissed HAHAH
pope cody would look at you changing, just staring and staring and staring and staring—until you finally snap, “andy, what?” he’d huff, annoyed as he crosses his arms, “you shaved.”
you roll your eyes, “yeah, so? we’re going to the beach.”
“so—don’t do that.” you sigh, “pope, ‘s just a little trim. it’ll grow back, i promise.” he’s not convinced, glaring a little at you until he finally nods, leaving the room to pack up the rest of your stuff. <333
jack abbot would notice when you’re on the towel in front of his chair, on your back as you get some sun. he’d shift, putting his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose to make sure he’s lookin’ at you right.
“baby? come here—“ he calls out to you and you smile, sitting up to perch yourself on his lap. softly, he takes his hand to move your bottoms to the side a bit, causing you to yelp.
“jackie!” you try to scramble off as he grabs you harder, keeping you seated on his clothed dick. dipping his fingers in, he strokes your now silky folds—you lean your head back, trying not to cause a total scene.
“you shaved? when? this morning?” you nod against his shoulder as he clicks his tongue, removing his hand—you pout.
he looks at you all stern, “tell me why.” you shy away a bit.. mumbling, “just feeling a little insecure having it all out in public ….”
grabbing your face he turns you to face him, “hair is beautiful baby, and natural. you know how much i love it, and you’re so confident with it—i like you that way.”
you nod, give him a little kiss on his cheek, “mkay”
sammy bryant sees you putting on your bikini bottoms, letting out, “the fuck?” you pause, eyes wide as you look at him glaring, tongue in his cheek. “jesus, what sammy?”
walking over, he kneels down in front of you, putting his finger through the string to see your pussy. “whadya do to her, baby?” you laugh a little, head back as you gasp in disbelief, “shaved! jesus i thought there was a spider behind me or something!”
leaning forward, he kisses your trimmed mound, mumbling into her, “i’m sorry, baby. i’m sorry she did this.”
grabbing his hair you giggle, shoving his face harder into your pussy, “give her a real apology, baby. like you mean it.”
wolfstar!daughter au
summary: twas the night before you leave for hogwarts university. you and harry reminisce on moments from your day - moments from your life.
wc: 0.7k+
Harry’s arm lays casual around your shoulders, holding you close to him. The night is calm now that everyone has retreated back to their rooms, a melancholic fog settling over the lake. It had been an oddly emotional day for both your parents, who had been sending you to Hogwarts for seven years. Just because you were now going to the university, it doesn’t mean much has changed. Well, a little bit is changing for you and Harry; you’ll now live in a house with Hermione and Ron —the rest of your friends still close by— and while you won’t share all your classes together, you will share a home.
“First time I see Sirius cry.” Harry mutters, and you smile softly, glancing up at your boyfriend. He’s clearly replaying the entire day back in his mind: from the elaborate brunch you’d all had, celebrating your last breakfast before leaving to the relentless packing forced upon you by both your parents. Questions like ‘which bedding do you want to bring with you’ and ‘did you remember to pack your towels’ were new to you, and after the first hundred of these questions, you were ready to tap out.
Harry now grins down at you, eyes glimmering as he recalls the short break he had forced upon you. You had gotten to that point in the day where it seemed as though your parents were packing for you, but they still didn’t let you take a break, even as you laid down in bed rethinking your entire existence. Harry had called your name from downstairs, calling for help to find something in his bedroom. Remus had rolled his eyes in amusement, and you had groaned as you pushed yourself off the bed, trudging down the stairs to find your boyfriend.
When you reached the bottom of the stairs, you had found Harry pressing a finger to his lips and nodding his head in direction to the bathroom, where you had confusedly followed him. He had grinned, shutting the door behind you and pressing you up against it. It was only then that you realised his intentions, and you had strewn your fingers in his hair, letting him kiss you for as long as he pleased. Or at least until someone came looking for you.
Now, all your luggage stands in a pile in your respective living rooms, and your parents have gone to bed, probably reminiscing in a similar way to the two of you.
You shift on the dock, bringing your legs up from how they swing over its edge so you can sit in a criss-crossed manner in front of Harry, who twists his torso to look at you. “It’s funny, isn’t it?” You ask quietly, and Harry tilts his head.
“We started out playing in this garden as kids, then on this dock when our parents were confident we knew how to swim. We walked together to school everyday, and then we went to Hogwarts and made the best friends of our lives. But here we are again, just the two of us - not just friends anymore. And we’re starting the next chapter.”
Harry grins, bringing a hand up to the side of your face. His thumb caresses your cheek softly, and he whispers “Always had the most important person in my life by my side.”
“You’re being sappy.” You say, with a wide smile on your face. Harry leans in close to you, pecking your lips once and replying “You started it.”
His hand trails down from your face and to your waist, tugging you closer to him. He helps you manoeuvre yourself over his lap until you’re straddling him. You kiss him once more, letting Harry deepen the kiss for a moment when he presses himself harder against you. When the kiss breaks, you still keep your hold on each other, hugging the other as though you’re not going to the same place tomorrow.
“At least if we suck at making new friends it won’t be the end of the world.” You mutter, and Harry laughs softly, squeezing your hip. “Yeah, but it’ll be weird having a rivalry with the old slytherins when we won’t have our houses anymore.”
“Oh well, maybe that’s just your sign to become friends with Malfoy.”
summary you can't help it as you get closer with the night shift attending. and after a day in court, you welcome the chance for a night out with drinks and darts with the doctors.
tags/warnings age gap (mid 20s / mid 40s), workplace romance, slow burn, flirty/tension, hospital setting+legal stuff, bar night, darts + betting, drinking, r. smokes, nicknames, “pinkie pie”, girly/femme reader (skirts, heels, pink everything), dorky/amy santiago energy/she loves pens? u suck at darts sorry x i do too
wc 9.2k words (?? wtf?? it goes by quickly tho)
could read as stand alone, part one (linger) here, part two (strawberry) here, part three (optics) here
“Hey, Pinkie Pie,” Santos says, like it’s your legal name. “Wanna get wasted?”
You blink at her. Once. “I—sorry?”
Behind you, your colleagues, Jane and Charles—composed, senior, deeply invested in whatever clause they were dissecting—look up in quiet, collective confusion. Lovely people. Truly. Also deeply, fundamentally not built for whatever this is.
And, unfortunately, you are, in fact, the Pinkie Pie in question.
You’d gotten to become friends with Trinity Santos in your time there. Turns out, her somewhat lacking bedside manners invited a good amount of legal threats.
“What do you mean you told a guy you’d put his IV up his ass if he asked for a lemonade again?!”
“You weren’t there.”
“He’s trying to sue for ten grand.”
“...I stand by it.”
Santos was a good amount different to you, a bit rougher around the edges, but well-meaning at her core. She’d thrown around many nicknames for you. That has unfortunately also spread around the ER now.
One time, Robby called you Princess Bubblegum. You didn’t know he even knew who that was.
Another time, Langdon threw around Kirby. That made Mel snicker every time.
McKay loved calling you Lotso when you weren’t in a great mood. “Get it? You’re pink, and soft, but you can also be scary. You’ve seen Toy Story 3, right? That’s Harrison’s favourite. I raised a kid with taste, honestly.” McKay explained once.
Jack was nice enough to hold back from nicknames like that. Well, you didn’t think he knew of them, and you were happy to keep it that way.
You stand from your desk, giving lovely Jane and Charles a polite nod as you quickly walk out into the hallway with Santos, gently closing the door behind you.
Santos gives you a look.
You’re dressed particularly formal today, black fitted dress with black tights, and minimal jewellery, your hair done well, black stilettos.
“What’s with you?” She wonders. “Hot date? Funeral?
“What? No,” You say like it’s ridiculous. “Court.”
“Ah, troublemaker.”
“I’m… I’m a lawyer, you know this.” You remind, confused.
“Yeah, I’m messing with you,” she rolls her eyes. “Though you are severely lacking in pink. This is weird. I don’t recognise you. You okay? Want me to book you for a neuro CT? Purely recreational. Discounted.”
You had also received a comment from, shockingly, Jane, in the morning before going into court. “I kind of miss the pink, but the black is a good choice. Makes you look more serious.” She’d said, casually.
You move on quickly. “What were you saying? Drinks?”
“Right.” Santos rolls her eyes like you’ve personally disappointed her. “Wasted. Bar. Drinks. People. You. There. Tonight.”
“Right. Yeah. That—sounds good.” A beat. “Who else is going?”
“Most of day and some night shift,” she shrugs. “You’ll know ’em. Nobody you haven’t worked with.” Then, with a look—“Pretty sure your boyfriend’ll be there.”
You press your tongue into your cheek, giving her a flat look.
“You know,” she goes on, enjoying herself now. “Old. Bit short. Not that charming, really.”
You don’t even dignify that with a proper response.
“Honestly,” she adds, “reminds me of my grandad.”
“Mm,” you hum. “Very funny. Time and place?”
“Tom’s. Down the road. Can’t miss it.” She jerks her chin. “Anytime after seven. Show up, don’t show up—I don’t care.” Then she nods past you, to your office. “What’s with the suits in there? They wanna join?”
“They have families to get back to,” you say, a little defensive despite yourself. “And normal sleep schedules.”
“Boring,” Santos grins. “...You alright? You seem wound up.”
“I’m fine. Long day.” You answer. “Court is a bitch.”
“That’s what I say about my ex-girlfriend, Courtney,” Santos agrees. “See you there, Kirby.” She shoves your shoulder lightly on the way out like that settles it.
You turn slightly, watching her go. “…That’s it?”
“Oh—and a pay rise!” she calls over her shoulder.
You sigh. “Not how it works—”
But she’s already gone.
You stand there for a second, caught between fluorescent quiet and whatever she just presented into your night.
You’ve been here a few months now—long enough that it’s stopped feeling like something to prove and started feeling like something you just do. The edges have worn down.
The language, the hospital, these staff, there’s a rhythm to it now. Contracts, consults, reviewing medical records, internal investigations, employment agreements, do it all over again. And you find as the sun goes down and your colleagues leave the office, it gets quieter, lonelier — it’s an inevitable drift for you to go to the ED.
You tell yourself it’s balanced, but with how you can’t help the preference you held for the night hours. You did try to rationalise it, but gave up after a while. You were well suited to the night shift curfew.
And no shit, it came down to the night shift attending.
You couldn’t really help it—liking him, enjoying him, letting yourself fall into the ease of it. Not when he was… like that.
The Winnipeg case, a five-point-seven million dollar suit against the ED, doesn’t blow up the way it threatens to.
For a while, it looks like it might—demand letter aggressive, numbers inflated enough to make everyone sit a little straighter in meetings. You’re pulled in early, mostly to observe at first, notebook open, listening as your seniors map out exposure and strategy.
It never makes it anywhere near court.
Negotiations take over. Back-and-forth. Offers shaved down, reframed, pushed again. You sit in on most of it, watch the way language shifts depending on who’s in the room.
It settles. Not five-point-seven million. Not even close. A quiet resolution. No admission of liability. Just enough money to make it disappear without anyone having to say they were wrong.
The kind of ending hospitals prefer.
You told Jack as soon as you could leave the meeting and settle down in the ED, like it’s nothing.
Set up at the nurses’ station like you belong there—files spread, laptop open. The ER moves around you in that constant, controlled chaos, but you’ve stopped noticing it as anything more than background, annotating a contract, pen’s ink running dry as you write and finish explaining it.
“They take your approach?” Jack had asked.
He’s leaned against the counter, forearms braced, looking down at you like you’re something he’s still working out. You wore a soft pink skirt that night—something that moves when you do, matches your nails, even your water bottle, the quiet consistency of you.
You nod, a little pleased despite yourself, turning your pen between your fingers. “More or less. I wanted a full dismissal, but…” you shrug, glancing up, “settlement’s better than nothing. No court, at least.”
Jack hums, but he’s not really listening to the words anymore. His eyes drift over you—brief, but not unintentional.
“You in court…” he starts, almost to himself. “God, don’t tell me you wear those shoes as well.”
Your mouth tips into a smile as you glance down at them, a relatively sane four inch wedge heel.
“Oh, I’ve worn worse,” you admit.
He huffs, sceptical. “You’re kidding.”
You shake your head, tapping your pen against the paper. “Eight inch corset heels once. They took me more seriously the taller I was, it was my first year out of law school. You know, I knew a girl who showed up in full on pleasers once.”
He frowns. “In what?”
You look up at him, deadpan. “Stripper heels.”
There’s a beat. Then—
“…Right,” he nods slowly, recalibrating.
You bite back a laugh, ducking your head slightly. “I don’t dress like this for court, though. Judges like presentation.”
“Well, judges like pretty girls,” he says.
It’s casual, and you still, smiling a bit. You tilt your head up at him, pen pausing mid-spin between your fingers. “Aw, you think I’m pretty?”
“Think you’re the prettiest damn thing in this ER,” He says, voice low.
You held his gaze for a second too long, something quieter threading through the space between you. Then you look down, like you’ve decided not to touch that.
Your pen taps back against the page. “Presentation is half the argument in court. That’s my theory, anyway.”
“Mm,” he hums, not disagreeing.
He pushes off the counter then, glancing up at the board. The moment shifts, but not completely—something of it lingers, low and steady.
“Alright,” he says. “I gotta make sure none of my residents are killing anyone.”
You nod, already back in your notes, but there’s a faint smile still there. “Have fun.”
He’s already halfway across the floor, but you catch the quiet chuckle he doesn’t bother hiding. And, annoyingly, you feel it linger longer than it should.
Every once and a while he throws a flirt like that out and you can’t tell if he’s just teasing you or being earnest. You think he just likes making you nervous, and it works.
It doesn’t help.
He leaves himself exits—always does—but he never seems in a rush to take them. And there’s something about the way he watches you after, like he’s waiting. Curious, maybe. Measuring.
He likes when you throw something back. Likes when you don’t and you flush under his gaze. A cadence builds out of it. Not in the obvious moments, but in the quieter ones.
The way your day keeps ending in his car, like it’s not even a decision anymore. Like of course he’d drive you home. Like of course you’d let him. You always do.
It gets easy enough that he starts asking questions like—
“You prefer mint or pine?”
You look up from the nurses’ station, watching him click through charts.
“…Pine,” you say. “Mint makes my nose itch. Why?”
“Got a…. This is gonna sound stupid now that I say it out loud — I got a new car scent, thingy,” he sighs. “And I couldn’t decide which one. Didn’t want you to… I don’t know, not like the smell of my car or something.”
“Your car smells fine.” You shrug, fixing your notes, pen ink dying slowly as you adjust. “Smells like a guy’s car.”
“...Right.” He murmurs, now uncaring for his charts. “In- Is that a good thing?”
You don’t answer, humming to yourself as you make the note look pretty.
He knew your coffee order without asking. Remembered it. Adjusted it when it got colder—less ice, a different milk, something warmer pressed into your hands before you even realised you wanted it.
You weren’t supposed to have favourites.
Not in your line of work. Not in his, either. You’re trained out of it—trained to flatten instinct into objectivity, to treat every person, every problem, with the same measured distance.
And you were good at that. You still are.
You got along with everyone—that was part of it. Being friendly with the physicians and staff to better represent them. And there were some of the obvious examples.
Santos with her relentless nicknames and worse bedside manner, who liked you in a way she’d never admit outright.
Parker, easy and sharp, sending you song recommendations mid-shift like it was as essential as charting.
Shen, who trusted you enough to accept whatever experimental caffeine disaster you handed him.
“...You got him a what?” Jack had said, staring at the drink like it might bite.
“It’s called a Dark Vader,” you’d said, completely serious. “Three shots of espresso, cola, condensed milk, whipped cream. Iced.”
Across the floor, Shen moved like a man possessed—fast, erratic, unstoppable.
“The guy’s basically taken twenty lines of coke.” Jack clearly held back a smile, entertained, and nodded. “This is gonna be fun.”
You’d watched Shen nearly clip a trolley at speed, wincing slightly.
Robby, dry and cutting and occasionally kinder than he let himself be.
Mel, still a little wary of you in that specific way people are when they’ve been burned by lawyers before.
Langdon, steady.
The nurses—Lena on nights, Dana on days, Princess and Perlah whispering in Tagalog over charts, Donnie trying to juggle competence with new fatherhood, Jesse, Emma—all of them.
You fit in.
More than that—you were trusted. They came to you before things escalated. You knew how they worked, how they thought, how to protect them without suffocating them in policy. You weren’t just the lawyer they called when something went wrong—you were already there.
That mattered. It meant you couldn’t afford favourites.
And you didn’t, really. You liked them all. In different ways. For different reasons, professional and personal. Lawyers had to keep their wits and stay objective.
But you let it slip here.
Not because of the flirting.
Not because of the rides home, or the coffees that appeared beside your things without announcement.
Not even because of the way he looked at you sometimes—like he was mid-calculation and didn’t like where it landed.
It was the pens.
“No fucking way—”
It bursts out of you before you can stop it, loud and bright and completely out of place at the nurses’ station. Heads turn. You clamp a hand over your mouth, eyes wide.
“Sorry—sorry,” you rush, already laughing under your breath as you look back down.
Because—Jesus.
“Jack,” you lower your voice, but not your awe, “Oh my god, I wanted these so bad.”
They sit in your hands like something ceremonial. Weighty. Intentional. A matched pair—Montegrappa and Visconti—lacquered in soft pinks and florals that catch the fluorescent light in quiet, expensive ways. Not loud, not tacky—delicate.
Accents that mirror the rings you wear, the little details you build yourself out of every morning. The kind of pens you don’t just use—you research and choose.
You turn one between your fingers, thumb brushing over the barrel, feeling the balance of it, the way it settles. You remember the video you watched—how smoothly it glided, how the nib flexed just slightly under pressure, how the ink laid down like silk.
“They’re—” you exhale, shaking your head a little. “The grip on these is insane, the 23k nib—Jack, these are—this is ridiculous.”
Across from you, he’s watching. Not the pens. You. There’s something quieter in his expression than usual—something almost careful, like he’s braced for you to laugh it off, to not get it. But you’re you. Of course you get it. His shoulders ease, just a fraction.
“Yeah,” he says, like it’s nothing. Like it wasn’t deliberate. “I know. You had that… wishlist thing open last week. On your iPad.” A small shrug. “And you talked about them the whole drive back.”
You blink up at him.
He shrugs. “You also said your current ones were running dry. Figured it was time. No problem.”
Time. Like this is practical. Necessary. Like he didn’t just buy you something you absolutely did not need but wanted in that specific way that feels almost worse.
You look back down at them, turning one in your hand again, slower now. The metal catches the light, soft and warm. You didn’t even know they made them in pink.
“I—these are…” you trail, then laugh a little, breathless. “God, I feel bad. I didn’t get you anything.”
That earns you a look. Not annoyed. Not exactly. Just firm. Maybe offended if you didn’t know he was also fond of you, and these pens were evidence of that.
“When have I ever asked for anything in return, sweetheart?”
It lands easy, like it always does. Casual. Practiced.
You swallow, nodding once, softer now. “Thank you. Really.”
Something shifts in his face at that. Small. Satisfied, maybe. Like that was the part he wanted. He nods it off, leaning back against the counter, slipping back into something looser.
“Well,” he adds, glancing at the pens in your hand, “you know, someone’s gotta make sure the hospital lawyer isn’t signing off on contracts with a dying Bic.”
You huff a quiet laugh. “God forbid. Liability nightmare.”
“Exactly.”
There’s a beat where neither of you move. You’re still holding them. He’s still looking at you.
Then—
“Trauma incoming!”
Everything snaps back into place. Noise, movement, urgency flooding in like it never left. Jack straightens instantly, already turning—then pauses mid-step, hand coming up to his chest.
You’re already reaching for it. His stethoscope sits abandoned beside your notebook, exactly where he left it. You pick it up, step forward, and hold it out.
He takes it from you—fingers brushing yours, brief and warm and grounding in a way that feels disproportionate to what it is.
“'m glad you like ‘em,” he says, already moving.
But he lingers just long enough to glance down—at the pens still in your hand, at the way you’re still half-smiling to yourself.
Something unreadable passes over his face. Gone just as quickly.
Then he’s turning, stepping into the chaos, voice shifting into something sharper, more commanding as he calls out orders.
And just like that, he’s back where he belongs.
You stand there a second longer, the noise rising around you, the weight of the pens still settling in your hands. Careful, you think, turning one once more between your fingers.
★★★
Half the ER is here—sprawled across mismatched tables shoved together like an afterthought, drinks sweating through thin napkins, voices stacking over each other until it’s just noise.
Someone’s already laughing too loud at something that wasn’t that funny to begin with. It’s messy, loud, alive in a way the hospital never quite lets itself be.
It’s your first time out with them like this, and they’re… exactly what you’d expect. Tight-knit, loud, a little unhinged. Easier, somehow, without the constant hum of consequence in the background.
You hold onto your messenger bag tight, nonetheless, hoping whatever leftover nerves and pent up frustration from your day in court has run its course.
Your feet ache, somewhat unusual considering how often you find yourself wearing heels, but a full day of court in stilettos has it pinching at your toes in a way that only court does to you. You ignore it. You need to just… relax. People. Drinks. Whatever Santos said.
You make your rounds—names you know, faces you’ve seen across desks and hallways, now loosened by alcohol and time off. It’s… nice. Strange, but nice.
“No pink?” McKay chuckles as she’s sipping a mocktail, Javadi awkwardly by her side with a sprite.
You sigh. God, does everybody just… notice that you like pink? “Nope.”
“You know, if you ever wanted to try medicine, peades has some cute pink scrubs,” McKay tells.
“Noted. How are you finding the updated contract?” You check. “Gloria was up my ass about it.”
“Fuck Gloria,” She scoffs. “Respectfully, of course. The contract's great. Finally get a few days to Harrison or…. Literally anything else. Considering a spa day.”
“It’s well deserved.” You shrug, fidgety. “I’ll send you a link to my favourite spa place in the city. I worked with the firm that represented them, they send me great discounts.”
McKay scoffs a laugh at that, blowing out air and nodding. “That would… be amazing, thanks. Get a drink, relax.”
You smile at her. You wander the bar.
You drift toward the bar, weaving past bodies and noise until it thins just enough to breathe. Mel’s there—perched neatly on a stool, posture a little too precise for a place like this, ginger ale in hand like it’s been deliberately chosen.
“Hi, Mel,” you say, sliding in beside her. “I really like your shirt.”
She glances down at it, like she has to confirm what she’s wearing. A faded Donnie Darko print, soft with age.
“Thank you, Counselor,” she says, a small nod. Then, after a beat—“You know, you’ve helped with my fear of lawyers.”
You blink, a little thrown. “Oh. That’s good. Your deposition didn’t exactly sell us well, I’m guessing.”
“Not at all,” Mel says, matter-of-fact. “You can be very cruel.”
A pause. She registers it, just a fraction late.
“Not you,” she adds, correcting cleanly. “Lawyers. Structurally.”
You huff a quiet laugh, leaning your elbow against the bar. “Yeah. No, that tracks. Sorry you had to deal with the worst version of it.”
She shrugs—acceptance, not dismissal. Then her eyes settle on you properly, scanning once, quick but thorough.
“…No pink?”
You click your tongue, getting a little irritated. Not at Mel, never at Mel, but god, you did wear other colours. Right? “Nope, no pink tonight.”
Mel nods, processing that like new information being filed. “You’re usually quite pink.”
“I am,” you admit. “This is… a deviation. I don’t just wear pink, by the way. I love… red.”
Another small nod. Filed away. “...That’s like… a variation of pink, but yes. Sure.”
The bartender’s a few seats down, mid-conversation with Santos—who’s leaning in, smiling in a way that makes the outcome obvious. You watch as a napkin gets turned, a pen appears.
Mel follows your line of sight, equally observant, if less invested.
“They’re flirting,” she says.
“Mm,” you hum. “She’s winning, too.”
The bartender laughs at something Santos says, already writing something down.
Mel takes a sip of her drink. “Efficient.”
You snort softly. “I’m gonna give it a minute before I try my luck for a drink. Feels like I’d be interrupting a… negotiation.”
Mel considers that. “Yes. That would be disruptive.”
You glance at her, amused. “You okay here?”
“Yes,” she says simply. Then, after a second—“I like observing.”
“That checks out,” you smile. “See you around.”
She nods once, already half-turned back to the room.
You leave her there, steady in the noise, as you slip back into it.
Jack’s at the dartboard when you find him—Robby beside him, both mid-game. He doesn’t notice you at first. Focused. Brows drawn, shoulders set, that same quiet precision he brings to everything.
The dart hits a good few inches off bullseye.
He exhales through his nose—low, annoyed.
Robby claps once. Smug. “Tragic.”
You slide in at the edge of the high-top, nudging aside a couple of their empty bottles with your wrist, settling there like you’ve always been part of it. Jack takes a sip of his beer, still studying the board like it personally offended him.
Then—without looking fully at you—
“Where’s your pink?” Jack says, like that’s the only detail that matters.
“I don’t exclusively wear pink,” you continue, a little more worked up than you meant to be. It’s been all day—comments in corridors, in court, even Charles of all people raising a brow like you’d shown up in costume. “I wear other colours. I have range. I wore yellow once. People loved it.”
“Yeah, but,” he shrugs, shooting you a knowing look, “you’re Pinkie Pie.”
You close your eyes. The nicknames have reached him. You want to dump ice over your head. “Not you too.”
There’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth—gone before it fully forms. He throws again.
Better. Much closer. Close enough that Robby lets out an annoyed huff and rolls his eyes like he’s been personally wronged by the improvement.
“You do wear a lot of pink,” Jack adds, almost as an afterthought, already reaching for another dart.
You open your eyes, fixing him with a look. “So do toddlers. Doesn’t make it a defining personality trait.”
“Hm.”
He adjusts his stance—subtle, practiced. Weight shifting cleanly, compensating without thinking. His right leg plants steady, the movement so natural it only really registers if you’re looking for it—balanced, controlled, deliberate.
He throws again.
Closer still. Not quite there.
Robby scoffs. “Getting warmer, grandpa.”
Jack ignores him completely. His gaze flicks to you instead, quick, assessing—like he’s recalibrating something that has nothing to do with darts.
“Funeral?” he asks, nodding at your outfit.
You glance down at the black. Smooth it once over your thigh. “Court.”
“I can feel the joy from here.”
You glance at him. “Have you ever argued in front of a judge who already hates you?”
He doesn’t even look up. “Every day, sweetheart. Different setting.”
You huff a laugh.
Robby steps up, takes his shot—misses by a fraction and swears under his breath. “I blame the beer.”
“Sure you do,” Jack mutters, already holding out a dart toward you without looking. “You wanna play?”
You take one look at the board, then back at him. “No. I have the coordination of a drunk deer.”
“I’d pay to see that.”
Robby snorts.
And Jack—finally—looks at you properly. Not just the outfit, not just the absence of pink. You. Tired edges, sharp mouth, still buzzing from a day that clearly didn’t go your way.
A minute later, Robby excuses himself—something about another round—leaving without making a thing of it. Like he’s done this before. Like he knows exactly when to disappear.
You and Jack don’t acknowledge it.
“You alright there?” he asks after a second. Quieter now.
You glance down at yourself, smoothing your dress. “Mhm. You?”
He looks at you properly then. Not the quick, clinical scan he gives everyone. Not distracted. This is slower. Intentional. It lingers. “I'm doing a lot better now,” he says.
Your brow lifts, curious. “That so?”
“Mm.”
“You wanna elaborate, or—”
There’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. He shrugs. “Haven’t had enough beers.”
“Right,” you hum.
You glance toward the bar—Robby taking his time, very deliberately not looking over, then immediately looking over when he thinks you won’t notice.
“He left,” you point out.
“He did,” Jack says, following your gaze, then back to you. “Very convenient timing.”
“You think he did that on purpose?”
“Definitely. Guy’s got a sixth sense for when to disappear.”
“Good for him.”
“Bad for me,” Jack mutters.
You catch it. “Oh?”
He takes a sip of his beer—finally—like he needs something to do with his hands. “Means I’m stuck making conversation.”
“You’re doing alright so far.”
“Yeah?” he glances at you. “Thought I was bombing.”
“Mm. Strong start. Called me a children’s cartoon character within thirty seconds.”
He nods. “Some would say Little Pony is a universal cartoon.”
“It’s My Little Pony,” you correct.
“Alright, no one’s taking it from you—”
“No, it’s— that’s the cartoon. It’s called My Little Pony. I watched it as a kid,” you insist, smiling despite yourself. “Generational difference. What’d you watch?”
“Other than the gold rush?” he shoots back. “Scooby Doo.”
You nod, amused. “Great show.”
He throws, stance even and steady.
Dead centre.
A sharp, satisfied clap—more to himself than anything—before he looks back at you.
“Nice hit,” you admit.
“First bullseye all night,” he says, then, like it’s an afterthought—“Why don’t you like court?”
You glance at him.
“Isn’t that kind of the cool part of being a lawyer,” he goes on, casual but not careless. “Chatting up a judge, all the stops.”
You glance at him, exhaling. “I don’t mind court,” you say, after a beat. “I just… don’t love what it means.”
He doesn’t look away from the board. “Go ahead.”
You fold your arms loosely. “It’s like—” you hesitate, searching, then find it in his language instead of yours. “You’ve been nursing a patient all night. Stabilising them. Watching vitals, adjusting, talking to them, keeping things from escalating. Maybe a few dips, but nothing you can’t manage.”
He stills, just slightly.
“You’re not trying to send them to surgery,” you continue. “You only do that if you absolutely have to. If everything else fails.”
A small nod from him. Go on.
“That’s law,” you say. “Or… good law. You negotiate, mediate, settle. You keep things controlled. Court is—” you huff a quiet breath, “—something’s already gone wrong. It’s last resort. It’s expensive and takes up peoples time.”
He considers that.
“Well,” he says, finally. “Fair enough.”
You glance at him. “Thank you.”
“But,” he adds, picking up another dart, “that doesn’t explain why you look like you want to set yourself on fire.”
You laugh under your breath, a little helpless. “Because—” you gesture vaguely at yourself—“the AC was broken. I wore stilettos like an idiot. I couldn’t even wear my favourite colour because I was trying to be taken seriously.”
He glances at your heels, then back up.
“And,” you add, more annoyed now that you’ve started, words picking up pace, “I broke one of the gorgeous pens you got me—like an idiot—I dropped it mid-submission, and it hit the edge of the lectern nib-first. Fully snapped it. Just—” you make a small, defeated gesture with your hand, “—gone. In front of everyone.”
You exhale, shaking your head. “So I had to use one of Jane’s shitty office pens that kept cutting out every three words, like it had a personal vendetta against me. I’m trying to make a coherent argument and it’s just—stop, start, stop—like I’m glitching in real time.”
A breath, then you push on, because now it’s all coming out.
“And the client wouldn’t shut up,” you add, incredulous. “Like she just kept going—interrupting, adding things, contradicting herself—just constant commentary. I swear, people talk so much when it is the worst possible time to talk.”
He throws.
Bullseye. Again.
You scoff, genuinely impressed now. “Okay—what the hell.”
He glances at you, a little smug. “Sweetheart, I think you’re my good luck charm.”
You shake your head, overwhelmed, tired. “I doubt that.”
Then he sets the dart down. Finishes his beer. Decides something, a glint of realisation and mischief. “You broke one of the pens?”
“It was an accident! Stop, I've had such a…” You begin.
Then he steps toward you, it’s close enough that it cuts through the noise in your head. You go quiet without meaning to. He doesn’t crowd you—just enough that you feel him there. Solid. Grounding. His brows raise up at you, a small smile twitching at the edge of his lips.
“Relax,” he says, softer. “Messing with you, kid.”
Your breath catches a little, the proximity doing something unhelpful to your pulse.
“Y’had a long day,” he adds, gentler now, brows lifting slightly as he looks down at you. “Get something to drink. Then I’ll teach you darts.”
There’s a beat where you just look at him. At the steadiness of him. The ease.
The way the day starts to loosen, just slightly.
You press your teeth briefly into your bottom lip, trying to collect yourself. “...Sounds good.”
“Doesn’t it?” he says, already stepping back, like he didn’t just shift the entire axis of your evening.
You exhale, finally.
You needed the night out more than you realised.
It settles into you slowly—the noise first, then the warmth, then the way your shoulders finally start to drop from somewhere near your ears. No one’s watching you the way they do in court. No one’s waiting for you to slip. Here, everything’s louder, messier, allowed to be.
You end up orbiting the dartboard with Jack and Robby, the two of them taking turns trying—badly—to teach you.
“Stop throwing it like that,” Robby tries. “You’re not lobbing a grenade.”
“I don’t know how to throw a grenade,” you shoot back.
“I can tell.”
Jack huffs something like a laugh beside you. “Ignore him.”
You throw. It barely makes it halfway.
There’s a pause.
“Jesus,” Jack mutters.
“I told you,” you say, turning to him with a helpless little lift of your hands. “Drunk deer.”
“I’ve seen better coordination from elderly, blind patients,” he says, already stepping in.
This time, he doesn’t talk you through it from a distance. He closes the space—one hand around your wrist, adjusting your grip, the other settling lightly at your elbow.
“Two fingers on the barrel. Not the tip—you’re choking it. Light grip.”
His hand closes around your fingers, adjusting them, precise. His other hand taps your elbow up slightly.
“Elbow stays up. You’re dropping it. And don’t throw—just extend. Straight line.”
It’s unfair, really—decades of muscle memory, steady hands from years in surgery and chaos. He makes it sound simple.
“Eyes on the triple twenty,” he adds. “Even if you don’t hit it.”
“I’m absolutely not hitting that.”
“Didn’t ask you to.”
His fingers linger a second longer than necessary before he lets go. “Try again.”
You do. It hits the board. Not well—but enough.
You grin. “Oh, I’m incredible.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” Robby says. “That was luck.”
“Let her have it,” Jack says, already reaching for his own dart—but his eyes flick to you again, quick, assessing, like he’s clocking the way you’re smiling.
It doesn’t stay just the three of you for long.
The game grows.
People drift in. Someone suggests betting—because of course they do—and suddenly there’s a loose ring of doctors and nurses, drinks in hand, money out, rules half-agreed on and immediately ignored.
Parker takes over without asking.
“Alright—ten in,” she says, already collecting. “Closest to bullseye takes the pot. No crying, no technicalities.”
“You’re literally creating technicalities,” McKay mutters, fishing out a twenty.
“That sounds like a you problem.”
You end up on the edge of it, drink in hand, watching the chaos build—Whitaker overthinking every throw, Dana cheering like it’s a contact sport, Santos heckling from the sidelines.
Jack plays like he works — precise, confident and controlled. Robby tapped out when more money started to get involved. Langdon makes it decently far.
Parker? Unfairly good.
The final round tightens—Jack, Parker, Shen, who is visibly riding whatever unholy mix of caffeine and tequila he’s been subjected to.
There’s a loose semicircle now. People leaning in. Money already spent in their heads.
Shen steps up first, wobbling just slightly as he toes the line.
“Don’t rush it,” someone calls.
“Don’t listen to them,” someone else adds.
He throws.
It lands in the inner single—respectable, a few inches off the bull. The crowd gives him a half-cheer, half-pity clap.
Jack steps up next. The noise dips—not fully quiet, but it shifts. People expect something from him.
He plants his stance. One foot just behind the other, balanced. Rolls his shoulder once. Dart held clean between his fingers.
You watch his breathing even out. He squints slightly—
“Wait.”
Immediate groans. Booing.
“Come on, man—”
“Don’t be that guy—”
He ignores all of it, already turning his head, scanning until he finds you.
You’re half-hidden behind Santos, drink in hand, amused.
He points. Crooks his finger.
“You—c’mere. Need you here. C’mon.”
“Absolutely not,” Dana cuts in. “No coaching.”
“As if,” Jack mutters. Then, louder—“She’s my lucky charm. Get over here, Pinkie.”
There’s a ripple of chuckles as you step forward, shaking your head, slipping through the crowd.
“What am I doing?” you ask, stopping beside him.
He leans in just slightly—close enough that no one else catches it.
“You stand there,” he says, low, casual, “and you look pretty like you always do, think you can do that for me?”
You nod, because you don’t trust your voice for a second, a warmth in your chest that has nothing to do with the vodka. He chews slightly at his inner cheek, before clearing his throat. Maybe he doesn’t trust his voice either.
You take your place beside him.
You can feel the attention shift again, curious—not to the board, but to the two of you, the shape of it. He resets. Shoulders looser now. Grip easier.
Throws.
The dart lands just kissing the edge of the inner bull—half in, half out, riding the red wire. It's the best hit yet.
A sharp inhale from the crowd—then clapping, louder this time. A few impressed whistles.
“Fuck off,” someone mutters.
“Lucky,” Robby adds, but there’s a grin there.
Jack exhales through his nose, a flicker of irritation anyway—because it’s not clean. He glances at the board like it personally disappointed him.
Parker steps up last.
Jack’s hand finds your arm without thinking—light at first, then firmer as he shifts you both back, guiding you out of her line. It’s absent-minded, almost automatic, but he doesn’t drop it immediately.
You end up with your back near the edge of a booth, him just in front of you, close enough that you feel the heat of him through the space.
Neither of you comment on it.
Parker doesn’t take long.
No theatrics. No reset.
She barely lines it up—just a quick sight, a small adjustment of her stance—
Throws.
Bullseye.
Clean. Dead centre.
There’s a beat—like the room needs a second to register it—
Then chaos.
“Pay up, bitches!” she grins, already downing a shot as a chorus of groans follows.
McKay digs into her wallet like she’s being personally victimised. “This is financial abuse.”
“You agreed to the terms,” Parker shoots back.
“Under duress!”
Jack hands over a hundred like it offends him on principle.
“Extortion,” he mutters.
“Voluntary participation,” Parker corrects.
“Actually,” Donnie cuts in, pointing vaguely in your direction, “we have legal counsel present. Can she weigh in?”
There’s a shift—heads turning, attention snapping to you with sudden, collective interest.
You blink once. “Oh, no—don’t drag me into this.”
“Too late,” Santos calls. “Lotso, is this legal or not?”
You take a slow sip of your drink, considering them over the rim. “Okay, well, I mean— You’ve all entered into an informal wagering agreement with clear terms and voluntary participation—so yes, it’s enforceable in the sense that none of you can suddenly decide you don’t want to pay.”
A few groans.
“But,” you add, lifting a finger, “depending on jurisdiction, private betting like this could fall into a grey area if someone really wanted to push it. So maybe don’t document it and submit it to administration... Just to entertain the actual legality of it.”
“That feels targeted,” Parker says.
“You’re holding the cash,” you point out.
“Hypothetically,” Shen jumps in, still wired, “if I refuse to pay—”
“Then you’re an asshole,” you cut in lightly. “And also potentially in breach of a verbal contract.”
“Jesus,” McKay mutters. “Remind me to never bet against you.”
“Smart,” you nod.
They break apart into smaller clusters—arguments over scores, money changing hands, Parker being insufferable about it. The noise swells again, but it no longer feels like it’s pressing in on you.
You stay where you are.
Jack doesn’t move either.
You’re both half-leaning against the edge of the table, shoulders almost brushing, angled toward the room but not really part of it anymore. There’s a pocket of quiet between you that doesn’t belong to anyone else.
You feel his warmth before you properly look at him.
When you do, it’s quick—meant to be quick—but it lingers anyway.
White t-shirt, sleeves worn just enough to show where the sun’s caught him unevenly—faint tan line cutting across the top of his bicep. His arms are braced against the table behind him, weight settled back, forearms flexing slightly as his hands hook under the edge. There’s a network of veins there you hadn’t noticed before. Or maybe you had and just hadn’t let yourself look.
Freckles, too—scattered across his skin, inconsistent, easy to miss unless you’re close enough.
You are.
The bar lighting softens everything—warmer, less clinical than the hospital, less sharp. It makes him look… different. Not smaller, not softer, exactly—just more real. Less like someone constantly in motion, constantly needed.
Just a man, standing beside you, breathing easy for once.
“Good to know we’ve got legal oversight for our gambling ring,” he says quietly, not looking at you yet.
You drag your gaze back up, like you weren’t just cataloguing details you shouldn’t be noticing.
“Happy to provide my services,” you murmur, lifting your drink. “My rates are very reasonable.”
“Yeah?” He turns his head then, properly, eyes settling on you. There’s something slower in it now. Less distracted. “What do you charge?”
You tilt your head, considering. “Depends. What’re you offering?”
A flicker—quick, sharp.
He opens his mouth, then shuts it. You watch him hold back, the thoughts going through his mind, one by one before he settles. “How about anything you want?”
You click your tongue. You pretend to think, unable to hide the dumb smile that spreads across your cheeks. “I guess that’ll work.”
“Yeah? It’ll work? Tolerable offer?” He wonders, sarcastic and teasing as ever.
“Yeah, tolerable. We can work with that.” You nod.
A beat lingers there—long enough to feel it.
Then Parker shouts something about a rematch, the group pulling back into noise and movement again.
Jack doesn’t move away.
You don’t move away when your shoulder brushes his again. He doesn’t move when your knee knocks lightly into his as you shift your weight.
★★★
Over the next few hours, the bar stretches and softens around the edges—music louder, laughter easier, conversations blurring into one another. At some point, it gets too much in the way good things do. Too many bodies, too much heat, the kind of noise that sits behind your eyes.
You slip out the back without making a thing of it.
The alley is quieter. Cooler. The door thuds shut behind you, muffling everything into a distant, dull thrum. A single overhead light flickers, casting everything in that washed-out yellow that makes the world feel briefly paused.
You lean back against the brick, cigarette between your fingers, phone lighting your face as you scroll without really reading anything.
It’s quiet enough that you hear him before he speaks—footsteps, slower, heavier, familiar.
“You know, those are bad for you.”
You glance up.
Robby stands a few feet away, like he’s not entirely sure how he ended up out here either. There’s a faint crease between his brows, not judgment exactly—more curiosity, maybe a touch of something softer than he’d ever admit.
You smile, flicking your screen off, the glow disappearing. “They give you all doctors the same script, then?”
“Yeah,” he says, easy, stepping in to lean against the opposite wall. “We had a meeting about it.”
A beat settles. Easier than inside. Less performative.
He watches you for a second longer than necessary—not in the way Jack does, not sharp or searching. Robby’s gaze is rougher around the edges, like he’s piecing things together without fully committing to the picture.
“You having a good time?” he asks.
You nod, exhaling smoke slow into the cool air. “Yeah. I needed it after today.”
“Tough one?”
You huff a quiet laugh. “Client from hell. AC broken. Judge in a mood. I wore heels like an idiot. Pen broke. Whole thing felt like a setup.”
“Mm,” he grunts. “Sounds about right.”
You glance at him. “You?”
“Good,” he says, like it’s enough. Then, with a small, crooked smile—“Didn’t lose a hundred bucks to Parker, so that’s a win.”
You smile back, softer. “Who would you have betted on?”
He exhales through his nose, tipping his head back briefly against the brick. “Well. I wanna say Jack. Loyalty, solidarity, all that shit—”
“—Parker,” you both say at the same time.
A shared nod. Easy.
You tap ash to the ground, something quieter settling in.
He studies you again—more openly this time. Takes in the cigarette, the dress, the fact that you’re out here at all.
“You don’t strike me as a smoker,” he says.
“I’m not,” you admit. “Not really. Just… sometimes.”
“Bad days,” he guesses.
You glance at him, a little surprised. “That obvious?”
“Mm.” He shifts his weight, folding his arms.
You look away for a second, out toward the dim alley mouth. Silence again—but not awkward. Just… shared.
Then, after a beat—
"You're good for him, you know. Jack, I mean." Robby suddenly says, maybe surprising himself a bit as he scratches slightly at his beard.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the cigarette. “I don’t—”
“I’ve known him a long time,” Robby cuts in, not unkind. “Long enough to know when something shifts.”
You don’t answer straight away. There isn’t a clean answer to give.
He doesn’t push. Just lets it sit, watching you think.
“But you definitely are lucky to him,” he adds after a beat, lighter now, like he’s taking some of the weight back. “I think. Not that I put much stock in that stuff.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You think so?”
“Mm.” He tilts his head. “You should’ve seen him before you walked up to that dartboard.”
You raise a brow. “What—missing?”
“Worse,” Robby says. “Overcorrecting. Thinking too much.” A beat. “Then you show up and suddenly he’s back to muscle memory.”
That earns a real laugh from you.
He smiles at that—brief, but genuine, remembers something.
“Guy’s got a tell,” Robby continues. He gestures vaguely, like he’s mapping it out in the air. “You’ll notice it now. His stance. When he’s tired or pushing too hard, he’ll compensate—puts more weight through the left side, shortens his step. Not dramatic. It's just… there. Years of it.”
You picture it before you realise you are—how Jack stands at the board, at the nurses’ station, in hallways. The subtle shift of weight. The way he settles.
“But when he’s… calmer,” Robby continues, “not in his own head so much—he evens out. Gait’s cleaner. Less guarding.” A small shrug. “Closer to neutral. Thinks he’s subtle.” A beat. “He’s not.”
You look down at your cigarette, then back up. “And you are?”
Robby huffs. “God, no.”
Another quiet stretch passes.
The door behind you opens—light spilling out for a second, laughter cutting through before it shuts again.
Robby pushes off the wall first, rolling his shoulders like he’s resetting himself.
“You coming back in?” he asks.
“In a minute,” you say.
He nods once, already moving toward the door. Then he’s gone—door swinging shut behind him, noise swallowing him back up.
You’re left in the quiet again, cigarette burning low between your fingers, his words settling somewhere you don’t quite want to look at too closely.
From inside, you can hear Jack’s laugh—low, familiar, cutting through the rest of it.
You don’t stub the cigarette out right away.
★★★
The night winds down in pieces.
People peel off in twos and threes—Dana half-carrying an overly enthusiastic intern, Parker victorious and loud, counting crumpled notes like she’s just robbed a bank, Shen still vibrating faintly from whatever chemical warfare he put in his system earlier.
There are hugs, sloppy goodbyes, promises to never drink again that nobody means. It softens, slowly, into something quieter. Smaller.
By the time you step out onto the street, the air feels cooler than it should.
Santos and Whitaker stumble out just behind you.
“Do not tell me you two are driving,” Santos says immediately, pointing between you and Jack like she’s personally offended by the concept.
“What?” Jack deadpans. “I see double. Means I can drive twice as good.”
You snort.
“Course not,” he adds, nodding toward you. “Gonna grab her a cab.”
“You could share with ours,” Whitaker offers, already swaying a little, like the suggestion might stabilise him. “Cheaper.”
Jack shakes his head, easy. “Don’t really have to worry about that.”
Whitaker nods like that tracks, like he’s suddenly remembering his own bank account.
“Whatever, we get it, moneybags,” Santos sighs, looping her arm through Whitaker’s. “Come on, Huckleberry. We’ll take one of the poor taxis.” She throws you a grin. “Night, Pinkie.”
They disappear down the street in a mess of laughter.
And then it’s just you and him.
The quiet lands differently now—no buffer of people, no noise to hide behind. Just the two of you under a streetlight that flickers every few seconds like it can’t quite decide if it wants to stay on.
Jack rolls his neck, working out the last of the tension, then glances down at you. “Uber should be here soon.”
You nod, slower this time, the alcohol softening the edges of everything. “Thank you.” A small pause. "'m sorry I wasn't so lucky for your gambling ring."
He shakes his head, quieter than you expect. No quip, no easy deflection. “You’re still lucky.”
You huff, looking down at the pavement, scuffing the toe of your heel against it. “I don’t feel that way. Not most of the time.” A beat. “Today really… set that in stone.”
He watches you for a second—properly this time, not the quick glances he usually allows himself. There’s something steadier in it, less amused, more… considering.
“Bad days don’t get to rewrite the whole thing,” he says.
You let out a small laugh. “That sounds like something you tell patients. Or your residents.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Because it’s true.”
You glance up at him. “You believe that all the time?”
“No,” he says, easy. “But I say it anyway. Sometimes you catch up to it.”
It lands. You don’t brush it off. A car passes, headlights briefly washing over the two of you before the street settles back into that dim, flickering quiet.
You fold your arms loosely, tilting your head. “So what, I’m... I'm lucky because I exist? That’s your medical opinion?”
He huffs a quiet breath, something like a smile pulling at it. “No.” A beat, like he’s choosing the words instead of defaulting to something easy. “You’re lucky because you give a shit. And you’re… tough about it. You don’t fold—you adjust. Get smarter. Compromise.”
You blink at him, a little thrown. “I think that’s just stubbornness.”
“Same difference.”
“Not really.”
“Mm,” he hums, unconvinced. Then, softer—“You showed up tonight anyway.”
You shrug, but it doesn’t quite land casual. “I needed a drink.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “And you came to us.” A small pause. “To me, some might say.”
There’s something in the way he says it—dry, almost throwaway, but it sits heavier than that.
You glance at him, a crooked little smile pulling at your mouth. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
“Too late,” he says, dry. “Already built a whole narrative.”
The quiet settles again, but it’s different now—closer. You can feel the heat of him beside you despite the cold, the way you’re both standing just a little inside each other’s space without acknowledging it.
He shifts, weight evening out, one hand dropping from his hip. His gaze drifts—slow, not subtle anymore. Your dress, your tights, the slight tear near your thigh, the way you keep tugging it down without realising.
“You might not... feel lucky,” he says, circling back, quieter. “But you are.”
You meet his eyes. “Because I’m your good luck charm?”
“Partly,” he admits. “Selfishly.”
You raise a brow. “Honest.”
“Sometimes.”
“Better.”
That small smile again—real this time, sitting easier on him.
A car turns the corner, headlights slower now—your Uber—but neither of you moves yet.
“You ever think,” you start, then hesitate, the alcohol making you just honest enough to say it anyway, “that maybe I just like being around you guys because it’s… easier?”
He watches you. Doesn’t interrupt.
“Like,” you go on, quieter, eyes dropping for a second, “at work it’s all liability and contracts and people who’ve been screwed over trying to screw the system back. Everyone’s defensive. Or waiting for you to mess up so they can use it.”
You glance back up at him.
“With you— with all of you,” you correct, but it lands a little pointed anyway, “it feels… normal. Human. No one’s talking down to me. No one’s waiting for me to trip.” A small breath. “You trust me. That’s—” you shrug, softer, “—rare.”
He takes that in properly. You can see it.
“So yeah,” you add, a faint smile returning, “that’s why I bother you all the time.”
“That’s a generous read,” he says.
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “I do.”
A pause. The engine of the Uber idles somewhere behind you now, unnoticed.
“Goes both ways,” he adds.
You tilt your head. “What does that mean?”
He pauses—long enough that you think he might dodge it. You can see the instinct there, the easy out.
Then he exhales, like he’s too tired to be anything but honest.
“You’re easy to be around,” he says. It lands quieter, but heavier. “Things get lighter when you’re there.”
You don’t look away.
“Even when you’re not,” he adds, glancing off for a second like he’s already annoyed at himself for saying it. “People are… better. I’m better.”
You let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “That feels like a lot to pin on one person.”
“Yeah,” he nods. “It is.” A beat. “Doesn’t make it wrong.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around your messenger bag, something in your chest pulling in a way you don’t quite want to name.
“I think you’re romanticising me,” you say, softer now.
“Kid,” he huffs, a faint smile tugging at his mouth, “I’m old enough to know when something’s actually making my life easier.”
You glance up at him through your lashes. “How so?”
“Quieter in my head. Less… noise.” A small shrug. “Doesn’t happen much.”
That lands somewhere deeper than it should.
The Uber pulls up properly this time, engine idling.
He glances at it, then back at you. “That’s you. I’d come with, but I’m making sure Robby gets back safe. He’s somewhere across the park, last I checked.”
“Okay,” you say—but you don’t move.
You’re standing close enough now that it would be easy to close the gap. Easy to do something about the way he’s looking at you, the way your hand keeps brushing his arm when you shift.
Your lips press to his, warm, a little tentative at first. He stills—caught for half a beat—a hand pulling yours against him by his bicep, and he leans into it, answering you properly. It’s brief, but it’s not nothing. There’s weight in it. Recognition.
You pull back first—quicker than you meant to.
He almost follows. You feel it—the way he leans in a fraction before stopping himself, jaw tightening slightly like he’s reining it in.
“For luck,” you murmur, a little breathless despite yourself, your hand still resting on his forearm. “With Robby. He seems like a confused drunk.”
A corner of his mouth pulls, but his eyes stay on you—darker now, steadier.
“Mm,” he nods, voice rougher than before. His gaze drops briefly to where your fingers rest against his arm—nails brushing the cotton material of his t-shirt, dragging down over his skin. “Could’ve used that a couple hours ago against Parker. I'd be a hundred dollars richer.”
You snicker softly, the tension not quite breaking.
Neither of you moves.
Your hand slides down from his forearm slower this time, not quite ready to let go. You try to ignore how your heart might fall out of its chest, how he watches you with such intensity and curiosity.
“You’ll call me?” you ask, like it’s casual. Like it doesn’t matter.
“Yeah,” he says, immediate. Certain. “I will.”
You nod, like that’s enough. Like you believe him.
He steps forward first this time, opening the door for you, his hand settling at your back—warm, steady, guiding you in. It lingers a second longer than necessary, just enough to make your breath catch again before you sit.
“Get home safe,” he says.
“You too,” you murmur.
You look up at him once more before the door closes—him under the flickering streetlight, a little rumpled, a little tired, still watching you like he’s not quite done with this moment yet.
The door shuts.
And as the car pulls away, you catch him in the side mirror—still standing there, shoulders set, hand flexing once at his side before he drags it back through his silver curls, exhales, and finally turns toward the park.
part one | linger + part two | strawberry + part three | optics + part five | orbit
a/n: guys idk if this is that good im feeling iffy about it. but yk what we can always edit it, come back to it another time. just didnt wanna keep yall waiting any longer
guys! ive been so !!! agh. school. uni. work. life. whatnot. burns!! sorry for the time on this. actually im not, i kinda just wanna post when i wanna post, and im really trying to work on a few wips at once. but yeah anyway hopefully i can pump out another one of these in the next week or so, idk how many i'll do of these, its a cute fun little dynamic, but im rlly curious about you guys and ur thoughts on where it could go, if theres anything we could explore here
summary: Frank Langdon’s back in Pittsburgh ten months post-rehab, post-divorce, and post-moving into a one bedroom apartment with no wife, no kids, and more baggage. The pressure and anxiety coupled with his chronic back pain all happening on the eve of the fourth of July nearly causes him to relapse. A thing he knows could ultimately cost him his medical license and whatever semblance of a life he still had. Considering the magnitude of what he’s got to lose, he wills every strength he has left to resist the urge brought by his crippling addiction, one mocktail at a time.
alt. Frank distracts himself with a one-night stand aka the best sex of his life the night before he’s set to return to Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center, with no other than Michael Robinavitch’s sister.
pairing: divorced frank langdon x fem!doc / robinavitch!reader
warnings: 18+ MDNI. sexual and suggestive themes, fluff, angst (if u squint ig), semi canon-compliant, frank langdon pov (reader pov is told via third person), YN referenced only once, divorced!mc, mentions of alcohol, addiction, drugs, rehab and relapse/drug-seeking behavior (to err on the side of caution), mentions of divorce, therapy, and NA meetings. reader is the same age-range as frank, maybe a year (or two) younger than him. to save yall from the mental gymnastics of technicalities and accuracy, i pictured reader is robby’s half sister from his father’s side, probably had her when he remarried after robby’s mother passed. so yay half!sibs <3
word count: 12.4k; part two
note: oh well, down the langdon rabbit hole i go. the first fic i wrote for this blog and for the pitt! (teehee im excited) listen, i did the best research i can with respect to how addiction is being treated in the US, so pls pls pls bear with me. i made sure this was written without romanticizing langdon’s addiction or even addiction in general. i just want our malpractice prince to catch a break!
Sleep, his only companion for the last ten months, has eluded him.
It was the eve of the fourth of July, the night before Frank Langdon is set to return to work. Yet here he was, wide awake and barely half a shell of the man he used to be when he left for rehab.
He’d hoped to be fast asleep two hours ago, thinking he’d get at least eight hours to himself before he has to face the inevitable. But, just like how the events of the past ten months have unfolded, he should’ve known he’s likely lost even the most mundane of privileges life has to offer.
He laid on his bed nearly drowning in perspiration, completely devoid of sleep just because his back decided to be against it. He’d tried soothing circles on the middle of his back, tried home remedies his therapist had suggested, hell he’s trying to sleep the pain away for god’s sake. To no avail, lying on his back felt as if he was being lit on fire.
Langdon stares at the ceiling for a good minute once he’s able to control his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He continues to do the mind numbing cycle of inhaling and exhaling just to keep himself out of the dangers of his mind.
He does his usual calculation in his head. It had been ten months since he’s gotten help, since he’s gotten sober, since he’s gotten cleaned. Ten months of hard work since he was forced to get his shit together at the risk of losing the only thing he still had to hold on to: Emergency Medicine.
Benzodiazepines have already cost Langdon his life, his marriage and his wife. If he hadn’t gotten cleaned the minute he got into rehab, Langdon knows he’d likely have lost his children, too.
Over the first two months being out of rehab, Langdon felt as if he’d been allowed to finally breathe. He was doing great—better than anyone had expected. Like pretty much everything else he’d accomplished, Langdon aced flushing the drugs out of his system. He’s certain he’d graduate top of the class had valedictorians been a thing at the rehabilitation center.
Robby had told him he only needed thirty days. The same having been corroborated by Gloria and the Medical Board. Somehow, he still had an ounce of arrogance left coursing his veins that’s why he did six whole months. Six months of feeling like a prisoner surviving off of whatever bland food was scheduled for the day. Six months of practicing his 12 steps, studying every material than he ever did in med school. Six whole months of just being alone with himself, he thought he’d never get through it.
Much to his surprise, (and Santos’ if only she’d known) Langdon had every love and support a recovering addict would need both in and out of that rehab facility. Family. Friends. He had little to no reason to be thinking what he’s thinking right now.
When the surge of pain hits the lower oblique of his back, Langdon forces himself to picture Abby’s face telling him to come home despite being divorced. You don’t have to leave, Frank. That’s what she had told him when he decided to move out, luggages and a few boxes towed with him in his car.
Considering his lack of a job at the time and his savings taking the brunt of not having a steady income, logic dictates for Langdon to stay and abuse more of the kindness of his ex-wife. After all, therapy and his remaining rehab commitments came at a pretty hefty price; his insurance would be laying paper thin flat if Gloria hadn’t let him return to work. Regardless, it’s safe to say Langdon has had enough of the word abuse. He knows full well not to subject Abby to any more of it.
So, despite the ex-spouses signing their divorce papers away on amicable terms over a month after Langdon had returned home, he finally decided it was time for him to give Abby the space she ultimately deserved.
The ache is like lightning jolting down his spine as soon as he sits up.
“Jesus fucking christ.”
He curses under his breath. Beads of sweat fashion his temple just as he feels the familiar sting in the corner of his eyes caused by his own bodily fluid. Now this would’ve been a good time to swallow some pills.
Frank Langdon is in pain and alone in a low-lit bedroom with nothing but his darkest thoughts to accompany him. He needs to get his mind on something—anything that will keep him from wanting to seek what he knows he cannot have even if it means the pain he’s feeling goes away.
Why?
He also happens to know that that is simply not the truth. He has long accepted the fact that he’d turned to stealing drugs from his patients just to provide for the need Dr. Hagan had long denied him. Yes, doing the unimaginable could alleviate the pain for mere hours but it would also simultaneously make things much worse for Langdon than it already was. It won’t do him any good. He knows it.
He’s been ten months sober, ten months clean. Sure enough he could think of some harmless alternative.
Once he’s gotten himself into some of the last decent clothing he still had before he has to do laundry, Langdon is out the door and into the cold Pittsburgh Friday night, walking with purpose.
Purpose, that is, some speakeasy five blocks from his place. The very one he used to frequent before his abstinence to alcohol and quite literally all other things he could substitute his addiction with. So tonight, he’ll help himself to the liberalities he once enjoyed without having to fall through the cracks. After all, it’s the eve of Independence Day. He deserves to extend himself some grace without the added expense of actively choosing to lose his medical license and go to jail.
“What can I do you for?” asked a bartender he wasn’t familiar with. It’s been a while since he set foot inside this place; it wouldn't be unusual to see a new face.
Langdon catches the name on his nameplate by the time he sat down one of the barstools. Rob.
Great. Just what he needed.
He chooses the remote area of the bar, the one that’s least noticeable, where he feels he could be alone amidst the familiar noise of the select few who’s with him on this fateful Friday night.
Across from him sat several bottles of what used to be Langdon’s roster for his drink of choice. Tequila back when he was in med school, malt whisky on nights Robby and Jack tagged along, and the ice cold beer that always went together with pills running down his throat.
Oh, what he’d give to feel that burn again; the good kind of burn that makes him forget the one that’s actually making him suffer. He finds the need to caress his back momentarily just before he sits down. Still, Frank Langdon knew better. Stubbornly so.
That’s why instead of naming alcohol brands that once took comfort swirling on his tongue, he says, “I’m in recovery. Do you have anything non-alcoholic?”
It doesn’t take a beat for Rob to nod in acknowledgement, seemingly trained exactly for this kind of situation. Perhaps, Langdon isn’t the first recovering addict who stumbled upon the very last place one should be ordering a non-alcoholic beverage.
Rob gives him a thin list of options. Soda, juice, and Pittsburgh’s finest drink of choice—water.
“I can make you a mocktail, if you’d like.” He suggests.
“So long as it doesn’t have a single drop of alcohol in it, absolutely. Whatever’s easiest to make will do.” I just need to quench my thirst, he doesn’t say.
Langdon doesn’t realize he’s staring at the ghost of where his wedding band used to rest in between his fingers by the time Rob had returned for his much awaited drink.
“On the house. You look like you could use a break.” Rob tells him earnestly with a tight-lipped smile, and Langdon swears he almost wanted a hug.
He isn’t used to this kind of treatment; being on the receiving end of everyone’s pity. God, he used to be the Frank Langdon, valedictorian of Yale MD class of 2021, heir apparent to his mentor as an Attending Physician at PTMC, and a stellar candidate for the ED Medical Education Fellowship. But no, the ugly truth is that he stopped being all those things long before Robby found out about the drugs, long before Abby got a whiff of his addiction.
Because now? Now his identity—his entire being—is subsumed to nothing else but his addiction. It didn’t matter how good he was in med school, didn’t matter that he’d been a good husband and a father. It didn’t matter that he was a doctor and that he was fucking good at his job; at saving lives. That’s something that irked him for quite some time now. It was as if he’d gotten a giant tattoo on his forehead that associated him with benzodiazepines and addiction for the rest of his life.
All the years it took him to build a name for himself were rendered moot and inconsequential just because he happened to have helped himself to a measly type of drug he could’ve easily gotten with a prescription in hand.
Langdon doesn’t do anything about it because whose fault was it? He had no one to blame but himself. So maybe, had Rob known of the truth, he should’ve made Langdon pay because it’s sure as hell he doesn’t deserve that break.
“I’ll have whatever he’s having.”
That sentence seemed to have brought Langdon back to reality.
Rob nods as he pays one look at Langdon whose interest had been piqued amidst his stoic disguise. He’s never one to be a trendsetter, that’s for sure. Who could’ve possibly wanted the same thing he did?
It doesn’t take a while for her drink to arrive. Virgin Mojito. Exactly like Langdon’s.
“I hope you don’t mind a copy cat.” She tells him, voice disinterested just like Langdon’s has been for the entire time he’d spent sitting by the bar.
“Please, be my guest.” Langdon shakes his head in his sheer attempt at cordiality. “Just… don’t want any credit if you happen to hate it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Credit goes to Rob.”
She mouths a discernible “Ah.” and returns to her phone.
He notices her scroll briefly just before she ends up typing for a beat. Maybe a long and well-thought message to a boyfriend? Or maybe to an ex-boyfriend still hung up on the breakup? Langdon speculates, finally having something remotely more fun to do than tend to his own wounds. Boyfriend? Why should that be the first thing to come to mind? He reprimands himself for being so dense.
He sees her put the phone down the table with what seemed like a sigh of retreat. Langdon tears his eyes off her before he gets caught. He copes with the silence and seeks comfort in running his thumb on the rim of the glass. The mocktail was indeed a mockery of what Langdon actually had his eyes on. But to say the least, it was enough. He may have been playing make believe but it still did its job.
“It can’t be that good.” She takes Langdon’s eyes away from nearly boring holes through the glass he was holding. It was only then that he’d realized what she meant. Skepticism coupled with the veil of sarcasm.
Langdon’s gaze was piercing through the glass as if mere sight alone could turn water into wine. Great, now he wants to be Jesus Christ.
That gets a laugh out of him. The very first one he knows he didn’t make just to fill awkward silences that has always sneaked its way in the conversation whenever someone asks, Are you okay? How are you holding up?
This was usually the time he’d come up with something smug to say. Something like don’t deny what you haven’t tried or something else entirely obnoxious and arrogant that carries with it the same effect of some other nice thing he could’ve said instead. He knows how to play his hand. That’s how he got Abby to marry him in the first place.
Although now, he doesn’t think of any. He couldn’t even muster a smug smirk. Langdon was close to being beaten to a pulp by punches no man ever threw his way. Jesus, this is depressing.
A grimace is discernible on her face by the time she takes her first sip.
“Sorry.” Langdon finds the need to apologize. “Could’ve been better if it had a kick, no?”
“I didn’t think it would be as virgin as a virgin could get.” She remarks at the thought of being in a bar drinking a beverage that seemed to contain the least alcohol percentage in it. Worse, none at all.
“Hey, you were the copycat.” Langdon puts up his hands feigning defense, smiling genuinely for the first time in the last few hours of the third of July.
“Right. No alcohol. Got it.”
The quiet shared between two strangers at the bar goes in sync with the noise of tonight’s crowd, caging them in a bubble growing all the more pronounced as they get shunned away in the corner; the very one that only existed the minute they sat in their respective seats.
Her phone buzzed, tearing her attention away from the man sitting several seats adjacent from hers. He sees her take one glance at the caller ID before letting it go to voicemail. She doesn’t want to talk to whoever’s been bothering her through that phone. At least that’s what it seemed.
Despite her obvious woes, Langdon doesn’t pry. He’s always hated gossip even though he adored Princess and Perlah at work. He knows he’d be the talk of the town the second he enters the emergency doors. That was just one of the many things he didn’t look forward to about tomorrow. He returns his attention to his drink. Beads of condensation have long descended to the coaster as if to tell him that it’d been dying to be noticed; dying for him to drink.
He takes what was only his third sip of it.
She pulls Langdon’s attention back to her when she asks, “Do you want some company?”
It wasn’t that Langdon hadn’t thought about asking her if she wanted his company. He just happened to know better not to add another layer to his night. He was out because he wanted a pseudo-drug that could potentially trick his (still very aware) brain into thinking he’s getting the substance it thinks he needs.
He should probably decline.
I’m sorry. I’m just about to head out. Maybe next time.
I’m sorry. I’m going through a divorce, I don’t think that would be a good idea.
I’m sorry. I’m married. I have a wife, my kids are at home, and I still have a very stable job I need to get to first thing in the morning.
With the many things weighing over his head, it couldn’t possibly be the best thing to allow this stranger to pick up more than his unusual drink of choice.
Tonight was about liberalities; grace. Take it with both hands, Frank.
Langdon exhales.
“Sure.”
He nods his head, motioning for her to transfer to the seat next to him. He sees her wide smile beaming from ear to ear the minute he concedes.
The two of them share a shy chuckle the second she takes the seat, placing her drink right next to Langdon’s that was barely half empty.
She extends her hand for a cordial hand shake, all smiles as she tells Langdon her name.
Huh. Pretty. It suits her. He thinks to himself, shying away from noticing she didn’t just have a pretty name but that she’s beautiful up close, too.
Stop.
It doesn’t take a beat for him to accept, hands enveloping one another’s as if it wasn’t the first time. He tells her his name in turn, “Frank.”
“It really isn’t that bad, Frank.” She comments, taking the glass close to her mouth for another sip. She cringes as the sweet liquid overpowers her tastebuds, but nonetheless lies through gritted teeth, “See?”
Frank absent mindedly mirrors her as he takes a sip off his own glass, soda and lime tasting better than it did last.
“You’re a bad liar. Has anyone ever told you that?”
She counters with a hung smirk, “Oh, my brother would beg to disagree.”
“Really? How many?” He finds the need to inquire.
“Just the one.” She gives him an answer with nary a second guess. “Wouldn’t want another, to be honest. He’s already quite the handful.”
That prompts the image of his daughter, Penny, saying the same thing about Tanner to come to Langdon’s mind. Once the same settles, he’s sure to feel that familiar warmth graze his chest for a short while.
She glances at him as she stirs her drink. “What about you? Got any siblings? Or is your being an only child the reason you’re all alone on the eve of the fourth of July?”
“Got a sister, just the one.” He borrows her words and that causes her to roll her eyes.
“She a bad liar too?” She inquires.
“No, she lies for a living.” He tells her, shining light on the fact that the better Langdon was kicking ass somewhere on the West Coast practicing California law.
“Oh, she’s a lawyer then?”
He nods approvingly, “You catch on quick, I like that.”
Somewhere around mocktail no. 3, Langdon had completely forgotten about the pain in his back. What started as an excruciating pain that nearly caused him to reach for the next best thing he could substitute for a drug, mellowed to the kind that’s bearable for someone who’s been sober for ten months.
Somewhere around mocktail no. 3, the drink Rob makes became more palatable. It wasn’t as sweet as the virgin mojito nor as bland as the virgin cuba libre that followed. This third drink just happened to taste better and it definitely made Langdon forget he still had to go home.
Somewhere around mocktail no. 3 and the stories shared between strangers who’ve become a little less foreign to one another, Langdon realizes that perhaps it was a good idea he’d also been divorced.
Over the course of three drinks Langdon had learned more about her. Her family, how she’s the youngest but her older brother has always regarded her to have the most wisdom in the family. She was born and raised in Pittsburgh but hasn’t been in the city in so long until she had to come back for some reason Langdon didn’t want to pry on. She doesn’t talk about it anyway, stopping mid-sentence when her monologue became a bit more personal for a stranger’s ear. She doesn’t tell him what she does for a living, so he doesn’t ask. He made it a point to never ask, completely content with learning whatever she allows.
Langdon does make it known that he was divorced—that he was a father of two and once had a wife. He wasn’t planning to, originally, but somehow the truth just came out of him. “I’d just gotten divorced.” He’d told her, just as he follows up with the fact that, “I’m also a recovering drug-addict.”
His words should’ve landed on the table like a death sentence. Langdon had expected it to be so. He’d expected the kind of silence he’s gotten used to receiving for each time he reveals he’s someone ill, someone who needed help, someone whose mind was too weak he had to lean on fucking pills just to function in society. He expected her to leave, maybe thank him for her new-found aversion to virgin mojito just before she slid away her seat and headed for the door; gone and out of Langdon’s sight in under a minute.
Only it’s 10:00 PM, and she’s still here.
He couldn’t believe it.
“You sure you want to stick around?”
He sees her raise a brow, “What made you ask that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the company of a known-addict has suddenly made things uncomfortable—a bit much for Friday night.”
“Recovering addict.” She corrects him. She pushes past what he’d just told her, making it known whatever insecurities he’s holding out on his sleeves weren’t something out of the ordinary.
“Would you take offense if I told you I kinda got the feeling you were in recovery the second I took my first sip?”
Langdon doesn’t. “No, I’m pretty text-book. The signs would’ve been obvious after one drink, let alone three.”
She nods, acknowledging the notion but not necessarily agreeing with it.
“Can I ask you something personal?”
Langdon takes a sip, “Shoot.”
“If you’re in recovery, wouldn’t this be the last place you’d want to be in?”
He doesn’t deny that, so he answers with a shrug.
“I was having a hard time alone, at home. This was the next best thing.”
“What? Alcohol?”
He shakes his head profusely.
“God, no. I did think of it for a hot minute, but I always knew I shouldn’t—wouldn't. Just needed to be somewhere familiar. Guess I wanted to see if something did change after six months of rehab.” He sighs, “I figured if I don’t, despite being in a place you’re allowed to, then maybe I changed.”
Her gaze softens, but Langdon misses it.
“That’s a big test to give yourself, don’t you think?”
He scoffs a laugh.
“Yeah, I guess. Could use a challenge once in a while.”
If only Langdon had told her about med school and the Pitt, maybe she’d understand where this side of him was coming from. He’s always been a competitive man. Competitive to a fault that he finds joy in beating his own records just to see if he was really worth the sweat.
She checks in on him, “You sure you’re okay with us being here?”
Absent-mindedly, devoid of any reason as to why, Langdon nudges his glass away from him.
He gives her a tight-lipped smile.
It’s late, he should probably head home.
“I could use a little walk.”
It doesn’t take long for Langdon to take care of the bill. After all, he’s been meaning to thank Rob for his generosity and for making the exact same drink he asked him for the lady who’s now walking out of the bar alongside him.
“Where’d you want to go?” She asks once they’re out the door.
Langdon thinks for a moment. He still doesn’t want to go home. So instead, he asks, “Where are you parked?” mindful of her convenience above all else, because unlike him, Langdon kind of got the feeling she was ready to end the night here.
He misses that bit though. She wasn’t.
He sees her nose scrunch just before she shyly admits, “By the street in front of my apartment.”
Langdon had to bite the insides of his cheek to refrain himself from smiling. He knows it was bad. He hasn’t smiled this much in over ten months post-rehab.
She turns the tables, “You?”
“I walked.” He reveals, pointing south. “I’m that way. My place is about five blocks from here.”
With relief beaming from her face, she grins.
“Good. I’m that way too.”
“Really?”
“Really.” She discloses, “You know PTMC?”
Langdon was sure his heart almost fell out of his chest.
He wishes she hadn’t picked up on the sudden change in his demeanor, so he masks it with a nod. It’d be too bizarre for him to deny such an obvious landmark. Besides, the Pitt was the sole reason why he chose to live at his complex in the first place. He just hopes she didn’t live that close to the north side of the city for them to cross paths at a time he’s wearing his scrubs.
They begin walking towards home. At least, that’s what they’re headed insofar as Langdon’s version of things were concerned.
Their conversations come in bursts, faltering into a comfortable quietude just so anecdotes and trivias could shock it back to life; to one that’s warm—familiar. Langdon doesn’t find the need to keep up because she matches his pace for some reason. He tries not to make any jokes, at least the ones that used to make him sound like an asshole, but she laughs still even when he wasn’t trying.
When another wave of silence settles in between them, she breaks it with something with a little more weight.
“Truth is, I was more surprised to learn about your divorce. I wouldn’t have pegged you to be a divorcé.” She comments, “No offense.”
“At 34? None taken,” Langdon breathes out a chuckle as he thinks of the fact that his marriage with Abby spiked American divorce rates to a whole other percent. Maybe he should’ve taken offense, but hey, some couples call it quits one week into marriage. At the very least, he’s thankful he got to have two wonderful kids out of his.
He briefly paused as if to make a silent decision. Should he let her in? Or should he keep up with this facade he couldn’t understand how it came into being? He is being truthful. But why doesn’t it feel like it?
Once his mouth falls agape to continue, he opens the metaphorical doors wide, hoping she’d walk in.
“I thought the divorce would break me—that it’d be the one that sends me to the other side.”
She does.
“It wasn’t?”
What did? Langdon hopes she’d never ask otherwise he would have a hard time explaining that part of the story. He didn’t think he’d have it in him to tell her the awful truth. That he wasn’t just a drug-addict. He was a doctor that stole drugs from the people he was supposed to cure. That’s just glossing over the fact that he’d committed a fucking felony at the risk of losing innocent lives. That alone made him sick to his stomach, his old-buddy Benzos wouldn’t even compensate for the gut wrenching pain he’s feeling.
Fuck, maybe he isn’t being truthful.
When silence is the only thing that follows, Langdon sees the green light.
He shakes his head, just as he spills some truth he was ready to confess.
“The divorce was the best thing I gave Abby.” Apart from the kids. But he likes to give his ex-wife the sole credit for that.
She hums, signalling for him to continue.
“I tried to keep the drugs under control. I always took ‘em in my car, never at home. Not when she’s around, especially not around the kids. But the amazing and clever woman that she is, she picked up on the new habits and routine I apparently exhibited three months into my addiction. She didn’t say anything at first, said she wanted me to come clean on my terms, but I never did.” He pauses, reflecting on the past. “A lot of women would’ve taken the kids and left, but Abby stayed. She never missed a day visiting me at rehab. Letting me know all is well with the kids and at home. She never let me go in blind as opposed to how I did her over the last years of our marriage.”
“You’ve mentioned she didn’t say anything at first?”
She’s listening intently.
Langdon confirms, “Yeah, at first. I was actually the one who figured out she knew. The day I went home to start my sabbatical I found a stash of rehab pamphlets in Pennsylvania. She even had a few from California, tucked deep in her closet. I figured she told my sister, I don’t know. I still don’t have the courage to ask either of them. Seeing the pamphlets didn’t just strike a nerve. It broke something in me I still couldn’t place—still couldn’t name,” He sighs upon recollection, “I realized I got the better end of the deal with our marriage. She, on the other hand, got all the worse of it. Once I saw my addiction consumed her in ways I never thought it would, it hit me; finally knocked some sense into me. The gun to our five-year marriage has been loaded for quite a while even before everything took a turn for the worse. I knew she wouldn’t have the heart to pull the trigger, that’s why I did. I was a dead weight she’s stubbornly held on to for as long as she could. I may have abused pills, but I will never abuse her.”
It was only after she’d let the silence sit longer for more than a beat that Langdon had realized he must’ve shared too much. He doesn’t say another word after that in spite of him wanting to defend himself.
I promise I’m not all that bad. He wanted to tell her, but he knew he’d be lying. Perhaps, it’s better this way. It’d be better to scare her off—for Langdon to deal all his cards for her to decide if she wants to call his bluff.
They walk a few more steps in silence, their pace falling in sync with one another’s. That’s when Langdon decides to reroute, turning away from home to buy himself more time.
Liberalities and grace.
He’s reaching for it with one hand.
Finally, she speaks.
“Is it weird that I feel proud of you?”
That stops Langdon in his tracks.
“What?” His voice comes out incredulous, that perhaps she was the one who’s actually lost her mind.
“I just think you rob yourself of the credit you deserve.” She follows, shrugging as she adds, “I’ve been around people who didn’t deal with their stuff. People who pretended it wasn’t there. Believe me, it’s worse than your mocktails.”
Langdon finds himself nodding slowly. Unsure if she meant to say it, thinking it must’ve come from a personal place—a slip of the tongue she didn’t realize she’d made.
“I hope you’re not reading into my reactions too much.”
“Am I that obvious?” He breathes out a cautious laugh.
She hums in agreement.
“You look like the gears in your head are spinning like crazy and you’re having a hard time keeping up with it.”
He’d been caught.
“Alright then,” He prefaces, “What do you think of me now?”
“Jury’s still out.” She shrugs with a grin, but tells him nothing but the truth. “Although, I do know it’s nothing short of the good impression you’ve made three mocktails ago.”
Langdon doesn’t say that he’s thankful. This reaction to him feels new despite it being so normal—so humane. He’d gotten used to looks of sympathy that more often than not seemed empty, like it was just a knee-jerk response people tend to make when they actually feel uncomfortable having to hear about the fact that he was struggling.
Nevertheless, he does nod; acknowledging the sentiment.
He candidly said, “You didn’t have to do that, by the way.”
“What? Drink mocktails?” She’s fast to catch what he meant.
Langdon hums, “Thank you, though. Appreciate it.”
“I didn’t drink mocktails because of you—well yes, a little you, but it’s more than that, just so you know.” She tells him, letting Langdon breathe. He felt guilty thinking she stuck herself managing a recovering drug-addict when she could’ve had the fun she wanted for the night.
“I was never a big drinker anyway. On occasion, yes.” She admits, “But between you and tonight, I didn’t think liquor would be a good idea.”
Me? What about me and tonight?
“If that’s the case, why were you at the bar?”
“Unlike you brave soldier, I went there to distract myself.” She begins, “I… kinda have a big day tomorrow. Not that big anyway, but it’s significant.” She gestured with her hands as she talked as if to not make a big deal out of it, tucking more of her personal stuff beyond Langdon’s reach.
Needless to say, he still makes a point to ask, “Life-altering kind of significant?”
“Maybe? Honestly, I don’t know. I’m gonna find out tomorrow,” She shrugs, “Also… I was already contemplating getting out the door the minute I sat by the bar, then, I saw you looking like me—not necessarily lost, but stuck in a place you didn’t really want to be in. That’s why I decided to stay.”
Oh.
Langdon didn’t know what to say after that.
Liberalities, grace, and his back pain. Those were the things that made Langdon step out of his apartment when he knew he should’ve been in bed resting for what awaits him tomorrow. He’d been hoping to find something—anything he could put his mind to so long as it meant not having to hold more of its weight.
The pain, the guilt, the misery. Langdon has never had the time to be here in the now, because back then, the drugs were just in his car. He knew he could be elsewhere just after a few pills. The pain, the guilt, the misery. All of it, all of him—just gone.
So, how is he supposed to deal with finding someone?
He remembers the first of his many tri-weekly NA meetings, courtesy of Robby’s “Second Chance.” Dating and Relationships in Recovery. That was the topic of discussion at the time. Someone, (whose name he’s had trouble remembering) had shared their experience in dating not too long after rehab. It’s not prohibited, but I can tell you from experience that it’s not a good idea.
At the time, Langdon was still admittedly 20% in denial of having—needing to go to such meetings that he didn’t bother to ask why. He knows why. He’s a medically-trained professional, for pete’s sake. The obvious cross-addiction tagline dating and sex post-rehab no longer needed to be captioned for him to get what that meant. Still, he didn’t think much of it because he knew he wouldn’t have to. With his marriage being over, getting involved with someone new wasn’t even on the table, so much so that it barely made it there.
Until now.
He’d been sober for ten months, two months short of the minimum period recommended before recovering drug addicts could be romantically involved. He knew of the risks he’d inadvertently taken the second he got out of his apartment. If he’s about to deal with its consequences, then so be it.
Does that mean he has to drag her down along with him?
He wouldn’t. Langdon has got to get a hold of himself.
Pull away, Frank.
The noise polluting his head makes him want to walk aimlessly, anchoring his feet to the ground as the pain of walking begins to graze through the soles of his shoes, boring into his skin and into the most vulnerable part of his body.
His silence has become deafening that it took him to make four more turns before he realized a focal point in this exceptional eve of their nation’s birthday.
You’re a bad liar. Has anyone ever told you that?
Langdon hadn’t met her brother, but perhaps he should’ve taken his (almost) word for it. He’d have to thank him some time, he knows it.
My brother would beg to disagree.
The image of her hung smirk was vivid in Langdon’s mind when she said it. Hell, it was clearer than the Pittsburgh night sky, even he wouldn’t deny. The amount of walking he just did was at least twice as much as he'd made on his way to the bar, his back would’ve been killing him by now, but it’s not. (He thinks that it’s not.)
That was all it took for him to finally catch on to what actually might be happening all throughout the stretch of their five-block walk. Talk about being counterproductive all you want, but he’d actually choose another detour than walk up his apartment alone.
Shut it down. Put a stop to this.
Pull away. Pull away.
“You sure we’re close? I feel like we’ve been going in circles.” He inquires, feigning ignorance despite the fact that he’s made this turn thrice without her noticing.
“Yeah, I’m this way.” She answers quite confidently, perhaps way too easy, just as she leads the way turning on a street Langdon knew like the back of his hand. His street.
He sees the stop sign that was repaired just last week, the convenience store out on the corner he frequented for when he buys the kids snacks and candies for weekend visits. Langdon briefly checks his phone just to see if he’d missed anything since he did last. Bedtime reminder. It had been an hour since they left the bar.
There’s a subtle frown building in between his brows, so he lets her walk a step ahead of him, just to see where her feet will take the both of them. His curiosity grows and grows with every step she makes, this time leading—no longer being guided by Langdon for the past hundred blocks.
How long could she keep this up?
When such steps do lead him to his apartment building, Langdon stops in his tracks, causing her to look over her shoulders, realizing that he was falling behind.
“What?” With brows quirked and suspicious eyes, she inspects. “The night isn’t getting any younger, Frank.”
Langdon looks up to his window, black-out curtains drawn just like how he left it. His movement causes her to do the same.
He spills it, “This is me,” cocking his head towards the sliding doors of his apartment building.
The intonation in his voice must’ve sent her the message Langdon had unknowingly given.
“You said you were ‘round here?” He asks, not that there was still a point in prolonging this prelude.
She’s been caught.
She doesn’t back down. She wasn’t used to being caught in a lie.
With a straight face, she answers in the affirmative.
“Yes.”
Lie.
Langdon comments, “You’re not as good a liar as you think you are.”
The heel of her boot scrapes on the cold pavement as she takes a few steps towards Frank. The night is silent and they’re the only people standing on the sidewalk lit by a row of street lights. He still doesn’t realize, given that this wasn’t how he’d pictured spending his last night on pseudo-sabbatical, but Friday night had just taken a huge turn in his favor.
“Fine,” She sighs, surrendering. “You got me.”
A grin tears at the corner of his lips once she retreats.
Oh, this is wrong.
“You could’ve just told me.”
“Tell you what exactly?”
Langdon shrugs, “That you didn’t want to leave the bar yet.”
“Oh, I was ready to leave after the virgin cuba libre.” She says candidly, taking yet another step to close the gap in between them, “I just wasn’t ready to go home. Didn’t really want to.”
“Hence, the detour.” He meant to ask but the statement lands with finality, like it was definite.
“Uh-huh.” She nods, “Exactly.”
Langdon makes the mistake of gazing upon her once she’s up close that he had to rest his hands on his hips to steady himself, placing them there as the circumstance suddenly became too real.
He couldn’t fathom where to begin. His mind has already come up with the worst scenarios. Plural, yes. The closer he gets to the door of his apartment, the more reckless he thinks he’s being. If there was one thing ten months alone with himself has taught him, it’s the cruel truth that anything that’s got to do with him could easily mean a lot worse than what meets the eye. This night was no exception to that.
For a second there, he struggles to find his words.
So he reiterates, “You still could’ve told me.”
“If I did, would you have said yes?”
Now that’s a tricky one.
He answers with the truth, driving her point home.
“Probably not.”
Langdon sees her mind slip through her expression as if to tell on her. It seemed as though what he’d just said was the exact response she’d been expecting.
“I knew you wouldn't.” She said with confidence.
What does she want from him anyway? Could it be the same thing Langdon is refusing to acknowledge he’s thinking? If it was, Langdon isn’t quite sure he’s prepared to hear it.
“I’m not sure what’s happening here.” Langdon confesses just as he lets out a sigh, “Even if I was, I don’t think I should be doing anything about it.”
It’s true. He definitely shouldn’t.
“I’m enjoying your company, Frank. That doesn’t require you to do anything.” She calmly states, tutting as she adds, “But hey, if you’d rather I left—”
Langdon cuts her mid-sentence, answering a little too fast.
“No, please. I’m having a good time, too. With you.”
Uh-oh.
He has to pull away. Still.
She calls him out, “You’re overthinking this.”
“I…” He remains conflicted. “I don’t want to make a mistake. I feel like I’m not allowed—”
“To what? Be a normal person that needs other people and social interaction?”
She has a point.
Langdon avoids it.
“That doesn’t matter. You know what I am.”
He earns a scoff from her just as she steps back.
“A what? Drug-addict?” She says it as if she was the one supposed to take offense by what had been implied. “You are in recovery, Frank. Why do you say it like you’re some social pariah who deserves to be shunned away? To be allowed what?—nothing else besides therapy and rehab?”
Langdon understands where she’s coming from, but he’s still finding it hard to believe he could be allowed the liberality of choosing.
So, instead he says, “I’m just being careful.”
She nods in acknowledgement, but nonetheless reminds him, “You are more than your illness, Frank. You are more than your addiction.” She takes a step closer. “Life happens because you are it. Don’t make your addiction dictate how you’re supposed to live. Don’t treat it like it’s punishment for something that’s beyond your control.”
He disagrees with her, because it is a punishment.
“I can control it.” Just like I controlled the substance I’d taken, the patients I’d stolen it from, the time, the place, and the drink I’d have it with.
She doesn’t know how deep this pain goes for Langdon. He doesn’t want her to. Not when it’s beginning to make him believe he could really be allowed something more.
“That’s because you choose to do better. And you’ve continued to do so for ten months.” She unknowingly pulls him out of the pit—his own pit. “You are responsible for your own sobriety. Yes, the support system should be accounted for, but all of your progress still happened because you made it so. You’ve got to allow yourself to live, Frank.”
Langdon pauses and chooses to reflect. Was she right all along?
He’d been told by his therapist that it’s better to sit with the pain than seek some alternative to escape it. And tonight has been about him escaping. The decision of him leaving his apartment caused everything that followed to transpire. He could’ve chosen to sleep the pain away or busied himself with some other kind of remedy. But no, ten months post-rehab and here he was, thinking he’d gotten a lot better at sitting with his pain when he’s just been avoiding it one method at a time.
He couldn’t think of a word to utter. The guilt has caught up with him. The very kind that creeps into his mind mere seconds before he downs a few pills of Benzodiazepines. Could it be true? Could she just be another method used to substitute the pain he so badly wants to escape?
Langdon hopes he’s wrong.
So, he begins to catalogue the entire night in his head.
Backpain. Mocktails. Her.
Has he been in pain the entire time he was with her? To an extent, yes. The pain was there, but it’s become bearable with her around. Is that a bad thing? Had Langdon been alone the entire night, would he be able to sit with such pain? Would he be able to ride it out like he’s used to?
The relief he’d felt the second she sat beside him should’ve been enough for him to have gone home. Instead, he chose to bask in it—lean more of his weight towards it. Not to keep him distracted, but to be in the moment—to stay connected. With her or with himself?
The walk shouldn’t have been much help either. Walking should’ve made his pain go all the way to the nines; up to the point where he could no longer stand. Instead, he chose to reroute four more times just to be with her longer than he needed to—longer for him to realize she was doing the same thing too.
Frank, are you still in pain?
God, this was not a good time to hate himself for dissociating at that NA meeting. He could’ve learned a thing or two on Dating and Sex in Recovery. Maybe then, he wouldn’t feel like shit for being so incapable of choosing.
When it takes another beat for Langdon to speak his mind, she lets him in on hers.
“I wanted to spend more time with you, Frank. I didn’t want to go home.” She declares, “Isn’t that beyond your control?”
Now she’s actively choosing this.
She’s choosing Frank.
Pull me in.
“How…” Langdon tries to piece out a coherent thought, “Why do you have so much faith in me?”
She shrugs, “I just do.”
He finds it incredible.
“But we barely know each other.”
“I’m trying not to give up on people as fast as I used to.” She tells him with candor, perhaps had she been more honest, she’d tell Frank why she’s back in Pittsburgh too.
“You do that a lot with strangers?”
“Not really,” she refutes, “you’re an outlier.”
Oh, Langdon wants to think he got lucky.
“You can tell me what’s on your mind.” She isn’t asking nor is she commanding him to. She’s merely offering a hand to help him hold some of the weight of his indecision.
“I don’t want to start this the wrong way.“
He finally says it.
“And the wrong way being?”
“Using tonight as an escape—for me not to feel.” He worries. “I don’t want this to be just another distraction.”
She nods, finding the notion fair and called for.
“Do you think I’ve only been a distraction?”
“I hope not.” He answers despite the obvious uncertainty.
“Do you think I will be?”
“I’m not sure.” Langdon clarifies, “But I’m ill. No longer on edge, but still ill. Who’s to say I won’t treat this as an alternative?”
He said it again. This.
She knows he meant her.
This time, he sees her pull back. She’s weighing things now. The liability—the gravity of the situation involving the stranger she just met several hours ago.
Langdon is prepared for her to want to leave. He’d been prepared long before they left the bar. In fact, a part of him wants her to leave; to keep her safe—away from all of this. That way he wouldn’t have to deal with the feeling as though he was in two places at once. Torn between self-reliance and self-control; incapacitated by his mind while it simultaneously keeps him afloat.
Maybe I should go. Langdon knows it’s what she’s about to say next.
He couldn’t be more wrong.
“Has there been a time tonight where you weren’t being truthful?”
“No… no, of course not.” Langdon answers immediately, despite keeping the uglier ones beneath the surface. “I’ve only ever told you the truth about myself.”
Well, some of it.
He catches himself. He remembers the day Robby caught the drugs stashed in his locker. Robby had asked him if he’d been helping himself to some meds from the ED. He neither answered with a definitive yes nor a resounding no. He deflected as soon as he’d been caught red handed, choosing his flight response because he wasn’t in his own head.
Now, he’s confronted by a question with the same tenor and he chooses to answer with the truth, regardless of how little. He hasn’t been this present in years. He no longer recognizes this pattern.
She doesn’t say a thing but nods, as if to make do with whatever Frank allows.
“Alright,” She gives him a tight-lipped smile, “Why don’t I make you a deal?”
Langdon hums, letting her continue.
“Anything that happens from here on out, you’ll be in control.”
“What?” Langdon thinks he misheard her. Anything. Is she being serious?
“Well, except for first degree felonies, of course. I’d want some hand on that.”
He calls her name. Unlike her, he’s being serious about this.
She exhales, easing on the jokes. “What I’m saying is, if you want me to leave, I’ll leave. If you let me stay, I’ll stay. I’ll do whichever way you’re comfortable with.”
“I’m not really comfortable making your decisions for you.” Langdon remains cautious.
“Let’s just say, this is me allowing you to choose, Frank.”
The way she says his name causes his guts to turn quite unexplainably, Langdon had to contain his own breathing.
“What’s it gonna be?”
A beat passes before he lands on an answer.
“It’s getting late.” He says, seeing her shoulders drop instantly, just as he says, “We should probably head inside.”
Liberalities and grace.
Langdon is beginning to think he’s allowed the same.
𓂃𓂁𓂃
Quiet settles the moment Langdon closes the door to his apartment.
It wasn’t much, given the fact that it had only been three months since he moved in. He knew that. But seeing her take in the four corners of the world he so badly wanted to escape hours ago, makes him realize how bare it actually must have looked for someone—well, someone other than him, to say the least.
There were no longer boxes lying around because he’d gotten through it all in just a month. He didn’t really have a lot to unpack. The things he brought with him were just the few things he could really call his own. Things that were neither Abby’s nor the children’s. He left home with only the stuff he still had from med school, boxes from his childhood that his ex-wife somehow saved from their annual christmas donations, and of course, a few Penguins and Steelers merch he knows Abby would get rid of the second he gets out the door.
Langdon didn’t have much to himself other than a few plates, cutlery, and a bed he can call his own. The apartment may not have felt exactly like how his previous home did back when he had Abby to do all the decorating, but it was a start. A reminder that he had structure in his little life. Somehow.
“Drink? I have—” He cut himself mid-sentence as the realization hit him. He doesn’t have anything much to offer her as well so he settles with the next best thing. “—water.”
“Water works.” A tight-lipped smile grows thin across her lips; polite and unassuming.
He wishes she didn’t expect him to have anything else other than what he’s allowed. After all, she was in a recovering addict’s home. It wouldn’t bode well for Langdon to have her see a beverage far remote than the one that’s been distilled and filtered.
Langdon headed towards the kitchen, hyperaware of the fact that he wasn’t alone in his apartment. It took all his might to restrain himself from looking over his shoulder just to see what she’s up to. Observing, nosing around, or just standing still. Maybe she sneaked out and left, changed her mind at the last minute. Which, arguably, also works in Langdon’s favor now that he thinks about it.
Only she’s still there when he does look back.
He buys himself more time to think things through. What’s to happen now that they’re much more alone than they were a few hours ago?
He wonders if she’s doubting everything that's been said out on the street. He wonders if it was still a good idea to get on with it. He hasn’t really been with anyone since the divorce. It just wasn’t something he had his mind on. But alas, fate has an odd way of taking a spin at things. And he knows he tempted it the minute he headed out the door for the first time on the eve of Independence day.
The time it took to fill up the glass didn’t help Langdon to land on a sensible conclusion. The only thing he knows now is that she’s still standing exactly where he left her last.
“Why don’t you take a seat?” He motions for her to follow.
Before she does, she points onto one of the few picture frames he had on display by the accent table. “Your family?”
It was a family photo taken on the Holiday of 2024 at the new house his parents bought for their retirement. Tanner was three and Penny had only turned a year old. Abby had just gotten promoted which came in handy for Langdon who was only in his third year of residency, still paying off student loans, tightening his belt up to the point of hurting himself. Let’s just say we know what happened after that.
He hums, affirming the question with nary a word.
He hands her the glass, which she takes with both hands. One hand just below Frank’s while the other brush atop his finger the moment she takes said glass away from his grasp.
Langdon feels a familiar pull in his guts. It was only then that he realized it was the first time that they’d actually touched. It’s different from how he felt when their hands were just hovering around the air sitting in between them on their walk.
He remembers feeling this way the first time he liked a girl back in middle school, when he felt it on his third date with Abby, and when she told him she was pregnant with their first child, Tanner. He tries to make sense of the feeling, folding metaphorical dog-ears in his mind to make sure he’s not searching for some kind of high he’d end up chasing.
“Thanks.” She takes a sip the second she has it, not because she was that thirsty but because she just had to find something else to do other than stand so foreign in Frank’s home.
Finally, she took a seat on his couch, while he backed into the kitchen counter. For a minute, Langdon just stood there, several feet away from her, waiting—wracking his brain of what’s supposed to come next.
“You’re doing it again.” She blurts out.
Langdon straightens his back.
“Doing what?”
“Thinking too much.”
“Sorry.” He shyly apologized, “Can’t help it.”
A beat passes before she speaks again.
“I meant what I said earlier, I hope you know.”
Langdon tilts his head, urging her to continue.
“That you’re allowed to choose, and that you’re in control of tonight.”
The statement just floats and doesn’t land definitively. It was more of an invitation than a command. A hand reaching out rather than one pulling with control. This time, for Frank, it did feel like he had a choice.
“Remember what I told you as to why I went to the bar?”
She hums.
“You said you were having a hard time.”
The quiet is steady, different from the silence he’s used to when he knows he’s doing things for the sole purpose of taking. It wasn’t the kind of silence that sits with him seconds before he takes his pills. But, nevertheless this quiet was familiar. It wasn’t entirely new in the sense that Langdon felt as though he was rediscovering it. He’d recognized the stillness because it was the quiet that enveloped his brain minutes before his final Pathology exam. It was the quiet that rested within him as he watched Abby walk down the aisle. The kind of quiet that allows him to sit with himself. To feel. To be with his mind. Reminding him that there was once a time when quiet felt like this—before chaos and noise were the only things his mind could crave.
Langdon folds his arms to his chest, feeling more vulnerable than he’s ever been the entire night.
“I don’t want you to be the next best thing.”
You. Her shoulders tense up as she heard it. It was brief and subtle, but just enough for Langdon to catch it.
“I’m not going to be the next best thing.”
She doesn’t say it as though it was some kind of assurance, like it was an attempt for her to convince him. She said it with clarity as if it wasn’t just a statement but a fact. Not a substitute, but just Frank’s reality.
Langdon has to make a decision. Everything he’d told her should’ve already caused her to leave. But after three mocktails and what seemed like the longest walk he’d made in his life, she’s still here.
She reaches out.
“Tell me what’s on your mind.”
He sighs, surrendering.
“I’m thinking… how it’d be like to kiss you.”
Everything moved at a pace much slower than the kind he was accustomed to. He’d been so used to jumping from one end to another. Always moving, always away. But now, as she stood an inch before him, Langdon felt like staying.
Her touch feels electric as her hand brushes against his skin.
“You’re allowed to have me, Frank.” She affirms beyond a shadow of a doubt. “Whatever you decide, I’m here.”
Frank nods, with his eyes shut. She doesn’t say another word, merely content with using the warmth of her body to help ground him, stabilize him. This feeling isn’t new to Langdon, but it has been a while since he’d allowed himself to be within such a short (and almost inexistent) distance of something more than just what requires his survival.
With a dragged tone in his voice, he speaks at a lower register.
“I’m going to kiss you.”
A subtle grin spreads along her lips, but Langdon finds it inadequate.
“I need to hear you say yes.” He declares, just as the heat of his breath lingers in the thin space parting their lips from one another’s.
She takes a moment to say yes, pulling Frank closer by his forearms; the movement neither fueled by urgency nor rush.
“You may kiss me.”
Langdon feared he’d be overwhelmed by the time he kissed her. He was afraid of encountering the chase; the moment that usually takes him out of himself. Had it been that way by the time his lips met hers, Frank knew it’d only be a matter of time for him to make her the next best thing.
But, when he did kiss her, it was nothing like he expected.
Her lips were soft and tasted like flavored-chapstick. He liked how her shoulders tensed up by the time his lips touched hers despite her awareness of what’s about to happen. It’s quite flattering for Frank to know he had that effect on her, no matter how little.
The kiss didn’t feel rushed, nor did it feel inauthentic. Frank’s feet seemed anchored to the ground not by some force he couldn’t place because it was greater than his being. No, it wasn’t like that at all. He didn’t feel himself soar off his apartment floor, not even by an inch.
All that he knew was that he’s anchored to the ground, here with her, because he simply chooses to be. No escaping, just complete and absolute surrender to what awaits him.
Once he pulls away, he checks in on her.
“You okay?”
She nods fervently, as she gasps for air, forgetting that Langdon preferred expressed rather than implied consent.
“Never better.” She bites her lip to stop herself from smiling like an idiot. “You?”
“Okay, too.”
For the first time, Langdon didn’t want to feel better. For the first time, he was okay at being completely content with the normalcy of living life the way he’s supposed to. This time, he isn’t just aware—he knows he wasn’t aiming for better. For him, it was enough to be able to stand in this moment and meet her exactly where she was.
Langdon leans in again, this time pulling her closer as humanly possible that the only thing parting them from one another were the fabric of their own clothes.
By the time their tangling feet manage to get them on the bed, Langdon was sure he could kiss her all night even if that’s the only thing she’d allow him. He finds himself planting kisses on the side of her lips, down to her jaw, just as he tends to the skin exposed between her neck and clavicle.
She gasps, the sensation beginning to cloud her better judgment. Before it turns into a blur, she pulls away, this time to check on Frank.
Liberalities and grace.
“You sure about this?”
Surrender, Frank Langdon.
“I am.”
Frank’s hands found comfort beneath the fabric of her shirt, enjoying the confirmation of what his touch seemed to do to her. She shifts towards wherever they travel, aching to have more of him all whilst he tries to keep up with her.
Pride causes warmth to spread along his chest as he takes in how she looked beneath him.
“We’ve got time, sweetheart.” He manages to say amidst their teeth clashing in between kisses.
He feels her break a smirk.
“I know.”
Langdon snakes an arm underneath her to pull her closer to the headboard, away from the edge of the bed. He’s more than aware of the risk he’d taken just by how sheer force could trigger the pain he’d been trying to get away from all night. When he feels it, he lets it stay there, putting a pin on his aching obliques if that meant sharing tonight with her.
He coaxes out a giggle from her when he catches her off-guard with such fluid motion. Frank’s hand travels to her nape, secured in place, while the other supports the small of her back. He lays her on the bed with gentle ease, considering the actual effort it took for him to make it. He pulls away, pulling his shirt above his head whilst she does the same.
Frank hovers on top of her as he dives in for yet another kiss. He gently cages her face with a hand large enough to cover her jaw and jugular. He presses on the vein with just enough pressure while he tends on the sensitive skin near her earlobe, earning a moan from her.
He’d never wanted anyone this much.
Langdon hasn’t been with a woman other than his ex-wife for more than a decade. He’d never even thought, let alone dreamt of it. He was so sure Abby was the love of his life. But this—her, he knows it isn’t something primal. It isn’t something he’d seek just to get through the night. Which seems so confusing as the fact that they were mere strangers who’ve only met per chance stands as an undisputed fact. How could he feel such an unexplainable connection with someone he knew for less than a day? If only he had a second to spare and ponder, maybe he can think of an answer as to why.
It doesn’t take long before they’re all over each other once more. This time, skin to skin against Frank’s cold white sheets with nary a sense of urgency nor necessity to rush things.
For Frank, it felt as though he was falling into something more than just a structure he’s yet to fully comprehend. For her, there was nothing else she’d rather put her mind to but the guy whose last name she was yet to know.
𓂃𓂁𓂃
“Hey… wake up, Frank.” she calls him softly, earning a tiresome groan off him. “Listen, I need to get to work but I hope to see you some other time, maybe?”
Langdon opens his eyes at that.
“It’s barely five in the morning. You can stay, I can take you.”
She chuckles, “You do realize the only thing I’m wearing is the last of your good shirts?”
He murmurs, throwing a hand over her middle in an effort to stop her from leaving.
“Come on… I left my number on the pad. Call me later?”
Langdon reaches for her hand, their fingers instantly melting in an intertwine. Despite his obvious opposition to her leaving, he nods. “Dinner. Tonight. After work.”
He knows she’s smiling despite his eyes being shut.
“Are you asking me or are you telling me?”
“Telling.” Langdon declares with finality, causing a familiar warmth spread across her cheeks. She fails to stifle a beaming grin when he follows up and says, “I’ll call.”
She finds herself caressing Langdon’s arm with her free hand, drawing idle circles on his skin as if to soothe an answer out of him in her favor.
“Only if you promise to let me go.”
That makes him chuckle. He finally opens his eyes to gaze upon her, hair still disheveled from the events of last night.
He no longer protests.
“Alright, come on.”
Before Langdon could pull himself off bed, she stops him with a hand resting firmly on his biceps, “No need to walk me out. Just sleep some more, mkay?”
Just because he still feels the weight of sleep in his eyes, Langdon acquiesces, “Okay.”
Well, not quite.
“Frank, let go already!” She laughs the minute Langdon pulls her back to bed with his hand that seemed to have been glued shut with hers.
“You haven’t answered.” He coos, hoping she’d agree to what he has sort of asked her seconds ago.
He sees her grinning, “Yes. Dinner, tonight, after work.”
That confirmation finally made Langdon let go, tucking his hand instead underneath the pillow to get at least half an hour of sleep before he inevitably had to wake up for today’s shift.
𓂃𓂁𓂃
Langdon only had her to thank for the extra two hours of sleep he was able to get before he inevitably had to leave his bed for work. He’s grateful because if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t be able to endure the mind-numbing and tedious HR clearance procedure waiting for him the second he steps through the PTMC doors.
He wasn’t worried about all the administrative matters he was subjected to in compliance with Gloria’s direct orders, nor about having to pee in a cup for the first time at his place of work. Hell, he wasn’t even worried about the pungent smell that covered the entire waiting area by the time Lupe had told him to sit down and wait for his clearance and recommendation letter.
The tedious standard procedure for returning drug-addict employees in recovery wasn’t the one that caused the gnawing pressure bubbling in his guts. Rather, it was the man entering through the same doors he did just short of an hour ago, with his backpack slung over his shoulder, walking right past him despite the knowledge of his much awaited return.
Lupe’s voice cuts through the all-too familiar chaos of the ER.
“Frank?”
He’s been called to return. It doesn’t matter if it’s temporary or that he’s been called as a substitute to some other physician away from work. He’s here now. The possibility of him coming back was a shot in the dark he’d only dream of back in rehab, back when his mind allows him to think of anything else other than needing to soldier through the pains of withdrawal. He did that without much assurance as to whether he’d ever be allowed back. Ten months, he’d spent days enduring physical and mental torture. Ten months clouded with doubt and uncertainty. Ten months, he’s here now.
“Langdon?”
Inhale.
“Frank?”
Exhale.
The third time Lupe calls his name, Langdon finally musters enough courage to walk up to the reception.
With a nod, she slips an envelope towards Langdon, “You should be good to go now, hon.”
“Thanks, Lupe.”
“Of course.”
He cowers beneath the shade of his Pittsburgh Penguins cap as he glances on to the envelope he’s now holding. It was the clearance letter from HR and the Physician’s Health Program.
───────────────────────────
PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL — ADDRESSEE ONLY
Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center
Human Relations, Head Office
TO: Dr. Frank Langdon, MD
IMPORTANT HEALTH CARE INFORMATION ENCLOSED
───────────────────────────
There must’ve been a look that sneaked on his face prompting Lupe to say, “Hey, go get ‘em.”
Langdon doesn’t need to read too much into that. Whatever his exterior might’ve looked, it couldn’t be any worse than what he's been dealing with inside. Regardless, he gives her a tight-lipped smile, grateful to know he wasn’t alienated by the first co-worker he met since, well… you know.
His hand was already pushing the door ajar when an all too familiar labored voice caught his attention.
“Hey, Doc.”
Louie Cloverfield aka the patient whose prescription Langdon had successfully tampered with several times before the day Robby finally caught him red-handed.
Despite his guilt, Frank manages to look at him.
“It’s been a while.”
Like he always does for the other times he’d been in and out of the ER, Louie grins, chuckling in spite of the pain he’s feeling.
“I got a bad toothache today.” He informs Langdon.
A warm grin breaks, welcoming. “We’ll take care of that, Louie.”
Langdon’s first walk into the bull-pen was supposed to be just like the hundred times that came before it: the golden boy strutting into Central still tying the laces of his scrubs, already asking Dana for a cool case despite the clock barely ticking past 7:00 AM.
Only, it wasn’t.
He’s used to arriving at work feeling like he was coming home. The out flow of patients left by the night shift, the chaos of the morning in central juxtaposed to the morning outside of the building, never still—never quiet. Langdon is used to feeling as though he was being embraced as he charged into the belly of the beast, into the jungle he was free to be wild in; where he got to move, jump, fly, and think about nothing else but himself.
He isn’t used to coming home to this. Seeing people old and new, running in different directions with purpose. Some towards the staff lounge to make coffee, some to stop and gossip. These were just some of the things he missed when he came to work high even before noon. It doesn’t look like a jungle. It doesn’t feel exciting.
For the first time, Langdon sees the Pitt in a different light. Sober light.
He still doesn’t know if that is a good thing. Maybe he’ll figure it out today.
Robby’s voice is all that he could hear by the time he’s done changing into his scrubs.
“Everyone, gather around—make some room, take space. We’re about to have our briefing.” He announces, voice commanding as he remembers. “Langdon, get your ass over here. No one’s gonna wait any longer.”
That ought to make him move.
Robby’s eyes didn’t land on him when he managed to stand alongside Whitaker and some tall kid he figured to be someone new.
MS? Intern? Could be either.
He sees Jack Abbot standing unusually close to Mohan, who in turn had Mel stuck beside her like a magnet. Out by the corner was Santos, side-eyeing his existence. Javadi comes up to Whitaker, who’s an MD now by the way, still with a white mocha latte in hand she wasn’t able to finish.
Langdon takes one last sweep over the huddle, just before his eyes land onto Robby.
Onto her.
What—“First of all, I’d like you to meet Dr. YN Robinavitch, she’d be joining our ship for the rest of her residency.” Robby begins, motioning towards her as she stands tall beside him despite their obvious height difference.
Audible gasps followed such a declaration. Heads snapping on the side, murmuring, sizing the new kid in town. Probably thinking, Nice. Another nepo hire.
Frank thinks he’s about to pass out.
It doesn’t take a beat for Abbot to chime in. With a smirk he reveals, “Yes, as in Robby—Robinavitch. No, she’s not his wife nor is she his daughter.”
Langdon could only decipher what seemed like Robby throwing daggers at the night-shift attendant by the time he finishes the statement.
Robby clears his throat, taking control.
“Dr. Abbot’s correct. She is neither my wife nor my daughter, god forbid. But yes, she is family.”
Family.
Oh my fucking god.
“It’s nice to know Javadi isn’t the only one inclined to join the family business ‘round here.” Santos managed to slide a snide comment but the ringing in Langdon’s ear had already grown louder for him to register anything else other than his own heart beating its way out of his chest, he thinks he’s about to have a STEMI.
Mel hits the final nail on Langdon’s coffin once she asks a follow up question.
“So… she’s your?”
Robby seals Langdon’s fate with just a word.
“Sister.”
“Fuck me.”
Langdon hisses under his breath, unaware that his mouth moved faster than his brain could process new waves of information.
Robby exchanges glances between her and Langdon, his tone laced with curiosity but doesn’t seem to suspect a thing.
“You two know each other?”
“No, we just met. Isn’t that right,” she pauses to look at Frank’s hospital badge, “Dr. Langdon?”
She was rather quick to decline, dismissing the notion before it sat too long in the air. Had there been the slightest hint of panic rising in her throat, her brother Robby would be the last person to catch it.
Fuck me. Langdon successfully thinks to himself.
“Yeah, no—just today.” He concurred as he aimed for a handshake.
She kept up with his gaze that’s long been pinned on her, bearing with it what seemed like hundreds of questions piled on Frank’s magnificent brain. She watched his throat move just as her eyes fell captive for his mouth, the very same mouth that he’s proven to be just as capable as the hand she was about to hold.
The warmth of Langdon’s hand wraps around hers as she accepts what was merely a formality being offered.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Robinavitch.”
A smug smirk tugs at the corner of her lips, just as she says—“The pleasure is mine, Dr. Langdon.”
note: anyone up for a part two? (cos i am) next part will be reader’s pov. reblogs and comments are highly appreciated i would love a chat with yall ◡̈ ᥫ᭡
It’s a Frank Langdon x y/n robinivitch and she lived in New York and she met Frank Langdon at the bar at the airport and then she got to the PTMC and they see each other.
closed my eyes to go to sleep and was suddenly struck by the image of jack abbot spitting on your pussy and smirking, saying something filthy, and then burying his tongue inside you send tweet and goodnight
tags: MDNI, free use, smut, husband joel!miller x afab wife!reader, no outbreak au, consensual free use, dirty talk (and I mean loooots of dirty talk), reader is stressed and is taking it out on Joel, brief mention of a small argument, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v sex, reader tries not to react but that pussy does 😛 (AYYY), sweet Joel, soft dom Joel, mentions of aftercare but not shown, orgasm and creampie.
summary: a week of stress causes a brief argument with you and joel which then leads to him taking advantage of the free use arrangement you both have, quite literally fucking the anxiety out of you.
wc: 2.5k
dividers by @/tsumiinum
If you were being honest, you’re not quite sure why you’re so angry this evening.
It was just.. one of those days where nothing was going right and everything was succeeding in pissing you off. First, it was being half way through your morning shower and realising you had run out of shampoo, leading you to be forced to attend work with greasy hair. Then it was your boss deciding to show up to work late — as per usual — and leaving you to have to deal with the useless intern who acted as if they’d never used a computer in their life, and lastly, it was that stupid comment Joel made when you came home from work in a mood.
It wasn’t even particularly rude — what he said. It was just a passing a comment when you’d told him you were fine in a tone that was unnecessarily harsh.
“Okay, I was just askin’. Don’t gotta bite my head off, baby girl.”
He’d retorted back lightly. And that of course led you to kick up a stink when you were the one taking your shitty day out on him. You’d stormed upstairs, deciding that you didn’t need his reprimands and tossed yourself onto the bed, settling for some doom scrolling in your mismatched pyjamas. Usually you’d change into one of Joel’s shirts when you came home from work, but today — completely and utterly out of spite — you’d settled for your own, less comfortable clothes.
Joel decided it best to let you cool down from whatever was bothering you upstairs on your own — give you some space. It was evident that you weren’t in the mood to talk and he understood that. Sometimes even he — after a shitty day — didn’t want to talk about what was bothering him.
But he knew if it was something serious, you’d come to him. You both had that trust in your relationship. So from what he could gather, you were just in a mood. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed.
And that’s where the idea of your free use arrangement came into mind.
The two of you had come up with the use of this kink a couple months ago. In fact, it was a fun, sexy birthday gift to Joel that started things off. And then it just.. kinda stuck.
You both had a safe word, a colour that signalled the other that you didn’t want to continue, that you didn’t want to start at all.
And with how you were acting right now? Joel thinks you might just need a little loving from him to make you feel better. For him to take care of that pussy of yours — fuck it out of you.
So before he could debate it in his head any longer, he made a beeline for the stairs and then, your shared bedroom.
You heard him before you saw him. That damn door opening so squeakily revealing his presence to you. For a moment, Joel just leaned against the door and stared at you sprawled out on the bed on your stomach, phone in hand and completely ignoring him despite knowing he was there.
Joel takes a couple steps until he’s standing in front of the mattress facing your back and casually — so damn casually, he begins removing his clothes. Unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it off before reaching for his belt, the sound of it unbuckling being sign enough for what he was about to do.
Your clit twitches and your core heats beneath your black, cotton shorts, a shiver slithering down your spine although you kept it from showing. “Still not talkin’ to me, I take it.” Joel comments, pushing his jeans and boxers down and freeing his half-hard cock, palming it and giving it a squeeze to bring it to full erection — not that he necessarily needed the extra help of his hands though. He was certain that a couple extra minutes of just looking at you laying in that position, your pretty ass looking so inviting in those shorts, feet bobbing up and down mindlessly, would result in him becoming rock hard.
You sniff softly and turn your head to the side, acting as if you were more engrossed in the Elle article you were reading about Pedro Pascal — the actor you were infatuated with who looked eerily alike to Joel — not even bothering to acknowledge Joel’s presence, let alone the removal of his clothes.
Excitement coiled in your gut at the thoughts of what your husband was about to do to you. Of being fucked by him or touched and trying your best to act as if wasn’t phasing you.
“I’ll take that as a yes then,” Joel chuckles, kneeling on the bed behind you and gently, so goddamn gently, begins to pull your shorts down your legs and off your feet, no underwear on underneath therefore leaving you bare from the waist down. “So.. I figured I’d give ya a little TLC, Honey. Put that little arrangement of ours to good use, hm?”
You gasp involuntarily when Joel’s thumb makes contact with your clit. He briefly pauses his ministrations to manoeuvre you into a better position, gently coaxing your legs apart. He then resumes his provision of stimulation, a smug smile that you couldn’t see creeping onto his mouth at the sight of your body twitching.
“Such a pretty pussy, Angel.” Joel comments, leaning down and pressing a final kiss to your clit before pulling his hand away and pressing the head of his cock to your entrance, manhandling you up onto your knees to give him better access to your cunt. You were already starting to make a mess — coating your thighs in your stickiness despite how little Joel has even touched you.
You feel embarrassed yet don’t move your eyes from the screen in front of you, holding your weight on your arms as you scroll through the website with your thumb, your brain barely withholding any of the information written in the article. You inhale sharply when Joel presses his tip into your opening, barely giving you any time to mentally prepare for the stretch before pushing inside of you fully, holding your ass in his two, large, overworked hands.
“There it is, just like that,” Joel purrs slowly, and almost reverently fucking himself in and out of your heat in long, deep strokes that had him reaching the deepest parts of you. You can hear the satisfaction in his voice, the relief. “Nice and slow, Sweetie. Let me build ya up, kay?”
You don’t respond although your hand starts to slump a little, not holding your phone as tight as you would be if you were actually paying attention. The slow, heavy drags of his dick across your walls had your clit twitching painfully, your insides pulsing and hugging Joel’s cock appreciatively.
A small sound escapes you, something of a squeak when his tip meets your g-spot. Your phone falls from your hand and your forehead ends up connecting with the mattress before you can stop yourself. Tears spring into your waterline, a mix of pleasure and emotion from the heaviness of your day being released.
“Oh, I know. You’re tryin’, huh? I know you’re tryin’ to ignore me. You don’t wanna talk about what’s bothering you, do ya?” Joel coos at the sounds of your soft sniffles, the sound of your defeated little sounds. You don’t respond, still clinging to that scrap of stubbornness left within you. You didn’t want to give in so easily, you still wanted to make him beg for your attention, even if you were the unreasonable one.
You haul yourself back up onto your forearms, forcing your phone back into your hand and resuming your scrolling, now opting to check out Instagram. Your hand trembles slightly, your cunt fighting the urge to clench around Joel’s cock at the heavy, intoxicating pleasure he was providing.
Joel chuckles again, amused with your determination. He begins to speed his thrusts up, forcing your hips down and barricading either side of your head with his arms as he begins to fuck you harder into the mattress, your clit being stimulated with his heavy balls swinging and thumping against it. Your mouth drops open, a cry threatening to spill out before you quickly censor yourself by biting down on your bottom lip.
“Yeah,” Joel rasps, his words becoming slurred as he fights off his own orgasm threatening to consume him. “You might not be payin’ attention to me. But this little pussy is. And no matter what you do, no matter how much you look on your phone, your little cunt is tellin’ me this is exactly what you need.”
His words hit you right in the core, heating your body up even more, sending your eyes rolling back with the mixture of his cock and words. He continued. “This pretty ass in my hands, and this perfect, perfect pussy milking my cock. S’so special, baby. Letting me use you like this — bein’ my little fuck dolly.”
Your mouth began to move before you could stop it from doing so — before you could yourself back. “Joel, p-please.” You beg softly, not even entirely sure what you were begging for. Him, his cock, his soothing words, maybe. You push your hips back, allowing your phone to fall from your hand once more. Not bothering to hide from the pleasure anymore.
“Yeah, I’m here, Angel,” Joel soothed to your plea and you can almost hear the relief in his voice when you succumb to him. The relief that his plan was working. “Just feel it, baby. Don’t worry about that phone of yours. Just feel my cock on that spot. My balls slapping that pretty clit.”
Joel’s head suddenly drops down to pepper kisses and love bites on the back of your neck. He leans forward just enough to trail his tongue up to your pulse point, sucking and nipping and the thrum of it before soothing the slight hurt with this tongue.
That was your weakness.
Any remainder of control you had over yourself was severed completely, a deeper, more intense moan erupting from your throat along with a; “fuck, baby,” that came out high pitched and sudden. Gasped out, more like.
Joel chuckles into your neck, speeding up his thrusts at your sudden burst of enthusiasm, moaning at the way you tightened around him, your slick walls hugging his sensitive dick. Abruptly, he reached down and gently — yet still firmly — wrapped a handful of your hair around his fist, tugging on it to force your back into an arch, his cock hitting so much deeper with this angle. Your moans turning pornographic as he began to speak.
“Yeah, you’re payin’ attention now. So deep like this, isn’t it? My cock all up in your belly, baby girl.” Joel grits, the obscene skin on skin slapping and the loud moans being ripped from your chest making his mind go hazy. He feels his cock start to pulse, his abdominal muscles tightening as he desperately holds back his orgasm. “Is this what you needed?”
You nod frantically, tears now freely flowing down your face, the release of your emotion cathartic as your climax neared. That was also part of the reason for your tears. “Yes — yes, baby. Just — just needed you to — to make me feel better.” You cry. And he could tell it was the truth — that you weren’t just agreeing with him because you thought that it was what he wanted to hear.
And something in Joel’s chest cracked at that. The sheer honesty and rawness in your words. He slows his thrusts slightly but keep the hardness of it. Gently, he pulls you up against his chest, your back flush to it so you were in a more comfortable position, his chin resting on your shoulder. “I know. I know you did, Angel. I’m here now,” he starts, kissing a tear away from your cheek with a crane of his head, his fucking of you making the both of you breathless as he did it. “You’re gonna feel so much better when you cum for me. Just gotta let it all out and give it to be. Let me deal with all that stress, huh? And then you know what I’m gonna do?”
You can barely say more than this through your hiccuping sobs; “What?”
But Joel continued on anyway, a smile laced in his words at your fucked out state, your orgasm on the brink of washing over you. “I’m gonna get you nice and comfy after, and I’m gonna clean you up. Make you a little dinner and grab you some snacks and just pamper my baby girl. I know she needs it.”
And you didn’t deserve him. His sweetness, especially after you’d torn the head off him earlier over a tiny comment. More tears slip from your eyes. More of emotion.
And just as you feel yourself about to come undone, it’s ripped away. Joel pulls himself from you gently, groaning softly at the loss of your heat as if this brief loss was as agonising for him as it was for you.
You whine in protest, confusion. But he quickly hushes you by rolling you onto your back and shifting you back against the pillows, ensuring your neck was supported before raising your legs onto his shoulders. “Shh — s’okay. Just wanna see that pretty face when you cum for me, baby.”
And then just like that he slams back in, resuming his thrusts perfectly and it wasn’t long until you were back on the edge. Tipping over it, tipping, tipping, tipping until finally — it hit you.
A yelp is forced from you that turns into soft, blissful whimpers as you writhe beneath Joel. His lips connect with your forehead through it. Then your nose, then your cheeks, chin and finally, your lips, kissing your swollen mouth until you were out of breath and pulling back frantically.
You drop your legs down from his shoulders and wrap them tightly around his waist, pressing you foot against his ass to pull him even closer to you. Inside you.
You see it in his face he’s close. Just as fucked out as you.
“Please — ple-ase cum inside of me, Joel,” you beg, eyes pleading, glimmering with desperation. “Need to feel it.”
Joel slows his thrusts to ensure he didn’t hurt you considering how sensitive you must be after that release, yet they still stutter — his hips. An amused laugh falls from Joel’s lips, his eyebrow cocking upward in surprise. “Oh? You’ve changed your tune.”
And despite your state — your dreamy haze. You laugh, right from your belly. The kind of giggle that just bubbles out of you. And Joel does the same with you. Just happy to see his baby girl smiling as he marked you from the inside with his release.
Thank you for reading lovely!! Comments, asks and reblogs of your thoughts are greatly appreciated :)
I've been saying this since like 2019 but just in case you still haven't heard, Euphoria is fetish content.
It was obvious when the first season came out and all of these characters are having graphic sex and prostituting themselves while still in high school. There was actually no need plot-wise to make them high schoolers instead of college students. It was obvious from the start that this creepy male director, writer, producer guy is a weirdo just from that.
Then by the third season (I have not watched, and neither should you), you have a character doing OF dressed as an actual BABY and a dog, and if you still can't see that this is just jerk off material for weirdos like Sam Levinson, I don't even know how your mind works. Again, there's no reason these things couldn't just be implied or maybe discussed without showing, but no, they NEED to show Sydney Sweeney in a diaper and pacifier spreading her legs.
Along with some other stuff from the show that I won't even talk about, yeah... If you're watching the show, you're consuming this creepy man's personal fetish tapes. Enjoy!
Israel passed a death penalty law that will allow them to execute Palestinian detainees many of which have been detained without due process and many of which were kids when they were detained.
This is the equivalent to camp executions the Nazis did. It's exactly the same thing
This death penalty law doesn't apply to Israelis of course because Israel is a violent apartheid
🖤 An Ongoing Series, from Misha’s Masterlist Library.
☾⋆ OSWDLS Full Series Masterlist here.
VOLUME III • Chapters 69 -> 70 -> 71 -> 72 -> 73
💭 = flashback / memory
-> dearEddie lovers & jealous!Steve fans, you’re in for a treat…
Steve Harrington x Bauman!fem!reader
enemies to lovers, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, upside down mayhem, S2-S4, post S4 into S5 universe hot-take, end-of-the-world / dystopian setting turned happy ending (no more upside down!), ugly fights turned smut (...but with hella plot). 18+
🎧 Fic Song Inspo: "Infinite Baths" by Sleep Token (s/o to @silkholland for this)
🖤 CHAPTERS SUMMARY: You’re beginning to realize anytime your uncle has used the phrase, “WELP! It was nice while it lasted!” — saying it with that signature snark of his, your entire childhood — has never rang more true than now.
Sharing the Bauman bloodline might label you a whacko by default, given Murray’s shameless pursuits as a self-glorified conspiracy theorist and underrated personal detective… but every single thing he’s theorized, guessed at, sworn by and lost sleep over — all these years — just keeps unraveling, right before your eyes. Martial Law has turned into a global military operated lockdown in less than a than a month. And no matter how off-grid you all are, the search for all of you still continues. The government is determined to track you down. Every single one of you. They’ll send helicopters and drones over the uncharted territory, if that’s what it takes.
But they aren’t just hunting this found family.
They’re also hunting the unknown deadly beasts of the underworld that have escaped the Upside Down on their watch.
Because those monsters are hunting all of you, including them.
Steve’s never felt more terrified in his life than he does right now, holding you inside of this military tank in the middle of bumfuck nowhere… thinking back on the near three years he spent hating you, slowly falling for you without even knowing it was happening.
He’s also realizing just how much Eddie Munson might’ve been the perfect catalyst for that, back in 1986.
🖤 AUTHOR’S NOTE: Personally? This upload has me more excited than anything, because Chapters 71 & 72 are key flashbacks that revisit the enemies era in Steve & Babe Bauman’s enemies to lovers story arc… and they’re some of my all-time favorites from throughout this entire fanfic series of mine.
Get ready for some past jealous!Steve and past flirty!Eddie, who might’ve been lowkey crushing on our fave baddie girl ;) Because who the hell wouldn’t?
We’re in the thick of my S5 hot take with this story. Steve & Babe Bauman are eternally my Roman Empire. Their story is my longest one, and even when we reach their “happy ever after…” it still keeps going.
Enjoy the mayhem. It only gets crazier from here.
Xx,
misha
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Stillness That Screams
Late March • 1987
DAY 9 (Classified Coordinates) – Morning
You woke up to the sound of nothing.
Or… no.
No, it wasn’t nothing.
Your ears were ringing. That was the first clue. Because it was never truly quiet out here. Not in the deep Canadian woods. There was always something… whether it was all the trees groaning, branches cracking, Dimitri muttering in his sleep, maybe Steve gently snoring at your feet.
But now it was eerily wrong.
Muted.
Suspended.
Then you heard it.
A low rumble of a mechanical thrum, barely even there but terrifyingly present.
Helicopters.
You opened your eyes to a blur of darkness and muted gray. No light filtered in through the thick curtains of the Winnebago. Every window was shrouded. The only glow came from the soft ember of the little space heater in the kitchenette, dim and nearly dead.
Your breath caught.
Steve was still curled at your feet, backwards on the cot like a human comma, parallel to you... his arms wound tightly around your calves under the blankets. His eyes were wide open now, face tucked into the crook behind your knees, brows pinched, lips parted just slightly. He was stirring now, just so, both his hands gripping your legs tighter, like he’d heard it too.
Like he’d felt all of it and woke up before you had.
All of you heard the low rhythmic chop of rotors. One. Maybe two. Or more, you couldn’t tell.
You didn’t say a word.
Neither did he.
No one did.
You slowly, carefully craned your neck up and over the curve of your shared cot, heart stammering with the effort, and spotted Owens sitting upright on the couch a few feet away. His eyes were closed. His head was bowed. His hands were clasped in front of him in dead silent prayer.
That was the second clue. Owens didn’t pray.
Unless it was bad.
Dimitri stood at the door, now unmoving. His entire body tensed like a held breath. Shoulders square. Gun already drawn and steady, the barrel down for now, but ready to raise, aim and shoot. The small window above the sink was cracked open just enough for airflow, and he stood beside it, still as stone, gaze flicking toward the ceiling… toward the sky that couldn’t see you.
Murray remained in the driver’s seat, completely frozen. Not driving. Not monitoring. Just watching. Listening. His jaw flexed hard, his glasses slightly fogged, and his eyes catching every tremor of movement outside the curtain’s edge, his senses heightened to the max.
You felt your heart thud.
Fuck.
Steve hadn’t said a single word. But he was trembling now… barely perceptible, just enough for you to feel it through his grip on both your calves. You pressed your forehead gently against the bunched fabric of his warm sweatpants that now peeked out from under the covers, grounding yourself.
This wasn’t an unconscious nightmare.
It was a real life nightmare.
And it had found the sky.
It didn’t matter that you were buried in the thickest woods in all of Quebec. It didn’t matter that the Winnebago was tucked inside an impossible alcove, foliage hand-cut and manipulated over weeks to make the vehicle practically vanish into the terrain. It didn’t matter that Dingus 1 and Dingus 2, the tanks housing all the others, were parked parallel to one another with precise camouflage netting.
Today, there was flying weather and they were looking.
Drones now, you realized.
Whirring. Lighter pitch. Faster pulses.
Lower to the trees. Sweeping.
You could almost swear you saw a flicker of light move just past the curtained window. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe not.
Steve hadn’t lifted his head. But he had pulled you closer. Tighter. His fingers bunched up the blankets around your ankles like he could anchor you to the earth.
You could feel your pulse thudding under your skin, loud in your ears, but you kept your breathing steady. Because then Owens was there, carefully crawling down from the couch and crouching beside the cot…
Slowly, painfully slowly…
…pressing two fingers to his lips, then gesturing toward you. He raised his hand and began motioning to you…
One, two… inhale… one, two, three… exhale…
Paced breathing.
Heart control.
Your gaze met his and held there while you matched the rhythm. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Just enough not to spike. Not to send you over.
That’s when Murray moved.
Not much. Just… across the length of the Winnebago. He stood slowly, without a word. And then carefully, like each muscle mattered, he lowered himself onto the cot beside Steve’s upper half. And he sat right there. No words, and hardly breathing. Just his unwavering, hushed presence.
Because your uncle would take whatever bullet came yours and Steve’s way if it was the last thing he did.
One large hand of his now settled on top of your blanket covered leg, firm and warm and solid and latched.
The other hand reached down and found Steve’s arm.
Steve didn’t flinch. Didn’t look. But his jaw clenched, and he kept his hand clutched to the back of your thigh, nails digging through the fabric.
The drone buzz grew louder.
Murray bowed his head. Another prayer. Or maybe just a whisper to whatever higher power still existed.
And for a moment? You began to wonder if it was actually being answered. Because at some point, the chopping of helicopters faded in the distance. The whirring of drones seemingly ceased. And it felt like at least ten minutes of the relieving silence had passed and was well on its way to becoming twenty.
But then… another sound crushed the hope.
Not a helicopter.
Not a drone.
Not mechanical
…not human.
You knew the difference. You knew the sound of men and machines. This sound? It wasn’t either.
This was wrong.
It was animalistic but not from this planet.
It was from another.
Steve’s eyes snapped open wide.
You watched his gaze fly to the ceiling, then toward Owens, then to Dimitri… who was now already swiveling, scanning, silent but alert, gun now raised, safety clicked off, ready to strike…
…and no one said a fucking word.
Because it was here.
You didn’t know what it was.
Demogorgon? Demodog? Something worse?
It didn’t matter. It wasn’t human.
The helicopters, you realized. They hadn’t come for you. Not entirely. At least that wasn’t the only reason for the search.
They came for that.
From the outside, the unmistakable rat-a-tat of gunfire cracked across the treetops in short bursts. Controlled. Like aerial assault.
Downright fucking brutal.
You bit down on your own arm to stop from gasping.
Steve flinched but didn’t move. Murray’s grip on both of you tightened so hard it hurt. Owens lowered himself beside the cot, crouched into the smallest ball he could manage, arms braced around his knees, head pressed against the frame, mouth moving in whispers.
And then the shriek.
You had heard screams before.
You had screamed before.
But this wasn’t a scream. It was a roar, a screech, some multi-tonal shriek from something not of this world. It cut through the woods like a blade. You couldn’t tell if it was in front of you or above you or inside your own fucking head. You pressed your face hard into Steve’s stomach to block it out.
Steve had one hand under your shirt now, fingers spread protectively over your chest like he could keep your heart from exploding.
He was still crying.
Quietly, but without shame.
It was bitter and loathing and angry, and his teeth grit until his teeth felt like cracking. Your own tears flow down your cheeks, a never-ending waterfall.
The sound of helicopter rotors throbbed above now. Then moved off… and then circled back.
More gunfire.
RAT-A-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT-TAT.
…and then…silence.
Not the good kind.
The bad kind.
The stillness that screams.
Dimitri had not moved from the door. His gun remained raised, muscles twitching, sweat dripping down the side of his face.
Owens slowly sat back on his knees.
Murray didn’t say a fucking word. Just kept his hands on you and Steve, unmoving and praying to whatever God was pissed up there for all of this going down.
Steve was barely breathing… and your entire body was curled into his like a question you didn’t want answered.
Then — click click click — soft, rhythmic.
The walkie-talkie.
Three clicks.
Then four.
Dimitri finally lowered his weapon just enough to reach for it. He returned the pattern, his eyes still locked on the door and the covered windows.
Silence came again. But not for long, before another set of clicks sounded off. Two, pause, three.
Hopper.
Dingus 1.
Safe.
Steve exhaled his first breath in what felt like a year.
Then a second set of clicks. One. One. Four.
Nancy.
Dingus 2.
Also safe.
The woods didn’t make a sound.
Finally, after what felt like a century, Owens nodded once to Dimitri. A silent signal of confirmation.
Murray stood first. Then Owens. Then Dimitri cracked the Winnebago door just enough to peek outside. You stayed pressed against Steve’s chest, his big palm still anchored over your ribs, his other arm looped behind your neck.
The door opened fully.
Hopper was there.
He was motioning silently with one arm, quick and sharp gestures. Time to move.
You scrambled to your feet, adrenaline surging so hard you almost lost your balance. Steve gripped you like a lifeline, and the two of you stumbled out together toward the open door.
Outside, the cold hit like a hammer.
All of you ran, swift and silent and wary, across the short stretch of pine and brush and packed mud, straight over to Dingus 1.
No words.
Just motion.
The moment the hatch closed behind you, you heard the breath rush out of everyone.
Robin was already grabbing Steve, holding his face, not really saying anything, just staring at him like she had to count his constellation of moles or else he’d vanish. He wasn’t any better, fiercely pressing her face into the crook of his neck and swaying with her as he kept a firm grip on the back of her head.
“Shit,” they both breathed in unison.
Max clung to you the second you got inside. Her arms wrapped around your waist like she needed to feel your heartbeat. Lucas was next. Then Mike. Then Will. Then Dustin, who didn’t even hesitate before throwing himself into Steve’s arms like a little brother lost at sea, because Steve had already grabbed a fistful of his shirt and pulled before his kid had even moved to close the distance.
“You good?” Steve asked him, winded and muffled.
Dustin nodded against him. “Y-yeah…”
Eddie had his head in his hands in the corner. Eleven sat cross-legged on the floor, eyes wide, mouth tight, hands raised faintly but steady. You gently extended an arm out to her, signaling for her to relax and come hug you all.
And as she did, you noticed that you were still crying. Not from fear. Not even from adrenaline. Just from pure relief now.
Because you were all okay.
Somehow, some way, you were all okay.
Outside, the woods were silent again. But this time, you didn’t trust it. And neither did anyone else.
Eddie finally looked up. “What the fuck was that?”
No one answered yet. Because everyone was still just holding each other close, clinging to one another.
Waiting.
Listening.
And thanking whatever angry, righteous God was still up there… that none of you had been found.
Not yet.
Not this time.
But it was close. Too close.
And the next time, you might not be so lucky.
Chapter Seventy
A Place to Land
Late March • 1987
DAY 9 (Classified Coordinates) – Late Night
“Alright. If we’re gonna have a family group talk, best we do it now.”
Hopper was the first to speak.
Not loud, not barking.
Just enough, a low murmur in the belly of the tank.
His voice barely broke above a whisper, but it held the weight of a command. Not harsh. Just steady. Grounded. Like someone who’d already had the conversation fifty times in his own head and was now forcing it out before the weight buried him.
The group was gathered in DINGUS-1.
All of you were together.
You’d all piled in like a sardine tin earlier tonight, still high from the adrenaline of the silent, breathless standoff, and none of you had said much then. It was mostly silent eye contact, tear-streaked cheeks, trembling hands, lingering clutches, too many limbs and arms wrapped around too many shaking bodies in too tight a space.
But now… hours later, with the forest dead quiet again and no new signs of searchlights or shrieking, something had to give.
It wasn’t exactly cramped. DINGUS-1 was a beast. She was gutted, reinforced and retrofitted by Eddie and Argyle into a mobile base. There was enough floor space for you all to sleep eight, if you curled up tight, plus a lockbox full of MREs, a single hotplate, bottled waters, protein bars, and enough caffeine tablets to keep an army twitching.
You weren’t sleeping.
None of you were.
Even the kids, who were curled in sleeping bags along the back benches, were definitely still listening. All six of them. Their eyes were kept squeezed shut, like they were playing dead. Except for Eleven, who sat upright with her knees pulled to her chest, arms wrapped around them, with chin resting on top.
Alert.
Silent.
Protecting.
You were seated near the wall, your back braced against the steel, with Steve beside you on the hard floorboards. His thigh was pressed against yours, and you could feel the muscle under his jeans twitch every so often, tension leaking out his skin. His elbow sat anchored on his knee, fingers draped loose in front of him, his jaw clenched like hell, eyes locked on Hopper.
He wasn’t going to start this. But he damn sure was going to finish it if it went the wrong direction.
Hopper exhaled again. He glanced toward the tiny round window, pitch dark beyond it, and he finally looked back over at everyone.
“Okay. So what now?”
Silence.
Then Joyce spoke, her voice soft. “We’re not leaving.”
“Agreed,” Murray said quickly. His arms were folded, legs crossed, wedged in between Robin and the small cooler. “There’s no guarantee we’ll all survive another relocation. We’ve all worked too fucking hard for this perimeter. This coverage.”
He looked at you. Then to Steve, and then to Dimitri, who sat near the rear with his rifle disassembled and spread out on a towel, each piece being cleaned with practiced, fatal precision.
“We have the terrain,” he spoke now, his accent thick and tone husky. “We have the netting. We have the supplies.”
“You mean, we have three months of supplies,” Nancy corrected flatly from the booth seat. “Six if we ration.”
“And we’re rationing,” Hopper said immediately. “Starting now.”
“Already were,” Argyle added under his breath.
“Well then, we’re re-rationing.”
Eddie huffed. “Dude’s been eating air sandwiches for two days.”
Argyle held up a peace sign in a deadpanned salute. “No crumbs, no trails.”
You watched Dimitri’s eye twitch at that and caught him almost laughing. Almost.
The mood wasn’t exactly relaxed… but the tension was starting to bleed sideways, flattening into an exhausted kind of urgency. Not adrenaline. Not panic.
Just raw.
“Alright then,” Hopper said. “So we stay. Fine. But if we’re staying, then we need a trigger plan.”
“A trigger plan,” Robin echoed, her legs bouncing now like they were battery-powered. “Oh my God, yes, finally, someone who wants to talk about what the hell’s going to make us run. Like, great. Love that. I love me a cutie little apocalyptic chessboard scenario. I’m all in.”
Nancy snorted. “You’re all nerves.”
“I’m all genius.”
Steve sighed, not even perturbed by her, given the fact she was still alive and could ramble at all. He couldn’t be irritated by anyone right now. Not even Hopper.
And somehow, Robin’s point is what made Dimitri slowly nod.
“Yes,” he said plainly.
Everyone blinked at him.
“…what?” Robin breathed.
“I agree. You are all genius. You are also right.”
Robin immediately sat up straighter, like she’d just been knighted. “Holy shit. This is my Roman Empire.”
“Don’t ruin it,” Steve murmured quickly, barely hiding his smirk as he turned to her.
Robin beamed. “Too late.”
“Hoh-boy,” Murray sighed exasperatedly.
You leaned into Steve’s shoulder just a little, and he tilted his body to match your gesture. You didn’t say anything. Not that you had to. Especially when you were… silently counting his breaths.
Jim pressed on. “So. What’s our trigger? What pushes the go-button? What makes us leave this perimeter?”
“The Upside Down,” Eddie said immediately.
Everyone looked at him.
He didn’t flinch. “Whatever the hell that thing was today? That’s the line. That’s the mark. That’s the get the fuck outta Dodge moment.”
“Okay, but what was that thing?” Argyle said. “Like, that didn’t bark. That thing didn’t breathe. That thing just… shrieked like Hell had a sore throat.”
“I’m sorry, are we sure that wasn’t Vecna?” Robin piped in. “Because it felt like a Vecna moment.”
“No,” El said, quiet but certain. “He’s gone.”
All heads turned to her.
Her voice stayed level. “Or at least… that wasn’t him. That was something else.”
“I can vouch for that.”
Max’s voice, muffled from her spot in the corner, sent chills down everyone’s spine. All of you turned to face her, finding that she kept her eyes shut.
Owen nodded in her place. “And I can vouch for that.”
He would know, you thought.
Steve thought the same. Well, he’s been the one talking to Max ever since she woke up. So that’s enough for me.
He rubbed the back of his neck. “So we stay until we see that thing again?”
“No,” you said gently, and everyone paused to look at you. “We stay until it gets closer.”
There was a beat of silence.
You could feel Steve’s hand shift toward yours, fingers barely brushing.
“If it stays wild,” you went on, “then it’s territory. If it starts circling back, then it’s a threat.”
Murray, to his credit, didn’t say a word. He just pressed the toe of his sock against yours.
A quiet gesture that meant:
I second that. You’re safe. Don’t spike.
Owens finally spoke again. “We can’t treat this like a stable border. That’s the issue.”
Everyone turned toward the corner where he sat with his arms tightly crossed. “It’s not us against one thing. It’s us against five factions at once.”
Hopper nodded at that, locked in.
“The people above us?” Owens continued. “Surveillance, aerial patrols, satellites. The things below us—breaches, mutations, fucking shadow puppets of the Mind Flayer for all we know. We don’t know what’s still alive.”
Dustin groaned and popped upright from his fake sleep. “Okay, can we not say shadow puppets?”
Steve immediately scooted over and patted the floor next to him. Dustin sat. The two leaned against each other like brotherly bricks in a wall.
“You’re supposed to be sleeping,” Steve mumbled softly.
“Yeah, well, you’re supposed to be lying down,” Dustin retorted. “How’s that going for you?”
You smirked, eyes flicking up to Steve, who lightly rolled his eyes as he mumbled, “Touché.”
“Also, Owens said the f-word, so,” Dustin shrugged. “That perked me up.”
Steve actually snorted at that.
“Weird times,” Owens muttered, smirking.
Now you puffed a breathless laugh, as Robin cleared her throat.
“Okay, well, here’s a fun thought,” she chirped. “What if the helicopters weren’t even after us at all?”
“They weren’t,” Hopper said grimly.
“They were hunting it,” you nodded. “Even if searching for signs of life was the goal, priorities changed real quick.”
The tank fell silent again.
“I don’t like that sileeeence,” Eddie carefully sang.
“Me neither,” Steve murmured. “I hate that we’re right.” He looked down at his knees. “I hate that we knew it was going to get worse. And we were still hoping for quiet.”
Your lips parted at that, hating the turmoil that shone from his eyes, as they bore a hole in his jeans…
Then quietly, he added, “We should’ve known better.”
Murray exhaled. “We did know better.”
“Still wanted peace anyway,” you said.
And nobody could argue with that. How could they? You’d all fucking earned it. More than earned it.
Dustin finally broke the silence. “So, the plan is to stay.”
“Yes,” Joyce nodded once. “We stay unless one of three things happens.”
Everyone focused as she ticked them off.
“One: the monsters return and breach the perimeter. Two: humans return and breach perimeter. Three? Something causes a comms blackout between tanks... And if that goes down? If Dingus 1 stops hearing from Dingus 2 or vice-versa, we regroup immediately.”
Everyone nodded.
“Question,” said Eddie, raising his hand like a bored teen student back in school. “Do we still call it ‘Dingus’ when both of the original dinguses are inside of this tank right now?”
He gestured to Robin and Steve.
“Eddie,” Robin groaned. “You’re gonna ruin the system.”
“I am the system.”
“Okay, now I’m actually scared,” Steve muttered.
You rolled your eyes and leaned into his shoulder. “Go to sleep, Dingus.”
“I’m fine,” he whispered.
“You’re weepy again,” you whispered back.
He wiped his cheek, grumbling. “No, I’m leaking.”
You kissed his temple. “Fix your plumbing.”
“It’s day four of my flu.”
Beside you, Murray huffed. “Jesus Christ. Just say you love each other and spare the rest of us.”
Steve sniffed sickly. “Don’t have to. Everybody knows.”
“We knew it before you,” Robin muttered.
“Thanks for that,” he deadpanned.
“I’m just glad we’re still alive,” Will said softly from across the tank.
You hadn’t even realized that he was awake. He wasn’t looking at anyone in particular. He just stared at the floor. “I didn’t think we were going to make it today.”
“We did,” El said, scooting beside him. “And we will again.”
She reached for his hand. He took it.
The night had grown quiet again.
No helicopters.
No movement.
But no one moved to leave.
Hopper rubbed his eyes. “Alright. Final verdict. Nobody’s going anywhere tonight. That’s the plan.”
“We all crash here?” Jonathan asked.
Hopper nodded. “We all crash here. No one’s separating tonight. Not after that.”
Dimitri didn’t speak. He just finished reassembling his rifle and sat down cross-legged by the door.
“Sleep in shifts?” Nancy asked.
“Not me,” you said first.
“None of us are sleeping,” Steve added.
And nobody argued with either of you. Because you were right. Nobody slept. Not this time. Not tonight.
Not until the world felt safe again.
💭 Chapter Seventy-One
Side-Quests, Side Characters
💭 Spring • 1986
(Skull Rock • Hawkins, IN)
“Okay, no judgement? You’re holding the compass upside down. But hey, A- for effort.”
Dustin didn’t even look up as he said it.
He was stomping across dead leaves in his cargo shorts and homemade thinking cap, flanked by you and Steve, both of whom looked done. Nancy and Robin were a little further behind, walking side by side and exchanging quiet eye-rolls every ten seconds.
“I am not holding it upside down,” Steve snapped.
“Punssss,” Robin sang from behind you all.
“Dude, you’re holding it like it’s a cursed amulet,” Dustin kept critiquing.
“It feels like a cursed amulet.”
“It’s a compass.”
“And it’s not pointing north!”
“That’s the whole point!” Dustin turned on his heel. “It’s not supposed to point north if the gate’s affecting all the magnetic fields. Jesus, Harrington, were you popular and this stupid?”
You stifled a laugh. A fat one.
Steve whirled on you. “Oh, please, don’t start.”
“I didn’t say anything,” you shrugged smugly.
“You didn’t have to. You were smirking.”
You deepened it, just to piss him off. “I smirk in general.”
“Well then stop doing that with your face.”
“Stop doing what with my face?”
“That—! That smug little ‘I’m not saying anything but I think you’re an idiot’ look.”
Dustin nodded. “Yeah, she definitely thinks you’re an idiot.”
“Thank you, Dustin,” you said calmly.
Steve threw his arms up. “Unbelievable. You see what I’m dealing with?”
Robin popped her head between you both. “Hey. Keep fighting like that and Mrs. Magnetic field’s gonna start throwing you off course.”
“I’ll throw him off the course,” you muttered.
“Oh, go ahead,” Steve bit out, arms crossed. “Push me right into the lake. It’d be the second time this year.”
“…okay, what happened the first time?” Robin asked, delighted.
“Becky Simpkins," he smirked.
“Oooooh,” she patronized. “A little sexy shove into the water. Tell me, was it post makeout? Or pre.”
“Both.”
“Scandalous.”
“Very,” you monotoned.
You hated the thought of it. But more than that? You hated that it bothered you so much.
Lately, the mental image of Steve making out with any girls seemed to be a really unpleasant thought in your head. And you knew why.
You just didn’t know why the ‘why’ was happening, and how it had become some deeply bothersome to you.
“Of course, then there’s this girl,” Steve continued, now gesturing to you wildly. “Who shoved me into the public pool two summers back.”
You made a face. “You’re still on about that?”
“Time out, time out,” Robin eagerly jumped in place. “I want details. When, where, why.”
“Week of Fourth of July. She—”
“It was an accident,” you said quickly. “You stepped into my line of vision.”
“I got pushed.”
“I sneezed.”
“You yeeted me off the diving board.”
“Yeeehaw, you deserved it.”
Dustin looked to the sky. “Do you ever get exhausted of listening to yourselves? Or are you two just always this exhausting?”
“Always,” Nancy said without looking up from her map.
You arched an eyebrow at her. Even Steve did, though his was more… lovesick.
God, you hated that.
“I just—meant, like…” Nancy stuttered, now sheepish. “It seems like you two’ve been umm… like that since ‘84…?”
“Hm,” you shrugged. “Well, she’s not wrong.”
Robin smirked at you, bumping your shoulder with hers as you both kept walking. You smirked back, stealing a glance sideways at Steve… who was very pointedly not looking at you. Just gnawing his bottom lip, glaring at the trees.
Which was fine.
Totally fine.
It wasn’t like you’d already fallen helplessly in love with him or anything.
It wasn’t like his hatred for you only seemed to fuel your ever-blooming feelings for him.
It wasn’t like watching him continue to pine over Nancy Wheeler, and wondering why the hell he thought he didn’t deserve better—or better yet, why the hell she clearly still had unresolved feelings for him while still in a relationship with Jonathan all the over in fucking California…
…it wasn’t like that made you want to take a cheese grater to your forehead or anything.
“Seems to me, you like stirring up trouble,” Robin cutely teased you, softly as she nudged her hip to yours. You nudged back.
Steve gasped. “Who, her? Bauman? No.”
You threw your hands up. “You know, keep it up? You’re gonna get wrinkles.”
“And I’ll invoice you the Botox bill!” he quipped before he whipped back around, moving forward.
You kept walking. Skull Rock had to be somewhere near here. Dustin swore on it. The trail twisted through a series of brambles and a dip in the ravine, and the further you got, the quieter things got.
There was tension in the air.
You tried not to overthink it.
Or overfeel it.
Or imagine Steve’s lips on someone else’s in the exact woods you were all now trekking through.
Not that he had ever looked at you like that. He always just looked at you like you had personally invented cruel heartbreak for shits and giggles.
Which was hilarious, really, because he was the one that couldn’t let go of Nancy. Not you. Not that anyone knew that.
Not that anyone knew anything about the way your heart cracked whenever you saw them in a room together.
Not even Robin. And damnit, you told her everything. But not this. Because this wasn’t fair. This wasn’t supposed to happen.
You had no business falling in love with Steve Harrington.
And yet… here you were. In the woods. Sharing air with him, and watching him walk ten steps ahead like he was trying to get away from the shape of your shadow.
“You know,” Dustin said as he slowed beside you, “he talks about Lover’s Lake like he owns the deed to it.”
You didn’t miss the way Steve’s ears turned red.
“I heard that,” he muttered.
“Good,” Dustin grinned.
“I don’t own Lover’s Lake,” Steve muttered. “I just made it popular.”
You blinked. “You made a geological landmark popular?”
“I made it sexy.”
Robin laughed out loud. Nancy raised an eyebrow. You didn’t say anything, but the way you raised your hands and bit your lip screamed ~judgment.~
“Okay, see, this is why I hate this,” Steve snapped. “I open my mouth, and you all look at me like I just passed gas inside a church.”
“Because you did,” Robin wheezed. “Verbally.”
“Whatever. Let’s just find Eddie and get this over with.”
He pushed through the brush ahead of you, with Dustin trailing behind him. And sure enough? After a while, he found it. Which confirmed all his stories.
Great.
“Oh boom,” Steve pushed through the last of the shrubs. “Bada-bing-bada-boom, there she is, Henderson. Skull Rock. In your face man, in your stupid cocky little face—”
“Okay, Ma, chill,” you scolded cooly.
But Dustin didn’t even notice, his eyes flicking from the map up to the spot. “This… doesn’t make sense.”
“Yeah yeah yeah, even when it’s staring you right in the face, you can’t admit it.” Steve shrugged, smug as hell. And clearly proud of himself. “You just can’t admire that you’re wrong, you little butthead.”
CRASH.
Something suddenly landed right behind you.
You yelped, spun, heart leaping into your throat… and Eddie Munson now stood there with a shit-eating grin, half-crouched, arms spread.
You clutched your chest. “Jesus CHRIST—!”
“I concur. You, Dustin Henderson, are a… total butthead.”
You couldn’t even help it. A laugh sputtered out of you as you bent over and gripped your knees, more out of sheer relief than anything.
“Aw, sweetheart,” he beamed at you. “Did I scare ya?”
“I think I just peed.”
Dustin burst out laughing. You were chuckling too now, breathless from the jolt, while Eddie winked and did a little flourish with his imaginary hat.
“Well, my sincerest apologies. Normally, I like to be invited before jumping from trees.”
“Jesus,” Steve had already turned on his heel. “What the hell, Munson?”
Eddie threw his arms up. “Dude, I’ve been watching you idiots go in circles for fifteen minutes. You passed Skull Rock three times.”
Steve scowled. “You were watching us?”
“Yeah. It was like a live sitcom.” Eddie shrugged. “Ten out of ten, would binge.”
Robin wheezed now. “Alright, this is already the best part of my weirdass day.”
Eddie grinned. “I live to impress”
You shot Eddie a look. “You’re worse than a raccoon.”
“Thank you, m'lady,” he bowed. “I’m rabidly misunderstood.”
You snorted, shaking your head. And to your surprise, he fell into step beside you as you all turned back toward the rock clearing.
Eddie seemed perfectly at ease beside you, cracking little jokes under his breath, making absurd observations. You didn’t even mean to keep laughing, but the guy was just funny. In a very specific “gremlin trying to steal a Denny’s menu” kind of way.
And Steve?
Hated it.
You didn’t even have to look at him see his stare burning into the side of your whole face every time you so much as smiled. Which was stupid, because you were just… talking. Like a normal person.
But of course, he had to find a problem with that.
“Oh my God, I am begging you two to let Dustin finish talking,” Robin sighed dramatically, now pointing at the compass. “He’s about to go full Da Vinci Code, and you two are doing a romcom.”
You made a face. “This ain’t no romcom.”
“Agreed,” Eddie nodded sagely, looking at you. “We’re more coming-of-age indie slasher.”
You squinted at him. “Okay, but I’m the slasher, right?”
He scoffed. “Please. You’re the final girl.”
“Ahhh,” you nodded approvingly. “I can work with that.”
“Looks like we’re costars,” he winked.
Steve actually winced.
Dustin, bless his heart, was still laser-focused. “Look, see this? It’s not pointing north.”
You and Eddie both looked, along with Robin and Max. Nancy craned her neck to see, standing near Steve.
“That means there’s interference somewhere,” Dustin kept going. “And since I already calibrated it last night—”
“Dustin,” Steve interrupted, “maybe let’s not do the whole explaining while you’re tripping over sticks.”
“I’m fine—”
“I’m just saying, last time you faceplanted, I had to carry you out.”
He reeled. “I sprained my ankle! The hell was I supposed to do?”
“I dunno—hobble? Crawl?”
“Wow,” you muttered. “Chivalry really is dead.”
Steve glared at you. “Sorry, I didn't realize you were a knight now.”
“Better a knight than a narc.”
Nancy stifled a laugh. Robin fake-coughed under her breath. Steve pinched the bridge of his nose.
But Eddie was just watching all of it like a soap opera.
“I gotta say,” he grinned. “Your parts in this movie is like watching two porcupines try to snuggle.”
“We’re not snuggling,” Steve snapped.
“Yeah, that’s obvious,” Eddie shot back.
You bit your lip, hiding a smile.
Which only pissed Steve off more.
“You should’ve seen them a couple summers ago,” Max sighed from beside Lucas, pulling her headphones down now. “They fought over SPF percentages, popsicle flavors, Dustin’s choice of deodorant, Mike’s homework—”
“Wait,” Dustin turned to Steve. “You don’t like my deodorant?”
“What? No.”
“He means yes,” you saved him urgently.
“Right,” Steve nods, in spite of himself. “Right, I meant — yeah. It’s great.”
Dustin’s eyes narrowed. “Do I stink?”
“NO,” you and Steve said way too enthusiastically, now having each others’ backs with zero hesitation. Full blown co-parent-mode in full swing.
“Uh-oh,” Max quietly chirped.
“What is happening,” Lucas mumbled, morbidly living for this as his eyes darted from person to person.
Dustin just stared. “Did I stink then…?”
“No, it was just—strong.”
“Way too strong.”
“But you?” You flashed him on a-okay gesture. “A-1.”
“Yeah,” Steve nodded. “It just didn’t, y’know…” he shrugged. “Compliment your natural pheromones.”
Eddie silently wheezed.
“Okay, this is seriously a car crash,” Robin whispered, now highly entertained next to Nancy.
“Agreed,” Nancy nodded quietly… but even she couldn’t help but feel an odd tinge of territorial discomfort as she watched how the two of you interacted.
It was way too natural.
Even with the tension, you and Steve moved in tandem.
A beat later, he turned sharply. “Alright. Let’s split up.”
Everyone blinked.
“What?” Dustin said.
“You and me go north with Max,” Steve said, grabbing the compass from him. “Robin, Nancy, you go west. Actually, no. Nance, you’re with us. Lucas, you too. Robs, you and Eddie take—”
He paused when he looked at you, thinking for a moment.
“Yeah, you go with them.”
You blinked. “Wait, what?”
“You, Robin and Eddie. Go check the ravine.”
“Damn. At least say please.”
Steve shot you the wryest look. “Please, Satan.”
Robin frowned. “Why are we splitting?”
“We’ll cover more ground faster,” he shrugged like it was obvious.
“Yeah, but—”
“No buts.”
You pointed over your shoulder with your thumb. “I mean, if we’re doing that, I might as well scope out the gated field.”
Robin snapped her finger approvingly. “That makes sense.”
“It makes no sense,” Steve’s face soured at you.
“Yes, it does,” Robin said nonchalantly.
“No.”
“Dingus—”
“We’re sticking in groups.”
You waved it off nonchalantly. “I’m a side-quest girl, I’ll be fine.”
“Side-quest girls,” Steve squinted at you, unrelenting, “thrive in festivals with plenty of backup. This?—this is the wilderness with interdimensional monsters.”
“Honestly, that’s true,” Lucas randomly chimed in.
Robin groaned, head titled back. “Can we please just get a move on—”
“I’m going,” you turned.
“No,” Steve cut you off, tugging your jacket.
Oh, he was adamant.
“Dingus,” Robin exasperatedly exclaimed, half-laughing.
“I don’t want her going alone.”
Your brows shot up.
Steve immediately clarified. “I don’t want anyone going alone.”
Max squinted between you and him, while Lucas and Dustin just looked perplexed.
“Wow,” Robin muttered dryly. “Nice save. Was startin’ to feel like chopped liver over here.”
You were still blinking, trying to put together what the hell just happened when Robin hooked her arm through yours.
“C’mon, partner. We’ll give the boy king a break from his emotional constipation.”
Eddie bounded after you both like a stray cat. “Shall I lead the way?” he asked gallantly.
“You may prance the way,” you stated, mock-solemn.
And he did. He fucking pranced.
You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped your throat. You didn’t even mean to, but it was like he cracked open your ribs a little.
“Yeah,” Robin snorted. “Dance, monkey, dance.”
“Dude,” you chuckled. “Did your mom teach you those moves?”
“Your mom taught me these moves,” he grinned, giving a nice little Irish heel click.
You faked an oh goodie! type of expression. “Holy shit, tell her hi for me. And well done.”
“What?” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “You don’t keep in touch with my lover?”
You snorted. “Nah, can’t say I’ve seen the lady since she had me as an oopsie and dipped, sooooo…”
He stopped. “Oh my bad, shit—”
“OY. Why’d ya stop yer’prencin’ there, eh?”
Your ridiculous attempt at an accent landed, and it also shut down any chance of guilt or shame flooding Eddie’s system.
Thankfully? His social cues were solid. So his shocked, sympathetic expression schooled itself in a flash and his jigging resumed as he pranced around you like crazy.
Now you were snickering.
And now Steve was boiling.
He stood there with Max, Nancy and Dustin, his arms crossed, jaw clenched, just… watching. Until finally, with no warning, he marched forward and caught up.
“No splitting,” he muttered. “We stay together.”
You turned. “You literally just said—”
“Changed my mind.”
Eddie blinked. “So… now we don’t split?”
Steve just looked at him with a tight smile. Nothing else.
Dustin glanced between them. “This is what happens when testosterone hits critical mass,” he mumbled to himself.
“I need a nap,” Robin sighed.
“No naps,” Nancy said, walking forward. “We’re not stopping.”
So you all walked. Again.
Together.
Nancy fell in time with Steve, and the two of them shared their own little moment for a while. She grinned, he smiled, she laughed, he chuckled.
You didn't watch.
Eddie dropped beside you with a chuckle, clearly about to say something when Steve immediately cut between you. Still talking to Dustin. Still bickering. Still pretending not to care. But you caught the look Eddie gave you.
Wide-eyed.
Amused.
Even a little impressed.
And maybe, just maybe… a little curious.
You were already looking away, cheeks warm, when he smirked and muttered under his breath, “So that’s what that was.”
And you didn’t answer.
Because you weren’t sure you could.
Chapter Seventy-Two
💭 What’s Your Type?
Spring • 1986
💭 (Outside a War Surplus Store • Hawkins, IN)
The RV door creaked open with a slow, sticky sound like a breath being held. The sun outside was blinding… that kind of high-noon, flashbang glare that made everything feel more lawless.
Steve stepped down first, one hand pressed to the big doorframe, the other squinting against the light like the suburban sheriff he thought he was.
“Alright,” he said. “We do this fast. Grab what we need. No lingering.”
Robin climbed down behind him, nearly tripping over the step, already digging in her pockets. “We should split by aisle. You get blades, I get nails. Nancy gets firearms.”
Nancy nodded. “Copy.”
“Man,” Steve murmured, smirking warmly at Nancy. “You’re about to be in heaven. You know that, right?”
She perked up at him through her lashes, eyes dancing. “Why, because I’m secretly a sniper?”
He shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “Who said it was a secret?”
That made her grin. The crimson blush that swept across her cheeks was not subtle. Neither was Steve’s crooked smile. Neither was their chemistry, their unresolved feelings.
And neither was the sharp pang inside your heart.
Lucas, Dustin, Erica and Max poured out next, all jostling and elbowing each other like a strange little apocalyptic version of recess. You were helping them, while making your own way towards the door.
Eddie stayed seated near the table, bouncing one leg nervously, hair pulled back and sweat-stuck in that way that made him look even more like a wanted man.
Because, well. He was.
“So no offense,” Robin turned mid-step, looking directly at him, “but you are not coming in.”
Eddie held his hands up. “Oh, no, please. I was planning on waltzing in there and asking the cashier if they’d any fresh bloodstains in stock to match all’a my local wanted posters. Maybe a hat.”
“Yeah, you’re hilarious,” Steve deadpanned. “Stay here.”
Eddie winked. “Wasn’t planning on hopping out of the van like a criminal jack-in-the-box, thanks.”
You hovered halfway down the RV steps, glancing at him. There was something fidgety in the way he kept flexing his hands and shifting in his seat. He was pretending to be chill, but… Eddie Munson was a ball of nerves tied up in a leather jacket, and someone had just lit a match.
“I’ll stay with him,” you said easily.
Dustin halted. “Huh?”
Robin paused, too. “You sure?”
You shrugged easily. “Yeah, I don’t feel like shopping for bear traps with a migraine, and he looks—”
“Whoa, back up,” Steve looked up, sharply. “You’ve got a migraine?!”
Oh shit.
“No—ah, fuck.” You waved a hand. “Horrible phrasing.”
“Bauman, I swear to god, if you’re cursed too? Speak up. Now. I’m not dicking around.”
“Neither am I!” you half-laughed, exasperated.
He scowled. “This isn’t funny.”
You huffed. “Of course it’s not.”
But Steve still scowled at you. More like he glared at you now. Even so, you could tell that there was genuine concern there, and you really felt bad for your terrible, albeit accidental, choice of phrasing.
Eddie also looked panicked. Same as Robin. And the kids—man, you really fumbled the bag hard here.
“I’m not cursed,” you tried again, warily, but getting to the point. “No nosebleeds, no clock. No Vecna-induced head trauma or visions or migraines.”
Max’s widened eyes shone, swallowing harshly, staring at you desperately. “You swear?”
You winked at her. “Scout’s honor. I just think our boy here is a solid minute away from gnawing off his own pinky if left unsupervised.”
“Hot,” Eddie muttered, saluting you.
Everyone visibly relaxed.
Robin finally shrugged. “Alright. You two stay here. The rest of us are in and out, ten minutes.”
Steve opened his mouth like he wanted to argue again. But then Nancy brushed past him, letting her hand linger… so he just set his jaw and nodded, eyes flicking to you for a beat too long.
You didn’t return the look.
Not with her back in the picture.
Robin offered a tiny wave. “Don’t start any cults while we’re gone.”
“Too late,” Eddie called. “She already made me sign a blood oath.”
Lucas and Erica rolled their eyes simultaneously, Max adjusted her headphones, and Dustin…sweet, oblivious Dustin…just gave you both a thumbs-up as they filed out.
Then it was quiet again.
The door shut.
The heat buzzed.
Eddie stretched with a dramatic groan and flopped down across from you at the tiny fold-out table. “Well,” he said. “Welcome to the lamest coffee shop in Indiana.”
You smirked. “You call this a coffee shop, I’m gonna need a refund.”
“Hey now, we’ve got ambiance,” he emphasized, tapping the wood paneling. “We got atmosphere. Even got—” He sniffed. “—Steve’s sexy ass rich boy cologne soaking into the upholstery.”
You snorted. “My favorite.”
He settled, picking at a callus on his thumb. “You really didn’t wanna go with them?”
You shrugged. “You really didn’t wanna be alone.”
That earned you a real smile from him. Something softer than his usual grin.
“Hmm,” he tapped a finger on the table. “You always that perceptive?”
“Only when I give a shit.”
Eddie didn’t answer right away. He nodded a little. Almost to himself. “Earlier, back in the woods,” he spoke quieter now. “You said something about your mom.”
You leaned back, looking at the ceiling for a beat. You hadn’t thought he’d remembered. Hell, you didn’t even remember having said that.
“Yeah,” you said. “I did.”
He scratched his neck awkwardly, but his eyes stayed sincere. “Yeah, so—about that. I’m a world-class moron and love to jest without actually thinking before speaking? So, uhm—yeah. If I struck a sharp, untuned chord there, I’m uhm…” He paused, nibbling at his lip, fiddling with his rings. “I’m really sorry about that.”
That actually made your raise shoot up subtly. Because Eddie said it in a way that was completely genuine without making you feel pitied, or like you owed him explanation. He didn’t push. And you appreciated that. A lot more than you expected to.
After a moment, you shrugged gently. “Don’t worry. No chord strike.” You winked, then added with ease, “I never knew her.”
Eddie blinked.
He didn’t interrupt.
“Junkie Julie,” you continued. “Didn’t plan on keeping me. Didn’t even stop using, when she was pregnant. I’m pretty sure the drugs were supposed to take care of the whole ‘pregnancy’ thing for her.”
“…that’s—” he started, then stopped. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” you said simply. “But the joke’s on her. She got admitted to rehab when she was six months along. Sooo, I had a window. Barely. Got out at just over three pounds. No prenatal care. Just… spit and stubbornness, I guess. Knew it was time to flee, fly, foh-fum.”
Eddie didn’t try to fill the silence. and he didn’t comment on your subtly, added morbid humor at the end there, as you delivered the last two syllables like the giant from ‘Jack and the Beanstalk.’
You weren’t saying it for sympathy. You weren’t saying it to shock him. You weren’t trying to joke. You were just… saying it.
“So what you’re saying is,” he carefully leaned in. “You’re a defiant crack baby.”
You flashed him a grin that lit up your entire face. “Something like that.”
Eddie looked at you for a moment, then leaned back in his seat, clearing his throat with a new mischievous look in his dark eyes. “So then, you crawled on outta there, y’know. Prematurely, but getting the ick from the umbilical cord…”
“Very final girl, yeah.”
“Exactly,” he grinned, pointing at you. “And then you got whisked away from her by like—what… nurses? Family?”
“My uncle,” you smiled faintly.
“Her side?”
You scrunched your nose. “Yeah, they weren’t all that close. Not after she dropped outta high school and left with some white skinhead in a wifebeater who lived up to his appearance.”
“Mmmm,” he nodded sagely. “Classic dick move.”
You clicked your tongue, feigning disappointment. “Total dick move,” you muttered mock-solemnly.
“So you never met her.”
“Never met her,” you nodded. “Didn’t want to. Don’t hate her. Don’t love her. Just… don’t know her. But also? This point, I forget she even was a part of me. Uncle Murray took me in. Well, technically my grandma took me in full time. Marjorie.”
Eddie gave a low whistle. “Marjorie, huh?”
“Mob wife chic,” you grinned. “Yeah.”
“Explains a lot,” he said, eyes wide… then narrowing with mock-suspicion. “That woman once pepper sprayed a meter maid, didn’t she...”
“She did,” you deadpanned. “And told the judge it was a moment of spiritual weakness.”
“God, I love her already.”
You smiled fondly.
And it wasn’t forced at all, just felt wholeheartedly.
“She’s a mess,” you said. “So’s Murray. But they never made me feel like a burden.”
Eddie watched you for a second longer. “You’re really not what I expected,” he said.
You looked at him. “What’d you expect?”
He grinned. “Something a little more… polished. You graduated early, right?”
You nodded. “Yeah. Year ahead. Just wanted to be done. Hated school.”
He tapped his chest. “Same. Except I’m doing it three times just to be sure.”
You barked a laugh. “Yeah, you’re really being thorough.”
“I’m committed to the bit.”
“I’ll say.”
“Wait, so what’re you doing now?” he asked. “Like, career-wise?”
You shrugged. “Freelance contractor. Painting mostly. Some drywall, tiling, that kind of thing.”
Eddie blinked. “You renovate houses?”
“Yep.”
Eddie blinked once, then again. “And like—buildings and stuff?”
You smirked deeply, surprised he’s into it. “Yeah. Remember Starcourt mall?”
“Who doesn’t remember that corporate disaster?”
“Welp.” You raised your hands with lazy flourish, gesturing to yourself. “I got hired on to help them with one of the outset build-outs. Was gonna be an Orange Julius. We’d just finished their flooring before it… y’know—” You held up air quotes. “Went down in flames.”
He arched a brow. “That’s when the Russian-Mind Flayer thingy happened, right?”
“Bingo,” you winked, one finger-gun at him. “So yeah. Mind Flayer sorta ruined our work. Ironically, the RadioShack was still standing though.”
His eyes lit up. “You did buildout for the RadioShack?!”
You grinned deeply. “Indeed.”
“Holy shit. That’s actually—” He sat back. “That’s so hot.”
You snorted. “It’s not hot. It’s labor.”
He pointed at you. “Hot labor.”
You threw a napkin at him.
The minutes passed like that. Effortlessly. It was banter that didn’t require sharpness. Jokes that didn’t ask for a punchline. You weren’t performing. He wasn’t deflecting. It was just… easy.
“Okay, but seriously,” Eddie leaned forward, his rings clinking the tabletop. “You and Dustin. You two are like the ultimate chaos duo.”
“He’s the little brother I never asked for,” you said fondly. “And definitely the one that Steve needed.”
“Don’t tell him that. He’ll cry.”
“Too late. I told him last week.”
“God, you are evil.”
You smiled. “They’re both only children. So am I. All three of us are.” That made you pause. “Huh. Hadn’t connected those dots ‘til just now.”
“Explains so much, man,” he smirked at you.
“Tragically,” you stage-whispered, making him smirk even more as you feigned far deeper shock than you felt.
Outside, footsteps started gathering. Voices approached. The group was coming back.
Eddie exhaled. “Time’s up.”
You glanced at him. “Guess you survived twenty minutes without chewing your fingernails off.”
He held up his hands. “What can I say? You’re calming.”
You chuckled lightly.
Just then, right as the RV door creaked open again, Eddie added, “You know… if we live through all this, you ever wanna get coffee or something…”
The rest of the group was filtering in now. Boots on metal. Bags rustling.
You turned to look at him.
Eddie wasn’t leering. He wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even entirely flirty or romantic, just open-ended. Like the kind of offer someone makes when they don’t know what else to say but mean it anyway.
You raised an eyebrow. “Coffee?”
“Bold,” he amended. “Or Irish. Depending.”
You grinned. “I’m a red-eye Jedi.”
“Oh, then I know just the place.”
“Oh yeah?” You jutted your chin at him. “Where.”
He smiled like the devil. “Guess we’ll find out.”
Dustin bounced in, carrying a pack of god-knows-what, grinning wide. “Wait, are you two getting coffee?” he gasped. “Yes! Yes. I love that. Holy shit. Can I come?”
“Sure,” you said, at the exact same time Eddie said, “Obviously.”
“Word,” Dustin grinned.
“But…” Eddie stressed imploringly, swiveling his head to look back at you with pure mischief and warmth. “That means I’ll have to ask you on another separate child-free coffee date.”
That actually made you bite your lip with a teasing eye roll and cheeky grin.
Steve was already halfway up the steps… and his eyes were already locked on you. Then Eddie. Then Dustin. He didn’t say anything, but his jaw flexed. Clearly? He’d heard everything.
Robin slumped against the wall. “You two’re going on a coffee date now? Great. I’ll third wheel.” Then she tilted her head at Steve. “Dingus here can fourth wheel.”
Steve growled. “I’m not—”
“She’s joking,” you said coolly, cutting him off. “You’ve already got plenty of dates lined up.”
He gave you a look like you’d just kicked him in the ribs as Nancy secretly eavesdropped from where she was carefully unloading the weaponry near the back. Then he glared at Eddie for a solid handful of seconds.
“Let’s go,” he snapped, voice low. “Everyone buckle up.”
Eddie pressed his lips into a hard line, eyes amused. “Alright, then,” he muttered, sliding into the bench seat as Max curled up beside you with her music blasting.
Steve stormed to the front, sliding into the driver’s seat with way too much force. Nancy quietly followed and sat beside him. You it the inside of your cheek, keeping cool as you tried not to let their close proximity bother you. Weirdly? Sitting next to Eddie, with Max curled into your side, made it sting a little less.
So did Steve’s visible irritation, whatever the cause of it was.
The engine sputtered, then roared to life.
Everyone rocked forward.
Eddie squinted at the back of Steve’s head like it was a puzzle. Then leaned toward you. “Is he always this fun?”
You didn’t even turn. “Define fun.”
“Hmm.” Eddie glanced back at him. “Controlling. Prickly. Chest hair visible from space.”
You audibly snorted as Eddie caught sight of Steve, staring back at the two of you in the rearview mirror. He really couldn’t tell if the pretty boy just wanted full control over his group, or if you specifically are the source of his current woes.
So he leaned in closer, not bothering to lower his volume as he tested the theory. “So what’s your type, anyway?”
You tilted your head, amused. “Why? You taking notes?”
“Maybe,” he shrugged. “Just curious.”
You opened your mouth to answer that.
But that’s when Steve whipped his head around from the front seat, glaring like you’d just said his name. “She likes guys who don’t ask dumbass questions,” he snapped.
The RV went eerily silent.
Robin gaped. Nancy blinked. Max looked up from your lap. Lucas and Erica exchanged a what the fuck glance. Dustin just looked downright confused.
Steve didn’t wait for an answer. He just faced forward and revved the Winnebago like it owed him money.
Eddie was quietly wheezing, shoulders shaking.
You were biting your lip, caught between amusement and secondhand embarrassment.
But also… something else.
Something warm and dangerous in your throat.
Robin whispered under her breath, to no one in particular, “What the fuck was that…?”
You just stared at Steve’s head, lips parted in wordless, incredulous bewilderment. And for one stupid second…
…yeah.
Yeah, that?
That turned you on.
Nancy still side-eyed him in confusion, while Max nuzzled into your shoulder, cranking up her music more as you held her close.
Dustin deeply frowned, still staring down his best friend. “Steve, do you need a nap or a baba? Should I have grabbed a pacifier?”
You snorted hard.
Eddie cackled with Robin.
Lucas chomped down his lip, failing miserably as Erica grinned at Dustin like a smug, all-knowing little diva who thrived on older kids’ drama.
Nancy stiffly smiled, awkwardly chuckling…
And Steve just kept driving, like he could outrun whatever the hell this was.
Chapter Seventy-Three
The Witching Hour
March • 1987
DAY 10 • Inside Dingus-1 • 3:02AM
It was just after 3:00 a.m.
And inside the belly of the tank, time had stopped.
Not a whisper moved through the iron shell of Dingus-1. No radio chatter. No snow crunching. No shriek of wind. Not even the hum of distant engines or rotors in the sky. Outside, the forest stood frozen in place, locked in the dead hush of a winter night too still to trust.
But inside… well, inside the tank was the heat of life pressed close and kept quiet during the witching hour.
Dimitri sat up front with his rifle slung across his lap, back straight, eyes trained on the small grainy screen built into the central panel. The early 1980’s military-grade camera setup was clunky and rugged as hell… but effective. Its forward-facing periscope lens fed back a grainy black and green image of the forest outside, flickering faintly. They’d duct-taped blackout panels over the tank’s windows, just in case. Not that any of them trusted those thin sheets of glass anymore.
Hopper sat beside him, his shotgun leaned up against his shoulder. He wasn’t asleep. Neither was Murray, tucked in between them with a beat-up Walkman clipped to his belt and big headphones stretched over his scruffy face and balding head. The thing clicked quietly as it played, a shortwave hack that Dustin had managed to rig, in order to catch emergency frequencies.
Murray now listened intently. Occasionally, his mouth moved with the news. No change. Still martial law across the States. Still border surveillance in Quebec. Still weird sightings… all unexplained, unverified, unnatural.
The rest of the world was catching up now.
Maybe that’s not a bad thing, he thought to himself.
In the back, the rest of you were packed like sardines.
Six teen kids were all crammed in as tightly as they could manage. Eleven sat upright in the middle of them… gaze sharp and unblinking. Max was curled into her side, legs still crooked and carefully tucked up, eyes closed but not asleep. Mike held El tightly, arms wound around her with that stubborn kind of protection that screamed teenage boy and lifelong partner in the same breath. Lucas held Max, a hand resting on her hip, forehead against her hair.
They had their girls in the middle.
And they kept them safe, even as they tried to find sleep.
Robin and Dustin slept back-to-back on Lucas’s opposite side, their knees bent awkwardly, arms criss-crossed like puzzle pieces. Dustin’s cap had slipped sideways across his brow. And Robin’s mouth was half-open, drooling.
It was kind of perfect.
Will and Jonathan lay shoulder to shoulder near the wall, both on their backs, perfectly still. Not speaking… just… being. Jonathan’s arm stayed pressed against Will’s like a barrier and a promise. And Mike’s back was pressed up against Will’s opposite arm warmly, as he kept his hold on Eleven, even as she listened for sounds of disturbance.
Next to the Byers boys, Nancy was curled near them with Argyle on her far side, cocooned together under a heap of wool and stolen military blankets. Joyce and Dr. Owens sat near the opposite wall, leaned back and half-sleeping, with their eyes half-lidded, posture taut and watchful.
And in the very center, like gravity itself, was you.
You were sound asleep, finally, tucked into Steve’s chest.
His arm was draped across your side beneath the fleece, his hand resting just above your ribcage… like a second heartbeat. One long leg was tangled with yours while his fingers drifted now and then, up and down the outside of your arm in slow, reverent strokes. He was propped up on an elbow, Henley rumpled, hair a mess, eyes so wide and so tired that they didn’t even blink.
He hadn’t slept. Not even for a minute.
And he wasn’t going to.
Not while you were like this.
Steve just watched you silently, his breath shallow, like breathing too hard might wake you or shatter the moment entirely. Your face was tucked into his sternum, your lips slightly parted, lashes resting against his shirt. You didn’t stir or make a sound. You didn’t snore or twitch.
And all the while, he watched.
And watched.
And watched.
And watched.
A quiet shift came from your other side.
Eddie.
He pushed up onto both elbows, hair messy as hell, eyes bloodshot and heavy with that insomniac look. He didn’t say anything right away, he just squinted at Steve across your sleeping form.
Steve’s doe eyes flicked up to meet his jet black irises.
A breath passed between them… and then Steve gave him a soft, lopsided smile. Just a whisper of it.
Eddie blinked. Then smiled back.
“You ever sleep anymore?” he whispered, voice low, just loud enough to carry in the dead silence.
Steve shook his head. “Nah. Too busy being tragic.”
Eddie huffed out a quiet chuckle. “You sure you’re not secretly British?”
“Don’t test me. I’ll start reciting Wuthering Heights.”
“God forbid.”
Another hushed pause.
Steve glanced back down at you. He hadn’t once stopped touching your arm. It was as if it was the only way to keep himself from unraveling or yelling at the sky outside.
Eddie noticed. “Y’know,” he murmured. “First time I saw you look at her like that, I thought it was just a fluke.”
Steve’s eyes flicked back up.
“She looked at you like that first, though,” Eddie added, as if remembering. “That I’ll never forget seeing.”
Steve blinked. “When?”
“Back at the trailer,” Eddie said. “Upside Down. Right before you left. You, Nancy and Robin. She stayed with me and the kid. Helped drag my sorry ass out of that place.”
Steve nodded slowly… remembering.
Eddie looked at you again. “I don’t think she’s ever said a word about how bad it was. Her worrying. But I knew. I knew how she looked at you before that all went south.”
Steve swallowed.
Eddie’s tone was calm. No judgment. No weight. Just a quiet kind of truth that filled the space between them. “And now,” he kept going, “you’re the one looking at her like that. Like she’s the center of the whole damn map.”
Steve didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
“I gotta ask,” Eddie whispered, eyes sharp but gentle. “When’d it happen? The switch?”
Steve was quiet for a long time.
Then finally, he whispered, “That night.”
Eddie tilted his head. “Which one?”
Steve looked down at you like you were made of glass and lightning and everything holy. Then back at Eddie.
“Two months ago. Or almost. Still couldn’t open the letter that Max wrote me. I just—couldn’t. I avoided it. Thought it would destroy me.”
Eddie nodded, letting that land. “The failsafes,” he murmured.
“She read it for me,” Steve said, nodding down at you. “Out loud. While everyone else was still asleep. And I just sat there. Let her hold it, let her read it. That morning, when I couldn’t sleep and just… sat with her and Max.”
He trailed off for a moment, allowing himself to get lost in the memory. And Eddie didn’t rush him. If anything? Now he held his breath. He didn’t know any of this. He’d always wondered. But there’d never been time to ever discuss it.
“Then that night, I let her hold me,” he finally continued in the most hushed murmur. “And I realized that I just… jus’ couldn’t do any of this without her anymore.”
Eddie let the words hang.
“And that was it,” Steve whispered. “That was the when.”
A long, tender silence settled between them. The only sounds were the tiny creaks of the tank, the low thrum of a space heater, the rhythmic breath of a dozen other people.
Eddie gave him a long look. “Damn.”
Steve blinked. “What?”
“I’ve been trying to guess for ages.”
That actually made Steve smile faintly.
“And you’ve never told anyone?” Eddie asked.
Steve shook his head. “Haven’t really had time.”
Eddie shifted gently. “Well,” he mumbled. “We do now. Technically, we don’t, but like… neither of us is sleeping, so you might as well tell me a bedtime story.”
The little eye-roll that earned him from Steve was such a classic throwback to his old self… and yet, nothing about it resembled anything except who he’d become. He took a few beats, then sighed to himself before reflecting aloud.
“Knocked on her door that night, after everyone was out. I don’t think I even said a word when she opened it. Just… stood there.”
“…and she let you in.”
“Of course she did,” Steve said softly. “Just asked me if something was wrong.” A flicker of a smile ghosted over the corner of his lips, subtly twitching upwards. “And all I could do was crash my face to hers, and she didn’t stop me, and it just… was everything.” He stared down at you, his fingers still trailing your arm. “Second night, too. Held her, while she held me. Then the fence happened and it was like—” His brows faintly pinched. “—like the universe said I’d waited too long, so I didn’t get to have it.”
Eddie deeply exhaled. “Jesus.”
Steve looked at him. “Hm?”
But Eddie shook his head. “It’s just. Wild, y’know? Plot twist no one saw coming. You two.”
Steve snorted, then rolled his eyes again.
“I’m serious,” Eddie whispered. “I mean, back in the day? You couldn’t even look at her without making a face. You looked at me like I was the antichrist.”
Steve groaned softly. “Okay, alright, Jesus…”
“You were so hot ‘n bothered,” Eddie teased. “Don’t even deny it.”
Steve covered his eyes with his hand. “God, it was so bad.”
“Dude.” Eddie grinned. “Dude, you literally threatened me with a bear trap in the RV once.”
“Because I thought you were trying to seduce her with your metalhead charm and fingerless gloves.”
Eddie choked on a restrained laugh.
“I hated,” Steve muttered, “I hated feeling like that.”
“Did you even realize you were jealous?”
“No, I didn’t understand it,” Steve admitted. “Didn’t know why it pissed me off, why I wanted to knock you out every time you made her laugh.”
Eddie leaned closer, still whispering. “You wanna know what pissed me off?”
Steve raised an eyebrow.
The metalhead smirked devilishly. “The way she never looked at me like that.”
That shut Steve right the hell up.
Eddie shrugged. “I figured it out before you did. That’s all I’m saying.”
Steve just sighed. Then he smiled, for real this time. “You figured out a lot of things before I did.”
“Still do,” Eddie muttered. “And relax, it was never that deep, and no. It didn’t hurt my feelings.”
“Oh good. I was starting to feel heartbroken for you.”
Eddie snorted at that deadpan, sarcastic, classy-sassy Steve Harrington response. He had to duck his head to keep from waking the whole tank.
Even Steve’s shoulders bounced with silent laughter. “Can’t even blame you” he murmured. “Would like to, but I can’t. Not even a little.”
A soft smirk graced Eddie’s features in the dark. “Nothing wrong with developing a little apocalypse crush when you have a warrant out for your arrest.”
“Yeah, you were a real winner on the market,” the pretty boy smirked back.
“Don’t worry,” Eddie winked. “It was unrequited.”
“And fleeting, it seems.”
“Very. But not because I lost interest. Just… because life gave me better reasons to want her around.” Eddie took a beat. “Also, ‘cause I knew she was in love with you.”
Steve’s face sobered.
“I saw the way you looked at her earlier,” Eddie mumbled. “Right before she passed out. It looked like someone had cut your oxygen line.”
Steve’s throat worked around nothing.
“I know her heart’s fucked,” Eddie whispered. “Alright, we both know what happened at that fence.”
Steve nodded, wordlessly aching.
“But she’s still here,” Eddie remarked gently. “And you’re still here. Right here. And you’re not gonna lose her.”
Steve’s jaw clenched. “Keeps getting too close.”
Eddie studied him. “She’s still fighting. Even in her sleep.”
Steve looked down at you again.
“You know what I think?” Eddie said. “I think she’s staying alive just to prove the universe wrong.”
A long pause followed that statement.
Then Steve whispered, “You wanna know the real fucked up part?”
Eddie raised a brow.
“I think she would’ve made it either way,” Steve’s gaze had now stared into space, lost again. “Even without me.”
Eddie leaned in as he held his breath before Steve added...
“…but I wouldn’t have.”
There wasn’t a single ounce of yet in that statement. But even though Steve knew it, knew better than to think that, his doubts still got the better of him. His worst fears, the voice in his head telling him that he wasn’t good rough. Wasn’t worthy of love that stayed and loved him back just as strongly, just has hard, as he loves.
Which is why Eddie wasn’t gonna let it fly.
“You and I both know,” he began carefully, voice low but firm, absolute, “damn well… she wouldn’t survive it if you were gone.”
Steve’s brows pinched, his gaze still locked on you. He swallowed thickly, hesitating before giving a singe nod.
“…I watched her, Harrington,” Eddie continues, reminding him. “When we all left Hawkins. Split up. Found safety, not knowing if we’d see you guys again.” He takes a beat, a chill running down his spine as he thinks about how close they’d all come to not being back together again. “If it weren’t for how stubbornly strong she is? She wouldn’t have made it. If it weren’t for these kids—your kids, her kids? The ones you’ve both been coparenting like unpaid dual babysitters since this whole shit show started while I was just… selling shit weed to miserable stunts? Blissfully unaware?” He paused, shrugging one shoulder. But his eyes were fierce. “She wouldn’t have let you send her off first. Those kids are the only thing that kept her going. Not me. Not even Robin.”
The tank was silent as Steve stared down at you like you were the only star left in the sky. “She’s the reason I’m still…” he whispered, trailing off. “I can’t—fuck, I won’t be without her.”
Eddie watched him quietly.
Listening to this is hard. Seeing Steve struggling like this was hard. Watching the guilt continue to gnaw at him like this in real time was fucking hard.
But then he smiled. “Then don’t be.”
Steve looked at him now, the spell slightly broken.
“So you’re not the guy who needed to figure it out all those years ago,” Eddie said quietly. “But that’s ‘cause you’re the guy who figured it out just in time.”
Steve’s expression crumpled, just for a second.
He blinked hard, letting that land square in the chest.
And then you shifted subtly in your sleep. Brows pinching faintly, a little hummed sigh escaping you…
Steve immediately pressed his nose to your temple and whispered something low and inaudible. You melted… as if your body knew it was safe, and remembered why it was safe… even as you slept. And then selfishly, even though he knew it might wake you, he went ahead and let the sharp tip of his nose nuzzle against yours. Gingerly, tenderly… devotedly.
Eddie watched it happen, eyes wide and soft. Then he slowly laid back down, a gentle sigh escaping him.
“You’re a softie, Harrington,” he whispered.
Steve exhaled. “Shut up.”
“Can’t believe you got the girl.”
“Can’t believe I almost didn’t.”
Eddie shook his head and let his eyes close, still grinning. “Get some sleep, man.”
Steve didn’t answer. But Eddie didn’t expect him to. Nor did he expect him to get some rest at all.
The tank stayed quiet. No winds. No snow. No signs of movement outside. Just the slow, steady breathing of the person Steve would die to protect.
He watched you.
Unblinking.
Not sleeping.
Not letting you out of his sight.
Not daring let another day pass him by, where he didn’t gaze at you with pure love instead of hate. You were still alive. And as far as Steve Harrington was concerned…
That was everything.
🖤
Forever dedicated to Cherie & @aloneinthehellfire 🖤
TAGLIST FULL! Please follow + turn on the notifications to not miss new chapters :)
Jack said "i'll pay for it" and i blacked out. here's this. (the gif is def brett richards but ignore that!)
Summary: A short trip to the ER one night spirals into an unlikely accidental sugar daddy relationship with a certain night shift attending that you never expected.
Warnings: SMUT mdni 18+ only!!, medical innaccuracies (never been to the ER for a mild allergic reaction so just <3 look past any mistakes), slight miscommunication trope, jack is WHIPPED from day 1, sugar daddy jack yes god, lots of complicated feelings abt money, reader is trying her damnest to still be independent, so much fluff, robby has his whimsy back in this, jack is trying his hardest to be Normal abt you (he is failing), oral f!recieving, fingering, multiple orgasms, unprotected sex (and the crowd...cheers? wear a condom!)
WC: 16.5k (I SAID I BLACKED OUT)
The last place you expect to end up on your birthday is PTMC’s ER and yet, that’s exactly where you sit.
For the record, you think you’re fine. Your friend thinks otherwise, hence the fact that you’re now at the ER and not still at the restaurant. At least she drove you here instead of calling an ambulance -- you do not have the money for that -- but she didn’t stay with you. Which you kind of understand. ER’s aren’t the best place to be, and it’s late and she has to work super early and you told her to leave.
You just also hadn’t entirely expected her to go without any pushback, but what can you do?
Still, it just seems par for the course. The course being your entire life. There’s never any fight, no one ever really wants to stay. It’s-- Well, you’d say it was weird if it wasn’t your normal, everyday life.
But it’s fine. Again, you’re the one who told her she didn’t need to stay and that you would be fine because you are fine. So, you’re having a little allergic reaction. So what? It’s not like your throat is closing up or anything. It’s just been like, sort of, itchy. And maybe you have hives. Maybe.
The ER isn’t empty by any means, but there are empty chairs and in your ER experience, that’s a rare and good sign. You hope it means this won’t take long at all, and that you aren’t exactly high priority.
Until you’re called back before a lot of people who definitely checked in after you.
You go through the motions of triage, explaining what’s wrong, insisting that you’re fine, but apparently the hives look bad and apparently the little cough you have might be a bad sign, because before you know it, you’re in a room of your own.
You huff, which turns into some coughing, and you grimace. Your throat does not feel great.
You don’t have to wait long at all before the curtain pulls back so abruptly that you flinch, and then lock eyes with an absolute silver fox of a doctor. Suddenly your breathing issues have nothing to do with the alleged allergic reaction that you might be having.
“I’m Dr. Abbot, it’s nice to meet you, though I’m really sorry it’s under these circumstances.” The corners of his lips quirk in a small smile when he turns to look at you. “What brings you in tonight?”
“Um…” you swallow uncomfortably. “Possible allergic reaction?”
He raises an eyebrow. “Possible?”
“I don’t have any allergies,” you say. “Not that I know of, anyway. But I was eating dinner and then my throat started to feel really scratchy and water wasn’t helping it, and then like, apparently there’s hives on my neck--”
“Okay,” Dr. Abbot listens intently, straightening up. “Are you having any trouble breathing now?”
You shake your head. “No, my throat is still scratchy, but I can breathe fine, I just keep coughing a little because it feels like something is stuck.”
He nods. “Okay. Let me know if that changes, as soon as it changes. I don’t care if you think it is, let me know. Okay?”
You nod this time. “Okay. Got it.”
“Now,” he smiles softly, walking to your bedside. “What was for dinner? And do you mind if I take a look at that rash you keep scratching at on your arm?”
You freeze, literally caught in the act, nails still digging into your forearm before you slowly move your hand away. “Sorry.”
He shakes his head, sitting down on the stool beside your bed. “Don’t apologize. Can I?” You nod and his fingertips touch your skin. “What was dinner?”
You explain what you had and at what restaurant, and Dr. Abbot listens. He lists some possible allergens, but that it’s impossible to really know. It could even be a case of cross-contamination, but since you don’t know of any allergies in general, it’s hard to say what it could be exactly.
All the while he’s examining your skin, leaning so close you can feel his breath. His fingertips ghost over the hives, applying pressure here and there, which apparently tells him something, but what exactly, you have no idea.
“You ever taken Benadryl before?” he asks, leaning back to look up at you.
You nod. “Yeah, just when I’m like deathly sick.”
He laughs. “Good. I’m going to get one of my nurses to bring some in because you do have some pretty good hives on your neck, now making their way onto your arm here. The bad news is it absolutely looks like an allergic reaction of some kind, but the good news is it seems to be an extremely mild one. I am going to need to keep you for a couple hours to monitor you, make sure the Benadryl works and that your breathing doesn’t change. Is that okay?”
You nod. It’s not like you have anywhere else to be. “That’s fine, yeah.”
“Okay,” he smiles, squeezing your hand once, and it’s only then that you realize you had begun to start scratching again.
It’s also when you realize he’s wearing a goddamn wedding ring.
You wedge both of your hands under your thighs, looking away as you let out another small, “Sorry.”
Even in your peripherals you can see he gives you a strange look before he shakes his head. All he says is “I’ll be right back” and then he disappears.
You lean your head back against the pillows and sigh, loudly. Which turns into a cough, but it’s small, and doesn’t hurt anymore.
And then it’s like Dr. Abbot appears out of fucking nowhere, curtain flinging back, his eyes wide as he peers in. “Are you okay? Trouble breathing?”
“No, sorry,” you lift your head, putting on what you hope is a reassuring smile. “I’m fine. I was just…”
He watches you steadily for a moment. “Okay. Let me know if that changes.”
You nod again. “Roger that.” Why did you just say that?
He smirks as he leaves again, and this time you toss your head back into the pillows a little more aggressively.
You cannot look so flustered every time he speaks. He’s married, for Christ’s sake, and he is not flirting with you. He is your doctor.
You expect the next time the curtain opens for it to be a nurse with your Benadryl, but it’s Dr. Abbot yet again. He has a cup of water in one hand and the little packet of Benadryl in the other.
“Are you okay taking pills?” he asks, handing you the water, and you ignore the way your fingers brush.
“Yeah,” you murmur, watching him as he sits down on the stool again. He definitely doesn’t need to be the one giving you the medicine, let alone sitting down at your bedside to do it, but you don’t call him out on it.
You take the two pills from him and swallow them with some water, feeling his gaze on you but keeping your eyes focused on the door. When you finish, you sneak a glance over at him, and he’s watching you. Still.
“Good.” He says it so softly that you almost don’t hear it. “I’ll come back in a bit to see how you’re doing, but if anything changes, you can press this button right here and it’ll send a signal to the nurses’ hub. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”
You nod, but he doesn’t budge, so you add, “Yeah, okay. Thank you.”
He pulls the curtain behind him as he leaves, and part of you wishes he had turned the lights off, too. It’s late as hell and you were already tired to begin with from working as many extra shifts as you can get your hands on. The allergic reaction certainly isn’t helping your tiredness.
It feels like barely any time passes before Dr. Abbot comes in to check on you again. It does seem odd, just how often he’s checking in, but maybe it’s a slow night. There were empty chairs, after all.
You sit silently as he checks your hives from his place on the stool. He hums a little as his fingertips ghost over your skin. You answer his questions about how you’re feeling. Better, less itchy, your throat doesn’t hurt anymore. You blink slowly and Dr. Abbot notices, smiling at you, but this one is strangely soft.
“Feeling sleepy?”
“Yeah,” you breathe. “Sorry, forgot Benadryl hits me kinda hard.”
“That’s okay, it’s normal,” he assures you. “Did you drive here?”
“No, my friend dropped me off.”
His eyebrows furrow. “She didn’t stay?”
“She has to work super early shifts,” you wave him off. “It’s fine, I’ll just Uber home or…or something.” Which is still not ideal because it’s money you don’t want to spend, and maybe you could get your friend to come back and pick you up, but you don’t want to wake her up if she’s asleep already.
He eyes you warily. “Why don’t you sleep this off for a bit, and then we’ll talk about getting you home. Okay?”
You’re too tired to argue, honestly. You clearly haven’t taken Benadryl in ages because it’s hitting you like a freight train right now.
You don’t argue, but you do say, “Are you sure?” and Dr. Abbot just nods, patting your arm.
“You stay put, I’ll come check in on you, but I want those hives to go down some more before you leave,” he says, which, you have no idea how this works, so this is probably typical protocol, who knows.
“Okay,” you shrug. “As long as you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” he smiles. “You’ll be okay here. Get some sleep.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
+++
You’re still sleeping soundly by the time six a.m. rolls around, which leads to a lot of questions, all directed at one Dr. Jack Abbot.
“So…” Robby leans onto the desk next to where Jack is charting. He showed up a bit early today for who knows what reason, but clearly one objective is getting on Jack’s nerves as soon as possible. “Want to tell me what’s up with the patient in 12?”
“Allergic reaction, not sure what caused it,” Jack rattles off the usual descriptions necessary at handover, except he won’t be handing you over to anyone. “Her friend dropped her off.”
“So you’re waiting for her friend to come get her…?” Robby asks, eyebrows furrowed and head shaking.
“No,” Jack says. I’m taking her home, he wants to say, and nearly does, but he can’t say that because he hasn’t even asked you if you want that. You said you’d Uber, but you didn’t exactly look like that idea appealed to you for some reason.
“Jack,” Robby sighs. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Jack bites out, logging back on to triple check something that he definitely doesn’t need to triple check. He knows he has a bad habit of getting attached to certain cases, but those cases are usually veterans and their families. Not…not pretty young women who come in alone and insist they’re fine when they’re clearly on the cusp of anaphylactic shock (how you didn’t end up in shock, Jack still doesn’t know, but he’s glad you didn’t get worse).
“She’s a patient,” Robby says flatly. “She’s your patient.”
“I’m not doing anything,” Jack repeats, eyes scanning over your file some more when his eyes lock on the date. Your birthday.
Your birthday was yesterday now, when you got here. You didn’t mention anything about that.
Strange.
He logs off and turns to Robby. “I’ve got her cleared for discharge and I’m going to go let her know now. Happy, boss?”
Robby holds his hands up in mock surrender.
Jack turns and heads toward your room, well aware that he shouldn’t have let you stay this long. You’re taking up a bed that they probably need, but in his defense, this is the first time in a long time that there aren’t any beds lining the walls when dayshift comes in. He counts it as a win. And justification that you’re fine to take up one bed. They still have the pedes room empty, anyway.
He knocks on the door before opening it, sliding the curtain back gently, remembering the way you flinched earlier.
“Hey,” he says, smiling without thinking. You’re awake and sitting up, which is a good sign. But you’re glaring at him. “How are you doing?”
“Why am I still here?” you ask, arms crossed over your chest. “You were supposed to let me sleep off the Benadryl, not sleep through the night.”
He chuckles, grabbing the stool and wheeling it over so he can sit at the end of your bed, putting some distance between you this time. “Because you clearly needed the rest. I came and checked on you every hour; you were out cold.”
You grumble something and then huff. “Well, I need to go, I have to work in like…four hours. So. Can I go?”
He doesn’t like the idea of you working after a night in the ER, but he also knows he can’t exactly tell you not to. Medically, you’re fine. “Yeah, you’re free to go, that’s what I was coming to tell you, actually.”
“Great.”
He fucked this up. He doesn’t know how, and he’s not sure why he’s even thinking that there’s something to fuck up. You’re his patient. But still, it feels like he’s ruined everything. Whatever everything is.
“Uh, here’s your paperwork,” he says awkwardly, handing over the sheets. “Just a review of what you were treated for and with what, and who saw you.” He pauses. “If you need a note for work--”
“I’m fine,” you say, taking the papers. “Thanks.”
“Okay,” he nods. “Well, if you--” How does he fix this? Why does he feel like there’s something to fix? “If you feel any worse again, come back, or…”
You raise your eyebrows at him.
“Or if you just want a check up,” he says, hoping he doesn’t sound as ridiculous as he feels. “You can stop by any night.”
He hears your breath hitch and he graciously ignores it.
“Thank you, Dr. Abbot,” you murmur.
He nods again. “No problem. I’ll uh…let you get out of here.” So I can do the same. And go crawl in a hole.
He leaves without another word, trusting that you can get yourself to the exit without him.
He finishes handover with Robby, welcomes the rest of the dayshift as they come waltzing in, and then he gets the hell out of there.
He almost goes to the roof, but thinks better of it. He grabs his stuff from his locker, shaking his head at himself the whole time. He leaves the ED through chairs like always, grimacing when he sees it’s filling back up already. Dayshift will have their hands full, no doubt.
He’s just walking up the sidewalk to the parking deck where his truck is when he spots you. Still here. Sitting on a bench in the park across the street.
Jack doesn’t think. He just looks, crosses the street, and walks right up to you.
You’re looking down at your phone and muttering under your breath. He doesn’t want to startle you, but that’s probably inevitable. Still, he tries not to, and clears his throat to (hopefully) announce his presence loud enough.
It works. You lift your head and your wide eyes stare back at him. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoes. “Everything okay?”
You open your mouth and he can already see the I’m fine forming around your lips. He expects it. He expects you to tell him to get lost, that he’s being a creep. But you don’t.
You shut your mouth, roll your lips into your mouth, and sigh. “No, my uh…My friend works on the other side of the city, and I know her schedule so I know she’s already halfway to work, so I can’t ask her for a ride, so I was just going to Uber to my place, but my fucking-- The app keeps declining my card. It’s never done that before, so I’m trying to figure out what the fuck it’s doing, but it keeps saying it’s not accepted and--”
“I’ll pay for it.”
You blink, his words forcing the rest of yours to die in your throat. “What?”
“I can pay for it,” he says again. Then adds, “If that’s okay with you.”
Your mind is clearly still stuttering, gears grinding to a halt, trying to catch up. “Why?”
Jack can’t help it, he laughs. “Because you’re my patient and I’d really recommend you get home soon and rest before your shift at work,” he says. He still doesn’t want you to go to work. He wants you to show your boss the discharge paperwork and take the day off.
But, he realizes, maybe you can’t afford to do that.
“Here,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his wallet. He produces one of his old credit cards, one that he hardly ever puts anything on aside from gas for his truck. He holds it out to you. “Use this one. See if it’ll accept it.”
You blink again. After far too long of a pause, your hand reaches up and you take the card. “Thank you.”
“It’s not a problem,” he says, shifting on his feet as he watches you put the information in. Some weird part of him hopes you save the card. Some weirder part of him wants you to take the card entirely.
But, of course, you don’t do that. You put the information in, wait for it to process, and then you hand the card straight back to him.
The app accepts it. Your phone dings as a driver is found.
You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Thank you,” you look up at him with a soft smile. “Thank you so much, seriously. And I’ll delete the card after--”
“Don’t worry about it,” he shakes his head. “Consider it a belated birthday gift.”
You hang your head at that with a small laugh. “Thanks.”
He smiles again. “Get home safe, okay?”
He figures it might be a step too far and too weird to wait here with you until your ride shows, so he makes his exit.
But if he waits in his truck in the parking deck until he sees you get in your Uber, well, that’s his business and his business only.
+++
How much variation can one have in their ramen? It’s about all you can afford at the moment, so you’re trying to think of some things to add in to make it less pathetic and…repetitive to eat every single day.
You’ve gotten some frozen edamame, and some cheap frozen gyozas, because why the fuck not. A poached egg would be nice, but eggs aren’t exactly in the budget at the moment, so instead you stare wistfully at them as you pass by.
And that’s your Big Mistake of the day, because instead of watching where the fuck you’re going, you’re looking at the eggs like they’re your long lost husband. Which means you collide right into the person your delusional friend thinks is your long lost husband.
“Oh my god, I am so sorry,” you blurt, your hands reaching out to steady Dr. Abbot just as he’s doing the exact same for you. It’s a hilarious gesture on your part because he isn’t the one who needs help staying on his feet. You’re the one about to fall over.
“Dr. Abbot,” you gasp, stepping away from him, your basket swinging on your arm. “What are you doing here?”
The question makes him pause and his lips quirk. “Um…buying groceries? Is that allowed?”
Fucking duh. “Yes! Sorry, I just meant-- Never mind.” You glance at his basket and see he’s put two steaks in and some butter, but nothing else. “Wow, steak dinner,” you joke. “Celebrating something?”
You expect him to say yes, my wedding anniversary or something of the sort. Because he’s still wearing a ring-- because, of course he is. Why wouldn’t he be? It’s only been two weeks since you were in the ER. And it’s not like you know anything about his personal life, wife included.
He laughs, looking down at his basket like he forgot what he’s buying. “No, not really, just craving steak. I sometimes have one after I work a double. As a reward, you know.”
“Right,” you nod, like you understand what he means. Like when you pull a double at your job, you do the exact same thing. Like you can afford to do that. “Well, enjoy.”
“I will, thank you,” he says. Then, he commits the highest form of treachery. He glances at your basket. “Ramen?” he starts, then you see his brain register the other items. “Fancy ramen?”
“Gotta make it healthy somehow,” you joke.
He nods slowly, eyes cutting to the side at the eggs. You wonder if he noticed the way you were staring at them. “I sometimes do a fried egg with mine,” he comments. “Adds to it.”
“Yup,” you say. “It does.” But have you seen the fucking price of eggs right now? “Anyway, I should-- I need to get going, but um, enjoy your steak and days off, I’m guessing.”
He accepts your abrupt end of the conversation with a humble nod. “Will do. I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”
“You too,” you say over your shoulder, making a beeline down a random aisle just to get away.
You end up down the cereal aisle which isn’t such a bad idea. You have some milk left at home, but even if it’s gone bad, you can eat the dry cereal.
You stare at all of the boxes like they’ve personally offended you, wondering when these prices went up too. Maybe they haven’t. Maybe you’re just dealing with a lot of extra expenses right now, and it’s fried your brain. Probably.
You grab the cheapest, off-brand bag you can see. It’s ridiculous and massive and definitely meant for parents of four kids, but it’s cheap and it’ll last you. So.
You wander aimlessly around the rest of the store, debating over some other snacks and food that you don’t really need, but you do want. In the end, the not-needing wins, so you head for the checkouts.
The self-checkout is crammed for some stupid reason, so you pick a mostly empty line and hop in. You hate not using the self-checkout, but it’ll have to do.
“I swear I’m not following you,” a voice says from behind you.
You glance back and see that it’s Dr. Abbot and you laugh a little, awkwardly. “Sure,” you tease. “I totally believe you.”
He cracks a small smile then, setting his things on the conveyor belt behind yours. The steaks, butter, and now eggs, milk, and bread have joined. Along with a four-pack of beer.
“Healthy,” you raise your eyebrows. “Don’t know what I expected from a doctor who works nights, though.”
“Funny,” he says. “How are you doing, by the way? I didn’t get a chance to ask.”
“I’m okay,” you reply, stepping forward as the person in front of you pays. “Thanks for asking.”
“You never came back to see me,” he says, his eyes just a little sad and his voice a little too soft.
“I didn’t get any worse,” you shrug, ignoring the way his statement made your chest grow tighter and butterflies kick around in your stomach. “And a check-up isn’t really in the budget, Dr. Abbot.”
“Please,” he says, exhaling. “Call me Jack.”
You give him a strange look before greeting the cashier as she scans your things through.
You did the math on your phone as you put things in your basket, but the fucking taxes get you every time. And now you’re not sure if you overshot or not.
You try your debit card and, as you dread, it declines.
“Fuck,” you mutter to yourself. “One second, sorry.”
“No problem,” the cashier says, and to her credit, she doesn’t sound like she feels any sort of way about it. She probably deals with this a lot.
“Here, I’ll try a different card,” you smile, hating every second of your fucking life. You didn’t want to put this on your credit card, but fine. If you must.
Except that fucking declines too. Fuck. Did you freeze it so you’d stop using it while you paid some of it off and forget to unfreeze it for emergencies like, say, a surprise ER trip and work cutting your hours?
Probably.
“Um…” You can feel the back of your neck starting to sweat from the embarrassment of it all. “I’ll just have to-- I’ll come back, or--”
“I’ve got it,” Jack says, stepping forward and handing cash over to the cashier before you can stop him. He does at least glance at you and ask, after he’s handed the money over, “If that’s okay?”
It’s not, not really. Because you already owe him for the Uber, and you don’t want to owe him for this too, but you really need the fucking food. So, you swallow your pride and say, “Yeah, thanks,” instead.
You shove your things into a bag as Jak takes his change from the cashier. He pockets it, thank god, because you think you might’ve exploded if he tried offering it to you.
She scans his stuff and he pays with a card, and you really don’t know why you’re still standing here, but you are. You’re just…frozen. He’s been so nice. But. Your eyes catch on the wedding ring.
He puts everything into two bags and thanks the cashier before smiling over at you. “Ready?”
You just nod numbly, walking with him toward the exit. “Thank you,” you say as the two of you are outside. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a problem,” he says, pausing with you on the sidewalk. “It’s the least I could do.”
You’re not sure what he means by that, and you don’t ask.
“Let me walk you to your car,” he blurts. “It’s dark.”
The parking lot is extremely well-lit, but you let him have this one. There’s no real harm in it. “Sure. I’m over this way.”
You realize that it isn’t as well-lit where you’ve parked, so you’re glad you let him walk you.
You unlock your door with your key and lean over the console to set your groceries in the passenger seat. You straighten up to see Jack still standing there, looking a bit awkward himself.
“Well,” you murmur. “I guess I’ll see you around?”
“Hopefully not in the ER,” he says, dropping his head with a chuckle. “As much as I’m glad I was able to help you, I really don’t want you to be a patient again.”
“You and me both,” you mutter, remembering the bill you have to chip away at. “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.” He gives you a stern look and you roll your eyes. “Jack. Goodnight, Jack.”
“Goodnight,” he smiles, then turns and walks through the cars.
You sigh so heavily that you feel it in your bones, sliding into the driver’s seat, pulling your door closed with you. You tip your head back against the headrest with a stupid, giddy smile that feels ridiculous and floaty.
And then, you turn your keys in the ignition.
Now, ideally, the car will start after a second. Normally, the engine fucking starts. Except this time, all you hear are clicks. The clicks of doom.
“Fuck,” you say out loud because you, unfortunately, know exactly what the clicking means.
The fucking battery is dead. Because of course it is. Because of course you needed one more goddamn thing to happen that will cost money that you don’t have.
You lean forward and rest your forehead on the steering wheel, hitting it just a little too hard, but you’re too tired, stressed, and frankly fed up to even care.
How the hell are you supposed to get home now? You can’t call a towing service because how the hell are you supposed to pay for that? And despite the fact that you know what’s wrong with your car, you have no idea where the nearest car parts store is. Sure, you can Google that, but right now it feels like lifting your head is too much effort.
You try turning the key one more time, just to see if it was a fluke. Clickclickclickclick. Fine.
Then, there’s knocking on your window, and it makes you jolt so hard you nearly slam your head into the top of your car.
You turn your head, heart racing, but it’s just Dr. Abbot. Jack.
You open the door just as Jack is saying, “I heard the battery. I have jumper cables if you want…?”
“Please,” you exhale, not even caring that you sound desperate and that this will be yet another thing you’re indebted to him for.
“Give me a second, I’ll pull my truck around.”
“Thanks.”
He gives you another one of his ‘no need to thank me’ smiles and walks through the cars again. Soon you hear a truck starting, and you realize he parked just a few cars over from you on the other aisle.
You step aside so he can pull into the empty space beside your car. You try (and fail) to not look at him and think about how handsome he looks while he drives.
To keep your eyes under control, you bend down and flick the switch to pop the hood on your car, walking around the front to lift it up.
Jack walks over with the cables, hooking them up despite you reaching for them. “I’ve got it,” he says, not unkindly. “You jumped a car before?”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “My old car was a piece of shit. Even with a brand new battery, it would decide it wanted to be jumped sometimes.”
He whistles as he turns and finishes hooking up the cables. “Damn.”
“Yeah, at least this is the first time this one has needed it,” you reply. “But I haven’t put a new battery in it since I got it like…two years ago, so.”
“Might be time then,” Jack says. “Alright, we’re good. Want to try starting it now?”
“Roger that,” you say, and you’ve got to stop saying that around him. It must be your go-to when you’re flustered, which is just ridiculous. You need a better phrase.
You slip into your driver’s seat and try the key again. It stutters once, but then it starts, and your body sags with relief.
You leave the car running and step out to thank Jack again. He’s looking at your engine with furrowed brows, though, and that’s not what you want.
“No…” You groan. “What’s that face for?”
“One sec,” he says, then heads over to his truck, leaving you there at the hood. You hear rustling and turn to look, but his door and your door are blocking your view.
Next thing you know, he’s leaning into your driver’s seat, saying something about checking some light on the dash.
You have no fucking idea. You don’t remember seeing a light pop up when your car started, but then again, you were just elated that your car allowed itself to be jump-started at all.
Then he’s done, as quickly as can be, shutting his truck door and joining you at the hood.
“You need an oil change,” he says.
“I know,” you roll your eyes. “About a hundred miles ago. I’ll get it done soon.”
You can tell by his face that he definitely doesn’t believe you, but it’s not his problem. You reach over and disconnect the black cable, raising your eyebrows at him so he’ll go disconnect it from his truck. He goes without arguing, and then waits for you to disconnect the red before he disconnects his. He takes the cables from you with what you think looks like an apologetic smile.
“Thank you for the jump,” you say. You don’t want him to feel apologetic, you just…
“It’s no problem, seriously,” he says. He starts looping the cables and loosely knotting them. “Do you need any help with the battery, or…?”
You just give him a wry smile. “I’m a big girl, Dr. Abbot. I can get a new battery for my car.”
“Right, sorry,” he nods, taking a step back. “Goodnight.”
“Night, Jack,” you say, meaning it this time.
He waits until you get in your car and drive away before he even gets in his driver’s seat. You see the little smile on his lips in your rearview mirror.
When you get home, you find a second bag of groceries tucked beside yours on the floor of your passenger seat.
You huff as you take both inside your apartment, setting them on the kitchen counter. You glare at the bag that has eggs, bread, and milk in it as if it disgusts you. Maybe what disgusts you about it is the fact that you aren’t upset about it, not really. You need the food. You just hate that he did so much for you tonight. And that other night in the ER.
You take everything out and shove the eggs and milk in the fridge, tossing the bread into the cabinet. And that’s when you see it, floating down from where it was likely stuck to the bread because of the static electricity.
A receipt. Or the torn-off end of one with some scribbled writing on the back.
Call if you need anything. Or if you just feel like calling. -Jack
You almost snort at the message, but it is sweet. You imagine Jack furiously writing it in his truck before sneaking the groceries over, hands shaking as he writes his name and number.
You put a new contact in your phone -- Jack Abbot (ER Dr) -- but you don’t text him. You’ll save that for another day. Maybe.
+++
By some grace of some higher power, your car starts the next morning -- after a little bit of stuttering. Plus, you were able to figure out the nonsense with your credit card, so you make the drive to get a new battery.
The guy at the autoparts shop takes pity on you (or maybe he’s flirting, but you aren’t interested) and he changes the battery out for you, free of charge. You know how to change it on your own, but since he offered, you let him. Sometimes you just don’t feel like dealing with shit.
You at least have half a tank of gas still, so there’s that. It should last you for a while, as long as you’re careful about getting to and from work. You can walk, it just takes thirty minutes, but it isn’t a bad walk by any means when the weather is nice.
The key phrasing here being when the weather is nice. And you swear, you fucking swear, the weather was supposed to be nice today. There was nothing in the forecast about rain.
But there fucking should’ve been, because here you stand, looking out the front windows of your job -- a small coffee shop that can only give you part-time hours right now -- as it fucking pours.
You can’t even stay in here because the shop is closed now and the security alarm needs to be set. You need to leave before your boss texts you and asks why you haven’t already left.
But you have a long ass walk ahead of you in this shitty weather and you’d rather die. Honestly.
At least it isn’t thundering. Although, maybe being struck by lightning would be nicer.
“Fuck. Me” is the most eloquent thing you can think of as you exit the shop and lock up, waiting to hear the alarm beep three times over the sound of the rain. You hate when it stops beeping like it should because that means nothing is wrong which means you have to leave.
You didn’t even wear a jacket with a fucking hood this morning.
After a few more minutes of (foolishly) hoping the rain is going to slow down, you say fuck it and head out, soaked through your clothes within a minute.
You’re going to have to put your fucking phone in rice when you get home, rice that you aren’t even sure if you have, because if you did, you’d eat it.
You make it to a nearby awning of another shop when a thought occurs to you. A very stupid, ridiculous thought.
You grumble as you dig your phone out of your pocket, surprised that it’s even somewhat dry. You find Jack’s contact and open a new text thread.
Hey, you start, and then you realize you should introduce yourself so you give the whole spiel and then, anyway are you at work rn?
His reply comes within seconds. Not yet. Why?
The raindrops on your screen keep causing you to type the wrong thing and then before you know it you’re fucking calling Jack Abbot.
“Fuck!” He picks up far too quickly. “Hi.”
If he heard your expletive, he doesn’t mention it. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah,” you say automatically, and then you grimace. “Well, no, not really--”
“Where are you?”
You rattle off the street name. “I was at work, but we’re closed now, and I didn’t drive today because I’m trying to save gas and I thought the weather would be nice, and now it’s fucking pouring and I’ve walked like, five steps and I’m soaked, and I just--” You take a deep breath, hating the way your voice cracks. “I could really use a ride.”
“I’m on the way,” he says, and you realize that it already sounds like he’s driving. “Are you somewhere dry right now?”
“Yeah, I’m under the florist’s awning,” you sniffle. “Sorry about like, being a nuisance in your life lately, geez.” You add a laugh, hoping he’ll join you, but he doesn’t.
He doesn’t say anything, and in that moment you regret calling. You almost think he’s hung up, but you can still hear his truck. His turn signal. His breathing.
So, you stay on the phone, for who the fuck knows why, stewing in your embarrassment, and already planning on how to tell him this will be the last time. And that you’ll even let him block you if that’ll make it…better. Or something.
You finally hang up when you see his truck rounding the corner.
He does a three-point turn so the passenger door is at the curb, and you should not find that as hot as you do.
Next thing you know, he’s leaning over the bench and opening the door for you from inside, waving you in. You jump in, probably slamming the door but you’re too soaked to care.
“Fuck me, I didn’t even think about getting your truck all wet--”
“It’s fine,” Jack says quickly, and a little too short. “Some rain won’t hurt her. Are you cold?”
You don’t know why, but you feel scolded. You sink into the seat and buckle yourself in, shaking your head. “No, I’m fine.” It’s a lie. “Thank you.”
He turns the heat on anyway, then turns all the vents toward you.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
He just nods. The truck doesn’t move.
“Oh!” you blurt. “My address. Do you have a GPS--”
“You’re not a nuisance.”
You blink. “What?”
“On the phone,” he says, turning to look at you. “You apologized for being a nuisance, but you’re not one. You don’t need to apologize for calling me when you need something. That’s why I gave you my number.”
“Why?”
His eyebrows furrow. “Why what?”
“Why did you-- Why do you want to help me so much?”
He smiles softly at that. “Because it doesn’t sound like you have a lot of people in your life who help you.”
You’re not sure how to respond to that. Because the problem is that he’s right. You don’t. Not close by, anyway. And you can’t really ask for help because the whole point of you moving out here was to be independent. It won’t look great if you start asking for money if the whole point of moving was to have some space and find your footing on your own.
You stay quiet just a beat too long. Because then Jack adds, “Or maybe I just like you, or something.”
Your eyes snap to his and he’s smiling still, but a bit playful now.
“Or something,” you repeat, a smile tugging at your lips. “Should’ve known you throwing money around was you trying to flirt.”
“You saying it wasn’t working?”
You open your mouth to protest, but you can’t. You turn your gaze away and wave your hand at him. “Just drive.”
He chuckles, “Yes ma’am.” He puts the truck in gear and starts moving. “I do need your address, though.”
You tell him your apartment complex, again asking, “Do you want me to put it in Maps?”
He scoffs. “Maps. I know my way around.”
You don’t know why, but you find that hot. Really hot.
But your traitorous eyes glance back at his left hand, and the wedding band is still there. It makes something heavy settle in your stomach, and you unconsciously shift closer to the door.
You’re not sure if the air shifts in the cab of his truck, but it sure feels like it.
The ride is silent except for the rain as Jack takes all the correct turns, knowing exactly where to go without you pointing or anything. When he pulls into the complex, you direct him over to your building, and he pulls up as close as he can to the doors.
“Thanks for the ride,” you tell him with a probably too obviously forced smile. “See you.”
Jack opens his mouth like he wants to say something else, but you can’t hear him over the rain, and then you slam his truck door closed. On accident. It’s just raining really hard and you don’t want to get his truck wet any more than you already have. That’s all.
It’s definitely not because you’re mad at him for not mentioning the ring and not because you’re mad at yourself for not bringing it up and for forgetting it was even there.
You stomp up the stairs and into your apartment, glancing out the window once you’re inside, and feeling another wave of anger at yourself when you realize you’re disappointed that his truck is already gone.
What the hell are you doing?
+++
Jack doesn’t hear from you for a week. He tries not to feel anything about it.
But he’s feeling everything about it. Obviously.
“Rough night?” Robby asks, backpack still slung over his shoulder, mistaking Jack’s faraway stare for something else. The confusion is clear on the dayshift doctor’s face. The board is tidy, chairs is mostly empty, only a couple beds line the walls out here.
And Jack looks haunted. He knows he does. “Nope,” he says, forcing a tight smile and pushing off the nurse’s hub. “You’re welcome for cleaning up your mess from yesterday.”
Robby barks out a laugh at that. “You’re welcome for giving you something to do.”
Jack scoffs. Rolls his eyes. Looks away and thinks about you again.
Robby, who is way too nosy for his own good, catches the shift. “Seriously, are you good?” He pauses. “Is this about her?”
Jack whips his head around so fast he swears he cracks his neck. “Who?”
Robby’s smile is soft. Knowing. “The patient you let sleep in and then ordered an Uber for.”
Jack hasn’t even told Robby about the grocery store, the car battery, or the rainy day car ride. All Robby knows is that day and the Uber, and Jack is obvious from just that alone. He can’t imagine how it’d all sound if Robby knew everything. Jack probably looks like a creep. Objectively.
“It’s nothing,” Jack says, and he doesn’t know what the hell he even means by that.
“Did something else happen?” Robby presses. Too nosy for his own damn good.
“No,” Jack says automatically, which he knows is a mistake.
Robby’s eyebrows lift skyward. “Have you seen her again? Jack, buddy, you’re holding out on me!”
“Nothing has happened!” Jack snaps, not unkindly. And saying it out loud reminds him: nothing has happened. So why does he feel like something is broken again? Like he needs to apologize and fix it? What is there to fix?
“Well you’re acting like a lot has happened,” Robby teases him just a little more. “Or like there’s trouble in paradise.”
It’s barely been a month and a half since your ER trip. There is no paradise for there to be any trouble in.
Still, Jack rubs his forehead. “There’s not. She’s just--” Quiet? But are you quiet? Or is this normal? Jack has no idea. He has no idea why he can’t bring himself to just…call you. Or text.
Dana chooses the perfect time to arrive, catching the way Jack’s anguished voice said she. The dayshift charge nurse comes over with a shit-eating grin. “Girl troubles? You’re better off asking a brick wall if you’re trying to get advice out of this one,” she jabs her thumb in Robby’s direction.
Robby leans over with a smile, getting eye-level with Dana. “And a very good morning to you too.”
“Morning, chipper,” Jack smiles at Dana. “No girl troubles.”
“Liar,” Robby coughs.
“Come on, Dr. Abbot!” Dana cackles. “Tell me your woes, let me see if I can help.”
Jack glances warily at the too-eager Robby, and then back at Dana who seems genuine in wanting to help. He takes a deep breath. “I gave her a ride home a week ago and she hasn’t spoken to me since.”
Dana raises her eyebrows, eyes a little wide. “Ride home from where?”
At the same time, Robby says, “I thought you ordered her an Uber?”
Dana’s eyes go really wide then. “An Uber from where?”
Jack clarifies. “No, the Uber was over a month ago, when she was in the ER. The car ride was a week ago-- remember the day it fucking rained like it was a hurricane? She was working and had walked that day.”
“So she…” Robby shakes his head, trying to puzzle this one out. “She asked you for a ride? How?”
“I gave her my number.”
Robby’s face breaks into a smile. Dana practically screeches, “When!”
“When I…” Jack sighs, lowering his voice. “When I ran into her in the store and then her car battery died so I had to jump her car and then I gave her my number in case she…needed anything else.”
“Oh my god,” Robby whistles. “Jack, you are--”
“Don’t say it,” Jack nearly growls. He never blushes, but right now, he can feel the heat crawling up his neck.
Dana graciously doesn’t mention the blush or how far gone Jack is already. “Okay, so, she has your number from that time, she texts you and asks for a ride home in the rain, you give her a ride, and…?”
“And?” Jack echoes. “What?”
“You tell me, Abbot, you were there!” Dana laughs. “What happened next? Did you go up with her--”
“No!” Jack hurries to clarify that too. “Jeez, Dana, what do you take me for? I dropped her off and then came into work.”
“You didn’t say anything to her.”
“No, we spoke.”
“So what the hell did you say!” Dana laughs louder. “Jesus Christ above, it’s like pulling teeth with you. Don’t laugh, Robinavitch, you’re just as bad.”
Robby’s jaw drops at that, clearly wondering why he’s getting any heat right now.
Jack chuckles and recalls the conversation. Everything he said to you. Everything you said back. It dawns on him slowly. “She was confused about why I was helping her, called herself a nuisance, so I told her to not think about it that way. I’m helping because I want to, and because I…” He sucks in a breath, looks away. “Because I like her, or something.”
Dana’s grin only widens at his admission. She gazes up at him like a proud mother. He can tell even though he won’t look at her. “What did she say?”
Jack smiles. “That she should’ve known I was flirting.”
“And?”
“And…I don’t know.” Jack crosses his arms, shaking his head. “I drove to her place, and she was watching me, but she just…got quiet at one point.”
Dana hums for a moment. Glances down at his hands. She narrows her eyes when she looks back up at him. “Jack.”
He finally looks her in the eyes again. “Yeah.”
“Were you wearing your ring?”
“Yeah,” he replies. “I always wear it.” Dana knows this. He doesn’t understand what this has to do with anyth-- “Shit.”
“Yeah, shit,” Dana laughs, shaking her head at him. “You’re welcome for the revelation. Next time disclose the wife before flirting with another woman. Poor girl has probably been sitting at home kicking herself for this all week.”
“Shit,” Jack says again, as if it has more meaning this second time around. In a way, it does, because he doesn’t want you to be beating yourself up over this. Over him being an idiot and not disclosing that he’s a widow who still wears his ring.
Robby claps him on his shoulder. “See you in a few minutes for handover, brother. Then you can call your girl.”
Jack opens his mouth to argue that you’re not his anything, but Robby is already following Dana off to the lockers.
+++
It’s a little after noon. You’re cleaning your apartment for the third time this week when Jack calls. You’re too far in the zone to screen his call, realizing far too late that it’s his voice on the other end.
“Hey,” he sounds a little shocked that you even picked up at all. “Can we talk?”
You nearly hang up. That’s far too serious of a question coming from a man who is married and who you’ve had only a handful of interactions with.
But, because you’re stupid, you say, “Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes. What’s up?”
“I do have a wife,” he says.
You’re so caught off guard that you reply, “Good for you?”
“Or…had, I guess.”
Great. So he’s divorced. You’re not sure if that makes it better or worse, and it’s hard to tell from his tone. “Okay?” You rub your temple. “Look, Jack, if this is about last--”
“I’m a widow,” he says, and that stops you cold, your eyes widening. He lets out a weak laugh. “Sorry for saying that in the most roundabout way possible.”
“Oh,” you elegantly reply. Then, inelegantly, you add, “Fuck, I mean, sorry. I’m so sorry, Jack, for your loss.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “It’s been years. But that’s why I have a ring.”
“Of course,” you breathe, leaning back against your kitchen counter. “That’s okay. Obviously it’s okay. I’m sorry I jumped to conclusions.”
“No, it’s not your fault, and that was a logical conclusion to jump to,” he says honestly. “I just should’ve told you before I said I liked you and was flirting with you.”
“Yeah,” you chuckle. “Might’ve saved me a freak out.”
You can practically hear his frown. “I’m sorry.”
“Enough of that,” you murmur, waving your hands in your empty apartment. “Thank you for telling me.”
“If it’s not-- If you’re not…I don’t know what I’m trying to say,” he breaks off with a soft laugh. “Can I take you to dinner?”
“Absolutely,” you reply. “I’d love that.”
Jack asks if you can do dinner that evening. Thankfully, you’re free, but honestly, you would’ve found a way.
He’s leaning against his truck when you come down from your apartment. He’s in dark jeans today, and a white t-shirt that almost looks a little too tight. You try not to ogle his arms too much, but it’s his fault for crossing them. Does he have any idea how good that makes his biceps look?
“Hey stranger,” you say, which is the worst attempt at flirting you’ve ever heard, but it’s what your brain spits out, so you commit to it. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“I didn’t want to wait until you nearly bowled me over by the eggs again,” he teases.
You gasp. “Rude!”
He smiles, walking around to the passenger door to open it for you. He nods into the truck. “Hop in. We have a little drive.”
“Ooh, how mysterious.”
He chuckles as he shuts the door. You watch him as he rounds the truck and he catches your gaze through the windshield. You don’t hide your smile. You watch him even as he gets in the driver’s seat.
“Do I get to know where we’re going for dinner?” you ask, buckling in. “Or is it a surprise?”
“Depends,” he says, turning the key. “Do you like surprises?”
You smile. “I’ll allow this one.”
“Thank you,” he says. As he pulls onto the road, he asks, “How was your day?”
You tell him about the deep-cleaning. “I clean when I’m stressed, so I was in the middle of that when you called actually. I wasn’t planning to pick up.”
If he’s hurt by that, he hides it. Mostly. “Oh.”
“Well, I thought I was on the cusp of an affair,” you joke. “But it’s fine, the stress wasn’t entirely you. Work is cutting hours again, my friend might be moving states, and I’m just--” You cut yourself off with a laugh. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he says genuinely, turning his head to glance at you. “I asked because I want to know this stuff.”
You chew the inside of your cheek, a similar gnawing feeling in your stomach that isn’t hunger. “How was your day?”
“Good,” he nods. “Little stressful, but the ED always is. Dayshift left a fucking mess for us to clean up.”
You roll your eyes, saying, “Assholes,” automatically, like you know. Like you get it.
Jack just smiles harder. “Yeah, exactly. They’re assholes.”
When he turns to enter the highway, you give him a strange look. “How far are we going?”
“Just a couple towns over,” he explains. “Just faster this way.”
You hum.
“I’m starting to think you don’t like surprises.”
“I said I’d allow this one.”
“Ah,” he laughs. “So you don’t.”
“Not at all,” you admit, sinking into your seat. “But I’m trying to be cool.”
“You are cool,” he says honestly. “You don’t need to try.”
“Okay,” you breathe. And then, helplessly, you cave and ask, “Where are we going?”
He laughs, not at you, and not unkindly. “I’m taking you to this little family run restaurant I love. They make great pizza. The owner is a friend of mine.”
You relax a little, knowing the exact plan, and something warm settles in your chest at the information. A friend of his. A place he loves. And he’s taking you.
His arm has been resting on the console between the two of you this entire time, and it’s only now that you brave the distance and place your hand over his. He looks over at you with the sweetest smile, turning his hand over to press your palms together. You lace your fingers through his. He squeezes your hand, and it’s like all the nerves melt out of your body.
+++
Dinner with Jack becomes a regular thing. Once, sometimes twice a week. He always takes you somewhere new. He always pays. And you always let him.
It’s nice to not have to worry. You hate to admit it, but it is. You don’t have to worry about gas money, or money for the dinners, because when you offered to pay for both one time, he looked at you like you’d just slapped him.
“I’ve got it,” he always says. “Don’t worry about it.”
You try not to.
But he pays for so much. You forgot to delete his card off your Uber app and ordered a ride one day, the charge automatically approved, and then you saw the card number. You freaked out and texted him, apologetically saying you’d pay him back.
Don’t worry about it, he wrote back. Sorry I can’t give you a ride right now.
You rolled your eyes. I know you are not apologizing for being at work.
He took a minute to reply, but when he did, it said, Wouldn’t dream of it. Home safe?
You mentioned still paying off your ER bill, and miraculously, you got a letter from the hospital the next week saying your bill had been paid. You knew without a doubt that it was Jack’s doing, but you also didn’t have any definitive proof, so you didn’t press him about it.
But it lingered in your mind. Another thing you feel like you owe him for.
You mentioned work cutting hours again, leaving you with a poor excuse for part-time and rapidly dwindling savings, and Jack asked if you needed anything. You told him no, you were fine, you were just venting, but clearly it stuck with him.
Because the next time you have dinner, he says, casually, “I made you an authorized user on my credit card.”
You nearly spit out your wine, and then nearly kick him for that because this is a nice place. You’re in a dress and heels, for Christ’s sake. You can’t spit-take wine across the table.
“Why did you do that?” you hiss.
“I didn’t mean to make you snort wine--”
“No, the card!” You lean over the table. “Why am I an authorized user?”
He looks at you incredulously. “So if you need something, you can buy it.”
“You’re insane,” you laugh. “You know that, right?”
He’s smiling a little, but he’s still not following. “I just don’t want you to have to ask.”
“I’m still going to ask,” you say. “If I use the card.”
“You don’t have to,” he concedes, but you can tell he doesn’t like it. “But I want you to. Genuinely.”
You shake your head at him. “God.” Your emotions are thrashing inside your brain and heart like tidal waves. Frustration, annoyance, attraction. Because he’s practically handing you his credit card. You’re ridiculous. You’re setting feminism back by four decades.
“Okay,” he says warily, eyeing you across the table. “We can talk about it later?”
He sounds so unsure of himself, but you nod. “Oh, yeah. We’ll talk about it later.”
Dinner is fine, if a little awkward at times, both your fault and his. The drive back to your place is a little better because you practically wrap yourself around his arm while he drives with the other.
He parks at your apartment and you make no move to get out of the truck. Neither does he.
He clears his throat. “Look, I’m-- I’m sorry if that was too much, earlier. With the credit card. I just don’t want you going without when I have more than enough and I can just share it with you. I hate that your hours are getting cut, and I know rent and food and life isn’t cheap, so I just-- I want you to be taken care of. That’s all.”
You listen to each word, drinking it in, watching his jaw work as he speaks. He’s looking ahead, for once not staring at you with the intensity of a thousand suns. It’s how you know he’s being honest. And vulnerable.
“Jack,” you whisper. “Look at me.”
He finally does, and you see sincerity in them, but you also see fear.
“I’m not mad,” you begin, cupping his face. “I just think it’s a little funny that you’re giving me your credit card before you’ve even kissed me.”
He lets out a laugh that sounds relieved almost. “Well, believe it or not, my plan was to kiss you tonight.”
“Yeah?” you tease. “Sorry I ruined it.”
He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin it,” he says seriously. He leans a little closer. “But the card hasn’t arrived yet.”
“Oh?”
“Mhm,” he nods, eyes flicking down to your lips just as his tongue darts out to wet his own. “So I’m still kissing you before I give it to you.”
“Oh, you are?”
“I am,” he chuckles, one hand sliding up to gently cup the back of your head. “If you shut up and let me.”
“Well, maybe you should--”
He reads your mind. He shuts you up with the kiss, pulling your face to his just as he moves closer, like he’s desperate to close the distance. Weeks of dinners together, of phone calls on the way home from his shift while you’re on your way to yours, of kisses on your cheek and hands. Finally.
“Took you long enough,” you murmur when he pulls away. “I was wondering if you were ever going to do that.”
“I was too slow, huh?” he smiles, thumb grazing your cheek.
“I like slow,” you admit quietly. “It’s been really nice.”
“Good,” he whispers, eyes scanning every inch of your face, memorizing. “I really like you, you know?”
“I kinda figured,” you smirk, earning another kiss. When you break away this time, you say, “I really like you, too.”
+++
When Jack’s credit card -- with your name on it -- arrives in the mail the next week, he brings it to you after his shift.
You pull him up to your apartment, calling him crazy the entire way, because he should be asleep right now, not bringing you a damn card.
“The card could’ve waited,” you mutter, taking the envelope from him and putting it on the counter. “You’re probably exhausted.”
“I’m fine,” he smiles through your fussing. “What are you doing awake anyway? Do you work today?”
You grimace. “Ha, no. About that…”
His curses under his breath. “No.”
“Yeah,” you shrug. “Last hired, first fired,” you chuckle despite how fucked it all feels. “I’ve just been trying to wake myself up earlier so I can apply to jobs and shit. But I’m so fucking stressed that it makes it hard to sleep at night, so I’m up super late, and yeah. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“Sounds like it,” he murmurs. “You look exhausted.”
“Thanks.”
“No, I mean,” he pauses, seeing your teasing smile and kisses it. “Do you want to take a nap?”
“I have shit I should do,” you sigh. “You can, if you want. I won’t be loud or anything.”
“No,” he shakes his head at you, rubbing your arms. “You’re napping with me. Doctor’s orders.”
“Fine,” you grumble, but you’ve really put up no protest at all, which is how he knows you’re exhausted.
He follows you over to your bedroom. It’s not the first time he’s been in your apartment, but it is the first time he’ll be in your bed.
You’re still in your pajamas, so you crawl under the covers immediately.
Jack hovers in the doorway for a moment before saying, awkwardly, “Do you have anything I can sleep in?”
You furrow your eyebrows. “What do you need?”
“I don’t know, like, do you want me to be wearing clothes, or--”
You laugh so loud it bounces off the walls. “Sorry, oh my God,” you sit up. “Do you want some sweatpants or something?” Then, because he swears you can read his mind, you say, “You can just sleep in your boxers, you know. It’ll be fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes,” you nod. “As long as you’re fine with me taking my shorts off.” You hardly ever sleep with any pants on anyway, usually opting for just a t-shirt and your underwear.
“It’s your bed,” he says. “Also, um…”
You look up at him with raised eyebrows while you tug your shorts down. You drop them onto the floor and lay back down.
“I need to tell you something.”
You sit back up. “Okay.”
It sounds serious because, well, it kind of is. And Jack kind of can’t believe he hasn’t told you this yet, but he never had reason to. He’s always wearing pants around you. He never wears shorts. And it never came up in conversation. So.
“I lost my leg, when I was a combat medic.”
Your expression changes only slightly, from worry to understanding. You knew he was in the military, just not the amputation part. “Okay.”
“Not my entire leg, just below the knee. I have a prosthetic.”
You nod. “Okay.”
“Just so it doesn’t…freak you out or anything.”
You smile softly. “I’m not freaked out.”
“Okay.”
“Do you need anything?”
His eyebrows furrow. “What?”
You just shrug, like this is all normal, standing up so you’re meeting his eyes. “Do you want to take the prosthetic off to sleep? That’d probably be more comfortable. And do you need any painkillers or anything?”
He deflates. “Please, actually. If you have any.”
You kiss his cheek. “Of course. I’ll be right back.”
You disappear back to the kitchen and he stands there in your bedroom, stunned. He’s still standing there when you return, a glass of water in one hand and a bottle of Ibuprofen in the other.
“You okay?”
He kisses you. He doesn’t know what else to do.
You melt into it, nearly dropping the water and medicine in the process. “What was that for?”
“You’re really great,” he blurts, which isn’t what he wants to say. What he wants to say is I love you, but it’s too soon. Probably.
“Thank you,” you smile. You turn and place the water and pill bottle on your nightstand. “Do you need help or…?”
“No, no, I’m good, I just,” he pauses, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you back in. The words nearly slip out again, but he keeps them in. “Thank you.”
+++
The first time you use his credit card, it’s to buy groceries. You worry about it the entire time, and half expect it to decline when you hold it up to the reader, but it doesn’t. It goes through faster than any of your other cards ever have.
Thank you for the credit card, you text him right after. Got my groceries for a couple weeks.
Thank you for using it, he writes back. Buy yourself something fun please.
You use it to buy yourself a (probably) overpriced coffee and sweet treat a few days later. You send him a picture.
Fun items purchased.
He replies a couple hours later when he’s woken up from his post-shift nap. Good. Do it again.
You roll your eyes at the message, but send a red heart anyway.
A few weeks later, you find a different job at another random cafe, this one inside a big chain bookstore. Still not full time hours, and not at all what you really want to be doing with your life, but it’s something. It means you can pay rent with your paycheck, but then that means you have to put everything else on Jack’s card. Because your paycheck will only cover rent, and just barely.
Jack hears about it. Sorry for using your card for a billion things this week. You had to fill your car up with gas, get the oil changed finally because it started making a weird noise and you freaked out, and some of your food molded faster than expected so you had to go back to the grocery store. All in two days.
He sends ? back. Then adds, It’s your card.
Jack.
I’m serious, he says. Don’t apologize for using it. That’s why I gave it to you.
Yeah but now I owe you. A lot.
He calls you.
“Aren’t you at work?” you say in lieu of a greeting.
“You don’t owe me anything,” he says quickly. You can hear movement in the background, lots of voices and some beeping. “You understand that, right? I’m not going to ask for any of this money back. I’m not keeping a tab.”
“You’re sure?” You hate how pathetic your voice sounds.
“I’m sure,” he says softly. “Baby, how long have you-- You haven’t been thinking that this whole time, have you?”
Your reply is weak. And quiet. You’re too anxious about this to even realize it’s the first time he’s called you baby. “Maybe. Kind of.”
“No,” he exhales. “I’m sorry. I should’ve-- You don’t owe me a penny, okay? No more of that. The card is yours to use, don’t worry about the limit. And don’t you dare try to pay me back.”
“Okay,” you murmur. Don’t worry about the limit. What the fuck is the limit?
“I said don’t worry about it,” Jack replies, and you can practically hear him smiling. “Get some sleep, okay? Why don’t we get breakfast tomorrow, you and me.”
“Okay,” you nod. “Okay. Want me to meet you at the hospital?”
“You can,” he says. “If you’re up for everyone wanting to meet you.”
You chuckle at that, hanging your head. Everyone’s been asking about meeting you, apparently. At least those that didn’t see you that night you first met Jack. “Sure, why not,” you say. “But tell them we won’t be staying long. You need to eat and take a nap.”
“Yes ma’am.”
You kind of love when he says that. “See you in the morning.”
“Sweet dreams, baby.”
+++
Jack doesn’t mention to any of his coworkers that you’re meeting him here after his shift ends. He thought about it, but then another trauma came in, and he didn’t have the time.
He almost forgets that you’re coming, but the second he hears your name leave Lena’s mouth, he remembers. And lights up inside.
“Your girl is in chairs,” she says, her tone veering toward sing-song. “Big plans?”
“Oh yeah,” Jack chuckles as he heads for the doors. “Breakfast.”
He opens the doors and spots you instantly, standing against a wall despite over half the chairs in the room being empty. His gaze softens when he sees you, not exactly looking well-rested, but beautiful. Always beautiful.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches you.
You put your phone away and smile tiredly at him. “Hey,” you murmur. “How’s it going?”
“Better now,” he admits, bringing you in for a kiss. “You can come back and hang out with Lena -- our charge nurse. I’ll be just a little longer with handover.”
“Oh! Sorry I’m early, I can chill here so I won’t be in the way--”
Jack grabs your hand and laces your fingers together. “You’re not in the way. Come on.”
You concede and let him pull you back. He introduces you to Lena who is lovely and says there’s a chair with your name on it.
“Robby just came in, should be out here in a sec,” Lena adds to Jack. “And Dana is probably not far behind.”
You’ve heard about Robby, the dayshift attending and chief of the ED. And also one of Jack’s best friends, despite (it seems) neither of them admitting it in those words.
“Thank you,” Jack says. “And sorry in advance for all the questions they’re going to ask,” he says to you.
“No problem,” you grin. “I’ll just ask for all the embarrassing stories about you.”
“Of course you will,” he sighs. “Right, I need to do some last-minute things, but I’ll be right back, and then hopefully we can get out of here on time, okay?”
“Okay,” you nod, content as can be, which is a good sign, but Jack also knows he’s going to return to you being told stories he does not want anyone to know about -- let alone you.
He drops a kiss to your cheek before he leaves. He covers everything as quickly as he can, and then rushes back, just to find you giggling with Robby and Dana like you’re all old friends. It makes something twist in his chest.
“There he is,” Dana grins like a Cheshire cat when she spots Jack returning. “Why didn’t you tell us she was coming in?”
Jack slides into place beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “Didn’t know I needed to tell you about my breakfast plans.”
Dana and Robby just share a look.
“Well, it was very nice to finally meet you,” Robby says to you. “I’m going to go put my shit down so you two can get out of here.”
“Awh,” you pout playfully. “But Dana was just telling me about how helpless you both are with romance.”
Robby cackles and shakes his head as he leaves. Dana rounds the counter to start putting her things away and getting ready for the day ahead.
“Lena had to run, but she caught me up to speed,” Dana says. “Don’t forget to sign everyone off before you go.”
Jack nods. “Let me do that right now.”
You watch as he works, and as Dana sets up her station for the day. Robby comes back a few seconds later, drumming his hands on the hub as he gazes up at a screen above your head.
“So, what’s for breakfast?” he asks, cracking a smile when he looks back down at you. “Any place special?”
“Dunno, Jack’s buying,” you tease, nudging your boyfriend’s arm.
Jack’s just happy to hear you making a little joke about it after the anxious texts he got last night. “I made the plans, of course I’m buying.”
“You always pay.”
Robby and Dana share another one of those looks.
“Like an old married couple,” Dana mutters fondly.
“Yup,” Robby nods, still with that shit-eating grin on his face.
“Okay,” Jack straightens up. “Let’s get our shit done so I can leave.”
Handover doesn’t take long. What takes up most of the time is the gentle teasing that Robby and Dana interject here and there. Eventually, it’s all sorted and Jack heads off to the lockers to grab his things, leaving you (reluctantly) with Dana and Robby.
He comes back to find you in tears. Doubled over. Laughing your ass off.
“Did you break her?” Jack asks Robby, but he’s fighting an absurd smile because Robby is also wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Dana looks as smug as can be. “What the hell happened? I was gone for barely a minute!”
You stand up, swaying from the giggles that are still slipping out. “Oh my god. That was good, Dana. Should I tell him?”
“Tell me what?”
Dana just shrugs and gestures with her hand. Tell him if you want.
You round the hub and thread your fingers through Jack’s free hand, wrapping yourself around his arm. You lean close and kiss his cheek. “She said you’re basically my sugar daddy.”
Jack feels a blush heating up his neck almost immediately. “Alright, that’s it, we’re leaving.”
“Have fun, sugar!” Dana calls out, her and Robby’s shoulders shaking with laughter as you and Jack exit through the ambulance bay.
“I can’t take you anywhere,” Jack mutters (lovingly) once the two of you are outside. You took an Uber here (his orders) so the two of you could just take his truck to breakfast and then home.
“They loved me,” you protest, still wrapped tight around his arm, and it’s the best damn feeling he’s ever had. “Dana told me I should come the next time you guys go out.”
Oh God. Jack has avoided those nights for a long time. But maybe with you there, it’d be more bearable.
“Okay,” he says. “Next time there is one, I’ll let you know.”
“You better,” you smile. “Or Dana will have your head.”
+++
The guilt about spending Jack’s money doesn’t go away. It probably never will. But he never once makes you feel bad for it, always insists that you don’t need to worry about the limit (because he knows you won’t come close to it anyway, not with the way you spend and how he can pay off half of it each month), and he all but requires you to make fun purchases with it at least once a week.
It starts with just coffee. Or other fun drinks and food. Until he tells you those are just necessities to fuel your body. He means actual fun things.
So, you amuse him. You get a new pair of shoes because your others have had a hole in them for a while. But you make the mistake of telling him about said hole because then he just labels that as a necessity, too.
You try again with a new blanket. The heating in your apartment has been a little fucked the entire time you’ve lived there, but you think it might actually be going out this time. You, again, make the mistake of telling Jack that. The blanket becomes a necessity, and he comes over to look at your thermostat to see if he can fix it. (He can’t. You file another maintenance report.)
Third time’s the charm, or so you hope, so you start to think outside the box. Something fun. Something just for you. Something different.
It’s almost midnight when you think of something. You and Jack have been texting here and there while he’s at work, but it’s mostly devolved into him asking you why you’re not asleep yet. You tell him you’re busy trying to buy something fun. He leaves you alone.
Until he sees the charge go through on the card.
I’m going to pretend I don’t know what this is, he texts you, with a screenshot of the notification that clearly shows him that you spent nearly two-hundred dollars on lingerie.
Probably in your best interest to forget you saw that, you write back.
Saw what?
You giggle to yourself in your room. Goodnight!
You’re torturing me, he says. And then, Sweet dreams baby.
You didn’t pay for express shipping, but the lingerie arrives at your apartment just two days later. Perfect timing for Jack’s two days off in a row.
The plan was already for him to come to yours after his shift and pick you up so the two of you can spend his little mid-week weekend at his place. You finish packing your bag, lingerie included, just in time for him to buzz your apartment.
You let him up and then pull on your shoes, so you’re ready to go as soon as he knocks. He takes your bag for you and holds your other hand as he walks you down to his truck, none the wiser to what you have packed.
The day is slow and cozy and restful. You shower with him when you get in. The two of you then take a small nap, and you wake up just a little before he does so you can start on lunch. He hears you in the kitchen and comes out with his crutches, only just recently beginning to use them around you.
The two of you lounge on his couch the entire day, tangled up together, dozing off here and there with the TV in the background. You order in for dinner.
And after eating, you head into the bathroom to change into your favorite piece of lingerie that you ordered. Jack’s favorite color -- and coincidentally the one you thought looked best -- with lace in all the right places.
You come back out to the living room to find Jack has cleaned up already. It’s not even 9pm yet, and you’re both ready to go to bed.
But not to sleep. At least, that’s not on your mind.
You find him in the kitchen, setting the coffee pot for the morning.
“Hey soldier,” you murmur, sliding your arms around his waist. “Ready to lay down?”
He sighs, body relaxing against you. “Yeah. Ready to hold you.”
You press a quick kiss to his neck and his breath hitches for only a second.
You help him turn all the lights off as he goes to check that he locked the front door. You meet him in the bathroom to brush your teeth next to one another, all of it very sweet and domestic.
By the time you lay down beside him, you’re fine with just this, with just being held by him in the quiet.
Jack settles and pulls you into him by an arm around your waist, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck with a happy little sigh.
His hand slides under your shirt to rest on your stomach, and you bite your lip, suppressing a smile as his fingers find the lace. He freezes.
“What,” he says, voice low, “are you wearing.”
You try to hide your giggle as much as you can, but it slips out a little as you say, “Nothing, let’s go to sleep, you’re really tired.”
His hand slides higher, cupping your lace-covered breast. “I’m wide awake now, baby.” His breath tickles your ear as he kisses behind it. “Now,” he pinches your nipple. “What are you wearing?”
“Nothing,” you reply, still feigning innocence despite the grin on your lips. Thank god you’re not facing him. “Come on, you’re tired.”
Next thing you know, you’re flat on your back with Jack hovering over you. Even in the dim light you can see the hunger in his eyes.
“I’m not tired anymore,” he repeats. “And now I have a problem.” He drops his hips, pressing his half-hard erection to your core, and you gasp.
“Seems like a one-man issue,” you smirk, shrugging innocently. “Don’t know why you’d need me.”
He nearly growls as he leans down to capture your lips. When your hands move to tug on his hair, he promptly pins them above your head.
“Keep them there,” he says against your lips. You nod, still kissing him. He pulls back just a little to say, “Good girl.”
Your chest rises and falls rapidly as Jack kisses down your cheeks, your neck, your chest. He reaches your stomach and pushes the t-shirt-- his t-shirt up until he sees the lace. He hisses through his teeth, looking at you with fire in his eyes.
“Should’ve known you were up to something,” he says absentmindedly, his fingers moving to the waistband of his shorts that you’re wearing. “You never wear shorts to bed.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t notice how weird I was acting,” you laugh softly. “I’m terrible at keeping secrets.”
He drags the shorts down your body, tossing them to the floor. He presses his lips to your thighs, in awe of how you look.
“Can I move my hands?” you smirk. “Kinda want to take the shirt off.”
He just looks up at you with a smile, crawling up the bed to tug the shirt over your head, too. He tosses it somewhere, leaning back to take you in. His gaze makes you squirm.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. His hands roam your body, feeling every inch. “I almost don’t want you to take it off.”
You bite your lip. “I thought you’d say that.”
His eyebrow raise with the realization. One hand travels down to find out what you mean. His eyes close as a moan breaks through his lips, and a gasp falls from yours. The pads of his fingers circle your clit gently before dipping between your folds, just barely teasing inside you.
“Jack,” you gasp, back arching just from the minimal touch.
He removes his fingers instantly, pressing his entire weight on top of you as he claims your mouth. “I’m taking my time with you,” he whispers. His hands pin yours above your head again. “Stay still, yeah?”
“No promises,” you smile, but when he gives you a look, you nod. “Yeah. Yes. I’ll try.”
“That’s my girl.”
Staying still is harder than he thinks it is. It’s near impossible to not arch into his touch, especially with his teasing. You try to sink into the bed instead of up toward him, but it takes all of your effort.
And it’s killing you that he doesn’t want to take the damn lingerie off. You kind of assumed he wouldn’t want to, but feeling his lips and tongue through the lace is torture. You don’t want the barrier, but he’s determined to keep it on.
“Wait,” you gasp when his lips ghost over your nipples. His head raises immediately. “Can you--” You pause, swallowing. “Can you take your shirt off? I want to see you.”
He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your jaw. “Of course.” He tosses his shirt away, but leaves his boxers on. “Better?”
You want the boxers gone too, but you decide not to push your luck. You just nod. “Yeah. Better.”
He resumes his path from earlier, lips hovering over your nipples. He sinks his teeth ever-so-slightly into your breast, just enough to feel you tense underneath him. He soothes it with a kiss.
He does the same to your thighs and hips, so close to where you need him, but never close enough. He’s only just about to hover over your clit when your hips act on their own, thrusting toward his mouth, your clit just barely catching on his nose.
His hands immediately grip your hips to push them back down, tsk’ing with his tongue. “What did I say?”
“I know, I know, stay still,” you whine, still trying to move your hips, trying to find any friction. But your hands have stayed where he asked. “You’re torturing me.”
He soothes his thumbs over your hips, chuckling. “I haven’t done anything.”
“Exactly!” you cry, lifting your head to look at him. “Please fuck me.”
His smile turns into a grin. “So polite.”
“Jack.”
“I want to do something else first,” he says. “But you’ll get your wish, trust me.”
You toss your head back on the pillows dramatically. You feel him moving, but you’re too busy with said dramatics to care.
Until you feel him licking from your entrance to your clit.
“Oh my god,” you moan, your hips trying to thrust upward again, but he’s ready for you, and he holds you in place.
He alternates between teasing your clit and teasing your entrance, never doing much to either to make you reach your climax. It’s only when he settles on just your clit, flicking his tongue in the way he knows you like, that you start to get close at a rapid pace.
“Jack,” you try to warn him in your tone, but he knows.
You half expect him to stop. To not let you have it. That’s why it comes as such a surprise when he goes faster, throwing you over the edge, and he doesn’t stop.
You know you look wild, hips thrashing on the bed as he fights against you and holds you down, continuing to lick and suck you through the orgasm. His tongue dips inside your entrance and you swear you feel a second wave of your climax hit, the sensation making you see stars.
You’re not sure how long it is before he lets up, you just know you’re floating by the time he crawls up your body. His erection presses against your stomach as he kisses you, coaxing you back to earth.
He pulls back just to watch you, the blissful look on your face, and how hard it is for you to open your eyes. He cups your jaw, thumb brushing the skin under your eyes until you finally look at him.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “Doing okay?”
You nod. “More than okay.” And then, because you can’t help yourself, “Are you going to fuck me now?”
He just laughs, capturing your lips again. “Yes, baby, I’ll fuck you now.”
“Thank god,” you breathe. “I’ve been waiting all day.”
He gives you another one of his stern looks, and sometimes you wonder if he knows the looks do nothing to deter your sass. Maybe that’s why he gives you them.
“I’m still taking my time,” he reminds you, lips quirking when he sees the bratty look fall from your face.
You open your mouth for some other retort, but he pins your hands again, earning a gasp instead.
“Stay still,” he says again. “Let me do all the work.”
You want to protest about him doing it too slow, but you keep your mouth shut just this once.
He’s still wearing his damn boxers.
You should’ve known he wouldn’t fuck you immediately. He’s always had this thing. He has to use his fingers first, get you ready for him. Never mind the fact that you’re used to him now, and that you have a vibrator that you use when he’s working. You don’t need him to use his fingers first. But does he listen? No.
Instead, he takes his sweet time. He works one finger into you slowly, then moves to two. He spreads and curls them, huffing out a little laugh when you arch against him. He makes sure to give your clit the friction it needs before adding a third finger. When he does finally add the third, your hands fly from their designated space, clutching his arms on pure instinct.
“It’s okay,” he coos, using his free hand to guide both your wrists back to where they should be. “You’re okay.”
You shake your head against the pillows. “M’close.”
“Then cum,” he whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I can feel you.”
Your eyes open, fixing him with a glare. “I want to feel you.”
“You will,” he promises with a chuckle, kissing you again. “As soon as you cum again for me.”
He curls his fingers at just the right moment, pressing hard on your g-spot before easing up, and doing it again. And again. Over and over, all while grinding his palm into your clit, and he can feel it happening, your walls fluttering, building up and up.
“Come on, doll,” he whispers against your cheek. “You’re right there. Show me how pretty you are.”
You whine against his mouth, your body still fighting it for some reason, but then he starts to kiss your neck. He feels you tense another notch.
“Come on,” he murmurs, hand still working at that same, steady pace. “Need you to cum so I can feel you, please baby. Please, for me.”
That works like a charm, your whole body shuddering with the force of your second orgasm, held together only by Jack’s weight on top of you. He’s kinder this time, riding the waves out only just before he’s slowing to a stop, not wanting to overwhelm you before he can even be inside you. He waits for one last quiver before he gently eases his fingers out of you, covering your face in more kisses.
You’re gasping for air, looking even more relaxed, and pulling him down with both your hands to capture him in a kiss.
His hips unconsciously thrust against you, his clothed erection losing its patience. “Okay, okay,” he mutters. “I need to-- Let me grab a condom--”
“Or,” you pause, lifting your hips again, pressing your clit to his cock. “We could go without.”
He looks at you for a long moment before he mutters, “Fuck,” and kisses you again, immediately coaxing your mouth open with his tongue. “You’re going to kill me,” he keeps muttering. “Are you sure?”
You nod. “I’m sure. I’m very sure.” You’re on birth control and he knows this, but you’ve both wanted to be better safe than sorry.
Right now, you just want to feel him. All of him.
“Okay,” he says. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“Jack,” you laugh. “Get inside me. Now.”
“Yes ma’am,” he grins, all goofy and lovesick, just the way you like. He kicks his boxers off and just presses the length of him against your folds, both of you groaning at the warmth.
He doesn’t enter you right away. Instead, he does something more obscene, just running the head of his cock through your folds, using the remnants of your orgasms to coat him. It’s the hottest thing you’ve ever felt, and you’re ready to pin him down when he does the same to you.
“We’re not rushing this one,” he says, ever so stern, but you can see the cracks starting to form. He keeps your wrists pinned beside your head. “Because if you rush me, I won’t last.”
You try not to smile at that.
Slowly, so slowly, he pushes inside. His head is barely past your folds when he stops, eyes shut, taking a deep breath. Your hips try to rock and his eyes pop open, fixing you with another look.
He pushes just a bit further and you gasp at the stretch -- maybe you aren’t as used to him as you think you are -- head tossing back against the pillows again.
“Breathe, baby,” he soothes, releasing your wrist to hold onto your hips. “Let me in.”
You try to relax, wondering how the hell you’re wound this tight when you’ve already cum twice. You know it makes no sense, but he feels bigger like this somehow. Just him. No condom between you.
“Jack, please,” you whine. “I need you.”
“I’m right here, baby,” he murmurs. “Right here.”
He pushes the rest of the way inside, hips flush with yours, and holds you there, just feeling you. It’s involuntary, the way you clench around him, and you hear his breath catch when you do.
“Be careful,” he chokes out. “You’re trying to milk me.”
“Maybe,” you reply, breathy and light. “I can’t help it. You feel so-- so big.”
“I told you--”
“Just shut up and fuck me.”
He leans over you, pressing you deeper into the mattress. He shifts inside you, rubbing right against your g-spot, and you gasp from the feeling, from the weight of him like this. “What are you forgetting?” He nips at your jaw.
“Please,” you add quickly. “Please-- Fuck!”
He grins against your neck as he starts thrusting steadily. Not hard, but not soft either. He’s only pulling out halfway before pressing back inside, making sure to feel every inch of your walls.
And then he starts talking.
“Can’t believe you bought this,” he whispers, lips ghosting over your ear. “You know how hot it is that you bought this for yourself? With my money?”
“Jack,” you gasp. “I didn’t--”
“I love when you spend my money,” he admits. “I want you to spend all of it-- it’s yours. I’m yours. All yours.”
Your hands move, but he doesn’t stop you. You wrap your arms around him, lifting your hips to change the angle as you wrap your legs around him, too. He groans at the change, thrusting harder.
“God, I love you.” He can’t believe he’s letting it happen now, letting this be the moment that he tells you, but it’s out there now. “I love you so much.”
“Fuck, Jack,” you pull his lips to yours. “I love you too. I’ve been trying so hard not to say it too soon.”
He kisses you gently, slowing his hips to savor the taste of you. “Me too,” he whispers. “But I love you too much to keep it to myself anymore.”
“Me too,” you smile, kissing him again.
He’s lost in the feel of you, starting the same rhythm again, steady and thorough, the way he knows is your favorite. Because he knows everything you need. He’s spent the majority of this last year just memorizing you. All of you.
He knows when your moans reach a certain pitch that you’re close, he knows what it means when your nails start to dig into his shoulders, and he knows what you need to get you over that ledge.
And once he gets you there, he follows right behind, hips stuttering, vision blurring from how good you feel, how good it feels to cum inside you, not into a condom. Your breath hitches in a way he’s never heard before when you feel him empty inside you, and then you groan, locking your heels together, pulling him even deeper.
He’s dizzy with it, his head falling into your neck as his hips lazily thrust as much as he can with how tightly you’re holding him. There’s barely any room to move, but he does, just a little, just riding it out with you.
He stays there, on top of you, hearts racing as one. Your fingers card through his hair gently, scratching his scalp just a little, just to soothe him.
And then you start laughing. He’s confused at first, wondering what the rumbling is, but then he hears your giggles, and he lifts his head, smile fighting its way to his lips.
“What?”
“Nothing,” you say, but you’re still laughing. “I just can’t believe you told me you loved me for the first time while you were inside me.”
His head drops to the pillow beside you with a groan. His reply is muffled. “I’m so sorry.”
“No, don’t be!” you laugh harder, trying to pull him back up. “Jack, I’m not mad. It’s really sweet. I’d been holding back from saying it for a few weeks.”
“Me too,” he says. “But I meant to say it not during sex.”
“Oh well,” you shrug, not a care in the world. “You still can.”
“Oh, I will,” he promises. “I will say it all the time just to make up for this.”
“There’s nothing to make up for,” you assure him. “But I won’t mind hearing it all the time.”
“Good,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your lips. “And I meant what else I said, too. I really love it when you spend my money.”
“Does that seriously get you going?” you giggle. “I didn’t realize it was like that.”
“Of course it does,” he groans, feeling erection struggling to go down while he’s still inside you and talking about this. “I love it so much. And I love that you got this.”
“I look hot in it, huh?” you smirk. “It being your favorite color was just a bonus.”
“Thank you,” he says, hands roaming again, tracing the lace details again, as if he hadn’t spent the last hour doing that. “I think we might need another shower.”
“Mm, probably a good idea,” you nod. “Can I ride you?”
He groans again, head falling back into your neck. “If you even let me make it to the bathroom, then yeah. Sure, baby. You can ride me.”
“Then let’s go!” you laugh, trying to shove him off of you. “You’re going to have to help me get out of this. I’m not even sure how I got into it.”
He lifts his head, licking his lips as his eyes scan your body. “I’ve got it. Don’t worry.”
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